After that, Liu Yuming never saw Liu Renshu again. He also received a frightening visit from a Qi Condensation cultivator and had his Marrow Tempering resources and allowance revoked. He also had a red badge that said 'PROBATION' slapped on his chest. He left the library, and didn't return for a few weeks, unsure if Old Ye had purposely set him up. Finally, he recognized that regardless, Old Ye likely had no ill intent towards him, and the library was too important, so he returned—but no longer as an employee.
Sigh, the Family is always watching…
Liu Yuming felt fortunate that Earth-grade spiritual roots were rare. Without his talent he'd likely have been kicked off the mountain. He estimated he'd get his cultivation resources back within a few months.
But then…
"Four years? Liu Yuming is on probation for four years?" up above the clouds, a Qi Condensation cultivator—the one who had originally decided on a six month punishment for Yuming—was slightly stunned.
"That's what the order from above said. Perhaps they're concerned about his loyalty, being from a distant branch."
"But isn't this too extreme? Even with talent, assuming he's cultivating some exceptional technique, it could take him a decade to start awakening his dantian if he barely progresses for four years. Wouldn't that be risking his future foundation establishment? It just doesn't make sense."
….
Liu Yuming was shocked as well when this was explained to him by Liu Tianrui. "So… so then I'll have absolutely no resources?"
Tianrui shook his head. "It doesn't mean you won't have resources, it just is that the Family will not provide you with any. Whatever you earn, you can keep."
What can I earn without having any money! Besides, the Family won't let me leave the mountain in case I fall into danger. I can only try to pick up tasks on the mountain.
For Marrow Tempering, resources were quite important. Even though with his talent he would naturally be able to complete it eventually, he estimated his time now would be best spent trying to find an opportunity to earn. So, the now ten-year-old Liu Yuming cracked his fingers and headed towards the Merit Hall.
If the most glamorous location on Zhenyuan Mountain was Vermillion Rose Abode, the least glamorous may have been the Merit Hall. It stood at the center of "Seasonal Blessings Peak," one of the few cultivating peaks on Mount Zhenyuan that stood lower than Far Lantern Peak—in fact, it was only about a twenty minute walk south.
The Merit Hall was a gathering place for the local "labor cultivators" who hadn't opened their spiritual sense. Liu Yuming had read that the Liu Family once governed vast territory and had cultivators stationed throughout the mortal realm, but now that the family had mostly withdrawn to Zhenyuan, these cultivators congregated here.
Even within the Hall's formation-lit interior, the air was crowded with whispers. The pillars were carved with righteous phrases—Merit is the Root of Dao—but Liu Yuming noticed not a single disciple was looking at them. They were all staring at the boards.
Yuming looked at the first board for a long moment.
Midday Haul Duty (Seasonal Blessings Peak)
Carry spirit soil from Terrace 4 to Terrace 9
Reward: 3 spirit caddies / shift
Outer Steps Snow Clear Duty
Reward: 2 spirit caddies / shift
Lesser Beast Pens Wash Duty
Reward: 5 spirit caddies / shift
Note: cleanliness inspections strict; deductions possible
Herb Terrace Tending (Willow-Leaf Annex)
Reward: 4 spirit caddies / day + 1 meal token
No theft. Violators will be stripped and beaten.
The language itself was telling. None of it promised glory, or cultivation. It only promised subsistence on the mountain. Yuming knew that the Liu Family "upheld the Orthodox righteous path" and forbade its members from entering the mortal world where they could be local rulers and hegemons. Without that option, this remained.
He moved along the boards, scanning faster.
Some tasks were marked with a small carved seal: allocation. Those were tasks where the reward wasn't rice but access: a single "chamber minute" in one of the crude cultivation rooms where spiritual mist gathered faintly around a stone bed. Those postings drew the most desperate crowds.
In the corner, a young man with cracked lips and callused fingers argued with a steward.
"Only a level one spirit-vein access token for eight shifts? That's robbery!"
The steward didn't even look at him. "It's listed. If you don't want it, don't take it."
"But it used to be six—"
"Then you should have taken it last season."
The young man's face reddened, then he swallowed the anger, took the token slip anyway, and tightened his shoulders. Around him, no one intervened, or even looked.
Yuming inhaled slowly. So this is what "earning" looks like. Not as exciting as what he'd imagined. He didn't intend to remain long in this world, not with his Earth-grade root. But he needed something that could become a ladder.
He found the registration counter at the far end of the hall. A wooden railing separated the crowd from three stewards sitting behind ledgers, their hands stained with ink and token dust. When it was his turn, the steward barely looked up.
"Name."
"Liu Yuming."
"Age?"
"Ten."
"Badge."
Yuming presented his probation badge.
The steward's gaze snapped fully onto him for the first time.
"Probationer," he said, and his voice gained a sharper edge. "You are not eligible for allocation tasks."
Yuming blinked. "Not eligible?"
"Allocation tasks are for registered labor cultivators and branch-assigned workers. You are… temporary." The steward's brush scratched across the ledger. "You may take only General Duty."
General Duty sounded harmless, but there was obviously a reason it was the only work available. Yuming could already guess what it was: the lowest-paying work, the tasks no one could monopolize into advantage.
Still, he said evenly, "Then register me."
The steward tapped the counter with his brush. "Five spirit caddies deposit for duty tags."
Yuming stared. "Deposit?"
"Uniform tag, task tag, inspection tag. Required. Returned at season end if you don't lose them." The steward shrugged slightly.
Yuming's mouth tightened. He had no spirit caddies, they'd all been given as allowance and taken when he entered probation. He had come here imagining he could take a task, do the labor, then be paid. He had not considered the possibility that even earning required start-up capital.
He hesitated, and the steward's eyes sharpened in annoyance. "You have no deposit?"
"I don't," Yuming said with a smile.
"Then borrow."
From who? His branch relatives? The Family had explicitly warned him against borrowing "above his station."
Yuming stepped aside to let the line continue, his mind grinding. He needed a way in without a deposit. That meant one thing: take a task that didn't require tags. Those existed—urgent jobs that paid immediately and were not tracked too carefully, because no one wanted them tracked.
Beast Pens Refuse Removal — immediate
Reward: 2 spirit caddies per load
No tags required; report to Pen Overseer
Two spirit caddies per load was not much, but it was something he could start with. He turned and headed out of the hall.
The beast pens sat downhill from Seasonal Blessings Peak, where the air was warmer. Enclosures were lined up one by one, each holding different creatures: some half-tamed spirit beasts used for hauling, some Yao beasts that had yet to gain intelligence, and some strangle looking creatures that made Yuming feel uncomfortable.
A signboard near the entrance read:
BEAST PEN RULES
No touching beasts without overseer permission.
No feeding.
No theft.
No injuries will be compensated without seal proof.
Yuming didn't like the last line, but he let out a sigh and approached the overseer, a thick-bodied man with one cloudy eye and a scar across his neck. The man looked him up and down and grunted. "Too small."
"I can work, Clan Uncle," Yuming said, bowing slightly and cupping his fists.
The man scoffed, clearly not impressed by the 'Clan Uncle' and bow. "Everyone says that. Fine. Go to the refuse pit. Two caddies per load. You get bit, you die. Understood?"
Yuming's jaw tightened. "Understood." The Family still probably cares enough about me that they won't let me die here… right?
He was handed a crude shovel and a splintery wooden cart. He had to drag the cart himself. The refuse pit was exactly what it sounded like: a shallow trench where everything the beasts excessed was thrown.
Yuming fought the urge to recoil. Pride was useless here. It's fine. Cultivating immortality… I'm cultivating immortality. Hauling feces points directly to the Great Dao!
He shoveled, lost in thought, hoping one of the spirit beasts would transform into a beautiful woman and help him like in the books.
He filled the cart until it mounded, then dragged it toward the disposal drop at the edge of the terrace. At the drop, a steward sat at a table with a stamp and a bowl of sealed packets. He watched Yuming dump the load, then tossed two small bundles into Yuming's hands.
The packets were tied with thread and stamped, and held saw pale grains inside, faintly glowing: spirit rice. Two caddies for one load.
He stared, and then kept working, load by load. By mid-afternoon, his hands were raw and the smell of beast excess had thoroughly seeped into his robes. He dragged himself through the final dump and received his last packets with numb fingers.
When the sun dipped behind the peaks, the overseer waved them off. Yuming walked away from the pens with a dozen spirit caddies tied into his belt pouch.
The smell had not left Yuming by the time he returned to Far Lantern Peak. He kept his head down and moved quietly, but his face was red from humiliation.
He could grab plain water from the dining hall and go to the refuse pit tomorrow, the next day, and there on after. But if he attempted Marrow Tempering with just plain water, it would take forever. Worse, it could damage his foundation.
Marrow Tempering was a rite of the body, and rites demanded purity. So instead of going to eat, he turned toward the Bath Pavilion. It sat at the edge of Far Lantern's lower compound: a squat building of dark stone whose doorframe was etched with a faint cleansing array. Yuming had been there plenty of times. This was the first time he felt it was like a toll gate.
He entered. A steward sat behind a counter, tapping a counting rod against his palm. "Bath token," the steward said without looking up.
Yuming swallowed. "How much?"
The steward finally raised his eyes and appraised Yuming's dirty robe and the "Probation" badge on his chest.
"Probationer?" His mouth twisted. "Two spirit caddies for a cleansing bath. One for a plain wash. Three if you want purification incense."
The difference between the plain and the premium was two caddies. That was nearly twenty percent of his wealth, but it was the difference between merely being dirty and being spiritually contaminated.
He sighed and shook his head, placing two spirit caddies on the counter.
In the steaming bath chamber, he lowered himself into the water and felt the formation array activate, the warmth loosening his sore muscles immediately, and for a moment he was filled with relief.
Then, a thought came to his mind. A labor cultivator with no path can keep working dirty. But I'm rushing to temper my marrows, I can not.
He returned to the dining pavilion, ate quickly, and forced himself to ignore the way several older disciples stared at him—some with amusement, some with pity, and a few with looks of calculation.
Afterward, instead of going back to his dorm, he walked to Exchange Terrace, a small pavilion for low-end cultivators. And these are still family cultivators. I wonder what it's like for people from minor clans? Do most people never even open their spiritual sense?
A tired-eyed attendant sat behind a counter with shelves of sealed jars and wrapped bundles. Yuming approached and spoke quietly. "Low-grade marrow reagents."
The attendant blinked. Then her expression shifted. "Marrow reagents aren't for you."
Yuming's chest tightened. "Why?"
"Because you're ten," she said, voice flat, eyes hovering on the "probation" badge on his chest.
"I'm Marrow Tempering," Yuming insisted. "I was— I am on the path. I just don't have family resources."
The attendant leaned forward and tapped a ledger with her finger. "Then your path is paused."
Yuming clenched his hands. "Then what can I buy that helps?"
The attendant sighed. "Muscle paste. Bone salve. Blood-warming tea. Iron sand. Low-grade spirit grain." Bone salve was for bruises and microfractures. It was useful, but it would not advance him. Iron sand could toughen muscles, again useful, but it was the wrong layer. It was mostly for flesh tempering, not marrow.
Still, he asked, "Iron sand. Price?"
The attendant pointed to a small cloth pouch. "Eight spirit caddies." For a pouch small enough to fit in his palm.
Yuming stared at it. If he bought it, he'd have two caddies left, enough for another cleansing bath after one more day in the pens. He decided to change his approach, voice carefully steady: "Bone salve?"
"Three caddies," the attendant said. "Small jar." Three for injury insurance, and eight for progress that wasn't truly progress. Maybe he could spend a few weeks during refuse and saving up, but he was concerned he'd dirty his meridians; he hadn't yet began circulating qi to clean himself without external aid.
He stood there a moment longer, then shook his head and stepped back from the counter, turning to leave the pavilion and return to his dorm. His pouch still held ten spirit caddies.
I'm in stagnation. Does the family really not value me, to punish me like this? No… if they truly didn't value me, I wouldn't still be on Far Lantern Peak. I just can't figure it out.