A new day began.
Yang kai woke up in his small, worn-out hut, cleaned himself, and grabbed the broom resting in the corner.
Stepping outside, he took a deep breath of the crisp morning air, eyes closed, savoring the moment of peace before beginning his daily task—sweeping.
Clad in plain black clothes, old but clean, Yang kai moved with quiet discipline.
His back was straight like a spear, and his expression was calm, almost serene. Though the broom was crude, he wielded it with surprising grace.
With the flick of a wrist, dust and leaves seemed to gather on their own. It wasn't flashy, but it was precise.
Even in such a humble job, he showed pride.
Yang kai was one of Sky Tower School's experimental disciples—a label that marked him as a failure.
After three years of cultivation, he had only reached the Tempered Body Third Stage, while his peers had surpassed him long ago, moving into the inner courts to train under masters.
He, meanwhile, was left sweeping in the outer court, barely scraping by.
Sky Tower was infamous for its ruthlessness.
Here, strength ruled.
There were no true friendships, only fleeting alliances born out of utility.
Competition was savage. Either rise—or be stepped on.
Every new disciple had three years of full support—food, shelter, clothing—all provided.
If they broke through the tempered body stage, they could officially become inner court disciples. If not, they were demoted—or forced to leave.
Yang kai had stayed.
As an experimental disciple, he received nothing.
He built his hut from scratch. His roof leaked. He bought his own clothes, found his own food.
The school didn't waste resources on "trash." Only a handful of such disciples even existed. Most left.
But not Yang kai.
A few months ago, he took a janitorial job just to survive.
Now he was both an experimental disciple and the school's lowliest cleaner.
Hunger and cold were constants, yet he endured, stubbornly pushing forward.
It was his path, and he would not retreat. That was what it meant to be a man.
Morning light crept across the sky as Yang kai worked.
Sweat clung to his skin—not because sweeping was hard, but because his body was frail from frequent hunger.
He barely ate two meals a day.
Soon, a group of disciples began to gather nearby—not to train, but to watch him.
Their eyes gleamed with anticipation. Some looked at him as if he were a prize. Others eyed each other with tension.
This was no friendly crowd.
Yang kai knew why they came.
They showed up every five days, six times a month, like clockwork. And every time, they waited for the same thing.
"Too many people this time," someone muttered.
"Doesn't matter," another scoffed. "He's not staying. Nobody wants him to."
They all knew the reason they were here—no one said it out loud, but they were waiting for the fight.
Every time, one of them would face Yang kai in a duel. The prize? Betting money or scraps—"harvests" from beating the school's weakest disciple.
Yang kai ignored them. He kept sweeping.
By the time he finished, nearly forty people had gathered. He sat cross-legged on the ground, breathing slowly to recover stamina. His meager cultivation couldn't restore much, but he did it anyway.
The crowd shifted, forming a circle around him. The air thickened with tension.
Someone laughed mockingly. "Still trying to meditate? Just lie down so we can end this quick."
"Yeah, stop wasting our time. Some of us have real training to do."
Yang kai didn't react. He had heard it all before.
Then, the Tower's bell rang nine times. Dawn had officially arrived.
Yang kai stood up slowly, picked up his broom, and glanced around. Cheers erupted as some tried to sway his decision.
"Choose me, Senior Yang! I promise no pain!"
"Pick me, I'll finish it with one punch!"
They jostled like merchants at a market, each hoping to be the lucky one selected.
"Yang kai, choose your opponent!" someone shouted.
He smiled faintly. With practiced ease, he tossed his broom into the air.
All eyes followed it, holding their breath. The broom spun before landing with a thud—its bristles pointing toward a burly teenager.
Groans of disappointment filled the crowd. The chosen one grinned triumphantly.
"Brothers, I'm honored today. Please don't be jealous."
"Che! Lucky bastard," someone grumbled.
"I've been coming for three months and haven't been picked once!"
"Not miserable," another laughed. "It's always a good show."
The crowd slowly dispersed, leaving only Yang kai and the chosen opponent in the courtyard.
Yang kai stepped forward. "Experimental disciple Yang kai, Tempered Body Third Stage."
The teenager puffed his chest. "Ordinary disciple Zhou Ding Jun, Tempered Body Fifth Stage."
Sky Tower disciples were ranked in tiers. And though Yang kai stood at the bottom, alone and ridiculed, his spirit didn't waver.
This was another trial. Another day. Another fight.
And he would face it head-on.
...
At Sky Tower, one rule was clear: disciples could be challenged once every five days.
The challenger could be at most three cultivation levels higher, or the duel could be declined.
Victors earned contribution points—essentially currency within the school—used to exchange for cultivation resources, weapons, even gold.
Among all methods, challenging others was the most common way to earn these hard-won points.
And so, every fifth day, Yang kai became the target.
Despite being a trial disciple, Yang kai had a reputation—not for strength, but for always losing.
Yet every time, he stood firm.
Today was no different.
A crowd gathered early, eyes gleaming with greed.
Yang kai greeted his challenger, Zhou Ding Jun, with two calm words: "Please instruct."
Everyone expected another loss.
Though thin and clearly malnourished, Yang kai launched his attack with fiery determination.
His Shaolin Fist was clean, basic, but fierce.
Zhou Ding Jun, two stages above, dodged with ease and countered with a blow to Yang kai's stomach.
Pain surged, but Yang kai evaded the next strike, surprising Zhou Ding.
The older disciple frowned—he hadn't expected resistance.
But the outcome was inevitable.
Yang kai launched a sudden leg whip, executed with sharp instinct but lacking power. He was sent flying.
Yet he got up.
"Again!"
Another attack, another fall.
"Again!"
Again and again, Yang kai rose—ten, maybe twelve times.
Bloodied, bruised, and staggering, he fought on, unwavering.
Spectators shook their heads, half in pity, half in awe.
"This guy's insane."
"Or maybe unbreakable."
Zhou Ding's face twisted with unease.
He hadn't come to beat down a madman.
Finally, with a hoarse shout he snapped, "Are you crazy? Stop before you die!"
And still, Yang kai stood.
To Be Continued...