The morning sun, a sickly orange disc filtered through the perpetual haze of neglect, did little to dispel the gloom clinging to Qixia Pavilion. Mo Qianshu, a figure of profound apathy clad in threadbare grey robes, dragged a bamboo broom across the cracked flagstones of the main courtyard. Dust motes danced in the sparse light, disturbed from their long slumber only to resettle moments later. He hummed a tuneless dirge, each sweep proving his dedication to the meticulous cultivation of utter irrelevance. This was his sanctuary, his path to survival – the Dao of Insignificance. The compound itself stood as a ruin of failing ambitions. Spirit-herb gardens, once vibrant with medicinal flora, were now choked by defiant weeds, their thorny tendrils climbing ancient, crumbling walls. A single, warped wooden sign, barely legible, proclaimed ‘Qixia Pavilion – Aspirations in Bloom,’ a cruel joke in a realm where cultivation strength dictated everything. Mo Qianshu found it all rather comforting. The more dilapidated, the more forgotten, the safer he was from the crushing gaze of the Heavenly Dao. “Mo Qianshu!” The voice, sharp as a whetted blade, sliced through the morning’s quiet. Elder Feng Jiao, her robes of pristine azure a stark contrast to the decaying surroundings, strode into the courtyard. Her features, usually pinched with disdain, seemed particularly so this morning. She tapped a foot, its delicate silken slipper stirring a cloud of dust Mo Qianshu had just, rather painstakingly, avoided. “Are you sweeping for the blind or the dead? Look at this! A patch, the size of a dragon’s tooth, entirely untouched!” Mo Qianshu bowed low, a picture of contrite incompetence. “Ah, Elder Feng. My sincerest apologies. My eyes… they are not what they once were. The light, you see, it plays tricks.” He gestured vaguely at the pale sun, his expression a carefully crafted mask of earnest stupidity. Internally, a warm surge of satisfaction bloomed. Excellent. More reprimands, more evidence of his complete lack of utility. The Nine-Yuan Annihilation Lightning, that celestial exterminator, would surely overlook such a pathetic specimen. Feng Jiao scoffed, adjusting an intricate silver hairpin. “Tricks, indeed. It tricks you into thinking you’re worthy of the air you breathe. Just yesterday, the Sect Master of the Verdant Bloom Spire passed by. If he were to witness this disgrace, Qixia Pavilion would become the laughingstock of the entire Vermillion Cradle Region.” She paused, her gaze raking over his tattered hem with naked contempt. “Not that we aren’t already. Just finish it, you indolent slug. We have a new batch of prospective disciples arriving today. Don’t want them tripping over your worthlessness before they even sign the enrolment scrolls.” Mo Qianshu nodded vigorously, resuming his sweeping with renewed, though still utterly ineffective, vigour. He watched Feng Jiao depart, her disdainful clicks echoing until they faded. Perfect. His alibi was ironclad. He was but a useless groundskeeper, not the apex predator who had once made the very heavens tremble. Later that day, as a sparse collection of young hopefuls lined up for assessment, Mo Qianshu found himself hovering near the enrolment table, ostensibly to ‘monitor’ for stray leaves. Most were dismissed summarily, their birth meridians too weak, their Qi channels too constricted. The Taiheng continent had no patience for the mediocre. Then, a girl stepped forward. Her clothes, though clean, were patched in many places. Her posture was stiff, shoulders pulled back as if bracing for a blow. Her name, she stated in a quiet voice, was Su Ranyue. Feng Jiao, presiding over the assessments with an air of bored aristocracy, barely glanced at the girl. “Next. Meridian compatibility?” Another elder, a gaunt man named Elder Hu with spectacles perched on his nose, consulted a crystal orb. Its usual shimmering glow remained stubbornly dull. He frowned. “Stone Veins. Completely petrified. No Qi circulation possible, not even a wisp. The girl is… inert.” He sighed, a sound of weary resignation. “She claims to have been rejected by ninety-nine sects across three regions.” “Ninety-nine?” Feng Jiao’s voice dripped with incredulity. “A new record in futility. Take her away. This is Qixia Pavilion, not a hospice for the terminally untalented.” Su Ranyue’s shoulders slumped, but her chin remained stubbornly high. Her gaze, a deep, unwavering brown, swept across the bustling courtyard, past the successful applicants, past the sneering elders, and landed directly on Mo Qianshu. He froze, his hand mid-sweep. Her eyes held no judgment, only a strange, quiet resolve. An idea, a truly magnificent, game-changing idea, sparked in Mo Qianshu’s mind. A disciple. An apprentice so utterly useless, so devoid of potential, that his own teacher status would be tainted by association. His insignificance would become undeniable, set in stone. He would be known not as the groundskeeper, but as the patron of the talentless. A stroke of genius! “Wait!” Mo Qianshu’s voice, usually a mumble, boomed slightly louder than intended. He quickly cleared his throat, shrinking back. “Elder Feng… a moment, if I may. This girl… Su Ranyue. Perhaps… perhaps she has potential in another area?” He tried to make his suggestion sound as unconvincing as possible. “Perhaps… for the groundskeeping staff? She looks sturdy.” Feng Jiao raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Sturdy? Mo Qianshu, are you suggesting she join *your* esteemed department?” Her tone was laced with sarcasm. “Very well. If you, the most shiftless of our staff, wish to take on the most hopeless of our prospects, I shall not stand in the way of such a fitting match. Consider her your sole ward. Don’t expect any resources for this… endeavour.” Mo Qianshu bowed deeply, a triumphant grin hidden behind his mask of humility. “Thank you, Elder Feng. I shall endeavour… to endeavour.” Su Ranyue, her jaw slightly dropped in quiet disbelief, followed Mo Qianshu to his secluded, weed-infested corner of the spirit-herb gardens. He led her to a massive, rough-hewn monolith, black as midnight, half-buried in the soil. It pulsed with a faint, malevolent aura, its surface cold even under the afternoon sun. “This, Su Ranyue,” Mo Qianshu declared, gesturing with an exaggerated flourish, “is the Cursed Obsidian Megalith. It weighs approximately a thousand tons. For your first assignment, you are to carry it, without the use of any Qi – for indeed, you possess none – from this spot, across the Serpent’s Spine Ridge, and deposit it at the Whispering Willow Grove on the other side. You have until sunset.” He winked, a barely perceptible gesture, convinced she would understand the absurdity. This was his foolproof plan. She’d try for an hour, realise the impossibility, and quit in frustration. His reputation as the guide of the hopeless would be secured. Su Ranyue stared at the dark slab, then at her own small, calloused hands. She looked at Mo Qianshu, her steady brown gaze meeting his. “Master,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “I understand. It is a trial of willpower. To move the immovable without power, to overcome the impossible through sheer persistence. I accept.” Mo Qianshu nearly choked on a sigh. “Indeed. Sheer persistence. Now, off you go.” He watched, dumbfounded, as she knelt, placed her small hands against the cold, rough surface of the boulder, and began to push. Her muscles strained, her face reddened, but the stone did not budge. She tried again, and again, grunting with effort. Hours passed. The sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of violet and crimson. Mo Qianshu, leaning against a crumbling wall, was already mentally composing his report to Feng Jiao about her inevitable failure. He’d frame it as ‘lack of Dao Heart,’ a polite way of saying ‘she quit.’ As the last sliver of the sun dipped below the jagged peaks of the Serpent’s Spine Ridge, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the ground. Mo Qianshu blinked, startled from his complacent reverie. He focused on Su Ranyue, who was now pressing her entire body against the Cursed Obsidian Megalith, her eyes shut tight, her face contorted in a silent scream of effort. A thin, spiderweb crack appeared on the mineral's surface. Then another. And another. With a sound like distant thunder, the thousand-ton Cursed Obsidian Megalith shattered into a million glittering fragments, scattering across the spirit-herb garden. Su Ranyue staggered back, gasping, her body momentarily shrouded in a blinding golden light that erupted from her very core. The light pulsed, coalescing around her, revealing a physique of impossible might, every line and curve radiating the ancient, mythic power of the World-Pillar, a legendary constitution thought lost to the ages. Mo Qianshu, his jaw slack, watched in dawning horror. This was not supposed to happen. His insignificance… it was ruined!

The Weight of Uselessness