Beggar Cultivation System

As Apollo sat cross-legged on the cold ground, arms folded and eyes half-lidded in contemplation, it didn't take long before movement stirred at the far end of the alley.

Footsteps—calm, purposeful.

A pair of figures emerged from the shadows, both wearing worn and patched clothing like the rest of the alley's dwellers, but there was something different about them. They moved with purpose, with awareness—eyes sharp, backs straight. Not like those who had long surrendered to life's cruelty.

A man and a woman. The man was built like a mountain, towering close to two meters with muscles bulging beneath his tattered robes, a scar trailing down his left cheek like a thunderbolt frozen in flesh. His presence alone caused the nearby beggars to flinch or avert their gaze.

The woman, on the other hand, had a calm but commanding air. Her curly brown hair was tied into a loose bun, framing a face that, despite the grime and wear, held a kind of street-worn beauty. Her amber eyes sparkled with curiosity, but not malice.

They stopped a few steps in front of Apollo, their gazes sharp as they examined him and his companions.

Apollo slowly looked up, eyes narrowing as if inspecting them back.

"Welcome," the woman said with a soft, practiced smile. Her voice was gentle, but firm—like someone who'd repeated this greeting more times than she could count. "You're new here. I'm not going to ask where you came from or what you did. In this place, everyone is equal. We don't share food. We don't steal from each other. And we definitely don't hurt each other. If you want to stay, follow our rules."

Her eyes flicked briefly to Bluetooth, who still lay passed out with bubbles coming from his beak beside Don, then back to Apollo with an arched brow.

"We're not staying long," Apollo replied, standing up with ease. His tone was polite but distant. He held out a hand. "I'm Yoma. Think of me as a passerby you'll forget about in a few days."

"Oh?" The woman tilted her head, clearly intrigued by his attitude. She moved her eyes past him, catching sight of Don, who was still sitting beneath the half-broken awning, quietly cultivating. The boy's refined posture and silk-trimmed tunic clashed starkly with the squalid alley.

Her companion noticed too. The hulking man took a step forward, his arms crossed and aura brimming with unspoken challenge. "You say you're beggars," he said, voice deep and gruff, "but he's wearing clothes worth more than this entire block."

Apollo didn't flinch. He turned to glance at Don, then back at the man with a light smile. "That's because he's a new beggar. Still struggling to let go of his past life."

The man's brow twitched. "You trying to play us?"

"Not at all," Apollo said with a casual shrug. "Believe what you want. We're not here to stir anything."

A tense silence hung in the air, but the woman held up her hand, gently touching the man's arm. "That's enough, Bran. They're not the first strangers to show up in nice clothes. Some nobles fall. Some cultivators get abandoned. It's not our place to judge."

She looked at Apollo again, her expression unreadable. "I'm Mira. I watch this alley."

"I can tell," Apollo nodded, giving her a small grin. "You have that 'responsible older sister who has no time for nonsense' kind of vibe."

Mira's lips quirked upward, almost smiling. "I get that a lot."

Bran snorted.

Just as the air began to ease, a faint snoring sound came from the side. All three of them turned to see Bluetooth—still upside down—wheezing softly with a long bubble inflating and deflating from his beak.

Bran blinked. "...What is that?"

"My mount. Don't worry about him. He just lost a duel to a chili," Apollo said nonchalantly, sitting back down as if nothing about the situation was unusual.

Mira blinked, then chuckled under her breath. "You're a strange one."

Apollo closed his eyes, resting his arms across his knees. "Strange is normal where I'm from."

She didn't press further.

"Alright then, Yoma," Mira said after a pause. "If you don't plan to stay long, just don't cause trouble. The guards don't come here often, but when they do, they're not gentle."

"Duly noted," Apollo replied.

With that, Mira and Bran turned around, walking deeper into the alley.

Once they were out of sight, Apollo leaned back slightly and muttered, "Well, seems like the beggar community here is a bit more organized than I thought."

Don opened one eye. "That Bran guy… he looked like he could crush me with one arm."

Apollo grinned. "He probably could. That's why you keep cultivating."

But then, a thought sparked in Apollo's mind.

He was here to understand something.

Beggars do not stay idle.

This wasn't just about squatting in an alley and waiting for death. He had to see, to learn, to know what it truly meant to live like this. Only then could he fully grasp his identity as a beggar cultivator—one who had chosen this path willingly.

With that in mind, Apollo closed his eyes briefly and extended his senses.

Within moments, he felt them—Mira and Bran—slipping into a nearby structure. What looked like a shadowed crevice turned out to be a disguised entrance to a bar, cleverly hidden beneath the crumbling foundation of an abandoned building. A long, makeshift staircase had been dug into the stone, leading downward into what was likely a converted basement.

The exterior looked rough at best—wooden planks patched haphazardly over gaps, iron sheets nailed into the door frame to reinforce a doorway that had clearly seen better days. A crooked sign hung above, swinging slightly in the breeze. It didn't bear a name—only a red mark shaped like a cracked bowl.

"Interesting," Apollo muttered, his eyes narrowing with intrigue. He turned to Don, who was now feeding a half-conscious Bluetooth some water through a straw.

"Stay here," Apollo said. "I'll go look around, see what this place offers."

Don looked up, blinking. "Alright, Master. Be careful."

Apollo nodded. The next moment, his figure blurred, vanishing from sight with a whisper of wind.

He reappeared in front of the underground bar just seconds later, scanning the area. Faint music and muffled laughter echoed from within, along with the scent of cheap alcohol, sweat, and damp stone.

Without hesitation, Apollo pushed the door open.

A sharp creak echoed as he stepped inside.

The bar was dimly lit by flickering lamps, their glow casting shadows that danced on the cracked stone walls. The place was small and musty, with an uneven floor and a low ceiling that dripped moisture in a few corners. The walls were plastered with old posters, some torn, some stained beyond recognition.

There were no polished counters or smiling servers here. Instead, a battered table near the back held a few mismatched bottles and dented cups. Several beggars sat slouched on benches or crates, drinking what looked like cloudy brown liquid from rusted mugs. Some were laughing. Others looked dead inside.

A few heads turned toward him as he entered—eyes narrowed, teeth bared. His clean movements and sharp gaze made him stand out immediately.

Among them, Mira raised an eyebrow in mild surprise while Bran's eyes widened slightly before narrowing again.

"What are you doing here?" Bran growled, standing up from his bench. His massive frame loomed like a boulder. "This place is not for kids."

Before he could say more, Mira raised her hand, signaling him to stand down.

"Shh," she said calmly. "Let him speak."

She tilted her head toward Apollo, a faint smile touching her lips. "You came here for a reason, didn't you?"

Oh? Apollo thought. She caught on that quickly.

"I'm curious," Apollo said, walking further in and taking a seat on a rickety stool. "About the beggars here. How they live. What their purpose is. The ones I saw outside… they look like they've already given up. But you two… you haven't."

His words were calm, but they struck a chord.

The room, once filled with idle muttering and laughter, fell into an uneasy silence. Some of the beggars turned to him with blank stares, others with open hostility.

A scruffy man with a crooked nose muttered, "What's this brat preaching for…?"

Another barked out a laugh. "We don't need no philosopher beggar around here."

But Apollo paid them no mind. His eyes never left Mira.

Mira, for her part, didn't look offended. In fact, she seemed... intrigued.

"You've got a sharp eye," she said, swirling the liquid in her chipped cup. "Most who come here only want to forget their suffering. Drink it away. Sleep it away. Wait for their bodies to rot."

"Then why are you still here?" Apollo asked.

Bran looked like he was about to protest again, but Mira raised her hand once more.

"I have my reasons," she said softly. "Maybe one day I'll share them. But for now, know this—some of us may still be beggars, but we haven't surrendered."

Apollo nodded.

That was all he needed to hear.

This place wasn't just a pit of despair—it was a gathering of people clinging to the smallest threads of identity, dignity, or maybe even hope. It wasn't much… but it was something.

He leaned back slightly and looked around the dim room once more.

"Maybe," he thought, "I'm not the only one trying to redefine what it means to be a beggar."