In the dim, airless belly of the Xuanjing Mine beneath Yuhua Sect, the clang of metal rolled endlessly through the tunnels.

“Clink… clang…!”

Dozens of young men and women in rough gray cloth swung pickaxes and hammers, their movements dull and steady. Dust and ore-smell pressed into every breath. Sweat soaked their backs, turning each of them into little more than tireless ants—digging, hauling, repeating without end.

Among them, a thin, dark‑skinned youth straightened up, wiped the mud‑sweat from his brow, and let out a long sigh.

“Damn it… this place isn’t fit for humans. Even grinding through a nine‑to‑nine job back home would beat this hellhole.”

His name was Hadrian Stormwright. Just three months ago, he had been an ordinary office worker in his old world. On his way home from work, he’d picked up a silver die from the roadside. One casual toss—just a thoughtless flick of his wrist—had burst into blinding light.

When he opened his eyes again, he had become a drudge disciple of the righteous Yuhua Sect—one of the seven great orthodox sects of the True Martial Realm.

And now?

Now his life was digging. Digging from dawn to dusk, all for a pitiful monthly wage barely enough to keep a belly from collapsing.

“Monthly pay’s here!”

A shout echoed from the tunnel entrance.

Hadrian looked up. A portly middle‑aged man in the robes of an overseer strode forward, several burly guards at his back. He pressed a handkerchief to his nose, as if the mere air in the mine offended him.

It was Horace Heard—the steward in charge of all miner‑disciples.

“Everyone, come get your work checked. Then collect your monthly pay,” Horace Heard called out, voice lazy but sharp.

The crowd surged forward. One scrawny youth hurried up, offering fourteen thin red bamboo sticks with both hands, eyes bright with hope.

“Mr. Heard, this is the tally of my ore for the month. One hundred and forty dan in total.”

Horace Heard accepted the sticks, pulled out five at random, and snapped them cleanly in his fingers.

“Fifty dan of your ore failed the standard. Monthly pay reduced accordingly. You get nine Xuanjing.”

At his words, one of the burly guards opened a cloth pouch and flicked nine small, uneven pale‑blue crystals toward the trembling youth.

“Xuan Crystals” were the common currency of the True Martial Realm, packed with pure mystic energy. You could trade them, or grind them down into your body during cultivation.

The young man took the crystals, but his face twisted with frustration. “Mr. Heard, I really was careful this time. I checked every piece of ore. They were all qualified. How could—”

“Hm?”

Horace Heard shot him a sideways glance, eyelids barely lifting.

“You think I’m picking on you? Docking your monthly pay on purpose?”

“I—I wouldn’t dare!”

Catching that thin chill in Horace Heard’s eyes, the young man shuddered. Whatever words he had left died in his throat, and he slipped away obediently.

Around them, the other labor disciples watched with blank faces. This happened every month. Whenever Mr. Heard handed out wages, he always skimmed off something. Anyone bold enough to complain got cursed out at best—and beaten at worst.

When it was Hadrian Stormwright’s turn, he was shaved down as well. Ten Xuan Crystals, no more.

And ten Xuan Crystals couldn’t even buy the cheapest Body Tempering potion in the sect.

This was the life of a labor disciple. Without another way to earn, those crystals were barely enough to keep breathing.

“Sigh… only a handful again. How’re we supposed to face the assessment two months from now?” A square‑faced youth beside him muttered bitterly.

Hadrian recognized him. The former owner of this body hadn’t had many friends in Yuhua Sect, but this one—Asher Oakwood—was an exception.

They’d joined on the same day. Their dorms were side by side. They worked the same tasks, shared the same misery. Over time, they’d grown close.

“Senior Brother Asher, what assessment are you talking about?”

Asher Oakwood’s brows knitted tight. “Junior Brother Hadrian, you don’t know? Two months from now is the triennial labor‑disciple assessment.”

He sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Those who perform well get rewarded. Better jobs, better chances… maybe even a promotion to Outer Sect disciple. But the ones who fail? Either kicked out, or their monthly pay cut, then thrown into even harsher work.”

Hearing that, Hadrian felt a knot twist in his chest.

As one of the great sects of the Southern Domain, the Yuhua Sect was ruthless in its competition. Even the lowest drudge disciples lived under the rule of survival of the fittest.

In the path of martial cultivation, there were two great realms: Postnatal and Innate.

Postnatal was split into three stages—Body Tempering, Bone Forging, and Viscera Refining—each stage divided into nine levels.

Hadrian Stormwright was only at Body Tempering fourth level. Asher Oakwood had reached the fifth.

To pass the drudge assessment, one basically needed to be at least Body Tempering sixth level. Their chances were thin as smoke.

Asher Oakwood let out a long sigh. “I’ve been stuck at Body Tempering fifth level for half a year. No resources, no breakthroughs… I’m afraid this is it for me. What about you, Junior Brother Hadrian?”

“Senior Brother Asher, I’m only at the fourth level. If even you’ve got no hope, then I’m already dead in the water.”

Hadrian put on a bitter smile, but inside, his thoughts tightened. Looks like I still have to rely on that thing.

…

After parting with Asher Oakwood, Hadrian Stormwright returned to his quarters on the Drudge Peak.

A cramped, low thatched hut—inside, nothing but a cold wooden plank bed.

He slid the door shut and locked it tight. Sitting on the bed, he focused his mind.

A sharp hum cut through the silence.

A streak of silver flashed between his brows, and a fist-sized silver die floated quietly before him.

At the same time, a message echoed through his mind.

“Ten Xuanching Crystals required. One activation of ‘Dao Seed.’ Activate?”

“Dao Seed my foot. It’s just a dice,” Hadrian muttered under his breath.

He touched the pouch at his waist. Counting the monthly wage he’d just collected, he had thirty‑three Xuanching Crystals in total.

He pulled out ten and held them toward the silver die.

A sudden sound sliced through the air.

The silver die spat out a sharp gleam, sucking the mystic crystal clean before drifting back into Hadrian Stormwright’s palm like a spirit beast with a full belly.

Hadrian tightened his jaw and hurled the die.

A rattling clang tore through the air, the die spinning wildly overhead for several long breaths.

Then—an abrupt hum.

A faint light rippled across its surface, and a single crimson dot flared on the top face.

“One point.”

The moment he muttered it, a strand of information pierced into his mind.

“Skill rolled: Steal. Within a ten‑li radius, a random item may be stolen. Activate now?”

Above the glowing dot, a phantom mark floated—X7.

Seven uses. Seven disappointments.

Hadrian exhaled through his nose. “Again… one point.”

Three months ago, the first time he had dared to cast the die, he’d also hit a single point. Back then his luck had burst open like stone‑shattering thunder, gifting him a thirty‑year‑old Coagulation Herb. He’d sold it for a full hundred mystic crystals and had almost laughed himself sleepless.

With pockets full of mystic crystals, he’d grown bold, rolling the die again and again.

And the die, like a gold‑silkworm that sucked marrow from bone, devoured six of his mystic crystals, and the things it spat out afterward were nothing but worthless junk. The more he looked at them, the more his heart ached, and since then he hadn’t dared to provoke this gold‑eating monster lightly.

Until today, when he heard Asher Oakwood mention the servant examination, he clenched his teeth and decided to gamble his fate once more.

The bright red dot pulsed in the shifting light, as if taunting him.

Hadrian’s gaze sharpened, his voice crisp and decisive.

“Use the skill.”

The next breath, the silver die shivered with a faint, ghostly glow.

Hadrian Stormwright felt something warm and soft slip into his hand.

He lowered his head—and froze.

In his palm lay a pink bellyband, embroidered with mandarin ducks and edged with fine gold thread. The ice–silk fabric was smooth as water, carrying a faint fragrance that curled into the nose. It still held a trace of the wearer’s warmth, as if it had just been pulled off someone’s body.

Above the single pip on the die, the number shifted to X8.

Hadrian stared at the bellyband for a long moment, dumbstruck.

“Damn… ten pieces of Xuánjīng, and I get a bellyband?”

At that same moment, deep within the neighboring Zixia Peak, a woman’s sharp cry rang out.

“Ah—there’s a thief!”

…

A while later, Hadrian forced his breath to steady.

He eyed the bellyband again. The material, the stitching—this thing looked expensive. Might even sell for a decent price.

“To hell with it. One more roll.”

He gritted his teeth and pulled out another ten pieces of Xuánjīng.

Ten seconds later, the die halted. Still a single pip.

Clack.

A moss–stained green brick dropped out of thin air and landed by his foot.

Steal Count: X9.

“Uh…”

Hadrian’s face darkened.

Twenty pieces of Xuánjīng—

All for a bellyband and a brick?

Hadrian Stormwright stared at the few remaining pieces of xuánjīng in his palm, feeling every one of them slice through his heart like a dull knife.

Just as he hesitated, torn between grit and desperation—

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The door shuddered under a violent kick.

Startled, Hadrian snatched the silver die back into his sleeve. He opened the door and found three figures blocking the entrance.

The man in front had a round face, fleshy cheeks, and wore a blue long robe. It was none other than Mr. Heard, the steward who’d handed out the monthly wages in the mine earlier today.

“Mr. Heard… it’s you. What brings you here?” Hadrian forced out a smile.

In the Yuhuazong, rank ruled everything, and a chores disciple like him sat at the very bottom.

Mr. Heard was his direct superior—and a Bone‑Forging realm martial artist. Hadrian couldn’t afford to offend him.

Before Mr. Heard even spoke, the burly chores disciple beside him snorted.

“Cut the crap. You got your monthly pay. Shouldn’t you hand over the steward’s due?”

In the mine, besides trimming the workload however he pleased, Mr. Heard kept his own unspoken rule—every chores disciple had to cough up thirty percent of their wages.

The original owner of this body had failed to pay three months ago. Mr. Heard’s men had beaten him half to death—well, entirely to death in the end.

Even though Hadrian simmered inside, he knew better than to butt heads now. Swallowing the bitterness, he pulled out three xuánjīng.

Mr. Heard pocketed them, slipping them into a purple pouch at his waist. Only then did he speak, slowly, as if savoring every word.

“Hadrian, two months from now is the assessment. I’d say you’ve got eight out of ten chances of failing.”

He paused, eyes narrowing in mock sympathy.

“But… you’re usually obedient. If you can take out a hundred xuánjīng, I’ll see to it you get an easy task when the time comes.”

“One hundred xuánjīng?!”

The number slammed into Hadrian’s chest. His hands tightened nervously as he forced a strained smile.

“Mr. Heard… how could I ever have that many? Please, don’t joke with me.”

Hearing that, Mr. Heard’s face darkened, and his eyes turned sharp.

“Kid, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he drawled, a cold grin curling at his lips. “If you can’t pass the assessment and refuse to grease the right palms, you might get tossed somewhere dangerous. Places where you won’t even keep your hide intact. Best think it over.”

He slapped Hadrian Stormwright’s shoulder hard, the weight behind it full of hidden threats.

“And remember, my patience is limited. Don’t make me wait.”

“We’re leaving.”

“Ah—Mr. Heard, take care!”

Hadrian kept the same flattering smile plastered on his face.

Only when the man’s footsteps faded down the corridor and the door clicked shut did the smile freeze and crack apart. His whole expression sank. He paced the cramped room like a trapped beast, breath tight in his chest.

Back in his old world, he'd had a touch of persecution paranoia. Always felt someone was lurking in the shadows, waiting to stab him in the dark.

Now, after Mr. Heard’s veiled threats, that old fear surged up again, cold and sharp. He could almost feel the man already plotting to squeeze him dry or simply silence him.

That twisted anxiety gnawed at him, pushing him to act before danger even arrived.

His gaze finally fell on the waist pouch. Only ten pieces of xuánjīng left—everything he had.

He hesitated, jaw clenched tight. Then something in him snapped into place.

“One more roll… To hell with it. If I fail, I fail big.”

He summoned the silver die again, snatched the last ten xuánjīng, and fed them into the artifact without a second thought.

“Roll!”

A sharp crackle—

The die spun wildly, a blur of silver—

Then it stopped.

A single crimson dot burned on its surface.

"Still just a one?"

Hadrian Stormwright nearly slumped to the ground, eyes dull, like his last bit of strength had been drained away.

"Huh…?"

Just as despair was settling into his bones, he caught a flicker of change. Above the single pip, a new mark appeared—X10.

Before, all the numbers had been a dead grey. This one carried a faint silver glow, cold and otherworldly.

Then the familiar chime echoed in his mind.

"Fortune Steal accumulated. You may now consume the luck gathered from at least nine normal steals to perform a Fortune Steal. After use, fortune returns to zero. Proceed?"

"Fortune Steal…?"

Hadrian stared, stunned. From the hints, it was clear—each time he used Steal, he hadn’t just grabbed random junk. He’d unknowingly been stacking up luck.

Once he had nine layers or more… he could burn them all for a special steal. Something far beyond the usual scraps.

"Is this… that legendary ten-roll pull everyone prays luck for…?"

His heart wavered between doubt and desperate hope. But at this point, cornered as he was, he had no room to hesitate.

He took a deep breath, clenched his teeth.

"Fortune Steal—use!"

Silver light burst across the surface of the die. The glowing X10 faded to X0 in a blink.

A muffled thud answered him.

From the empty air, a deep-purple bundle dropped to the ground right in front of Hadrian, landing with a weighty promise.