Jake woke to a frantic scratching beneath the floorboard, louder than the usual hum of his Gu. He bolted upright, straw mat creaking, and pried the plank loose. The mining Gu had hatched—a swarm of fifty beetles, shells a dull gray, each the size of a quarter. Two weeks of Mistleaf and "dig" looping through his formation sketch had turned four eggs into dozens, their size swelled beyond normal Gu—perfect for hauling ore. The main batch's eggs—twenty strong—quivered too, shells cracking. Step six: profit and acceleration.
He scooped the mining Gu into two jars, their bulk a tight fit, claws scraping clay. Gu Evolution Paths said Mining Gu sniffed out ores—iron, copper, mundane stuff—and scraps like lost coins. Fifty quarter-sized diggers could rake in mortal silvers fast, enough to ditch his threadbare robe and fund his plans. The main batch, his nanite hopefuls, were hatching too—ant-sized now, halving each cycle toward microbe scale. He'd feed them, restart the loop, and chase that goal. Patience paid, but speed mattered now.
The Scripture Pavilion loomed through the morning fog, its pagoda a dark smudge against the peaks. Jake slipped inside, jars tucked in his sack, and faced Elder Lin's scowl. "Late," she snapped, thrusting a cart of scrolls at him. He nodded—no excuses, just work. The routine grounded him: sort, sweep, assist. But his mind churned—ores and coins today, nanites tomorrow.
Downtime hit after noon, the pavilion quiet save for the rustle of scrolls. Jake pulled Sect Land Records from a dusty shelf—a tattered log of the Cloudveil Sect's terrain. Faded ink marked ore deposits: iron veins near the eastern trails, copper traces by the market road. Mundane, not spirit-grade, but fair game for a menial like him. The Mining Gu could hit those, plus scavenge—disciples dropped silvers, coppers, trinkets on the sect's paths. Fifty bugs could cover ground fast.
After his shift, he took the jars to the eastern trail—a winding dirt road flanked by pines and jagged rocks. He focused his qi through the blood bond, the fifty Gu thrumming. "Dig," he willed, command sharp. They spilled out, a gray tide scattering across the path, and burrowed. Dirt flew, then glints—iron chunks from a shallow vein, three silvers, a handful of coppers, a dented brass pin. An hour later, he'd collected two fistfuls of ore and ten silvers' worth of scraps—lost wealth from careless feet. The sect's roads were a buffet, and his swarm was hungry.
Back at the shack, he stashed the loot in a rag and checked the main batch. They'd hatched—twenty ant-sized beetles, shells a pale green, half their parents' size thanks to Qi Grass and "shrink." Each cycle halved them: ant (3 mm) to flea (1.5 mm), pinhead (0.75 mm), dust (0.375 mm), microbe (0.1875 mm)—five cycles, ten weeks total at two weeks each. He fed them fresh Qi Grass, recharged his formation sketch—ten minutes of qi, sweat beading—its "shrink" loop pulsing anew. The mining Gu got Mistleaf, their jars crowded but functional.
Days blurred into a rhythm. Mornings at the pavilion, sorting and skimming—Memory Binding Arrays caught his eye, a technique for crafting memory jades. Normally, elders etched techniques into jade, letting disciples tap in for a taste of firsthand mastery—sword forms, qi flows, muscle memory. Jake saw more. He adapted it, storing his own memories—podcasts, music—looping them with qi, a private soundtrack in his skull. He traced its runes onto his sketch, linking them to the Hourglass Flow clock. A test—focusing on Springsteen's Born to Run—yielded a faint riff, tinny but real, playing in his head. No one else heard it; his grin widened.
One morning, sorting scrolls, he ran qi through the sketch, Springsteen's growl humming low. Halfway through Thunder Road, he caught the beat—head bobbing, shoulders twitching, lost in the rhythm. A disciple nearby—a squat boy with a topknot—paused, scroll in hand, staring. "You alright, Zhang Wei?" he asked, brow furrowed. Elder Lin glanced over, her scowl deepening. Jake froze, coughed, and straightened. "Just… stretching," he muttered, ears burning. Topknot shrugged, muttering "weird bug guy" as he walked off. Jake smirked—crazy was fine if it kept them guessing.
The market became his next stop. He bartered the ore and pin with a gruff mortal trader—thirty silvers clinked into his palm, added to his road finds for sixty-five total. At a cloth stall, he swapped fifty for a sturdy brown robe—soft cotton, no chafe, a hood for rain. Slipping it on felt like armor; Zhang Wei's old gray sack hit the rag pile. Fifteen silvers left—five for a pork bun, ten saved. Small wins stacked up.
Back at the pavilion, he pushed his formation further. Illusion Basics hinted at layering—multiple visuals tied to one array. He added a notepad pattern from Qi Flow Arrays, picturing a blank page beside the clock. His qi flared, and a fuzzy square flickered—scribbles held when he willed it, fading slow. The interface shaped up: clock, notepad, memory jades. He ran qi through the sketch during shifts, Springsteen's riffs a quiet hum—inaudible to Elder Lin's glares, despite his near-slip. Gu control was next—syncing their bond to the sketch for real-time commands.
One evening, the second shrunken batch laid eggs—twenty pinpricks in the jar, the "shrink" loop relentless. Jake fed them Qi Grass, recharged the sketch, tightened the Will—flea-sized next, eight weeks to microbes. The mining Gu kept scavenging, their ore and coin pile steady—another trip soon.
A disciple interrupted—a lanky girl with sharp eyes, asking for Thousand Crane Steps. Jake fetched it, Born to Run strumming faintly, noting her gaze. "You're always here," she said, almost curious.
"Job's the job," he replied, shrugging. "Beats shoveling dung."
She smirked and left, but her words lingered. Was he too predictable? No—consistency built his edge. Flashy disciples chased glory; he chased control.
By week three, his points hit 50—10 a day, minus food—and his sketch pulsed stronger. The clock ticked clear, the notepad held scribbles longer, and Born to Run looped crisp—guitar riffs and all—when he fed it qi. The Gu link buzzed when he tested it, fifty mining Gu and twenty shrunken ones humming under the formation's sway. The mining swarm hauled a fist-sized copper chunk from the market road—ten silvers' worth—plus five more coins from the dirt. He'd hit the market again, maybe snag gold scraps this time.
Rain lashed the shack as he leaned back, jars beside him. The interface wasn't complete—needed tighter integration, better materials—but it was real. Step seven: unfolding. Tomorrow, he'd patrol the trails, forage, refine—Springsteen in his skull the whole way. For now, he closed his eyes, the clock's tick blending with "Tramps like us, baby, we were born to run." No system, no shortcuts—just him, some bugs, and a plan carving its way forward.