The sun had not yet breached the jagged peaks of the Azure Heaven Sect, but the mist was already thick, smelling of pine needles and ancient stone.
Han Xiao dipped his bamboo broom into the shallow stream. The water was ice-cold, a sharp contrast to the humid air of the morning. He didn't flinch. For one hundred years, he had felt this cold. To a normal Qi Condensation cultivator, a century was a lifetime—a race against death. To Han Xiao, it was a series of rhythmic movements.
Swish. Scrub. Breath.
[System Notification]
[Current Task: Morning Path Maintenance (Year 100, Day 364)]
[Status: 99.9% Complete]
He moved to the main stone staircase. There were three thousand steps leading to the Outer Hall. Most disciples used "Wind-Walking" charms or spirit swords to bypass them. To them, the stairs were an obstacle. To Han Xiao, the stairs were a teacher.
He began at the bottom.
Every stroke of his broom was deliberate. He didn't just push the leaves; he felt the weight of each one. He noticed how the dew clung to the edges of the maple leaves, resisting the pull of the bristles.
"The world wants to stay still," Han Xiao mused, his eyes half-closed in a meditative trance. "But time wants everything to move. Friction is the conversation between the two."
[Ding! You have gained a shred of 'The Law of Friction'.]
[Physical Body Tempering: +0.001%]
He spent three hours on just the first hundred steps. A group of young disciples, barely sixteen years old, rushed past him. Their robes fluttered, kicking up the dust he had just settled. They laughed, their voices high and arrogant, talking about the upcoming "Spirit Root Awakening."
One of them accidentally bumped into Han Xiao's shoulder.
"Watch it, old-timer—oh, wait." The disciple stopped, confused. Han Xiao looked no older than he did. "Hey, kid, why are you wasting time with a broom? If you don't reach Level 1 Qi Condensation by twenty, the sect kicks you out. Don't you know the rules?"
Han Xiao didn't stop his motion. He reached the edge of the step and turned his broom. "The rules of the sect say the stairs must be clean. I am simply following the rules."
"Tch. A fool," the disciple muttered, sprinting upward.
Han Xiao watched them go. He didn't feel the sting of their insults. He had watched their grandfathers say the same thing to him eighty years ago. Those grandfathers were now mounds of dirt in the sect's cemetery. The disciples were like mayflies—living for a day, shouting at the sun, then vanishing.
By noon, he reached the 1,500th step. His muscles didn't ache. His breath was as steady as a mountain breeze.
He sat down on a stone ledge and pulled out a plain steamed bun. It was cold and dry. He chewed it slowly, thirty-two times for every mouthful, tasting the grain, the water used to knead it, and the heat of the fire that baked it.
This was his cultivation.
Most cultivators ate "Spirit Pills" to avoid the "filth" of mortal food. They wanted to be gods. Han Xiao wanted to be here.