Black Ink Pavilion

The streets of the inner sect were as lively as ever with disciples going about their affairs. Among the crowd, Wu Ming and Zhuo Feng walked side by side.

Zhuo Feng yawned. "You're not heading to Black Ink Pavilion this time?"

Wu Ming folded his hands behind his back."And leave you wandering the inner sect alone? Heh, last time, you nearly got scammed into buying 'Dragon blood Pills' that were just dyed monkey fat."

Zhuo Feng scowled. "That old bastard looked convincing."

Wu Ming chuckled. "That's because you're an idiot."

Zhuo Feng rolled his eyes. "Says the guy who wastes time reciting poetry with a bunch of bookworms. What do you even get out of that? Trying to become a cultured corpse?"

Wu Ming flicked open his paper fan, lazily waving it. "Unlike you, whose idea of refinement is scratching your ass before a duel, I happen to believe a man should cultivate both mind and body."

Zhuo Feng scoffed at that, "More like cultivate a bunch of nonsense. You spend hours debating poetry with those scholarly fools, and for what? A fancy reputation?"

Wu Ming chuckled, tilting his head. "Is that so? Then why do you come running whenever there's a lady to impress, begging me to write you letters and poems?"

Zhuo Feng clicked his tongue. "Tch. That's different."

"Of course it is," Wu Ming laughed.

But Zhuo Feng wasn't done. He shot Wu Ming a sideways glance, his tone turning serious. "Jokes aside, why do you still bother with that place? It's not even an official faction. You'd do much better joining our Martial Hall. Even those inner sect factions are better than clinging to a bunch of scholars who argue over fucking brush strokes."

Wu Ming's smile thinned.

The Black Ink Pavilion wasn't a faction, just a gathering place for scholars who preferred ink over blood. A place for idealistic men and women who thought wit alone could change the world. It held no formal power, no real influence.

After a pause, Wu Ming said. "Do you know how I got into the sect?"

To which Zhuo Feng responded with, "Obviously. You passed the entrance test like the rest of us."

Wu Ming shook his head. "No. Before I was an outer disciple, I was just a servant. A nameless errand boy sweeping halls, fetching tea. No status. No connections." He flicked his fan shut. "One day, I found a wounded bird, it was nearly dead. I nursed it back to health."

Zhuo Feng frowned. "And?"

Wu Ming spoke slowly. "That bird belonged to Elder Xu."

Zhuo Feng's brows shot up. "Elder Xu… the one from the Ink Pavilion?"

Wu Ming nodded. "He saw my actions and gave me a chance. That's how I became an outer disciple."

Zhuo Feng's eyes flickered with understanding. "So that's the reason you haven't left the Black Ink Pavilion behind?"

Wu Ming only smiled.

Zhuo Feng snorted. "Tch. You're too sentimental."

"I don't forget my debts," Wu Ming replied calmly. But in his heart, he was resentful.

'Debt? Oh fuck that. The moron before me wasted two years licking that ink-sniffing geezer's backside and got nothing but a pat on the back. If anything, I owe myself for not bashing my head against a rock after inheriting this pathetic body.'

'Maybe I should jump ship. Hmm, which one's the best bet?' Wu Ming's thoughts flowed as he walked.

There were four factions Wu Ming considered joining. Martial Hall, Execution Hall, Black River Sword Temple, and Myriad Mechanism Branch. The first two were core factions, while the latter two were inner sect factions.

The difference was simple. Core factions had existed since the sect's founding, each led by a Grand Elder and held the greatest influence. Inner factions, though influential in their own right, were younger, commanded by inner sect Elders, and carried less weight within the sect.

'Martial Hall, which Zhuo Feng allied with, is the most popular choice among sect disciples. They manage resource collection missions and sect guard duties, sending disciples to hunt spirit beasts, mine treasures, or patrol the borders. Not the safest work, but not the deadliest either. Just a reasonable risk for a reasonable amount of rewards.'

'Secondly, there's the Execution Hall. They're the ones who dole out punishments and make sure the sect's rules don't get shit on. But their work isn't just within the sect walls. They're the ones hunting demonic cultivators, taking assassination jobs, dealing with anything that requires blood to get spilled. Rewards are fat and juicy, but so are the risks. Fail once, and the only reward you get is a nameless grave.'

'Then there's the Black River Sword Temple. Sword maniacs, every single one of them. They eat, sleep, and shit swordsmanship. The current head, Zhao Yunfei, ranks 16,270 in the Imperial Sword Rankings. No small feat, I guess. If I could somehow get him to teach me, my Seed of Comprehension would let me gobble up his knowledge faster than anyone else.'

'What's better? The place is more free of the usual political crap. No backstabbing or scheming, just swords and blood. But there's a catch. These assholes are unreasonably battle-hungry. If I show the slightest bit of talent, they'll come at me like rabid dogs. I've heard joining the Sword Temple means swearing an oath, where you literally accept the possibility of death. Fighting to death during sparring. Who the hell does that?'

'And finally we have the Myriad Mechanism Branch. Now that's a whole other ballgame. Hm, I haven't read a single novel where the protagonist chooses that path. Puppets and mechanisms? Sounds like a good way to fuck with people from the background. Build myself an army of mechanical soldiers, pull the strings without anyone noticing.'

'But there are shortcomings here too. They're weak as hell. No raw power. And the puppetry thing doesn't have much of a legacy. It's not widespread, so finding any real treasure in that field is gonna be a bitch. Still, the thought of building a mechanical army that takes care of my dirty work? Too tempting to pass up. I'm definitely taking a look if the chance comes.'

Wu Ming's fan closed with a soft snap as his eyes clouded in thought.

'The Black Ink Pavilion I've ended up in is weak, useless, and about as significant as a fart in the wind. But it has one thing worth something, freedom! Here, I can come and go as I damn well please. No duties, no obligations. Just me, doing whatever the hell I want.'

'Maybe I can milk some fame with a few poems from my old world and let those scholars drool over my "genius". It might win me some favors. But relying on them for anything substantial? Hah. All they do is talk in circles and jerk each other off over ink and paper. When the blades come out, they're the first to piss themselves.'

Wu Ming considered carefully.

'Still, this is not a decision to be rushed. Best to think it through carefully.'