Attend to Sister Jiang.

You weave through the mossy courtyards and bamboo groves until you reach the inner disciples’ quarters—an elegant cluster of pavilions, their curved roofs cutting into the misty morning sky.

At the largest pavilion, you stop and bow deeply.

“Sister Jiang! Wu Rensu reporting!” you call, trying to keep your voice steady.

A voice, raspy and sharp, slices through the door. “Come in, you useless brat!”

You push open the heavy wooden door and step inside.

The air is thick with the tang of medicinal herbs, and smoke curls lazily from an incense burner. In the center of the room, sprawled across a mountain of embroidered cushions, lounges Sister Jiang.

She’s ancient even by sect standards—over three hundred years old—but looks barely thirty. Her red robe is wrinkled and carelessly thrown over her hulking frame. Tangled silver hair spills over her swelling shoulders. Her unpainted face is twisted in pure irritation.

Jiang Zhiwei, First Disciple of the Red Bamboo Sect.

“There you are,” she snaps. “Took you long enough. My back’s killing me. Fix it!”

You bow again. “Yes, Sister Jiang.”

Carefully, you slip off your shoes and approach, heart pounding.

“Start with my lower back,” she orders, yanking her collar down to expose her broad, heavily muscled back. Scars crisscross her skin—some silvered with age, others still red and new. You glimpse the top of her massive backside and the coarse hair under her arms. You gulp.

Kneeling, you place your hands lightly on her back, searching for a starting point.

“Don’t just hover there like a useless twig,” she snaps. “Step on it!”

You blink. She means it literally.

Gingerly, you step onto the mountainous valley of her back, struggling to balance yourself. The muscles beneath your feet are stone-hard and tense.

A low, satisfied groan rumbles from her throat. “Finally. Took you long enough.”

You shift your weight, pressing deeper, kneading the stubborn knots underfoot.

“Harder,” she growls.

You grit your teeth and lean into it. Your legs tremble, but you manage to walk back and forth, working through the tension.

As you do, her voice slices through the haze of incense and effort.

“Tell me, brat. Why are you wasting your time playing cultivator when you can’t even find your damn core?”

You wince. “I’m... trying, Sister Jiang.”

“Trying? Trying’s for hens laying eggs. You think the heavens care about your ‘trying’?”

You don’t dare answer.

“You don’t have the gift. Not like that little wife of yours. Meiyu? Hmph. Born lucky.”

You bite your cheek, focusing instead on the task at hand.

“But luck fades,” she says. “Strength rots. Only will remains.”

Was that... encouragement?

“You’re wasting your time with that Red Bamboo manual. Master wrote it for women with special constitutions. Like me. Like the others. Useless for a talentless mortal like you.”

You stiffen, but can’t deny she’s right.

She snorts. “Lucky for you, I happened to acquire a few scrolls from other sects—no owners, of course.”

You don’t ask how she got them.

“Fourth floor of the library. Second shelf from the left. Read it. All of it. One of them might suit a worm like you.”

You reply quickly, “Yes, Sister Jiang.”

She shifts under your feet. “Later,” she growls. “For now, finish.”

You resume your grim duty, every few moments interrupted by her barked corrections.

Finally, after what feels like hours, she grunts in satisfaction.

“Enough. Get lost.”

You bow and scramble for the door.

“Brat!” her voice snaps after you.

You freeze. “Y-Yes?”

“The key.”

Something flashes through the air—you snatch the iron key just before it clips your forehead.

“It’s yours now,” she says. “You got what you wanted. Now hold up your end—your foot, my back, every morning. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

You bow so low you nearly fall over. “Yes, Sister Jiang!”

Without a glance back, you bolt outside. The door slams shut behind you.

Outside, the morning mist has dissipated, and sunlight pours into the bamboo groves. From the inner courts, the clash of weapons and heavy grunts echo, carried by the cool, whipping breeze.

You glance at the heavy iron key in your hand, feeling its weight settle deep in your gut.