Dawn broke over the northern drill grounds of Taichu City, casting long golden shadows across the packed gravel.
Ten thousand massive figures stood in rigid rows. Every man among them was at least seven feet tall, broad-shouldered, and covered in intricate crimson tattoos. They stood stiffly at attention, though their swollen, purplish wrists trembled with agonizing meridian rot.
On a raised wooden platform stood Qin Haoran.
The young noble wore a pristine blue scholar robe and a tall headmaster hat. In his right hand, he twirled his polished brass pointer stick with razor-sharp precision. Beside him stood a ten-foot wooden blackboard covered in neat chalk writing.
“Eyes forward, you bunch of pig-blood amateurs!” Qin Haoran barked, tapping his stick against the blackboard.
CLACK! CLACK! CLACK!
Patriarch Xue Ba stood in the front row, his eight-foot frame towering over his disciples. He straightened his back, puffing out his massive chest.
“Six months ago, I was an arrogant young master,” Qin Haoran said, pacing across the platform with slow, theatrical steps. “My Goodness score was sixty-two. I thought shouting at servants made me powerful. Through sheer dedication, street-sweeping in freezing downpours, and rescuing ninety stray dogs, I earned my eighty-two points. Today, I am an accredited Taichu VIP.”
