9. Onboarding

The disciples are already assembled, going through their forms under Feng’s watchful eye. I wait until they finish their current sequence, then step forward into the training yard.

“Good work. Before we begin today’s training, I have an announcement.”

They look at me with varying degrees of attention. Mei Lin is curious, her head tilted slightly. Wei Chen is still half-asleep, swaying slightly on his feet. Feng is suspicious. He’s always suspicious lately, watching everything I do with those intense, calculating eyes.

The servants have gathered too, as they always do during training; hauling water, sweeping paths, going about their duties while watching the cultivators from the corners of their eyes. Old Chen is there, a vegetable basket forgotten in his hands. Li Hua pauses in her laundry. Even Zhang Wei the laborer stops mid-stride, curious.

I wait until I have everyone’s attention.

“Last night, I formally accepted a new disciple. Ling’er, step forward.”

She’s waiting at the edge of the yard, as instructed—barefoot, wearing the same rough hemp clothes as yesterday, but washed and neat, her hair combed back from her face. She walks forward with the careful composure of someone terrified of tripping, of falling, of failing in front of everyone.

Gasps from the servants. Murmurs from the disciples.

A kitchen girl?

A mortal orphan?

Her?

“This is Ling’er. She’ll begin training today. She’ll eat with the disciples, train with the disciples, and live in the disciples’ quarters.” I turn to Feng, the senior disciple, the one who manages such things. “Make space for her.”

Feng’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he nods. “Yes, Sect Leader.”

I meet his eyes, holding his gaze. “She starts from nothing. No cultivation, no training, no advantages. She’ll need help. You’ll give it.”

A pointed reminder. She has no advantages; none they can see, none they need to know about. Feng’s shoulders relax slightly. A mortal girl with no spirit root, no family, no backing? She’s no threat to his position. Just another mouth to feed, another body to train, another failure to watch stagnate.

“Mei Lin, you’ll mentor her through the basics today. Forms, stances, breathing. Nothing advanced.”

Mei Lin nods, already moving toward Ling’er with a welcoming smile. She’s the kindest of my disciples, the one most likely to treat a kitchen girl like a person. Good choice.

Training begins.

I watch closely as Ling’er joins the line. Her body is weak. I can see it in every movement. Years of malnutrition have left her thin and fragile, muscles underdeveloped, endurance nonexistent. The first few forms leave her breathing hard. By the end of the first hour, sweat plasters her hair to her face. But she moves with that same quiet observation I noticed before. She watches the others, copies their movements, corrects herself without being told. Her accuracy is surprising; not just good for a beginner, but genuinely good. Beyond mere talent.

The True Dragon Bloodline manifests in small ways. Her balance is perfect. She never stumbles, even in unfamiliar stances that would leave most beginners on the ground. When Wei Chen nearly collides with her during a pivot, she sidesteps smoothly without seeming to think about it, reflexes too fast, too precise for a normal child. And when the morning sun hits her just right, there’s a moment where her skin seems to gleam with faint gold. A dragon’s sheen, barely visible, fading almost instantly back to normal.

No one notices. They’re too busy with their own training, too focused on their own struggles. Feng is pushing through forms with his usual intensity. Wei Chen is trying not to fall asleep standing up. The others are lost in their own worlds. Only I see it. Only I know what it means. By noon, she’s exhausted but unbroken. Sweat soaks her clothes, her arms tremble from holding stances, her legs shake with every step. But she hasn’t complained once. Hasn’t asked for water. Hasn’t stopped trying.

Mei Lin pulls me aside during the lunch break, her expression thoughtful.

“She’s got good instincts,” she says quietly, out of earshot of the others. “Her body’s weak, but her mind’s sharp. She watches everything. Asks good questions. I’ve trained worse disciples who’d been cultivating for years.”

I nod, keeping my face neutral. “Keep working with her. But don’t push too hard—her body needs time to strengthen.”

Mei Lin agrees and returns to the training yard, already calling Ling’er over for more practice.

The afternoon is a blur of tedium. I’ve been neglecting things over the past few days, with the tomb, Ling’er, the revelations… and now it all rears its head at once. Paperwork. Management. The endless small tasks that keep a sect running.

I bemoan inwardly as I sit at my desk, staring at a list of supply requests. This is terrible. This is boring. This is necessary. I can’t neglect everything in pursuit of my goal without costing myself. A sect leader who disappears for days, who ignores his duties, who lets things slide… that sect leader invites questions. Invites suspicion. Invites disaster. So I work.

First: the mine. I walk down in the afternoon, checking on Old Zhao and his crew. They’ve started exploring the side tunnels, exactly as instructed: digging where I indicated, finding nothing, reporting back. Old Zhao’s spatial awareness is as good as the Gaze claimed; he’s already mapped three new potential veins, none of which will pan out, but the effort looks genuine. I ensure the laborers are equipped; better tools, paid for with a few low-grade stones from my new wealth. Nothing extravagant, just enough to look like good management. I order reinforcements for the mine entrance, rotting timbers replaced with fresh wood. Visible improvements. Explainable improvements.

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Second: supplies. I send a servant to Greenstone Town with orders and coin; slightly more coin than usual, raising the amount I buy ever so slightly. More rice. More vegetables. More meat for the disciples. Enough to explain the feast last night, enough to justify ongoing improvements, not enough to raise eyebrows.

Third: paperwork. Endless paperwork. Disciples’ progress reports. Maintenance requests. A letter from Silver Moon Hall about the loan. Friendly, for now, but reminding me that payment is due soon. I set aside spirit stones to cover it, feeling the satisfaction of actually having spirit stones to set aside.

Fourth: more training. The afternoon session passes in a blur of forms and corrections. I move among the disciples, offering guidance, keeping my face calm and my voice steady. Ling’er is still there, still trying, still exhausting herself. I catch her eye once and nod slightly. She keeps going.

By the time the sky darkens, I’m exhausted.

Not physically. Foundation Establishment could handle weeks of this without rest. But mentally? Emotionally? The weight of secrets, the pressure of planning, the endless small deceptions… it drains me in ways my cultivation can’t fix.

I sit in my quarters as night falls, staring at nothing. My hair is loose, my beard untrimmed, my robes wrinkled. I look like what I am: a man carrying too much. I force myself to move. To act normal. To be the sect leader they expect. I tie my hair back carefully, the way this body always has. I groom my beard, trimming the stray hairs. I straighten my robes, smoothing the wrinkles, adjusting the sash. By the time I’m done, I look like myself again. Calm. Composed. In control.

A soft knock at my door. Three raps. Pause. Two more.

Ling’er.