Three months ago, he had been a ragged slave boy in gray sackcloth. Now, he was a vision of high-tier cultivation wealth.

His robes were woven from Ice-Silk, shimmering with a faint, protective enchantment that repelled dust and blood.

A jade pendant of the highest purity, which was a gift from Elder Qin, hung at his waist, stabilizing his Qi. His hair was bound by a silver crown inlaid with a Spirit-Focusing Gem.

To the outside world, he was the terrifying genius of the Ice Root, the "Little Monster" of the sect.

But to Lin Ji’an, who was waiting at the foot of the mountain with a basket of steamed buns, he just looked like a very well-dressed penguin.

"You’re late," Ji’an called out, tossing a bun into the air.

Wangchen caught it effortlessly without breaking stride. The cold indifference on his face melted instantly, replaced by a softness that would have given his fan club heart palpitations.

"Master kept me," Wangchen apologized, stopping in front of her. He looked her over critically. "You are wearing the Outer Sect gray again. I brought you the Inner Sect white robes."

"White gets dirty when you stir-fry," Ji’an dismissed, biting into her own bun. "Besides, I’m in Class 9. We’re the ’lowest trash’ class. White robes would just look ironic."

Wangchen’s jaw tightened. He touched the jade token hanging from his belt, the token that granted Ji’an access to the Inner Sect lectures.

"It is an insult," Wangchen hissed, the temperature around him dropping. "Master arranged it on purpose. Class 1 for me and Class 9 for you. He wants to separate us by status."

"And?" Ji’an grinned, patting his shoulder. "It’s brilliant! Class 1 is full of overachievers like Wen Shiru and Lu Jianheng. It’s a stress factory. Class 9 is where the chill people go. I can sleep in the back, and no one will care. Your Master did me a favor."

Wangchen looked at her happy, crumb-covered face. He sighed, the anger deflating.

"As long as you are happy," he murmured. "But... do not sit near the window. The draft is cold."

"Yes, Mom," Ji’an rolled her eyes. "Let’s go. It’s the first day of school. I don’t want to be late for my nap."

High above them, standing on the edge of a cliff that overlooked the Sect, Elder Qin Changxu watched the two figures walking side-by-side.

He stroked his non-existent beard.

"Foolish disciple," Elder Qin sighed.

Beside him, a white crane preened its feathers.

"He thinks I am cruel," Qin murmured to the bird. "But the Dao is solitary. This ’Lin Ji’an’... he is a variable. He has a chaotic root, yet his soul is strangely stable. He has no ambition for immortality, yet he attracts the attention of dragons and phoenixes."

Elder Qin narrowed his eyes.

"Wangchen’s obsession is a shackle. If he spends all his time protecting a cook, he will never reach the Ascension State. He needs to see that they belong to different worlds."

The plan was simple: Put Wangchen in Class 1, the "Hall of Dragons," where he would be surrounded by peers of equal talent, the Holy Son, the Sword Lord, the Merchant Heir. Let him taste true power and rivalry.

And put Lin Ji’an in Class 9, the "Hall of Dust," where the hopeless and the lazy gathered.

"Eventually," Qin theorized, "Wangchen will realize that an eagle cannot fly with a chicken. He will naturally drift away. And Lin Ji’an... surrounded by mediocrity... will eventually fade into the background."

It was a logical, cultivation-sound plan.

Unfortunately, Elder Qin had failed to account for one critical factor: Xie Wangchen didn’t want to be an eagle. He wanted to be the chicken’s bodyguard.

***

Class 1: The Hall of Suffocation

The lecture hall for Class 1 was a masterpiece of feng shui. The desks were made of Spirit-Wood, arranged in a semi-circle around a podium of white jade.

The air was perfumed with calming incense that cost ten spirit stones an ounce.

The students here were the crème de la crème.

Gu Zhiwei sat in the front row, his back straight, radiating golden light and enthusiasm.

Wen Shiru sat beside him, reviewing a scroll on market economics, looking elegant and bored.

And Lu Jianheng sat in the corner, sharpening a dagger and glaring at anyone who breathed too loudly.

Xiao Yichen also took over the third table from the second row, along with Zhao Ling’er sitting beside him and acting haughtily.

When Xie Wangchen walked in, the room went silent.

He didn’t look at anyone. He walked to the furthest seat in the back, sat down, and placed Winter’s Sigh on the desk with a heavy thud.

He crossed his arms and closed his eyes. An invisible sign hung over his head: DO NOT DISTURB. I AM HERE UNDER DURESS.

"Brother Xie!" Gu Zhiwei chirped, turning around. "You made it! Where is Brother Lin? I saved a seat for him!"

Wangchen opened one eye. It was cold enough to freeze boiling water.

"Class 9," Wangchen said.

"Class 9?" Gu Zhiwei gasped. "But... that’s the remedial class! That’s where they send disciples who fail the entrance exam but have rich parents! Why is Brother Lin there?"

"Politics," Wen Shiru interjected smoothly, snapping his fan shut. "Elder Qin likely pulled strings to get him in, but couldn’t justify placing a Chaotic Root in the Elite Class. It is... a compromise."

Wen Shiru glanced at Wangchen. "A pity. The gap between Class 1 and Class 9 is... substantial. I wonder if they will even teach them to read, or just how to sweep properly."

It was a subtle dig. A reminder of the status difference.

Wangchen’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Wen Shiru.

"The gap is substantial," Wangchen agreed coolly. "Class 1 is full of people who talk too much. But Class 9 has the people who actually know how to survive. Personally, I prefer Class 9. It’s a shame..."

Wen Shiru’s smile stiffened.

Before the tension could escalate, the Instructor arrived, a stern Elder from the Discipline Hall.