Patriarch Jun Wenzhe did not raise his voice. "In seven days, you will stand in the eastern combat arena before the entire sect. One against one. You against Qin Zhen."
Jun Jie held his ground. "Understood, father."
Jun Wenzhe's face gave him nothing. The hard lines did not soften, and whatever hope still lived in him had learned long ago how to hide behind steel.
"If you fail, the title of young master will be stripped from you in front of everyone." His pause was brief, but it cut deeper than the sentence before it. "And from that day on, you will no longer be my son."
The hall seemed to draw tighter around him.
Several elders shifted in their seats. Even among them, that landed hard.
Jun Jie lowered his head once. "I understand."
His father watched him for another breath, perhaps weighing whether there was truth in this change or only a different mask on the same useless face. Whatever answer he found, he kept it to himself.
"You may leave."
This time there was nothing else behind the words.
Jun Jie bowed once to the hall, turned, and walked out beneath the weight of eight elders' attention. He could feel it on his back all the way to the threshold, that hard, skeptical pressure waiting for him to crack and prove this had all been theater. He gave them nothing.
The doors closed behind him.
Only when he reached the corridor did he let out a breath.
'I'm fucked.'
The thought came out flat, honest, and without any drama to dress it up.
'And on top of that, I'm in the red because of you.'
The system answered at once.
[You are welcome.]
Jun Jie's mouth twitched. 'You threw me into debt before I even bought anything.'
[That is a cruel distortion of events.]
[You were already bankrupt in dignity.]
[I merely expanded the empire.]
He kept walking through the inner court, robe brushing over stone worn smooth by generations of disciples. Servants and junior disciples moved aside the moment they saw him. Some did it out of habit. Some did it out of fear. A few did it with the same strained stiffness he had noticed before, as if standing within arm's reach of Jun Jie was an unpleasant risk they had learned to take seriously.
The old Jun Jie had not built a reputation.
He had cultivated a warning sign.
'One week,' he thought. 'Seven days to beat Qin Zhen, and who the hell is Qin Zhen.'
That name alone carried weight in the memories of this body. Qin Zhen, the strongest disciple of his generation. The kind of name people said with either admiration or resentment, depending on whether they had to fight him.
Jun Jie had neither the luxury nor the time to care which.
He needed points. Fast.
That thought stripped everything else away.
Resources. Money. Manuals. Pills. Anything the market would take and turn into Origin Points. Without that, the challenge he had thrown into the hall would become a public execution with better scenery.
'What do I actually have?'
[At present?]
[Several robes.]
[A thoroughly damaged reputation.]
[A room full of evidence.]
He ignored the first two. The third lingered.
His steps slowed.
The memories rose by themselves this time, greasy and immediate. Hidden compartments. Folded paintings. Booklets tucked beneath floorboards. Hand-copied filth bought from wandering merchants and hidden like treasure.
Jun Jie stopped in the middle of the path.
The system almost sounded pleased.
[There it is.]
He exhaled through his nose. 'You cannot be serious.'
[On the contrary.]
[I am fully synchronized.]
'You want my first business move in this world to be selling pornography from a dead pervert's private stash.'
[An ugly sentence.]
[A profitable one.]
He started walking again, faster now.
'This is vile.'
[This is inventory.]
That answer was so clean it nearly made him laugh.
He crossed the last courtyard, climbed the steps to his residence, and pushed open what remained of the ruined door. The smell hit him before the room came fully into view.
Jun Jie stopped on the threshold.
The council hall had carried pressure. The corridor had carried judgment. This room carried the stale, sour aftermath of seven days of disgrace trapped behind closed windows.
His face hardened at once.
'Absolutely not.'
[An excellent call.]
[I, too, prefer commerce conducted in air that does not feel fermented.]
Jun Jie rolled up his sleeves.
If he had to build his rise on filth, he would at least start by removing the literal kind.
He threw open the windows first. Cold air rushed in hard enough to snap the curtains and drive the worst of the smell toward the courtyard. He stripped the bed next, yanked the sheets free, and stuffed every crumpled cloth and tissue he could find into a basket without letting himself think too carefully about any of it. The wicker bent under the load.
He found stale trays beneath a side table, kicked a broken stool out of his way, and dragged a bronze basin over to the center of the room. Water. Fresh cloth. Quick hands. No hesitation. By the time he finished wiping down the table, the bedframe, and every surface that looked like it had suffered under the old Jun Jie's attention, a light sheen of sweat clung to his back.
It still smelled bad.
Jun Jie opened three drawers, found incense in the second, and lit enough of it to offend heaven. Smoke curled into the room in thin blue threads, pushing the last of the stench into retreat.
He stepped back and breathed in once.
Better.
Not dignified, but survivable.
[Congratulations.]
[You have upgraded the chamber from "crime scene" to "eccentric disappointment."]
Jun Jie ignored her and dropped to one knee beside the bed.
The old Jun Jie's habits had at least been consistent. He knew where the fool had hidden things because the memories came easily once he started looking. A carved side panel slid loose beneath his fingers. Inside lay a cloth-wrapped bundle. Behind a warped board in the wall waited another. Under the bedframe sat a lacquered case thin enough to escape casual inspection and shameless enough to explain why it had been hidden.
He laid everything out on the freshly cleaned table.
Illustrated booklets.
Erotic paintings.
Hand-copied stories.
A few pieces clearly bought in secret. Others looked like private commissions, which somehow made them worse.
Jun Jie stared at the pile.
'He really committed to this.'
[With a purity of purpose absent from every respectable area of his life.]
Jun Jie picked up one of the booklets and flipped through it with a dead expression. The writing was crude. The drawings were even cruder. Which, from a market perspective, might not be a weakness at all.
His mouth flattened.
'Can I sell all of this?'
[Yes.]
[Bundle or individual listings are both available.]
He put the booklet down. "Which makes more?"
The screen flashed into view at once.
[Scarcity raises value.]
[Curated packaging raises value further.]
[Forbidden regional content with authentic cultivation-world appeal is likely to perform well.]
Jun Jie stared at the words for a long second.
Of course it would.
He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, arranging the booklets into neat stacks with the kind of cold focus he used to reserve for code and deadlines. It was humiliating, yes. It was also what he had.
And what he had would become fuel.
'Open the market.'
The panel widened.
[Infinite Myriad Worlds Market activated.]
[Opening sub-market: Knowledge Market.]
[Scanning saleable material...]
A wash of pale blue light slid across the table, passing over the paintings, the copied booklets, the loose sheets, and the half-finished filth Jun Jie had pulled from the old hiding places.
[Creative material detected.]
[Estimated buyer interest: High.]
[Suggested strategy: Limited release. Premium tags. Individual listings.]
Jun Jie leaned back slightly, eyes on the screen.
"So all of this can actually be sold."
[Yes.]
[There are worlds with very broad literary standards.]
"That's one way to put it."
He picked up one of the thinner booklets and turned a few pages. Cheap paper. Worse writing. The kind of thing a man bought with one hand and hid with the other.
Jun Jie clicked his tongue and set it down.
'This isn't enough.'
[Correct.]
[Presentation is lacking.]
That part, at least, made sense. Even in his old life, garbage sold better when dressed properly. A better title. Cleaner packaging. Something that made curiosity do half the work before the buyer even opened the first page.
His fingers tapped once against the table.
Then the title came to him, shameless enough to fit the pile in front of him and stupid enough to spread.
A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
'All right. Let's try this.'
He pulled a blank sheet closer, dipped the brush in ink, and wrote with quick, clean strokes.
My Disciples Are Crazy About Me.
He looked at the words for a breath, then at the stack beside it.
Low-grade smut, cheap enough to start, dirty enough to attract attention, and ridiculous enough to stick in the mind. A terrible title.
Which meant it might be perfect.
"Can I list it under a title like this?"
[Yes.]
[Marketability: improved.]
[Shamelessness index: acceptable.]
Jun Jie gave the panel a flat look. "You're enjoying this."
[Profits are enjoyable.]
He gathered the sloppiest of the copied material, cut away the weakest pages, reordered the rest, and attached the new title sheet to the front. It still looked like trash.
Now it looked like trash with intent.
That was different.
'List it.'
The screen pulsed once.
[Preparing item...]
[Listing category: Creative Works / Adult / Low Grade.]
[Title confirmed.]
A new panel unfolded in front of him.
[Item listed: Low-Grade Smut Novel, My Disciples Are Crazy About Me]
[Current status: Awaiting buyers]
[Recommended action: Expand catalogue]
Jun Jie let out a slow breath and stared at the line.
Not sold yet.
But it was there.
His first step in this world had not been noble, dignified, or remotely respectable.
It had still been a step.
He rested the brush across the table and looked at the rest of the pile waiting beside his hand.
'Fine.'
'If this is where I start, then I'll make even this filth worth something.'