Jake woke to the familiar hum of his Gu, jars rattling faintly under the floorboard. Three weeks in the Cloudveil Sect, and his rhythm was solid—fifty quarter-sized mining Gu scavenging the trails, twenty ant-sized shrunken Gu breeding toward nanites, and a formation sketch pulsing with clock, notepad, and memory jades. His new brown robe hung soft against his shoulders, sixty-five silvers swapped for comfort and a pork bun's memory still warm on his tongue. But progress wasn't enough; he needed more.
He pried the plank loose, checking his swarm. The mining Gu hauled steady—ore and coins piling up—but the shrunken batch's second cycle had laid thirty eggs, not twenty. Ten extras. Jake's lips twitched upward. Spare Gu meant options. His nanite goal was on track—flea-sized next, eight weeks to microbes—but why stop there? He'd breed these ten for strength, longevity, resilience—traits to cross with his nanites later. A hybrid swarm, tiny yet tough, could rewrite his limits. The catch: new Gu devoured the old when they hatched, a brutal cycle Gu Breeding Tips had warned about. Space would tighten too—time to expand.
The Scripture Pavilion loomed through the dawn fog, its pagoda a dark silhouette. Jake slipped inside, jars in his sack, and nodded at Elder Lin's scowl. "Scrolls," she grunted, pointing to a cart. He hauled it to his corner, the routine a quiet anchor: sort, sweep, assist. His sketch hummed in his pocket, qi trickling through it—Joe Rogan's voice today, a clipped "Fear is a powerful thing" looping in his head. No single-track taste; he bounced between podcasts, metal, jazz. Yesterday it was Metallica's Enter Sandman, low and thrumming. Keeps me sane, he thought, shelving a jade slip.
Downtime came after noon, the pavilion hushed. Jake pulled Gu Breeding Tips again, confirming traits. Strength Gu bulked up on qi-rich meat—scarce, but he'd improvise. Longevity Gu thrived on Stone Root, common near cliffs. Resilience Gu needed grit—dust or ash—to harden shells. He'd split the ten: four for strength, three for longevity, three for resilience. Cross-breeding later would fuse them with his shrunken line—nanites with muscle and staying power. Population growth was key—each cycle multiplied, old Gu consumed by the new.
After his shift, he hit the eastern trail with the mining Gu. Fifty gray beetles spilled out, qi sharp through the bond—"Dig." They swarmed the dirt road, unearthing iron flecks, two silvers, a copper ring. He'd mapped the sect's paths from Sect Land Records—market road for copper, eastern trail for iron—and their hauls grew. Today's take: three fistfuls of ore, eight silvers in coins and scraps. Steady cash, but his spares needed feeding.
He swung by the cliffs, foraging Stone Root—gnarled, gray plants wedged in rock cracks—for the longevity Gu. Back at the shack, he sorted the ten spares into a third jar. Four got qi-laced rice crumbs, three chewed Stone Root, three rolled in trail dust. He set the mining Gu to work—fifty quarter-sized diggers burrowing under the floorboards, expanding the hollow into a wider pen. Dirt piled beside his mat, but space opened—room for growth. He recharged the sketch—ten minutes of qi, sweat beading—adjusting the loop: "shrink" for the shrunken, "dig" for the mining, "grow strong," "last long," "toughen" for the spares. The Gu link pulsed, each batch distinct.
Days settled into a grind. Mornings at the pavilion, sorting and skimming—Formation Integration hinted at fusing arrays fully, his next step. Afternoons patrolling trails with the mining Gu, their loot piling—copper lumps, fifteen more silvers, a jade bead worth ten coins. Evenings tending his bugs, pride swelling as the spares grew. The strength Gu swelled, claws thicker; longevity Gu slowed, shells glossier; resilience Gu hardened, dust-caked. The shrunken batch's eggs pulsed—flea-sized soon, numbers climbing.
The market called midweek. He bartered ore and scraps—forty silvers clinked in, totaling ninety with his stash. He pocketed eighty, spent ten on a bamboo flute—crude, but playable with practice. Back home, he'd messed with guitar; here, it'd pass the time. His sketch looped a science podcast now—gene editing, crisp and clinical in his head, no bobbing this time. Lesson learned after Topknot's stare.
Back at the pavilion, he pushed his formation further. Illusion Basics and Qi Flow Arrays layered visuals—clock sharp, notepad clearer. He ran qi through it, sketching a trail map in his mind—lines held, a mental guide for the Gu. The memory jades hummed—the podcast's "CRISPR cuts the code" looping soft, Metallica's riffs on deck. Gu control was close—Formation Integration offered a rune to sync the bond tighter. He traced it, testing "stop" on the mining Gu mid-shift. Fifty bugs froze on his mat, then resumed. Real-time worked.
One evening, a disciple interrupted—an odd girl with ink-stained fingers and a crooked grin, clutching a half-burnt scroll. "Got Ninefold Thunder Steps?" she asked, voice bright, eyes darting to his sack. Jake fetched it, the podcast whispering about gene splicing in his skull, catching her stare. "What's in there?" she pressed, leaning closer, singed sleeve brushing his cart. "Smells like dirt."
"Tools," he said, voice flat, nudging the sack behind him. "Work stuff."
She laughed, sharp and sudden. "You're the bug guy, right? Heard you dance to nothing. Elder Lin thinks you're possessed." She tapped the scroll, grinning wider. "Keep your secrets—I like a mystery." She twirled off, leaving Jake blinking. Possessed? Great. But her chatter stirred no doubt—let them guess; he'd stay quiet and sharp.
That night, the shrunken Gu's third batch hatched—thirty flea-sized specks (1.5 mm), up from twenty ants, shells a faint green. The new devoured the old, shells crunching under the floorboards—population growing, space tight but holding thanks to the mining Gu's digging. Six weeks to microbes (0.1875 mm)—pinhead (0.75 mm) next, forty-five eggs laid if the pattern held. Jake fed them Qi Grass, recharged the sketch, tightened the loop. The spares laid fifteen eggs—traits holding, ready for more.
By week four, his points hit 70—10 a day, minus food—and his sketch pulsed stronger. The clock ticked crisp, the notepad mapped trails, and the genetics podcast looped clean—Metallica or Rogan on deck when he swapped. The Gu link thrummed—fifty mining Gu hauling a palm-sized copper chunk (fifteen silvers), thirty shrunken ones shrinking, ten spares toughening. Coins added ten more silvers. He'd hit the market soon, eyeing gold scraps—five points' worth, maybe.
Rain pattered the shack as he leaned back, jars beside him. The interface wasn't whole—needed full integration, better qi—but it was coming along nicely. For now, he closed his eyes, the clock's tick blending with "Mutations build the world." No system, no shortcuts—just him, some bugs, and a plan carving its way forward.