Just as dawn broke and the mist had not yet dispersed, I squatted beside the pile of firewood behind the kitchen door, clutching a Menial Laborer identification tag. The tag had been pressed into my hand by Lu Jiuxuan; it was inscribed with the words "Ye San," the ink still wet, as if freshly stamped. He didn't say much, only: "Three meals a day, firewood, rice, oil, and salt. Keep your mouth shut and work."
The dullness in my throat still lingered, as if a stone were lodged in my vocal cords. Last night, he had used Spiritual Power to seal my voice, and that suppression remained. Speaking required effort, yet the trailing end of my voice always drifted upward uncontrollably. I tested it, whispering, "Okay." My voice was hoarse, barely passable.
The door creaked open, and a wave of greasy heat rushed out. A short, stout man stood in the doorway, his apron stained with soup, holding an iron scale in his hand.
"New here?" He sized me up, his gaze lingering on the Herb Ash clinging to my sleeve cuff.
"Yes." I nodded.
"Name?"
"Ye San."
He grunted, shoving the scale into my arms: "Fifty catties of potatoes. Move them inside. Report the count when you're done."
I took the scale and turned to move the baskets. The potatoes were heavy, making my shoulders ache. I made trip after trip, sweat streaming down my temples, dripping onto my Coarse Cloth Robe and staining it with dark circles. People bustled in and out of the kitchen; five Helpers were busy by the stove, the sound of knives chopping on the board crackling. No one paid me any mind, but their peripheral vision kept sweeping over me.
The Steward stood by the stove, glancing at me from time to time.
On the fourth trip, just as I set the basket down, he suddenly spoke: "Ye San, who gave you this tag last night?"
My throat tightened, and I instinctively started to answer, but as soon as my mouth opened, the suppression momentarily loosened.
"Oka—"
The trailing sound wasn't held back and lifted slightly, like a thread floating in the wind.
The kitchen instantly fell silent.
The cleaver stopped on the cutting board, and the sizzling of the oil pan ceased. All five Helpers turned their heads, their eyes fixed on my face.
I immediately shut my mouth, clenching the corner of my robe.
The Steward walked over slowly, circled me once, then suddenly reached out, pinched my chin, and lifted my head.
"Delicate skin and tender flesh, and a soft voice too." He gave a Cold Laugh. "When did the Academy start accepting women?"
I remained still, making no move to struggle.
He released his grip, stepped back, and signaled to the Helpers with his eyes.
The five men immediately surrounded me, two cleavers held against either side of my neck, the blades touching my skin—cold.
"Disguised as a man, what are you trying to achieve by entering the Academy?" one asked fiercely. "A spy? Or someone stealing magic?"
I slowly raised both hands above my head, offering no defense or resistance. I glanced sideways: the man on the left was trembling, his blade tip wavering slightly; the one on the right stood the steadiest, but his breathing was heavy—he probably hadn't killed anyone before.
I stared at the Steward: "I am only here to work."
"Work?" he sneered. "Your vocal tone might fool others, but not me. Ten years ago, I caught one just like you, hidden in the laundry room. What happened? Someone slit their throat in the middle of the night."
"That wasn't me."
"Whether it was you or not needs investigation." He waved his hand. "Strip him! Body search!"
I tensed up instantly.
Just then, Footsteps sounded from outside the kitchen, unhurried, falling one by one onto the wet Stone Slabs.
The door was pushed open.
Lu Jiuxuan stood in the doorway, holding a wine jug in one hand, the other tucked into his sleeve. His face was still pale, the Cloth Strip on his left Shoulder was seeping blood, and he swayed slightly as he walked, but his back was straight.
Everyone in the kitchen froze.
The Steward quickly bowed his head: "Instructor Lu... why are you here?"
Instructor Lu ignored him, his gaze sweeping over the knives before finally landing on my face. He didn't even frown. He raised his hand and placed the wine jug onto the cutting board with a dull thud.
"What's all the noise?" His voice was cold, but not loud. "My Study Boy is moving vegetables here, and you people are threatening him with knives?"
"Study Boy?" The Steward was startled. "This person is your...?"
"Just took him in last night." Lu Jiuxuan walked closer to me, raising a hand to pat the dust off my Shoulder, a casual gesture, as if brushing off a dirty cat. "Lazy, needs punishment. But it's not your place to lay hands on him."
The Helpers exchanged glances, and the knives slowly lowered.
The Steward gritted his teeth: "But his voice just now... it was wrong."
Lu Jiuxuan turned his head to look at me, his eyes distant: "His throat was scorched by fire; his Vocal Cords are damaged. It's a miracle he can make any sound at all." He paused, then added: "If you don't believe me, I can take him to the Hall of Deacons right now to verify the contract? To check if the tag is real?"
The Steward's face changed color.
A Menial Laborer contract personally signed by an Academy Instructor, stamped by the Hall of Deacons—who dared to question it?
He bowed deeply: "I dare not."
Lu Jiuxuan didn't look at him again, turning to me: "What are you standing here for? Aren't you going to move the vegetables?"
I lowered my head and replied, "Yes," then turned to move the last basket of potatoes. My hands were still shaking, but I didn't show it.
The five Helpers made a path for me, their gazes dark, but they dared not block me again.
I bent down to lift the basket when suddenly, there was a loud crash behind me.
The wine jug had fallen over, rolling to my feet.
I instinctively bent down to pick it up. My sleeve felt heavy, and a Talisman Paper slipped inside, pressing against my forearm, hot.
I didn't look, nor did I move. I picked up the jug and placed it back on the board.
Lu Jiuxuan had already turned and was walking out, the hem of his robe sweeping over the threshold.
"Evening," he said without looking back. "Come to the Library Pavilion to receive your punishment."
I stood still, my fingers clutching the talisman inside my sleeve. It was thicker than the one from the previous chapter, its edges bearing dark patterns, as if newly drawn.
The sound of chopping vegetables resumed in the kitchen, and the oil pan began to sizzle again.
The Steward stared at me, his eyes like knives.
I ignored him, picked up the basket, and walked inside.
By the stove, one Helper muttered: "Why is the Instructor's Study Boy doing Menial Labor?"
Another gave a Cold Laugh: "Either he committed a crime, or... he's someone who can't see the light of day."
I walked to the pile of firewood, set the basket down, and leaned on my knees to catch my breath.
The mist had cleared, and sunlight shone on the wet Stone Slabs.
I touched my throat; the suppression was still there, but it was looser than in the morning. In a few more hours, it might not hold.
The talisman in my sleeve pressed against my skin, burning hot.
I looked down, my fingertip brushing the edge of the Talisman Paper, picking up a bit of Cinnabar.
The Library Pavilion... tonight.
I straightened up, brushed the dust off my robe, and walked into the kitchen.
Just as I crossed the threshold, the Steward suddenly called out: "Ye San."
I stopped.
"You have work tomorrow morning too," he stared at me. "Don't think about slacking off."
"I won't," I replied.
My voice was still hoarse, but the trailing sound didn't float.
He nodded and turned back toward the stove.
I walked to the water vat and scooped up a ladle of water to drink. The water was cool, running down the corner of my mouth and dripping onto my collar.
People moved back and forth in the kitchen; no one looked at me anymore.
I leaned against the vat for a while, listening to the sound of sweeping outside, slow and steady, stroke after stroke.
Lu Jiuxuan hadn't gone far.
I looked down and saw my reflection in the water vat: a messy Low Ponytail, the Left Ear Copper Ring, and a sleeve cuff stained with dust.
Like a Menial Laborer.
Also like a stray who managed to survive.
I put down the ladle and turned to scrub the pots.
The iron brush scraped across the bottom of the pot with a sizzling sound.
My wrist suddenly felt heavy.
The talisman in my sleeve shifted, as if it had absorbed something, becoming even hotter.
I stopped what I was doing and looked down.
On the edge of the Talisman Paper, a fine line was turning black, as if burned by fire.