The sign was crooked.
That was the first thing Lin Feng noticed.
"Manor for Sale – Very Affordable"
Paint peeling, one corner charred black like someone had tried to burn it once and given up halfway. The post leaned drunkenly to the left, as if even the sign was tired of standing here.
He stood at the edge of the dirt road for a long minute, travel-worn robes flapping in the late-afternoon wind, one hand resting on the hilt of the sword that had saved his life more times than he cared to remember.
Twenty years.
Twenty years of night raids, arrest warrants written until his fingers cramped, demonic cultivators laughing in his face right before he cut them down, righteous sect elders nodding politely while quietly ensuring he never climbed past mid-rank enforcer.
Stabbed twice. Poisoned once. Eyes permanently bloodshot from too many nights reading reports by candlelight.
And in the end?
A pat on the shoulder.
A thin pouch of spirit stones.
And the words: "You're free to go, Lin Feng. You've earned your rest."
He had laughed then, short, ugly, the kind of laugh that made the clerk flinch.
Rest.
Right.
All he had ever wanted since he was fifteen and stupid was something small.
A little sect.
A handful of half-decent kids who didn't want to burn the world down.
A porch with a view.
Tea that didn't taste like regret.
He didn't even want to be famous.
He just didn't want to die in someone else's war.
The seller was waiting at the gate.
Greasy hair, late-stage Qi Condensation aura that flickered like a dying lamp. He kept glancing over his shoulder like he expected something to lunge out of the overgrown yard behind him.
"You're… the buyer?" the man asked, voice cracking on the last word.
Lin Feng didn't bother answering. He just looked past the man at the manor.
Once it must have been impressive.
Now the vines had strangled most of the outer wall. The stone lions flanking the entrance were missing chunks, eyes gouged out, one head completely gone. The windows stared back like empty sockets.
"Why so cheap?" Lin Feng asked, more out of habit than real curiosity.
The seller swallowed.
"Bad feng shui. Occasional… noises. Previous owners left kind of abruptly."
Lin Feng raised an eyebrow.
"Demonic cultivators? Ghosts? Cursed artifact buried in the backyard?"
The man laughed nervously. Too high-pitched.
"No, no, nothing like that! Just… old house things. You know."
Lin Feng didn't smile.
He counted out the spirit stones—almost every last one he had left—and dropped them into the seller's trembling palm.
The talisman contract flared briefly between them, ink sinking into both their skin.
Ownership transferred.
The seller didn't even wait for the light to fade. He bowed once, very fast, and practically sprinted down the road, robes flapping like a startled crow.
Lin Feng watched him go.
Then he looked back at the manor.
His manor.
For the first time in twenty years, the knot in his chest loosened—just a fraction.
He pushed the gate open.
It screamed.
Dust billowed up in choking clouds. Broken tiles crunched under his boots. The courtyard was worse than he'd expected: training dummies split in half, spiritual herb beds long dead, side halls collapsed into piles of rotten wood.
But the main hall still stood.
Tall beams, faded murals of immortals locked in battle with horned demons. The paint had flaked away in places, but the dignity remained, like an old general who refused to die.
He wandered until he found the master bedroom.
Huge canopy bed, mattress thick with dust but intact. A cracked bronze mirror. One window that still had most of its paper screen.
Lin Feng sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
He opened his storage pouch, tipped the contents onto the blanket.
Seven low-grade spirit stones.
A half-broken healing pill.
A jade slip with the last mission report he'd never bothered to submit.
A single tea leaf packet, cheap green tea he'd bought on impulse three years ago and never opened.
Other stuffs.
He stared at the pitiful pile.
Then he laughed.
It sounded more like a cough.
"It's fine," he told the empty room. "A few months of cleaning. A basic gathering array. Maybe… maybe a disciple or two will show up. Eventually."
The words tasted like ash.
He tried to laugh again.
It didn't work.
Night came fast.
He lit a single spirit lamp, its weak orange glow barely reached the corners of the room.
Cooked the last of his rations over a small flame: dry rice, a few withered vegetables, salt.
Ate standing on the porch, looking out at the moonlit yard.
The tea was terrible.
He drank it anyway.
Then the wind changed.
It wasn't just wind.
It sounded like… whispering.
Low, layered, too many voices overlapping to make out words. Lin Feng froze, cup halfway to his lips.
Old houses creak.
Old houses sigh.
He told himself that.
Then came the crying.
A woman's voice, soft, broken, coming from somewhere deep inside the manor.
His sword was in his hand before he even registered moving.
He stood perfectly still, ears straining.
The crying stopped. Silence.
He exhaled slowly.
"If this place is haunted," he muttered, "at least the ghost pays rent."
He tried to smile.
His hand didn't leave the hilt.
Later, he locked the bedroom door, pointless for any cultivator worth the name—and lay down fully clothed, sword beside him.
Sleep came slowly.
And then-
Cold blue light bloomed directly in front of his eyes.
No sound.
No warning.
Just floating text, sharp and indifferent.
*Disciple Recruitment & Sect Prosperity System initializing…]
[Scanning host…]
[Name: Lin Feng]
[Age: 43]
[Cultivation: Peak Foundation Establishment (suppressed)]
[Title: Burnout Martyr]
[Karmic Evaluation: Righteous but Exhausted]
[Congratulations! You have been selected as a Founding Sect Master.]
[Current sect: None]
[Territory: Abandoned Yin Vein Manor]
[First compulsory mission issued]
[Mission: Recruit 1 disciple]
[Time limit: 7 days]
[Success reward: Basic Sect Management Interface + 300 Sect Contribution Points + Random Starter Disciple Attraction Array]
[Failure penalty: Lifespan reduced by 10 years]
[Do you accept? Y / N]
Lin Feng stared.
His heart slammed once, hard, against his ribs.
Demonic technique?
Illusion array?
Some kind of lingering curse?
He circulated qi through his meridians, trying to shatter whatever this was.
Nothing.
He tried to will the panel away.
It stayed.
He closed his eyes.
The text followed, burning against the darkness of his eyelids.
Another line appeared beneath the mission.
[Reminder: This system only rewards actions that benefit disciple growth, loyalty, and sect prosperity.]
[Host is advised to… be a good teacher]
Lin Feng sat up so violently the bedframe groaned.
Hair wild.
Sword now fully drawn, edge gleaming in the blue light.
He looked around the dark room like someone was standing in the corner watching him.
Voice hoarse, cracked from disuse:
"Who the hell are you? And what do you mean 'be a good teacher'?"
No answer.
The panel simply flickered once more.
[Mission timer started. 6 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes remaining.]
[Current disciples: 0 / ∞]
[Host… good luck.]
Lin Feng stared at the countdown.
Outside, the wind picked up again.
And this time, the crying was clearer.
Closer.
He gripped the sword tighter.
Closed his eyes for one long second.
Then muttered, barely audible:
"I really should have just bought a farm…"