Beggar Cultivation System

"So this is the spot you found, huh?" Apollo asked, raising an eyebrow.

"This place is secluded, and it's popular among beggars," Bluetooth explained, perched comfortably on Apollo's shoulder in his pigeon-sized form. "There's a lot of them inside. They're… organized."

They stood at the edge of a narrow alley tucked between two looming business buildings in one of the quieter districts of Manida Land.

"An alley…" Apollo muttered, eyes scanning the entrance. The stone walls were damp, cracks crawling along the edges, and faint steam drifted from somewhere deeper inside. The businesses flanking the alley looked like warehouses—silent and indifferent to whatever happened in the shadowy gap between them. No guards watching. No signage screaming for cleanliness. That, in Apollo's book, was a good sign.

"This should work for our stay," he said with a small nod.

They weren't planning to stay in Manida long—two, maybe three days at most. Just enough time to rest, learn the city's layout, maybe gather some Alm Points, and attend the gathering if it seemed worthwhile. Hopefully, no unexpected chaos would show up to ruin that plan.

He could get them a room in a fancy inn. With the gold pouches from Axton and the Belthias mayor, they had more than enough. But Apollo had already accepted what he was. He wasn't a wandering cultivator, a rogue noble, or a traveling merchant.

He was a beggar.

That identity wasn't just a disguise—it was a philosophy now.

No shortcuts. No easy life.

He'd take the streets over silk beds, dirt over marble floors. Because that was the only way to understand what it meant to survive at the bottom—and grow.

Apollo stared at the alley for a few more seconds, then stepped inside.

"I'm curious," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "How do beggars live in this world?"

In Belthias, the image of beggars had been a blur—shadows that existed in the background, overlooked or devoured by the city's twisted mayor. He'd barely scratched the surface of their reality. But now, in Manida, away from the rotting streets of SlumStreet and the horrors that lurked beneath, he wanted to understand the people who shared the title he now carried with pride.

Maybe if he truly understood them… his own existence would make more sense.

What's the point of being the strongest beggar in the world if you don't understand what it means to be one?

He still didn't know his real purpose in this world. No grand destiny. No prophecy with his name in it. Apollo's only real goal was simple—don't die. That alone was enough. He'd died once already, back in that other world, and that was more than enough dying for one lifetime.

Now he was in a world of cultivation, where excitement lingered behind every breakthrough and danger lurked beneath every smile. And while he liked excitement, he wasn't exactly a fan of trouble.

Excitement, yes.

Trouble, no.

Big difference.

With the bird on his shoulder and his disciple walking beside him, Apollo stepped deeper into the alley. The smell hit them immediately—a mix of damp stone, smoke, and unwashed clothes.

It wasn't repulsive, not yet. But it was real.

"A true beggar's scent," Apollo muttered.

Don didn't speak, his eyes flicking nervously between the alley walls as if expecting someone to jump out at them.

"I wonder what kind of people we'll meet here…" Apollo said under his breath.

After turning a corner, Apollo saw them.

Ten figures, maybe more, sat silently along the alley walls, their bodies slumped like discarded sacks of rice. Back against the damp stone, heads hung low, some resting on their knees while others stared blankly at the cracked pavement as if waiting for death to come.

Apollo silently spread his senses deeper into the winding alley and quickly realized this was only one part of a sprawling, maze-like network. And yet even from here, he could feel the presence of more—farther down, tucked away in bends and shadows, hidden behind boxes, barrels, or broken cloth tents strung between the walls.

Each of them wore ragged layers of clothing patched together from whatever scraps they could find. One man coughed violently into his sleeve. Another had a pair of children asleep on his lap, their small bodies covered in grime, their bellies thin and hollow. A woman across from them sat sharpening a broken spoon against a stone, the metallic scraping echoing quietly as if it were a lullaby in this hopeless world.

One old man opened his eyes as they approached. Bloodshot, tired, but still alert—he blinked a few times at Apollo and Don, then said nothing and looked away, as if disinterested in new faces. A few others stirred, curious gazes lifting toward them. Whispers passed between cracked lips. Some eyed the kid's slightly better condition—Don's clean skin and decent shoes were enough to stand out.

Don gulped, hugging himself instinctively. "A-Are we really going to stay here?"

His voice was quiet, but Apollo still heard the fear in it. The hesitation.

"This place…" Don glanced at the beggars, then at the soaked ground beneath his feet. "Even SlumStreet was better than this…"

Smack!

Apollo's palm met the back of his disciple's head.

"We're beggars," he said with calm authority. "And beggars don't get to choose where they stay."

Don rubbed the sore spot, biting back a protest. "But… didn't you choose this place for us to stay in?" he muttered under his breath. "W-We have money… We could sleep on a bed for once…"

His voice trailed off at the end as Apollo slowly turned his head, eyes colder than stone. In his hand, he was holding a familiar bright red item—a Chili of Intelligence.

The sight alone made Don tremble. "M-Master… n-no…"

"Hmph! Foolish disciple!" Bluetooth snapped, puffing up on Apollo's shoulder like a feathered general. "Dare question the boss? Feed him the chili! In fact, give him two! That's for puking on my ba—"

Pop!

A chili flew straight into Bluetooth's open beak.

The blue falcon froze.

Then smoke burst from his ears.

"GGAAHHH! WHY ME?!" Bluetooth squawked, flapping wildly in place. "MY TONGUE! I CAN'T FEEL MY TONGUE!!"

Don laughed for a second—before Apollo pulled out another chili.

Don's smile vanished instantly. "I—I'll go sit now…"

"That's more like it." Apollo returned the chili into his storage ring and nodded approvingly. "Now find a spot. This is where we stay."

Don shuffled toward a bare spot near a pile of half-broken crates and carefully sat down. Bluetooth crash-landed beside him, his wings twitching uncontrollably.

Smoke puffed out of his beak as he opened and closed it helplessly, tongue hanging limp like a burnt noodle. His body trembled from the overwhelming heat, feathers ruffled like he'd just flown through a volcano.

Then, with a strangled croak, his eyes rolled back.

"G-GAAAAHHH—TOO SPICY—!" he managed to screech before collapsing onto his back, legs stiffening in the air.

Bubbles foamed out of his beak as he lay there twitching, steam rising from his body like a freshly boiled dumpling.

Don scooted a few inches away from the bird, eyes wide. "I-Is he dead?"

"No," Apollo said calmly, settling into his spot. "That's just his brain trying to make peace with the afterlife."

He stood with arms crossed, his sharp eyes quietly studying the other beggars. They weren't just some weaklings thrown away by society. There was something else here. A pattern in the way they sat, the silence they maintained, even the glances they shared.

Organized, Bluetooth had said.

And Apollo was beginning to believe it.

He didn't speak another word. He just took his place by the wall, sat down like the rest, and waited.

He had no doubt—they'd be approached soon.

And he intended to see exactly what kind of system Manida's beggars lived by. He might even find something that can be helpful for the upcoming Knowledge Exchange.