The communal commode of the Weeping Banyan Sect was, for the third time this week, backed up. It wasn’t just a simple clog; the entire drain network, woven with ancient Spirit-Flow Runes meant to channel waste water harmlessly into the earth, groaned under the strain. Gong Zui, kneeling precariously on the slick, algae-fuzzed tiles of the third-floor privy, plunged a gnarled, rust-stained implement into the swirling, shimmering miasma. The air, reeking of sour cabbage and sulfurous runoff, did not deter him. Above, through the grime-streaked window, a celestial ballet of destruction unfolded. Two figures, wreathed in crackling auroras, arced across the pale cerulean sky. One, a man in robes of midnight blue, rode a shimmering, crescent-bladed scythe that tore gashes in the clouds. The other, an elderly woman radiating an inferno of crimson Qi, wielded a whip of pure flame that lashed out with concussive force. Their battle, a distant, thunderous symphony of clashing elemental power, sent shockwaves rippling across the Ocher Expanse. Peaks of the distant Obsidian Ridge crumbled, spitting dust into the atmosphere. Pillars of light erupted from the plains below, followed by echoing roars that vibrated the very plumbing in Gong Zui’s hand. “Amateurs,” Gong Zui muttered, not looking up. He strained, a faint groan escaping him. His back, a chronic nuisance, twinged. “All flash, no substance. That Scythe-Wielder’s Qi flow is like a broken faucet—leaking everywhere. And the Blazewhip Elder? Too much force, zero finesse. She’ll burn herself out before sunset.” He gave a particularly vigorous plunge, and with a glug, the grey scum in the basin receded with a gurgle. “There. Fixed.” He wiped his hands on a conspicuously clean rag, ignoring the oily residue that still coated his iron rod. His gaze, a surprisingly sharp obsidian under bushy brows, swept around the dilapidated privy. The Weeping Banyan Sect, once a minor but respectable institution, now barely held itself together. Paint peeled from the walls, tallow lamps flickered fitfully, and the air held a damp draft. He sighed, pushing himself up with a grunt. “This old man needs an assistant.” Later that day, Gong Zui sat hunched over a chipped porcelain teacup in the sect’s dilapidated courtyard, picking at a particularly stubborn crust of congealed rice on a steamed bun. The sect leader, Matriarch Pei Wanru, a woman whose perpetually furrowed brow spoke volumes of her sect’s dwindling fortunes, paced before him like a distressed sparrow-hawk. “Gong Zui!” she shrieked, her voice thin but sharp. “You’ve taken three tea breaks today! Three! The South Bell Tower is still listing sideways, and that cracked seal in the meditation hall is attracting rogue mountain sprites! If you don’t pull your weight, I swear by the Nine Heavens, I’ll dock your bun allowance!” Gong Zui merely chewed, unperturbed. “Matriarch, my back is acting up. It’s an occupational hazard. All that subterranean conduit work, you understand. I need an extra pair of hands. A strong, young back.” Matriarch Pei stopped pacing, her eyes narrowing. “An assistant? You want me to hire another mouth to feed? We barely have enough cultivation resources to keep the remaining disciples from abandoning us for the Flourishing Dawn Academy!” “Someone cheap,” Gong Zui clarified, taking a slow sip of his tea. “Two steamed buns a day. Maybe a slightly bruised fruit on market day. Someone nobody else wants.” As if on cue, a gangly, pale youth shuffled into the courtyard. His clothes were threadbare, patched clumsily in several places, and his shoulders slumped with a weariness that seemed too profound for his tender years. This was Shen Yimo, a boy whose cultivation prospects were, by all accounts, nonexistent. “Matriarch,” Shen Yimo mumbled, bowing low. “The Elder Council of the Jade Serenity Temple sent me away. Again. They said my… my meridians are too inert for even the most rudimentary Qi absorption techniques.” He looked up, his eyes a desperate, pleading brown. “They called them ‘Stone-Lead Meridians.’ Said I was a dead end.” Matriarch Pei grimaced, a flicker of pity crossing her face before being swiftly replaced by her usual hardened pragmatism. “Shen Yimo, my boy. I told you. There’s nothing we can do here. Our sect’s resources are… limited.” Gong Zui, however, had stopped chewing his bun. His gaze, previously languid, sharpened on the boy. He saw not a dead end, but a peculiar density, a quiet, unyielding presence that tugged at something deep within his ancient memories. Stone-Lead Meridians, they called them. How quaint. “Boy,” Gong Zui grunted, wiping a crumb from his chin. “You look strong enough to carry a tool kit. Two steamed buns a day. Deal?” Shen Yimo’s head snapped up. His chin lifted, blinking rapidly as a faint hope showed on his face. “Sir? Two buns? Every day?” “Don’t make me repeat myself,” Gong Zui said, waving a hand dismissively. “You start now. My kit is by the North Gate, next to the ash kiln. Bring it here. My back hurts.” Shen Yimo bowed so deeply his forehead nearly scraped the dusty flagstones. “Thank you, sir! Thank you! I won’t let you down!” He sprinted towards the North Gate with a renewed vigor that surprised even Matriarch Pei, who simply stared, bewildered, as the boy vanished. “Gong Zui, what have you done?” she hissed. “He’s useless! He can’t cultivate! He’ll be a drain on our meager stores!” “He’s cheap,” Gong Zui replied, finishing his tea. “And he’s got heart. That’s worth more than all the Qi-hoarding prodigies combined, in my experience.” He pushed himself to his feet, stretching his back with a series of pops and cracks. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I earned another bun for clearing that drain.” Twenty minutes later, Shen Yimo returned, panting, his face flushed. He stood before Gong Zui, his chest heaving, but the heavy iron-bound chest was conspicuously absent. His hands were empty. “Sir,” Shen Yimo gasped, shame coloring his cheeks. “I… I couldn’t lift it. It’s… it’s stuck to the ground. Or maybe it’s just me. I tried everything. I even used my full strength, but it didn’t budge an inch.” His voice was a raw whisper of mortification. “I’m sorry. I told you I wouldn’t let you down.” Gong Zui raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He walked over to the North Gate, Shen Yimo trailing miserably behind him. There, nestled beside the smoking ash kiln, lay a simple, battered wooden chest. Its surface was scarred with decades of use, and a few loose nails rattled within. To the untrained eye, it was an ordinary, unremarkable object. “Huh,” Gong Zui grunted, nudging it with his toe. The crate, which appeared to be made of ancient, unvarnished Redwood, didn’t stir. “You’re right. It is a bit heavy today. Must be all those brass gaskets I tossed in.” He straightened, fixing Shen Yimo with a look that was both exasperated and oddly patient. “Alright, boy. If you can’t lift it, you can’t carry it. But you need to at least pick out a spanner. My back, remember?” Gong Zui knelt, fumbling for a moment before extracting a single, heavy bronze spanner from the bin. He held it out to Shen Yimo. “Here. Take this. Lift it. Just this one thing.” Shen Yimo’s brow furrowed in concentration. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly, and wrapped them around the metal shaft. He pulled. Nothing. He braced his feet, gritted his teeth, and pulled again, veins cording in his neck. The tool, a seemingly innocuous implement, remained utterly inert in his grasp, as heavy as solid pig iron. “It’s no good, sir,” Shen Yimo whispered, despair returning. “I can’t even lift a spanner.” Gong Zui sighed, a long, theatrical exhalation. “Fine, fine. You’re overthinking it. It’s not about brute force, boy. It’s about… breathing. Right. Breathing.” He demonstrated a slow, deliberate inhalation, his chest barely expanding. “Like this. Breathe in. Feel the air, let it fill you. Then, when you breathe out, focus. Think about the tool. Align yourself with it. Like you’re part of it. It’s part of you.” Shen Yimo, desperate for any instruction, nodded earnestly. He mimicked Gong Zui’s breath, drawing in a slow, deep lungful of the ambient air. He closed his eyes, concentrating, willing himself to connect with the unyielding bronze in his hand. As he exhaled, a peculiar phenomenon occurred. The air around him, usually a faint, invisible haze of spiritual energy, shimmered. Tiny, almost imperceptible motes of light began to coalesce, like dust catching the sun. They swirled, then settled, not dissipating but hardening. The very Qi of the courtyard, the omnipresent, invisible lifeblood of the Ocher Expanse, began to crystallize around Shen Yimo, forming a faint, ephemeral shell of iridescent particles. He gasped, his eyelids snapping apart, as the bronze implement in his hand, moments ago an immovable burden, suddenly felt… lighter. Not light, but no longer impossible. He lifted it, a mere inch from the ground, the crystallized Qi around him flaring with a soft, ethereal glow.

Minimum Wage and Maximum Density