Chapter One: Fated to Empty Chamber Pots at Night

Before dawn had fully broken, that distinctive scent of Aoki Sect’s mountain gate had already crept into Lin Mo’s nostrils—a musty tang of aged timber mixed with the dampness of morning dew, beneath it all lingering a faint, yet stubbornly persistent sour rot that never quite dispersed. He drew in a sharp breath, forcing that familiar, stomach-turning odor deep into his lungs, as if to squeeze out all the stale air accumulated over a night’s sleep.

Cold—so cold it seeped into his bones. The mountain of Aoki Sect was high; though the leaves at its foot might still be green in September, here at the halfway house for menial workers, a thin layer of white frost had already formed on the flagstones in the morning. Lin Mo rubbed his nearly numb hands; his knuckles, reddened and stiff from the chill, cracked audibly. He exhaled a bloom of white breath, watching it dissolve swiftly into the gray pre-dawn sky—just like those futile hopes he once harbored while rolling in the mud.

“Lin Mo! You little bastard. What are you dawdling for!” The hoarse shout of Steward Wang, still thick with the rasp of last night’s drink, exploded from the relatively warm stone hut by the courtyard gate, slamming into everyone’s eardrums like a block of ice. “Planning to dump the night soil when the sun’s on your ass? Want the whole sect to start their morning lessons stinking of piss and shit?”

A ragged line of a dozen or so menial workers, most wrapped like Lin Mo in thin, stiff hemp tunics, hunched their necks and blinked blearily. At Steward Wang’s bellow, they jolted to attention, hurried to the corner, and grabbed the heavy, pungent wooden buckets assigned to them. Frost had gathered on the bucket rims, adding to their filthiness.

Lin Mo said nothing, silently approaching his own buckets. They were heavy, the icy handles biting into his hands. He bent, shoulder blades jutting sharply beneath the thin fabric like two angular stones. This frail body—two years ago it had been plucked from a ruined temple at the mountain’s base by a patrolling disciple, as easily as lifting a scrawny chick. How many menials had died that day? Three, perhaps? Steward Wang had cursed, saying the vagrants from the foot of the mountain were born cheap, couldn’t even carry water properly, deserved to fall to their deaths. And so, he—just a half-starved waif in the temple’s corner—became the replacement “asset.”

“Hey, Mo, look at you—don’t let those buckets drag you into the ditch!” A cheeky, smooth voice sidled up—Zhou Xiaoxiao’s round face grinning at Lin Mo, eyebrows and eyes both arched in easy familiarity. He carried empty buckets, clearly just back from a trip, moving briskly, entirely at odds with the dull exhaustion of the other menials.

Lin Mo glanced at him from under lowered lids, offering no reply. Zhou Xiaoxiao was like sticky cowhide candy—impossible to shake off. He’d arrived six months ago, supposedly fleeing disaster in the nearby town, seeking distant relatives who never appeared, and ended up in the menials’ court. Always laughing, calling everyone brother or sister, nimble in both hand and foot, especially adept at currying favor—he quickly struck up a rapport with Steward Wang, landing himself easier tasks. But Lin Mo always felt that beneath Zhou’s smile lurked something else, like oily water whose depths he couldn’t see.

“Xiaoxiao, less chattering!” coughed an old menial nearby. “Get to work! Bad luck yesterday, they carried another one down from the back mountain!”

“The back mountain?” Zhou Xiaoxiao’s smile flickered, eyes darting briefly to Lin Mo before returning. He clapped on another grin. “Uncle Li, that’s the seventh, isn’t it? Tsk tsk, is it bad feng shui, or have we drawn something unclean? All they do is gather herbs—how do they keep vanishing? What do you say, Mo?” He nudged Lin Mo with his elbow.

The yoke on Lin Mo’s shoulders wobbled, nearly sloshing the sludge in the buckets. He tensed his arms, steadying the load, and replied in a dry voice, “Don’t know. Maybe the paths are slippery.” He didn’t want to discuss it. The steep medicinal zone at the edge of the forbidden back mountain had silently claimed seven menials in recent months. No one saw them alive or dead; only scraps were ever found at the cliff’s base. The stewards always said they slipped, but whenever the back mountain was mentioned, both stewards and formal disciples turned evasive, with a peculiar undercurrent of tension and taboo.

He lowered his head, merged into the silent, malodorous procession, and walked toward the designated dumping pit at the mountain hollow. The flagstones were slick and cold, each step sinking into the marrow-chilling frost. Zhou Xiaoxiao, buckets empty, trailed beside him, his mouth still running.

“Mo, did you hear? The fairies from the Hehuan Sect are sending people to visit Aoki Sect in a few days!” Zhou Xiaoxiao waggled his brows, lowering his voice but failing to hide his excitement. “My, that’s the Hehuan Sect! Every disciple a beauty! If I could so much as glimpse one from afar, well, this life as a menial would almost be worth it…”

Lin Mo remained silent, his pace unbroken. Hehuan Sect? Those disciples, lofty as clouds, were separated from menials like them by an unbridgeable chasm. All he wanted was to finish his work, collect his meager gruel and hard biscuit. Hunger gnawed his belly, making his ribs press against each other.

The dumping pit was a vast, deep hole, reeking so strongly it made one retch. Lin Mo, suppressing his nausea, joined the others in emptying their buckets. His movements were mechanical, his eyes blank. After tipping out the last bucket, he straightened his aching back, ready to leave.

“Hold it!” Steward Wang’s voice rang out again, this time with a pointed edge—for Zhou Xiaoxiao. “You, Xiaoxiao, come with me! There’s odd jobs in the storeroom—move quickly!”

Zhou Xiaoxiao immediately donned his habitual grin, trotting over. “Right away, Steward Wang! Whatever you need, I’ll have it done perfectly!” As he passed Lin Mo, he winked, mouthing a silent “wait for me.”

Lin Mo paid him no attention, carrying the empty buckets back. He knew Zhou’s meaning—every time Steward Wang called Zhou for “odd jobs,” Zhou always managed to sneak back something extra—a scrap of salted meat from the kitchen, or a lump of sugar from the storeroom, still edible despite damp and mold. Zhou always shared a bit with him. Lin Mo hated this charity, but his body’s craving for food overpowered his meager pride. He needed to survive; for now, he had no way out of this mire.

By the time he returned, daylight had brightened the sky. The other menials, breakfast in hand, squatted in the corners gulping down watery gruel. Lin Mo collected his share—a bowl of thin brown rice porridge, so clear he could see his reflection, and a palm-sized, tooth-cracking hard biscuit. He found a spot sheltered from the wind, nibbling tiny bites, letting the biscuit soak in his mouth as long as possible, coaxing saliva to soften it.

With something in his stomach, sensation slowly returned to his body—cold, hunger, and a fatigue that never left. He looked at his hands, rough with chilblains and calluses, knuckles swollen and misshapen. What could these hands possibly hold onto?

He didn’t know how much time passed before footsteps approached. Zhou Xiaoxiao was back, wearing his usual smile, though his hands were empty. He plopped down beside Lin Mo, shoulders touching, sharing a faint warmth.

“Damn,” Zhou Xiaoxiao muttered, his smile still in place but his voice uncharacteristically low and frustrated. “The old rat in the storeroom watches everything—would skin a mouse alive! Didn’t get a thing!” He glanced at Lin Mo gnawing his biscuit, eyes darting, and suddenly pulled a small cloth bundle from his shirt, thrusting it into Lin Mo’s hand.

It was slightly heavy, cool and damp with soil, and tough with the feel of roots.

Lin Mo paused, lowering his gaze. The rough fabric fell open to reveal a short segment of dark red root, topped with two wilted oval leaves.

“Chiyang grass?” Though it was the lowest grade of medicinal herb, barely worthy of the name, its warming properties were invaluable to menials like them who lived cold and hungry year-round. Boiled as a tonic, it could ward off chill as well as half a bowl of rice gruel.

“Pried it from a crack in the back mountain cliff. Those patrol disciples missed it, blind as they are.” Zhou Xiaoxiao grinned, dropping his voice to a whisper. “It’s better than chewing rocks. Look at your face, frozen like a corpse.” He bumped Lin Mo’s shoulder again, tone slipping back into his usual slyness. “Not bad, eh? Call me Brother Xiaoxiao?”

Lin Mo gripped the earthy root, the chill of its fibers seeping into his palm. His lips moved, but in the end, he said nothing—just tucked the wilted herb into the innermost pocket of his shirt, close to his heart. A faint, almost imperceptible warmth seemed to spread from the root, slowly battling the cold entrenched in his bones.

Zhou Xiaoxiao didn’t mind, popping out his own hard biscuit, breaking it with effort, and rambling on, “Hey, Mo, you think any of those Hehuan Sect fairies would ever fancy a menial? In the storybooks, it’s always the down-and-out boy meeting a fairy maiden…” He pulled a lovesick face as he spoke.

Lin Mo didn’t answer, just sipped his watery gruel, staring at the few grains of rice at the bottom of the bowl. Beyond the high walls of the menials’ court, the tiered eaves and cold majesty of Aoki Sect’s halls rose in the growing light. On the back mountain, that shrouded, misty boundary—a forbidden zone that had already devoured seven lives—loomed like a giant, silent wound.

Where the chiyang grass pressed against his skin, that faint warmth flickered—a spark in the dark, ready to be snuffed out at any moment. He clenched his fist, nails digging into his palm, drawing a sharp pain that kept him alert, confirming he was alive.

On this mountain called the Immortal Sect, he lived by hauling night soil, gnawing hard bread, and relying on stolen herbs just to cling to life.

Such was fate.

He swallowed the last mouthful of cold gruel, stood, tossed his empty bowl into the wooden basin with a clatter.

A new day’s labor had begun.