The world snapped into focus with a jolt, like someone had yanked Jake Harper out of a dream and dropped him into a cold shower. One second, he'd been crossing a rainy street, burger bag in hand, headlights glaring—then nothing. Now, he was standing on a stone platform, fog curling around his ankles, surrounded by kids in gray robes who stared at him like he'd just farted in church. His head pounded, his legs wobbled, and his hands—small, rough, not his—clutched a jade plaque etched with Zhang Wei, Menial Disciple Hopeful, Cloudveil Sect.
Jake's stomach sank. He'd read enough web novels to recognize the signs: transmigration. Isekai'd into some poor sap's body in a cultivation world. No truck-kun apology, no glowing system interface—just him, a foggy courtyard, and a sinking realization that he was in deep shit.
A voice cut through the haze, stern and clipped. "Zhang Wei! Step forward for the Spirit Root Assessment!"
He stumbled forward, heart hammering. The platform held a crystal orb glowing faintly on a pedestal, overseen by an elder with a beard like a silver waterfall and eyes that could've frozen lava. Around him, dozens of hopefuls whispered, their robes fluttering in the mountain breeze. The Cloudveil Sect's peaks loomed overhead, jagged and shrouded in mist, pavilions clinging to cliffs like stubborn barnacles. This was no game—this was real, and Jake had no save file.
"Hand on the orb," the elder barked. "Now."
Jake swallowed, mind racing. Spirit roots—he knew the trope. The orb tested your magical potential, your ticket to immortality or a lifetime of grunt work. He pressed his palm to the crystal, praying for a cheat code he didn't have. It hummed, pulsed, and emitted a gray shimmer that crept up his arm before sputtering out like a dying bulb.
The elder's lip curled. "Average spirit roots. Average aptitude. Menial disciple status confirmed. Off the platform."
A ripple of murmurs spread—pity, disdain, a few stifled laughs. Jake's face burned, but he kept his mouth shut, stepping down with as much dignity as his shaky legs allowed. Average. Mediocre. In a world of golden protagonists, he'd landed in the body of a nobody. No system pinged in his head, no ancient voice offered guidance. Just him, a dead-end test, and a crowd of smug teens who'd probably never heard of Wi-Fi.
As the next kid—a girl with a gold flash that drew gasps—took the stage, Jake shuffled to the sidelines. His mind churned. Okay, step one: assess the situation. He was Zhang Wei now, stuck in a sect on a misty mountain range. Cultivation meant power, and power meant surviving whatever this world threw at him. Without a system, he'd have to improvise. He'd been a decent student—biology, history, problem-solving. That was his edge. One step at a time.
The ceremony dragged on, prodigies sorted into inner disciple ranks while the rest got funneled to a squat pavilion labeled Menial Assignments. Inside, a bored clerk with ink-stained fingers handed out tasks from a bamboo scroll. Jake scanned the list: Spirit Beast Feeder, 5 points/day. Latrine Cleaner, 3 points/day. Brutal. Then he spotted it: Scripture Pavilion Assistant, 10 points/day. Shelving books? Helping disciples? It wasn't glamorous, but it was indoors, and it might give him access to intel. Knowledge was his only weapon right now.
"I'll take the pavilion gig," he said, voice steadier than he felt.
The clerk raised an eyebrow. "Quiet work. No glory. Sure?" He leaned forward, tapping the scroll. "Beast feeders spar with the tamed ones—builds qi control. Latrine cleaners get leftover spirit herbs from the alchemists, scraps but still potent. Most—all jobs let you practice techniques, scrape resources. Scripture pavilion? You're just shuffling scrolls. Only perk's free reading material, if you're into that."
Jake nodded, processing. Cultivation practice and resources sounded tempting—qi control could jumpstart his weak roots, herbs might boost his energy. But he had nothing to practice with, no techniques, no cash for herbs. Reading, though? That was a slow burn he could bank on. "I'll stick with the pavilion," he said, signing Zhang Wei with a clumsy brushstroke. "Knowledge lasts longer than scraps."
The clerk shrugged, handing him a wooden token and directions to report tomorrow. Step two: secured. A job meant contribution points—currency, maybe—and a chance to figure out this world without dying to some random monster.
That night, crammed into a damp shack with other menial hopefuls, Jake lay on a straw mat, staring at the leaky ceiling. The sect hummed outside—distant chants, the rustle of wind through bamboo. No system. Every novel he'd binged had a protagonist with a glowing HUD or a godly mentor. He got nothing. Disappointment gnawed at him, but he shoved it down. Fine. He'd build his own cheats. Step three: learn the rules, break them later.
The Scripture Pavilion loomed the next morning, a seven-story pagoda carved into a cliff, its roof tiles gleaming like wet ink. Inside, shelves towered with scrolls, jade slips, and leather-bound tomes, the air thick with dust and the faint tang of incense. The head librarian—a hawk-faced woman named Elder Lin—barely glanced at him. "Sort these," she said, gesturing to a cart of jumbled texts. "Assist disciples. Don't touch what's restricted."
Jake nodded, hauling the cart to a corner. No pay, no benefits—just points trickling in daily. He'd survive. As he shelved, he watched disciples flit in—arrogant inner sect types grabbing Heavenly Flame Slash or Thousand Crane Steps. Useless to him with his weak roots. But the books? Those he could use.
Days blurred into a routine: shelve, sweep, sneak glances at open texts. Elder Lin didn't care if he read in downtime, so long as the work got done. He started small—Cultivation Basics, a dry rundown of qi and meridians. It confirmed his test: average roots meant slow progress, like running a marathon with a limp. Frustrating, but not hopeless. He kept digging.
A week in, he found Introduction to Formations behind a cracked shelf. The scroll detailed runes and patterns—arrays to amplify qi, focus the mind, or trap enemies. No flashy combat, just tools. One caught his eye: Mind Clarity Formation, a lattice of lines etched with gold to sharpen memory and focus. Another scroll, Illusion Arrays, described mirages and mental projections. The catch? Both took time and materials. Still, he memorized them, seeds of an idea sprouting.
Then came Gu: Beasts of the Soul. A tattered booklet wedged in a pile, it described parasitic insects—Gu—that bonded to cultivators, enhancing strength or qi. Rare, tricky, unpopular. Another text, Breeding Gu for Beginners, outlined feeding and mating cycles, dry as a textbook but loaded with potential. Jake's pulse quickened. Biology. Genetics. He'd aced that in school. If he could refine Gu, breed them smaller…
Days turned to weeks, his mind a sponge. He read at night by lamplight, piecing it together: formations for utility, Gu for enhancement. No system meant no shortcuts, but this world ran on rules—rules he could bend. Then, one rainy evening, it hit him. He'd been sorting a disciple's request—a jade slip on micro-scale qi tools—when the dots connected. Gu could be bred tiny, like nanites. Formations could be miniaturized. Why stop at memory? Combine Mind Clarity with an illusion array and Gu control, test it on a stone first—safe, reversible—then scale it up. He could craft a mental interface, like a HUD he'd design himself. Notepad, clock, calendar, even memory playback—relive Springsteen's Born to Run or that one Joe Rogan podcast, effort-free.
Jake froze, the slip trembling in his hand. Holy shit. This was it—his first step to outsmart this world. No glowing screen required, just practice and patience. Start external—Gu refinement, formation trials—before risking his skull. If it worked, he'd have a cheat no system could match. He'd need points, Gu, and time, but the pavilion gave him access. A slow grin spread across his face, cautious but real. Step four: in motion.
Outside, rain pattered on the sect's peaks, fog swirling like a living thing. Tomorrow, he'd check the market for Gu. For now, he shelved the slip, mind buzzing louder than the storm.