C5 He Officially Moved into the House of Golden Virtue

Wu Ziming sat at the dining table, looking bewildered as he observed the quiet, bustling group around him. He felt a bit out of place, but knew that just sitting there wasn't helping either.

As he was about to rise and lend a hand, a large hand firmly kept him seated.

"You're among friends now, no need to be so formal," Xiaoming said warmly, draping an arm over Ziming's shoulder and passing him a pair of chopsticks.

"Xiaoming, aren't you a bit too welcoming? Oh, I get it. You're trying to get out of doing the dirty work, aren't you?" Jefferson, the aloof young man, quipped from across the table.

Mark wasn't the cold-hearted person Ziming had expected; instead, he was surprisingly amiable.

"Head chef, I'm a major asset to the House of Golden Virtue. Do you really think I mind the grunt work?" Xiaoming's words were confident, but his wandering eyes gave him away.

"Let's be real, you're more of a mascot."

Before the meal, Xiaoming briefed Ziming on some of the Wilderness's cultural no-nos, like certain Earthling expletives that were off-limits.

"The final rule: 'Thirty years on the east bank, thirty years on the west, the young should not be deceived.' That's a line only transmigrators would say. Drop that phrase, and you're instantly five-star material."

"What if I do say it?" Ziming could handle the last part, but breaking his habit of cursing was another story.

"Do you have a system? You know, like those in the novels that can upgrade your level?" Seeing Ziming shake his head, Xiaoming chuckled, "There's a saying for that: if you don't have the fate of a protagonist, don't catch the protagonist's illness."

He paused, then added, "That's all when you're starting out with low strength. If you're powerful enough to fend off a cultivator army, then you can say whatever you want."

"So, is this a world of cultivation or fantasy?"

"It's cultivation. This place, the Wilderness, is ruled by cultivators. Transmigrators here don't have it easy. Like we said, you've got to keep a low profile and play it smart."

While speaking, Xiaoming served Wu Ziming a bowl of rice, which he instinctively accepted with both hands. "So, can we transmigrators cultivate?" he asked. It was frustrating enough to feel constrained, but the inability to cultivate would be downright suffocating.

As someone from Earth, Wu Ziming couldn't stand the thought. "You can, but it's tricky due to the body's structure. Except for those who have soul-transmigrated, other people's cultivation progress can't match that of true cultivators. Take me, for example; I've been here for eight or nine years and have only reached the peak of Qi Cultivation."

"Is the disparity that significant?"

"Absolutely. Take this guy next to you; even though he's a soul transmigrant, he can't cultivate." Xiaoming then cast a scornful glance at Jefferson, who was observing the conversation.

"What? What's this 'guy' business? The women I've been with have all fallen for my charm," Jefferson retorted, only to be met with Xiaoming's skeptical look.

"Keep your distance from him. He was a notorious playboy in his past life. In Eventide, he had ambiguous relationships with 80% of the married women and even led a young kid astray."

Jefferson knew Xiaoming was referring to him and chose not to argue, instead sipping water to alleviate the awkwardness.

Xiaoming, undeterred by Jefferson's discomfort, went on to educate, "Above Qi Cultivation is the stage of controlling Qi, which allows you to fly with your sword. Any passionate man dreams of such feats."

Hearing this, Wu Ziming began to daydream about the life of a wandering swordsman. But before he could indulge further, Xiaoming's reality check hit him. "Forget it. We can't join a major sect, and how much do you really know about ancient texts? This isn't fiction. Even with a cultivation technique, you wouldn't be able to practice it because you wouldn't understand it."

With Xiaoming's mocking laughter ringing in his ears, Wu Ziming's expression soured. "Are we truly without any prospects?"

He knew all too well that stifled growth meant a vicious cycle, and without a breakthrough, transmigrators like him would never see the light of day.

"There really is such a thing," Jefferson said, setting down his teacup. "You've got to keep a low profile, like Voldemort himself. The world is a dark forest where you can't afford to reveal yourself."

"He's been reading too much Three-Body Problem, ignore him. We get our resources either through the system or by robbing monks. The former requires a European lineage, the latter, sheer strength."

Wu Ziming offered an embarrassed yet polite smile upon hearing this. If he couldn't even defeat them, what was he supposed to do? Use an Electromagnetic Cannon? Or perhaps the invincible Star Platinum?

"I think installing that sea cucumber in my brain is utterly pointless. Monks and immortals can take me out in one hit, so it makes no difference whether I install it or not."

Xiaoming, unfazed by Wu Ziming's despair, flashed a confident grin. "Above the Qi Control Stage is the First Spark. When the primordial spirit is awakened, monks like to possess or even soul-search for intelligence. That's why we installed the thought cage in your mind. If someone tries to take over your body, they'll end up a fool, and that safety device will give you a fighting chance to strike back."

"Uh..." Wu Ziming's mouth twitched, overwhelmed by the absurdity and unsure of where to even begin his critique.

Xiaoming tried to sneak a chicken leg unnoticed, but Baihe slapped his hand away. "Keep it down, you two. Yinyin is sleeping upstairs," she said, gracefully taking her seat at the table.

"Yinyin, that night owl? You sure she's asleep?" Xiaoming grumbled, nursing his reddened hand.

The cheerful banter and laughter around him made Wu Ziming reflect. Maybe life in this new world wasn't so terrible, but deep down, he felt a reluctance to fully integrate.

Noticing Ding Fu's absence, Jefferson looked around and asked, "Xiao Nan, where's Brother Ding?"

"Hmm... The newbie said he was making a cold dish and told us not to wait, just to start eating," Baihe replied with a somber expression, prompting Mark and Xiaoming to grimace.

Wu Ziming, who had been idly observing, noticed the trio's pained expressions. "Is Ding Fu's cooking that terrifying?" Their faces looked as if they were staring down a titan.

"It's not about whether it's scary, it's just a really unique dish," Xiaoming said, his gestures betraying a hint of nervousness. It was clear that the experience had left a deep impression on him.

"I'm not eating it," declared Mark devoutly, making the sign of the cross over his chest. "Amen."

"Neither am I," Baihe added, bringing her hands together as if in prayer, chopsticks in hand.

"Is this a local tradition?" Wu Ziming asked, puzzled by their swift pre-meal prayers.

"Don't mind them; it's a faith thing. Just focus on your meal," Xiaoming advised, touching his forehead with his index and middle fingers together, murmuring something in an unfamiliar language.

"Huh?"

The table was set with a few simple dishes: two meat, two vegetables, and a soup.

Whether it was extreme hunger or the allure of the food, Wu Ziming devoured the meal with an intensity that left the others in awe. They were taken aback by his voracious eating.

Xiaoming had always been self-conscious about his own eating habits, but it seemed he now had company.

"Slow down, there's more in the kitchen," Baihe cautioned, offering him a glass of water, concerned he might choke.

Coming to his senses, Wu Ziming felt a bit embarrassed and sheepishly scratched the back of his head, but no one seemed to mind.

"Chef, you've made too little. Go make some more," Xiaoming said to Jefferson, pointing with his chopsticks. It was rude, but Jefferson didn't seem to take offense.

"Why don't you just eat less? You're the one who works the least but eats the most," Jefferson retorted with a touch of elegance, holding his wine glass—though it was no goblet.

"I'm still underage and growing. How can you let me go hungry?" Xiaoming whined, attempting to cuddle up to Baihe, only to be met with a swift thump.

"You're twenty-five and still claiming to be a minor? Does your conscience not bother you?" Jefferson's teasing took Wu Ziming by surprise. He couldn't believe that Xiaoming, who looked younger than him, was actually much older.

"My conscience? I've been a monk since I was three and haven't looked back since..."

"The dishes are here." Amidst their heated debate, Manager Ding emerged from the kitchen, bearing a platter of cold food resembling jellyfish salad.

The trio whipped around, their eyes wide with terror at the sight of Ding Fu holding what now seemed to be an unspeakable horror on a plate.

"Why not give it a try? I've refined the recipe," Ding Fu coaxed, his voice soothing. At the sound of it, the three simultaneously shuddered.

"I'm stuffed," they declared in chorus, promptly vacating their seats at the dining table. Seizing the moment, Mark vaulted over the wall—today was Madam Wang's day.

Baihe and Xiaoming hastened to the third floor, leaving Ding Fu and Wu Ziming, oblivious to the truth, exchanging puzzled glances.

Post-dinner, Wu Ziming, a handyman at the House of Golden Virtue, took his keys and headed for room number one on the third floor. As he was about to unlock the door, a spine-chilling sensation crept up his back.

It was reminiscent of the feeling of being watched by a wolf. He turned to find nothing but the empty hallway. "Must be PTSD from that wolf encounter," he mused, mocking himself.

Upon entering the room, the hallway filled with a swirling dark mist from which a doll-clutching loli emerged. Her long hair, a mix of black and white, cascaded down her back, her skin pale as alabaster, and her youthful face framed by a purple dress—she was the spitting image of an anime heroine. The only imperfection was the lack of life in her dull eyes. She lingered momentarily before dissolving into the mist and disappearing.

Inside, Wu Ziming was greeted by a bizarre mix of decor: to the left, a classical Chinese table and chairs; to the right, a futuristic workbench complete with robotic arms.

Xiaoming was engrossed in tinkering with something unspeakable on the workbench, the sparks flying indicating it was likely a perilous invention.

Wait, where's the bed? Hold on, isn't this supposed to be ancient times? Where did these mechanical contraptions come from?

"Brother Wang, where can I sleep?" Wu Ziming whispered to Xiaoming, careful not to break his concentration.

"You can speak up; it's all good. I've finally finished the project. And please, don't call me Brother Wang—it makes me sound like a thug," Xiaoming said, stretching and yawning as he stowed away the crystal, the size of a cucumber, into a wall safe.

He removed the goggles from his head and tossed them aside. Walking over to the window, he pulled the lever down. The workbench folded up, the mechanical arm withdrew, and the wall receded to reveal two compartments.

"Be careful when you get up in the morning; it's easy to bump your head. You'll be on the bottom bunk, and I'll take the top. Honestly, this is probably the first time I've shared a room with another guy."

Xiaoming's playful comment went ignored as Wu Ziming was taken aback by the dramatic transformation of the room.