Chapter 1: The Interview
"Are we there yet?"
"Don't be nervous. You're so smart—you'll definitely pass."
"Don't worry about the surgery fees. Mom found a new part-time job and will gather enough money. Just focus on the interview."
Reading his mother's messages on the screen, Zhang Yu quietly pocketed his phone, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes to steady himself.
After what felt like an eternity, an announcement echoed through the hallway.
"Number 989—Zhang Yu!"
Zhang Yu stood, walked into the interview classroom, and offered the three panelists a practiced, polite smile. "Good day, I'm Zhang Yu from Dongyang Junior High."
The middle interviewer eyed him coolly. "Why do you want to attend our school?"
"To honor its prestigious history, rich academic legacy, and outstanding track record of producing exceptional graduates..."
The interviewer frowned, cutting him off. "Save the clichés."
Zhang Yu hesitated. "I want to get into a top university. Songyang High has the highest college admission rate among schools I can apply to."
The interviewer's lips twitched into a faint smile as he reviewed Zhang Yu's file. "Impressive—straight A's across all subjects, ranking first in the school?"
"Your grades are fine, but entrance to Songyang High isn't just about test scores."
He paused, then asked casually, "How many hours do you sleep daily?"
"Five hours."
"Five?" The interviewer raised an eyebrow. "Students here average less than two hours of sleep from elementary onward. Top graduates often sleep... none."
Zhang Yu blinked. Five hours a day meant he was studying three fewer hours daily than these students. Over nine years, that gap would total nearly 10,000 hours...
"I'll work harder to catch up!" he blurted.
The left interviewer leaned forward. "How much of the high school curriculum have you completed?"
Catching his breath, Zhang Yu straightened. "I've self-studied all of freshman year."
The panelist's brow furrowed. "Only freshman? At our school, students are expected to finish all high school courses before enrollment."
Zhang Yu froze. His supposed advantage had just become a fatal flaw.
Just as Zhang Yu stood bewildered, the middle interviewer fired another question.
"To enhance academic efficiency and prevent distractions like puppy love, all students must undergo sterilization procedures to remove certain organs before enrollment. This ensures absolute dedication to cultivation. Are you aware of this requirement?"
Finally, a question he could answer. He hurriedly replied, "My family's already arranging it. I'll complete the sterilization before school starts and maintain optimal hormonal balance for studying."
The interviewer gave a noncommittal nod. "That's all for today. You may leave."
Zhang Yu shuffled out of the classroom, sensing his interview had lasted mere minutes compared to others'. Behind him, the middle interviewer shook his head. "Still uncircumcised at his age—lacks true dedication to cultivation."
The female interviewer smirked. "He walked in blind, no test reports or extracurricular scores. These ordinary junior highs keep sending worse applicants every year. Without affirmative action quotas, they'd never qualify for interviews."
The middle interviewer sighed. "I thought poverty might drive them harder. Maybe my expectations were too high."
"Keep him as a backup."
With that, Zhang Yu's resume was tossed into a cluttered trash bin, joining hundreds of others.
Though disheartened, Zhang Yu had no time to dwell. He moved to the next school's interview.
"At our institution," a recruiter said, "we offer low-interest loans for tuition—provided you mortgage non-essential organs."
"Rest assured," another purred, "though you're male, our all-female school welcomes diversity. Complete gender reassignment surgery, and you'll gain admission as a 'seed student' with elite status, eligible for our Core Yin Cultivation program."
"Alas," concluded a third interviewer, "you fall slightly short of our standards. But this year, we're launching a special program for underprivileged students. Surrender your physical form, and you may join our Dean's Soul-Binding Banner as a spectral disciple..."
"Kid, you've come to the right place. This school's tailored for prodigies like you from the sticks." The recruiter grinned, flipping open a holographic brochure. "Let me walk you through the perks:
Nootropic agents in drinking water guarantee 5th-tier focus around the clock.
Daily bovine demon elixirs (900g minimum) amplify cultivation efficiency tenfold.
Neuro-stimulant-infused HVAC systems eliminate sleep requirements—all free of charge.
Of course, tolerating these enhancers requires metabolic mods at our partner hospitals. Here's our implant catalog…"
One interview after another.
Barriers either impossibly high or contracts riddled with hidden claws.
Zhang Yu felt the weight of it all crushing his ribs.
The boy who topped suburban junior high now saw the abyss between himself and city elites—a chasm of disparity he'd only glimpsed the tip of.
Years of burning midnight oil? Useless.
He was just another underdog, barred from cultivation schools like the rest.
Returning home, he sat statue-still while his phone buzzed:
MOM: How'd it go?
MOM: Working late. Reheat the leftovers.
MOM: Don't worry about fees. I'll scrape together whatever for sterilization/transgender surgery.
Ignoring the messages, Zhang stared at the ceiling. His mind, once sharp, now felt hollow.
Then—buzzzzzz. A minute-long vibration.
When he finally answered, the call had disconnected.
A text followed: "Your ¥5,000 emergency fund is ready. Transfer in 10 seconds…"
"Loan spam?"
Hmph.
He suspected schools had sold his data.
But the words lingered.
That night, his mother found him at his desk, eyes fierce with renewed resolve.
"Don't fret, Mom. I won't give up."
"If I fail this year, I'll try again. I will become a cultivator."
"Tomorrow, I'll join cram schools. I'll patch every gap in my knowledge."
The next morning, Zhang Yu left at dawn. By nightfall, he returned with a beaming smile.
"Mom, I found a Daoist cram school. Their teachers are all from top high schools—studying with them guarantees I'll get into Songyang High."
"Don't worry about tuition. They waived it because of my academic record and financial situation. Just promise to enroll next year, and it's free—like free advertising for them."
"Big companies don't scam people."
His mother watched him vanish before dawn each day, returning well past midnight. Stacks of high school textbooks—Chinese, math, physics—piled up. He claimed he'd cram all secular subjects in one year, skipping only cultivation studies.
But the pills worried her.
"Mom, I've already missed 10,000 hours of study compared to city elites," he explained. "These neuro-stimulant pills let me sleep only 30 minutes daily. Without them, the gap widens."
"School's principal gifted them—they adore me."
Delighted by his "recognition," she watched him return with more: hormone regulators, demonic beast tonics, nameless powders.
"Classmates gifted them," he said. Sometimes. "School rewards," other times.
She sent 1,000 yuan for gifts.
But his moods darkened. Joyful mornings turned to silent evenings. Laughter at meals died mid-bite at phone calls.
He grew paranoid about his phone. Once, she recharged it—only to face his fury.
"She won't touch it again," she vowed, heartbroken.
Then came the fees:
Senior scholar lecture fees
Admissions officer "consultation"
Basic spiritual root testing
Beginner-grade child-grade flying swords (2,000–8,000 yuan)
20,000 yuan for "renting a celestial spiritual root"
Finally, the acceptance letter arrived.
Mother's heart swelled with pride. She marveled at her son's dedication and latent talent, agreeing without hesitation to cover his tuition, miscellaneous fees, and alchemical expenses. But when the semester began, Zhang Yu's demands spiraled out of control. The family's savings dwindled, debts mounting like an insatiable beast.
Then came the call.
"Hello, may I speak to Zhang Yu's mother?"
The voice on the line trembled. "You're aware your son's loans are 30 days overdue…?"
That night, Zhang Yu confessed everything. For over a year, his "free scholarships" and "gifts" were lies. Every penny had come from relentless borrowing across shadowy platforms.
"Mom, I'm sorry," he whispered. "But I have to cultivate. Even if I spend eternity repaying this debt, I won't stop."
She sold every family heirloom, took on more loans, and paid his debts again. For a fleeting moment, peace returned—until new overdue notices arrived.
"Mom, I can't stop the elixirs. If I do, my cultivation foundation will collapse," he pleaded. "The Heavenly Root rental is mandatory—without it, my magic lags. And this VIP tutoring pass… I need it to understand the master's techniques."
The modern cultivation system, powered by celestial technology, allowed mortals without spiritual roots to ascend. But it came at a cost: endless fees for lessons, maintenance, and "enlightenment."
Three months later, the family could no longer afford rent or utilities. The nightmare dragged on until the day Zhang Yu returned home to an empty apartment. A note lay crumpled on the floor:
"Forgive me. I can't watch you drown in this hell anymore."
He stared at the message, numb. Then, without a second thought, he walked toward the rooftop.
On the rooftop of a dilapidated rental apartment, a sharp pain lanced through the man's skull, dragging his chaotic consciousness from darkness. He blinked, squinting at the sewer-choked streets below, where neon-lit billboards flickered with ads for "Cultivation Loans" endorsed by celestial immortals soaring through the heavens.
"Where the hell am I?" he muttered, his voice echoing off the crumbling red-brick walls. Behind him, a circle of flickering crimson candles encircled a tattered doll—its frayed seams and jaundiced cloth trembling as if on the verge of disintegration.
The grotesque scene triggered a cascade of fragmented memories. This isn't China… I've been dragged into another world.
The truth clawed at him. This was Kunxu, a pyramid-like megacity with 36 above-ground tiers and 18 subterranean layers. The first tier alone sprawled like a continent, each subsequent layer a self-contained realm. Here, sects ruled with feudal tyranny, monopolizing food, energy, and even thought. Mortals toiled in their shadow, their lives collateral for the "immortal" infrastructure.
Zhang Yu—his name now—was a high school student in Tier One's Songyang Academy, lately obsessed with a peculiar ritual…
A fresh sting pierced his palm. He stared at the translucent symbol now etched into his skin, its edges slowly darkening.
What the hell is this?
The night wind whispered through the cracks, sending ripples across the sea of crimson candlelight. Below, the street squirmed under neon-lit advertisements for Cultivation Loans, endorsed by celestial figures soaring through holographic skies.
Zhang Yu's gaze fell on the tattered doll at his feet—its button eyes hollow, its frayed seams trembling as if alive. A wave of dizziness crashed over him, memories fragmenting like shattered glass. This isn't China… I've been dragged into a nightmare.
The truth clawed at his mind. This was Kunxu, a pyramid-city of 36 above-ground tiers and 18 subterranean hells. The first tier alone sprawled like a continent, each layer a self-contained empire ruled by sects that monopolized air, water, and even thoughts. Mortals toiled in their shadow, their lives collateral for the "immortal" infrastructure.
Zhang Yu—his name now—collapsed onto a sagging mattress in a room reeking of mildew. No AC, no running water. Just a bed, a desk, and walls plastered with elementary school award certificates: Top Student, Math Olympiad Champion, Citywide Honor Roll. Memories flooded back—Straight-A genius. Songyang Academy's pride. A future bound for university, cultivation, and escape.
His fist clenched. Cultivate, join a sect, climb Kunxu's tiers… Leave this slum. Live centuries. The fantasy crumbled as his phone buzzed.
"Mr. Zhang Yu, your loan is 3 days overdue…"
He scrolled through messages—dozens of red alerts. The original body's debt had metastasized: 700,000 yuan in loans, 50 yuan left in his account. A "genius" who gamed the system, died by overdrive, left his mom to flee.
The lights died. Neighbors' apartments remained dark. Blackout.
As he slumped into unconsciousness, the black ink on his palm crept to 10%.