Jake woke to the patter of rain on the shack's leaky roof, his straw mat damp beneath him. The epiphany from last night still buzzed in his head like a live wire: a mental interface—memory, illusions, Gu control—his ticket to outsmarting this world without a system. But ideas were cheap; execution was everything. He needed Gu, materials, and a plan that wouldn't kill him. Step one: the market.
He rolled off the mat, joints creaking in Zhang Wei's scrawny frame, and grabbed his wooden token—10 contribution points, his entire fortune. The Cloudveil Sect's peaks loomed outside, fog draping them like a wet blanket. Other menial disciples shuffled past, grumbling about beast pens or latrine duty, but Jake's mind was elsewhere. The Scripture Pavilion didn't open for an hour, giving him time to scout the Sect Market before his shift. He pulled his gray robe tighter—scratchy, threadbare, smelling faintly of mildew—and headed down the muddy path.
The market sprawled at the sect's foothills, a chaotic tangle of stalls beneath a canopy of mist. Inner disciples flashed spirit stones for glowing swords or jade talismans, while menials like Jake bartered points for scraps. He stuck to the edges, where the air smelled of sour herbs and desperation. His target: Gu. Cheap, overlooked, perfect for his biotech twist.
A rickety stall caught his eye, its sign a chipped plank reading Gu Emporium: Oddities for Sale. Behind it, a hunched vendor fanned himself with a tattered leaf, surrounded by clay jars that buzzed faintly. Jake approached, keeping his face neutral. No point tipping his hand—he'd learned haggling from his dad at flea markets back home.
"Gu?" he asked, nodding at the jars. "What's the story?"
The vendor squinted, revealing teeth like crooked tombstones. "Soul-bound insects. Most disciples snatch 'em for back-alley bets—pit 'em against each other, fight to the death. These? Too small, too weak. Defective stock. Ten points a jar, manual included."
Jake's pulse quickened. Ten points was his whole stash, but these "defective" Gu were gold. Smaller already—half the size of his thumb, with dull green shells that shimmered faintly—perfect for his plan to breed them tinier, down to nanite scale. Back-alley death matches explained the vendor's surplus; average disciples didn't care about finesse, just blood and bragging rights. These rejects were alive, tweakable, and right up his alley. "Why so cheap?"
"Too much hassle," the vendor grunted, scratching his nose. "Big Gu crush skulls. These barely nip. Nobody's got the patience."
Jake nodded, peering into a jar. A dozen beetles scuttled inside, scrappy but active. DNA he could work with—he'd aced high school biology, knew selective breeding inside out. Gu weren't just bugs; Cultivation Basics mentioned they adapted to their environment, shifting traits based on qi or their master's will. Poison Gu thrived in toxic swamps, fire Gu near volcanoes. Impose intent, alter conditions, and they changed—almost like genetic engineering with a mystical twist. If he controlled their diet and pushed his focus, he could steer their evolution. Small now, microscopic later.
"Manual's got breeding info?" he asked, testing the waters.
The vendor tossed him a booklet—Basic Gu Rearing—its pages yellowed and curling. "Feeding, bonding, mating. Knock yourself out."
Jake flipped it open, scanning the faded ink. Same stuff he'd skimmed in the pavilion—nothing he couldn't find there for free. He set it down, meeting the vendor's eye. "I work the Scripture Pavilion. Got all the manuals I need. How about two jars for my ten points? No book."
The vendor's fan paused, his squint deepening. "Two? These ain't trash, kid."
"They're trash to everyone else," Jake countered, voice steady. "Sitting here gathering dust. Ten points clears your stock, saves you the trip to dump 'em."
A beat of silence, then the vendor snorted, shoving two jars forward. "Fine, you little leech. Take 'em."
Jake slid his token over, grabbing the jars—one under each arm. The faint buzz vibrated against his ribs like a promise. Twenty-four Gu, small and scrappy, ready for his experiments. Step one: check. He'd start external—breeding, refining—before risking his body. Patience was his edge; rushing got you dead.
The Scripture Pavilion loomed as he trudged back, its pagoda silhouette cutting through the fog. Inside, Elder Lin greeted him with her usual scowl, pointing to a cart of unsorted scrolls. "Shelve these. Don't dawdle." Jake nodded, stashing the jars in his sack and hauling the cart to his corner. The routine was familiar now: sort, sweep, assist. But today, his mind was split—half on the job, half on the Gu humming beside him.
Downtime came after noon, when the pavilion emptied of disciples chasing flashy skills. Jake pulled Gu Control Basics from a shelf, confirming his next move. Bonding was simple: a drop of blood per Gu, fed directly, forged a minor link—enough to command them without merging or letting them burrow inside. Full control needed deeper integration, but he wasn't ready for that. This'd do for breeding. He also snagged Common Spirit Herbs, a thin scroll listing low-tier plants—Qi Grass, Mistleaf—growing wild near the sect's trails. No handouts here; he'd forage.
That night, back at the shack, he set up shop. The other disciples snored or whispered, oblivious as he pricked his finger with a splinter—wincing as blood welled—dabbing a drop into each jar. The Gu swarmed, lapping it up, and a faint tug pulsed in his mind. Weak, like a string tied to a kite in a breeze, but there. Step two: bonded. Now he could steer them, breed them, without risking his insides.
Next morning, before his shift, he slipped out to the sect's outskirts—a tangle of forest paths winding below the peaks. Fog clung to the trees, the air sharp with pine and damp earth. Common Spirit Herbs guided him: Qi Grass sprouted near streams, tiny blades pulsing with faint qi. He found a patch by a trickling brook, yanking handfuls and stuffing them into his sack. Mistleaf—broad, silvery leaves—hid under rocks; he pried a few free, their edges cool to the touch. Low-tier, but qi-rich enough for his Gu.
Back at the shack, he fed the herbs—Qi Grass to twenty Gu for downsizing, Mistleaf to four for mining. Another find, Gu Evolution Paths, listed breeds: Poison Gu, Fire Gu, Mining Gu. The last burrowed, sniffed out ores—mundane iron or copper—with stone dust and will. Mortal silvers from selling ore could replace his chafed robe. Dual tracks—profit now, nanites later.
Formations became his obsession. The pavilion's storage room—piled with faded scrolls and loose-leaf paper—offered treasures. He smuggled a stack of old sheets and a worn brush, no one caring about the discards. On his first sheet, he sketched a Mind Clarity pattern, clean lines he was damn proud of. No gold yet, just ink, but it hummed when he pushed his meager qi through it—barely a trickle thanks to his roots. A tingle sharpened his mind. Then he tugged the Gu link, and the string tightened—synergy. The formation boosted his mental energy, making the connection clearer.
Illusions were next. Illusion Arrays promised visuals for his interface. Downtime brought a find: Hourglass Flow Array, a dusty scroll detailing a timekeeping formation—qi cycling in steady pulses, projecting a sand trickle in the mind. He studied it beside Mind Clarity. The difference? Hourglass looped its rhythm naturally, a closed circuit. Could he adapt that? He traced its cycling pattern onto his sketch, tweaking Illusion Arrays to mimic it. A faint tick pulsed in his head—sand shifted to a clock face, hands moving. Then it clicked: looping worked. He wove the cycle into Mind Clarity, substituting the clock for "shrink" and "dig" commands. The Gu link hummed stronger, his Will constant.
He laid the qi-infused sheet over the jars' enclosure—a hollow under the floorboard—letting it pulse while he worked. It'd need a morning recharge, but it'd influence the Gu all day.
Days settled into a grind. Mornings at the pavilion, sorting scrolls and skimming texts—Qi Flow Arrays, Illusion Basics—afternoons foraging herbs, evenings refining his setup. The Gu thrived, mining batch chewing Mistleaf, main batch greening on Qi Grass. His formation sketch grew—clock ticking if he focused, commands looping—proof of his hustle. His points hit 30—10 a day, minus food. Another jar? Gold scraps? He'd see.
One evening, a disciple interrupted—a wiry kid with a nervous tic, asking for Jade Serpent Strike. Jake fetched it, noting the kid's shaky hands. "Rough day?"
"Beast pen duty," the kid muttered. "Nearly got gored. You're lucky—pavilion's safe."
Jake shrugged. "Safe's boring. But it pays." The kid snorted and left, leaving Jake with a twinge of doubt. Was he playing it too safe? No. Rushing was for idiots with systems. He'd build his foundation, then climb.
By week two, eggs dotted both jars—mining Gu hatching soon, main batch catching up, faster than expected. His formation sketch pulsed, "shrink" to the twenty, "dig" to the four. Synergy worked—Will amplified, evolution hastened. The clock ticked if he willed it—a small victory he'd earned.
Rain drummed outside as he leaned back, jars in hand. The interface wasn't here yet—needed better Gu, stronger runes, integration—but it was coming. Step five: underway. Tomorrow, he'd forage more, hunt gold bits, recharge his sketch. For now, he closed his eyes, the ticking a quiet win, Born to Run a distant dream. No system, no shortcuts—just him, some bugs, and a plan.