A sharp wake-up alarm shattered the morning silence, yanking me out of the warm cocoon of sleep.
I opened my eyes and immediately felt my body protest. My muscles ached like I’d just run a marathon, my joints felt rusted over, and my solar plexus still held onto a faint warmth from yesterday’s Flow Chamber.
Someone sighed. Someone else mumbled something unintelligible. And someone, apparently, decided that ignoring the alarm for five seconds would magically send them back into Morpheus’ embrace.
I saw Denis pull his blanket over his head and felt Marlon shifting on the top bunk. Bao Fen, however, had a very different wake-up routine.
"What the hell?!"
His irritated outburst, filled with disbelief and rage, sent a ripple of curiosity through the room.
Denis pulled the blanket off his face and stared up at the bunk above him.
I had barely managed to sit up, rolling out the stiffness in my neck, when Bao’s eyes locked onto me.
"This some kind of joke?!" he demanded, as if I had just stolen a priceless family heirloom. "Who the hell are you?!"
I blinked.
"Jake Sullivan," I muttered, still not fully awake.
"Don’t play dumb!" Bao snapped. "How the hell did you end up on the top cultivators list for first-years?"
Oh, shit! I hadn’t even considered this could be a problem.
I shook my head, trying to focus on my interface. Where was this list?
I couldn’t find it, but I did pull up my progress window: 28/2467.
Wait. Hold on. Where did the other nine go?
Yesterday, I left the chamber with 37.
A cold pit formed in my stomach. What the hell happened? The doc had mentioned qi dispersion, but this was way too fast! My first instinct was to message him, but I decided to hold off. Let the man have his morning coffee—or whatever they drank here.
"Don’t ignore me!"
"Huh? Sorry. What ranking are you talking about, and where do I find it?"
Bao Fen tossed me his tablet.
His name was the first thing I saw—ranked 52, with 28/2845.
"You’re on it too," I said, scrolling down to find myself.
"You’re higher!" he accused.
Ah. So that’s what pissed him off.
I scrolled the list the other way and found my name almost instantly.
#49 – J. M. Sullivan – 28/2467.
"How the hell did you do that?!" Bao demanded. "I cultivated half the night while you were out cold!"
"You were sucking on Daddy’s crystal like a baby on a bottle," Denis shot back, deflating his ego. "Go on, tell us about all your sweat, blood, and years of training!"
"He didn’t even have a crystal!" Bao snapped, turning to glare at me.
Marlon probably would’ve joined in too if he didn’t have to lean over the edge of his bunk to do it.
"The doc ran some tests yesterday," I said.
"What, qi absorption tests?" Bao scoffed.
"Yeah," I confirmed.
Bao blinked, processing, then froze.
"That’s bullshit!" he declared after his mental reboot. "An orphan with amnesia makes it into the top rankings on day one? Don’t make me laugh! You’re hiding something."
I yawned and glanced back at the list.
"I’m only three spots ahead of you. Stop throwing a fit."
My bad. I should’ve known better.
"A fit?! Oh, trying to deflect, are we? You’re—what, someone’s illegitimate son? Some big shot’s secret heir?"
I rolled my eyes, shook my head, and reached for my jumpsuit.
"A rich daddy’s boy accusing someone else of using family connections. Don’t you find that a little ironic?" I asked while getting dressed.
Denis seemed to take my lead and started changing too.
"Are you a Gunter? A Dubois?" Bao pressed.
"Bao," I snapped. "Your long-lost cousin."
"Hah! Nice try!" he shot back, then added, "Not with that face!"
Denis and I finished dressing. Marlon finally started too, but Bao still wouldn’t shut up.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
"No… maybe you’re a Novak… or a Shevchuk…"
Denis grabbed a towel and toothbrush from his locker.
My stuff was still sitting on the desk where I’d left it before passing out—but no toothbrush among them. Not in my locker either. Ignoring Bao, I turned to Denis.
"Where’d you get your toothbrush?"
"It’s my personal one. Oh, right—you haven’t picked up your personal belongings yet. They should be in the storage unit."
"You do realize I have no idea where that is, right?"
"I’ll show you later. After breakfast. We don’t have much time." Then he turned and barked at Bao, "And you, cut the quiz show. We’re not waiting for you."
"I know where the cafeteria is!" Bao snapped.
"Yeah, well, I don’t!" I pointed out.
"That’s because you overslept dinner—the one we were marched to as a group. And once again, I had to cover for you with the supervisors," Denis said, jabbing his toothbrush at me like an accusation.
"For which I am eternally grateful."
"Alright, then wait for me—I’ll show you where it is. Or use the navigator, and we’ll meet there."
"I’ll wait!" I assured him. Navigator or not, I wasn’t taking any chances.
Marlon and Denis left, and Bao finally hopped down from his bunk. Puffing out his chest, he declared, "I’ll find out who you really are!"
Hard to look intimidating when you’re standing there in nothing but bright white underwear.
At last, I understood something: it wasn’t just about me ranking higher than him. It was the uncertainty that pissed him off. He needed to know who I was to fit me into the hierarchy he was used to. If he didn’t know where I stood, he didn’t know how to treat me—whether as a rival, a threat, or trash.
I wasn’t about to make it easy for him.
"I told you—I’m your long-lost cousin."
His fists clenched, but that was as far as it went.
"We’ll talk about this later," he muttered before pulling on his jumpsuit.
By the time the guys returned, Bao had just left to brush his teeth. As Denis had promised, we did not wait for him.
The Black Lotus School cafeteria was massive. Then again, with this many people, it had to be.
There were two and a half thousand first-years alone, and they made up the bulk of the crowd. Second-years were noticeably fewer, and as for third- and fourth-years? Nowhere in sight.
Either they ate somewhere else, or they were on a completely different schedule. For now, it remained a mystery.
I had expected the usual military-style food—bland porridge, compressed protein bricks, or something along those lines. But from what I saw on other trays, everything actually looked… pretty appetizing. The air was filled with a mix of aromas—savory, spicy, a hint of heat. There was even a smoky undertone, like well-grilled barbecue.
There was no food line. Instead, a massive vending unit dispensed trays at the press of a single button. And the menu? Completely random.
My little lottery served me a slab of dark meat with a crispy crust that had an almost unnatural golden sheen; a bowl of thick soup filled with seaweed, dark fibrous chunks of something, and a translucent broth tinged green; and a side of rice… Rice that had a shiny metallic colour.
The whole meal looked unfamiliar, but still appetizing. Except the rice. The rice looked like it could crack teeth.
As soon as we found seats at one of the long tables, I bit straight into the meat—and was immediately hit with the strangest sensation. Instead of the smoky, spiced flavor I expected… it was sweet. And cold. Like ice cream.
I raised an eyebrow.
"What the hell?"
"Cultivator food," Denis explained, already working his way through his meal with a fork. "Restores physical reserves, improves qi absorption. The taste might seem weird at first—your taste buds aren’t used to it yet."
Judging by the way he was grimacing, neither were his.
I glanced back at my tray. This was going to take some getting used to.
They couldn’t take meat taste away from me! Except… they hadn’t. The metallic rice? It tasted like stew.
At first, I was thrilled. Then my brain caught up. Wait. Why does rice taste like meat? Maybe… those weren’t grains at all—
No. No, I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to eat.
After breakfast, Denis took me to the storage hall. Marlon, silent as always, tagged along.
It turned out to be—surprise, surprise—another long corridor. They seemed to love long corridors around here. This one had a single row of lockers running down both sides of the central aisle, with another set lining the walls.
The storage units only unlocked via retinal scan or interface access. Naturally, mine was locked to a retinal scan—because my interface, or rather, old Jake’s interface, didn’t exist yet when he’d stashed his belongings.
Using the terminal at the entrance, we tracked down my locker.
A few minutes later, I was standing in front of my not-so-impressive possessions—things that could easily fit in one hand.
A toothbrush—just a regular one, no fancy features. A keychain, hexagonal in shape, engraved with a symbol I didn’t recognize. And a thin silver chain, simple in design, but holding two rings—one thick and masculine, the other slender and feminine, both made of the same silvery metal. No inscriptions. No engravings.
As for the rest: Denis identified the small black plate as a standard memory card. The big black card with a number line across it and a logo? My interface handled that one, identifying it as a bank card. It immediately suggested linking it to my account, and I quickly agreed—only to hit a brick wall at the PIN screen.
I was about to message the doc (my financial well-being was very much in his best interest) when Denis noticed my reaction and asked what was up. He assured me I could sort it out at a bank branch. He recognized the emblem and said there was one on campus. His own card was from the same bank, while Marlon used a different one.
That was reassuring.
I moved on to the last item—visually identical to the memory card, except for the color. This one was orange.
"Another memory card?"
Denis nodded slowly.
"That’s an Orange Technique. Pretty rare."
I gave the card a second look.
"Okay, break it down for the orphan with amnesia."
"Combat techniques are ranked by power. Movement techniques—by speed. Mental techniques have their own system, but it’s less strict. Traditionally, they’re divided into seven colors."
Denis started counting on his fingers.
“Gray—lowest level, basic techniques that are publicly available, even on Earth; Green—basically the same; Blue—a bit better, but still standard; Purple—a serious upgrade, used by most cultivators; Yellow—rarer, harder to get; Orange—now that’s high-level stuff. For first-stage cultivators, it’d cost at least ten thousand. The rights usually belong to a school or a powerful family. And if you use it illegally, they’ll drag you through the courts and leave you without a single pair of underwear.”
"So, this is top-tier?" I waved the card.
"The absolute top is Red Techniques," Denis corrected. "This is top-tier accessible."
"If I actually have the rights to use it."
"If you have the rights—and if it’s not a pirated copy," Denis added. "And if you do have the rights… well, I’m joining Bao in asking—who the hell are you, man?"
"I told you. His long-lost cousin." I smirked. "No, seriously, how do I check if I have the rights?"
"Just look," Marlon suggested. "When we get back to the room, plug it into your tablet and check. It might be clear right away."
"And what if it’s password-locked like the bank card?"
"If it’s locked, that actually increases the chances that it’s legit," Key said. "You’d have to contact the rights holder to verify. Could be even harder than dealing with the bank. If it’s not locked, we can check it in the library."
And… this could totally backfire on me.
Why the hell would an orphan have an advanced technique like this?
No, this was classic Xianxia. A mysterious, overpowered technique that would let me dominate the school. Except… the doc had literally told me to start with Gray.
Oh, right. Speaking of that.
I opened my journal and deleted my note about colored rankings. Guess I had that figured out now.
I considered adding a new entry, but honestly? It’s not like I’d forget about this card. Unless Jake got hit with another convenient bout of amnesia. And if that happened… well, then "I" wouldn't really care, would I?