My Years as a Menace in the Sect

Just as dawn was breaking, Wei Ping'an woke up laughing at himself. In his dream, he was standing on the arena of the handyman's competition, carrying a black pot in one hand and a bag of spirit stones in the other. Xu Baocai was applauding him from below the stage, and Old Man Zheng was smiling and saying that he didn't need to move the medicinal herbs today.

He was smiling beautifully when the back of his head hit the edge of the pot with a "thud," making him hiss and gasp in pain, instantly sobering him up.

He sat up, clutching the back of his head. He first touched his dantian, then checked his meridians, and finally looked at half of his face through the water vat. His complexion was alright; he hadn't had a nosebleed or his eyes and mouth were crooked. The calluses from chopping wood had faded a bit, which meant that the medicine he had been taking hadn't been in vain.

The Qi in my Dantian felt more solid than before, and my meridians had opened up a bit, making the hurdle of the second level of Qi Induction much easier.

Thankfully, he didn't go astray. The pot on his back slid halfway down, but he quickly straightened it. Half a step into the third level was enough; he hadn't jumped too hard. He knew in his heart that while he could barely get his qi to his fingertips, eight out of ten times it got stuck in his wrists—either it wouldn't come out, or a weak wisp, like a gasp for breath, would disappear with a gust of wind. He'd spent most of last night trying to break through, but in the end, he'd only loosened the barrier a little; he hadn't truly broken through.

"Be steady, be steady." He muttered to his reflection in the water tank. "If I rush in and burst my meridians, that would be a huge loss. Life is more important. I can slowly work on my cultivation level." People who value their lives don't pursue rapid advancement; they just need to be able to progress steadily.

After getting dressed, he tried to draw his breath into his palms, his face turning red. Only after a long while did a wisp of cool air emerge from his fingertips. He waved it at the candle flame, and the flame flickered three times, as if blown by the wind. When he tried harder, the breath dissipated, and his fingers went numb.

"No way," he shook his hand, "If I'm like this on stage, I'll end up blushing like Guan Yu before I can even hit anyone. That would be truly embarrassing." Being publicly humiliated seems far more terrifying than getting beaten up. He quickly packed his things, tucked his wooden plaque away, and headed straight for the Danfeng Hall of Affairs. Today was the last day for the competition registration; if he didn't go now, he'd miss it.

The main road of Danfeng was ten times more bustling than the back mountain. The bluestone path was wide enough for horses to run along, and the eaves of the palaces on both sides were upturned. Gray-robed servants and white-robed disciples came and went, some carrying medicine baskets and others carrying swords, all walking hurriedly. Wei Ping'an, carrying a black pot, mingled among them, attracting an alarming number of stares. He was stared at the whole way he walked.

"Look, it's that guy who took the blame in the medicine testing hall!" "He's the one who beat Xu Baochai? He looks skinny, doesn't seem like a fighter." "I heard it's all thanks to that pot, even a fine iron sword couldn't cut it, it's really strange." The murmurs drifted over on the wind, and he straightened his back even more, his eyes fixed straight ahead, looking like a calm hermit. In reality, he was overjoyed. See, see, everyone knows you, Master Wei, now.

As they walked, a crowd gathered at the roadside corner, packed tightly together in layers. In the middle was a wooden table piled high with loose silver coins and scattered spirit stones. Next to it stood a wooden board with crookedly written words: "The Odds and Ends Betting Platform is open! Bet on Xu Baochai to 0.5, bet on Zhao Feng to 2, bet on Wei Ping'an… 1 to 10!"

He paused. One to ten odds? Such contempt? He squeezed through the crowd, peering at the table. Sure enough, his name was at the very back of the line. The odds were ridiculously high, and there were very few people betting, totaling only a few dozen coins. "That's all?"

He pointed to his own name and deliberately raised his voice, asking, "Nobody's betting on Wei Ping'an to win?" The bookie glanced at him, didn't recognize him, and curled his lip: "That scapegoat? He only won against Xu Baochai once with dirty tricks. He's nothing in the real ring. I advise you not to bet, you're just throwing money away."

He was secretly overjoyed, but pretended to hesitate: "Really? He seems pretty good... I'll bet twenty coins to test the waters." He pulled out twenty copper coins from his pocket and slammed them on the table. "I'm betting on him to win." The dealer chuckled and casually wrote it down: "Okay, you're in. Just don't cry if you lose."

Clutching the receipt, he squeezed through the crowd, his shoulders shaking from trying to suppress a laugh. Twenty coins for two hundred—why not take advantage of this bargain? He happily made his way to the Deacon's Hall, where a long queue stretched before him at the registration desk. At the end of the line, two menial servants were chatting animatedly.

"I heard that Deacon Sun is personally supervising the exam this year, making it a much higher-level event than in previous years."

"Of course! I heard the sect is going to select people from the menial servants to fill outer sect positions, and the top three in the minor competition will have a chance!"

"Really? That'll be a bloodbath! Xu Baochai was already formidable, but this time he's going even harder..." Wei Ping'an's ears twitched. Becoming an outer disciple? Such a good thing? He'd only been hoping to win some spirit stones and medicinal herbs, but he hadn't expected such a chance to become a full disciple. Outer disciples were far superior to menial servants; they had proper cultivation methods, a monthly stipend of spirit stones, and the opportunity to learn alchemy in the alchemy room. He had to give it his all.

After waiting in line for half an incense stick's time, it was his turn. The person in charge of registration was a round-faced disciple. He glanced at him, his gaze lingering on the pot for a moment: "Name? Affiliation?"

"Wei Ping'an, Medicine Testing Hall."

"arms."

Wei Ping'an slapped his back and declared confidently, "Mysterious Iron Pot!" The people next to him burst out laughing.

The round-faced disciple was also taken aback: "A pot?"

"Yes," he said earnestly, "it can block and smash, it's very useful. The rules don't say you can't use a pot, right?" The round-faced disciple flipped through the rulebook and indeed there was no rule against it. His lips twitched, and finally he wrote the three words "Mysterious Iron Pot" in the book.

"Alright, it's been submitted. The competition starts tomorrow. Meet at the arena on the back hill at 5:00 AM. Being late will be considered a forfeit."

I carefully put my number plate in my pocket and walked back, turning the wooden plate over and over to look at it several times along the way. Back in the drug testing hall, I rushed into my room to start tinkering with my pre-competition equipment. On my bed, I spread out a row of small oil paper packets: a suffocating herbal remedy, a pungent bitter gall powder, an itchy powder that made me jump, and a small packet of special chili powder, made from sun-dried chilies from the kitchen, which was particularly strong.

He stuffed them one by one into hidden pockets: a dart hidden in his left sleeve, itching powder in his right, antidote and qi-boosting pills in his bosom, and even a small packet of chili powder in his boot. He practiced reaching into the water vat, his movements swift, precise, and fluid.

"If we can't beat them, we'll just throw chili powder at them and run away. Anyway, the rules don't say we can't use chili powder. At worst, we'll be called for a foul, but that's better than getting our legs broken."

Just then, Old Man Zheng pushed open the door and came in, carrying a yellowed old booklet with a worn-out cover.

"Basic sword manual, the first three moves. Master them before going on stage. Don't always rely on smashing pots and embarrass the people of the medicine testing hall." He took it and flipped through it. It had little figures drawn on it, and the moves were clearly marked.

He pouted, "Senior Uncle, only three moves? What can that do?"

"Three moves should be enough for you. Master these three moves, and with that half-baked skill, you can at least withstand a couple more attacks. If you don't, you'll still get beaten up." He turned and walked away, but stopped at the door. "The competition starts tomorrow, so chop ten less bundles of firewood today."

His eyes lit up: "Really? Senior Uncle, you're so kind!" "If you lose tomorrow, come back and make up for twenty bundles." So that's what they were waiting for.

After the old man left, he actually started practicing the sword manual diligently. There were only three moves: horizontal slash, straight thrust, and side block. He practiced in front of the old locust tree. At first, his slashes were crooked and he couldn't keep up with his breathing. He tried to get his energy to the blade, but eight out of ten times it would dissipate halfway through. He would be out of breath after just three slashes.

After practicing for half an hour, I finally managed to condense the energy on the blade once, but I used too much force, and the energy shot out along the blade, splashing tree bark fragments all over my face. As the sun began to set, I was finally able to barely condense the energy on the blade for a breath or two, enough for one strike, but it would dissipate after that.

"It'll do," he said, wiping his sweat. "It's better than nothing. Maybe we can catch them off guard." He took the pot off the ground again and cleaned it carefully, even removing the dust from the crevices. "Tomorrow depends on you. You have to hold on and not crack at the crucial moment. If you win, I'll apply oil three times for you. If you lose, we'll admit defeat. Life is the most important thing; there's no shame in it."

Just as he was chatting with the pot, someone called him from outside the courtyard gate. It was the medicine storehouse servant delivering pre-competition supplies, handing him a small cloth bag: "Everyone participating will receive one, one packet each, one packet of Qi Gathering Powder, and three Qi Replenishing Pills. Use them sparingly."

He took the cloth bag and squeezed it. When he looked up, he saw a person standing not far away: Xu Baochai. He was dressed in white, his sword was polished to a gleaming shine, and he looked much more energetic than before.

The closed-door cultivation had been effective; his aura had become much calmer. Their eyes met, and Xu Baochai paused before approaching. Wei Ping'an's heart tightened; he took a half-step back, his hand secretly reaching for the medicinal powder in his sleeve.

Xu Baocai stopped in front of him, his gaze sweeping over the pot before settling back on his face: "You signed up?"

"Ah, I submitted it," he said calmly. "Did Senior Brother Xu submit it too?"

"You beat me last time by using a pot. There are many rules in the ring; you can't intentionally hurt people, nor can you use underhanded tricks. You'd better keep those little tricks to yourself."

Wei Ping'an raised an eyebrow: "The rules don't say you can't use a pot." Xu Baocai stared at him for a couple of moments: "I hope you can make it to the second round. I'd like to see how capable you are without resorting to underhanded tricks." With that, he turned and left.

Wei Ping'an stood there, stroking his chin. "Make it to the second round?" The question sounded like a challenge, yet also carried a hint of approval. He tucked his supplies away and headed back, just turning the corner when a group of people approached. Leading them was a middle-aged cultivator in a brocade robe, a steward's token hanging from his waist, followed by two attendants.

As he passed by, he paused slightly, his gaze lingering on the black iron pot on the man's back for a full three breaths. The attendant beside him whispered, "Steward Sun, this is Wei Ping'an, the new handyman at the Medicine Testing Hall." His heart skipped a beat. It was him? He quickly bowed and made way. Steward Sun didn't speak, giving him a dismissive glance before leaving with his men. As they brushed past each other, he distinctly felt the other man's gaze glancing at the rim of the pot like a needle.

He straightened up only after everyone had walked away, a chill running down his back. He understood the saying, "A common man is innocent, but possessing a treasure is a crime." It seemed this young man not only had to guard against his opponents on the stage, but also against those offstage who were eyeing his prize.

He quickened his pace, hurrying back to the medicine testing hall. He checked all the doors and windows, then stuffed the pot under the bed with straw before chopping firewood. While chopping, he kept glancing into the room. Old Zheng stood on the porch watching, his lips twitching before he suppressed them.

Nothing happened that night. Before dawn the next day, he got up, first checking under the bed to see if the pot was still there. He changed into clean clothes, securely strapped the pot to his back, carefully packed the medicine powder, and tied his hair up tightly. He looked at his reflection in the water vat; his face was a little pale. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door to go out.

The arena on the back mountain was more lively than he had expected. Three rammed earth arenas stood side by side, surrounded by at least a hundred servants and disciples, chattering like they were at a market. Tables and chairs were set up around the arenas, and Deacon Sun sat in the middle, watching the crowd with a blank expression.

He squeezed into the most secluded corner of the waiting area and squatted down, secretly observing his opponents around him. They were all burly, with sharp eyes and carrying long swords, looking like they were not to be trifled with, and each of them exuded a calm and composed aura.

Just as he was feeling uneasy, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and saw a round-faced, chubby man smiling broadly: "Brother, you must be Wei Ping'an? My name is Zhang Erpang, from the medicinal cuisine kitchen." "Ah, hello." "I really admire you! Xu Baocai has been so arrogant for so long, and you're the first person who dared to go against him and win. I'll definitely cheer you on in your competition later!" He chuckled twice: "Just lucky, all thanks to the strong pot."

As they were chatting, the referee struck the gong. "The Danfeng Miscellaneous Workers' Competition officially begins! Come up on stage according to your numbers! Anyone who falls to the ground and can't get up after being hit by the ball loses! No killing blows, no poison!" The first match began, number one versus number two, the two Qi Refining Level 2 fighters were evenly matched. Match after match, and as they approached number thirty-seven, his palms were sweating and his heart was pounding.

"Number 37 Wei Ping'an, Number 42 Wang Hu! Come up!" His legs went weak when his name was called, and he almost couldn't stand up. He took a deep breath, slapped the pot, and forced his way through the crowd to climb onto the stage. Wang Hu, indeed, lived up to his name; he was burly and carried a broad-bladed sword, standing there like a small mountain. The crowd below immediately erupted in cheers, "Wang Hu is at the peak of the second level of Qi Refining! He's strong enough to lift a cauldron! Even if that pot is hard, it would kill him if it shook!" He swallowed hard and gripped his short sword tightly.

As soon as the gong sounded, Wang Hu charged forward, wielding his broadsword. He instinctively ducked his neck and thrust his back forward. A deafening clang rang out, and sparks flew as the broadsword struck the edge of the pot. Wang Hu's hand split open, and he stumbled back three large steps. He wasn't unscathed either; the impact forced him to stagger forward a couple of steps, his back numb and his blood churning.

The audience erupted in chaos. "Holy crap, he really blocked it? What's that pot made of?" Wang Hu shook his hand, his eyes growing even fiercer. This time, he didn't aim for the back, but instead slashed at the legs and shoulders, specifically targeting areas the pot couldn't block. He was forced to retreat repeatedly, nearly getting hit several times. In desperation, he grabbed the pot and rolled on the spot, rolling a long way with a "glug."

The audience roared with laughter. He got up, covered in dust and grass clippings in his hair, looking a little embarrassed. But hiding like this wasn't a solution.

Remembering the three moves Old Man Zheng had taught him, and that half-baked way of releasing his internal energy, he took a deep breath, strained to draw the energy from his dantian to his arm, his face turning red. The energy climbed up his wrist to his short sword, giving the blade a faint glow. Wang Hu charged at him again, slashing horizontally with his broadsword.

He didn't dodge; instead, he stepped forward, his short sword thrusting straight at the opponent's wrist, meeting the blade's edge. Wang Hu chuckled, flicking his wrist and slashing upwards with his broadsword. Just before the weapons clashed, Wei Ping'an gritted his teeth and thrust forward, releasing a breath he had been holding back for so long through the tip of his sword. A thin wisp of air shot straight towards Wang Hu's face. Caught off guard, Wang Hu closed his eyes and turned his head.

In that instant, he seized the opportunity, shifted his feet to the side, and slammed the edge of the pot into Wang Hu's waist, then pushed him forward with all his might, using the pot against his shoulder. With a thud, Wang Hu's massive body flew off the stage.

A moment of deathly silence fell over the entire arena, then erupted in chaos. He stood on the ring, completely stunned, staring at the dazed Wang Hu below, unable to process what had happened for a long time. "Number 37, Wei Ping'an, wins!" The referee's voice finally brought him back to reality. He quickly straightened his back, put his hands behind his back, and slowly walked off the ring. Only he knew that his legs were still trembling, his back was covered in cold sweat, and his dantian felt completely empty.

Zhang Erpang rushed over excitedly, "You're amazing! When did you learn to project your qi?" "Just qi, just qi," he chuckled, secretly delighted. He looked up and saw Xu Baochai standing not far away watching him, nodded slightly, and turned to leave.

Zhou Yan walked over and tossed him a small porcelain bottle: "Pulse Protection Pill. You were quite shaken just now, weren't you? Take it." "Thank you, Senior Brother Zhou!" "Your next opponent is Zhao Feng, one of Deacon Sun's men. He's ruthless. Your qi projection skills are barely passable, don't show off." With that, he turned and left.

The smile on his face faded as he held the porcelain bottle. He looked up at the stands and saw that Deacon Sun was also looking at him, his eyes deep and unfathomable. His heart skipped a beat, and he quickly put away the pills and returned to the medicine testing hall. He closed the door, took the pot off, and examined it carefully. There were a few faint white marks on the surface of the pot, but no cracks. The patterns were a little deeper than before, and the black color was shiny.

"Did you swallow the sword energy again?" He poked the edge of the pot, but the pot remained still.

Just as I sat down to catch my breath, Old Zheng pushed the door open and came in: "You won?" "Yes, I won." "Add ten bundles to your firewood this afternoon." "Why? I won all of them!" "Your moves were terrible. You rolled around like a mud monkey, making a fool of yourself in the medicine testing hall. Chop ten more bundles to practice your lower body."

He grabbed the axe and went to the woodshed, chopping as he reviewed his movements. His internal energy projection was too unstable; that last strike was a fluke, and he might not be able to hit again next time. He had too few moves; three weren't enough. Zhao Feng was definitely on guard and wouldn't fall for it again.

They didn't finish chopping until dusk, and were so exhausted that they collapsed on the ground, covered in sweat. The pot on their backs felt cool against the ground. Just as they were resting, they suddenly heard very light footsteps outside the courtyard wall. There was more than one person, and they were tiptoeing around.

He held his breath instantly, walked along the wall to the window, and saw two dark figures peering inside in the moonlight, holding something dark in their hands. "Is this it? Is that pot really in there?" "No doubt about it. Deacon Sun said to make sure we look carefully and find a way to get it out after the competition... Don't disturb Old Man Zheng." The voice was very low, but he heard it clearly.

A cold sweat instantly broke out on his back. They really had come for the pot. He didn't dare make a sound and quietly retreated, his heart pounding. He paced back and forth in panic, his gaze falling on the black pot. Suddenly, he gritted his teeth. What was there to be afraid of? The pot was his; no one could take it away from him.

He figured if he won the small contest, he could just ask Old Man Zheng for protection. He carried the pot to the deepest part of the bed and covered it tightly with straw and firewood, but when he lay back down, he couldn't fall asleep. The sounds of the wind and insects outside the window made it seem like someone was moving around. He lay awake until the latter half of the night before finally drifting off to sleep.

In my dream, the black iron pot floated in mid-air, its patterns only partially illuminated, the dark light flickering on and off, and countless eyes in the distance were staring at this light.