The tribunal elders, noses still buried in the dry soil of the courtyard, shuddered under Gong Zui's flat glare. Their minds, honed over millennia to decipher cosmic decrees and subtle shifts in spiritual tides, churned in desperate unison. A privy. Not a world-ending weapon, not a lost artifact, but a simple, rustic outhouse. A privy, rather than a lost cosmic seal, threatened to splinter their foundational cores.
“Lord Zhongli,” Fuyuan choked out, knuckles pressed to the pebbles, “we shall restore it! A timber framework imbued with celestial jade, flanked by an altar of purified spirit stone for your daily needs!”
Gong Zui simply raised an eyebrow, a gesture that caused Fuyuan to seize up. “Jade is too cold in winter. And I don’t want my… ablutions… flowing anywhere but where they’re supposed to. Spiritual plumbing, remember?” He tapped a cracked floorboard with his trowel. “Proper drainage. No leaks. And sturdy enough to withstand the next ‘Continental Extermination Edict’ that someone accidentally fires off near my workplace.”
Qiao Min, robes caked with gray mud, scrambled forward on his knees. “The… the Edict has already been rescinded, Sovereign! Immediately upon the recognition of your… your benevolent presence! All charges against Shen Yimo are hereby stricken from the Celestial Archives, erased from the karmic records, and declared… declared a grave error born of profound ignorance!”
As if to punctuate his words, a shimmering, golden scroll, previously plastered across the firmament, visibly shimmered and dissolved into motes of light, carried away by a sudden, gentle breeze. The millions of Tribunal warriors encircling the mountain, who had been frozen in mid-charge, now stood in bewildered silence before executing a synchronized retreat, their formations dissolving with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine in reverse.
Shen Yimo, who had been diligently trying to smooth a patch of uneven dirt near the remnants of the shed, looked up, confused. “Oh, so the layoff notice was just a draft? I knew my brick alignment passed inspection, supervisor!” He turned to the elders, wiping sweat with his sleeve. “You don’t have to run! I can show you the ‘Five Points of Mortar Adherence’ – it makes a big difference!”
The elders staggered upright, pale as fresh tallow. Gong Zui sighed. “He means it. He’ll make you learn it.”
“My Lord,” Fuyuan croaked, his hands shaking at his hems. “The Sky-Reaching Spire stands intact. The supreme dais has gathered no dust. Every high sect petitions for your return. Will you not resume your command?” His voice ended on a hopeful, trembling note.
Gong Zui slowly shook his head. “Too much paperwork. And the robes are itchy. I like my work overalls just fine.” He gestured to his dusty, patched attire. “And the pay is… consistent. Mostly.” He shot a glance towards the now-relieved Matriarch Pei Wanru, who was cautiously peering out from behind a particularly sturdy banyan root. “No, no thrones. Too many people asking for favors. Too much responsibility.” He yawned, popping three vertebrae in succession while the robed dignitaries cringed.
“My current responsibility,” Gong Zui continued, his voice flat, “is a new privy. And a new teapot. That last one was a gift from Old Man Zhu, rest his soul. Took me three months to talk him down to a reasonable price.” His eyes, still holding that faint, chilling glow, fixed on the Grandmasters. “Since you lot excel at smashing cedar beams, you can shovel the gravel for the replacement.”
From his brass-cornered tool chest, Gong Zui dumped an armful of coarse canvas trousers and oil-stained shirts into the dust. “Standard issue,” Gong Zui explained. “And Shen Yimo will supervise. He’s very particular about trench depth and square corners.”
Shen Yimo beamed. “Oh, this will be excellent practical experience! I’ll teach you all about foundational digging! Remember, a shallow trench leads to instability!” He drove an iron spade into the topsoil, carving a clean ditch line with practiced ease. The venerable lords of the Tribunal stared at the patched canvas, then down at their own trembling hands.
Pei Wanru, squinting from behind the split bark of a banyan, watched the ancient masters slide their arms into greasy smocks. Her mental abacus clicked furiously. These were the supreme leaders of the Ocher Expanse, beings of untold power and influence, now dressed in handyman’s gear, about to dig a latrine. And they were working for free. A slow grin split her dry lips, the tight knot below her ribs slackening for the first time in years.
“Keep the spine straight, Grandmaster Qiao! Lift with the thighs!” Shen Yimo shouted, nodding as the legal sovereign of the nine realms fumbled with a rusted spade, spraying loam over his own silk boots. Behind a briar bush, Gao Rufeng peered through the thorns, his mouth hanging open as his sword core shivered into silence. The ultimate sword art had been meaningless. The universe was a lie.
Gong Zui, having retrieved a replacement teapot – a slightly chipped but sturdy model – from his magically expanded toolbox, carefully set it on a pristine, newly repaired table that had also appeared. He tipped amber chrysanthemum tea into an earthen bowl, steam wafting over the rim. Next to it, a fresh, fluffy bun sat invitingly. He leaned back in a miraculously restored rattan chair, its creak a familiar comfort.
The afternoon sun dappled through the Weeping Banyan’s leaves. The rhythmic sounds of shovels striking earth, punctuated by Shen Yimo’s earnest instructions and the occasional, barely suppressed groan from a Grandmaster, drifted through the air. Gong Zui took a bite of his bun, savoring the simple sweetness. No edicts, no arrays, no demands for galactic conquest. Just a quiet afternoon, a warm bun, and the satisfying knowledge that someone else was finally doing the digging. He closed his eyes, a faint, contented smile playing on his lips. This, he mused, was precisely what immortality was for.