Beggar Cultivation System

Silence lingered inside the bar, thick and unmoving, like the stale scent of sweat and cheap alcohol that hung in the air.

Apollo sat quietly, cradling a chipped mug of lukewarm milk that they provided. The other beggars had returned to their conversations, though he still caught the occasional glance thrown his way—wary, testing.

"Why do you want to know how beggars live?" Mira asked suddenly, her voice cutting through the noise. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity beneath the soft mess of curly brown hair that framed her dirt-smudged but striking face.

Apollo gave a faint smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "Let's just say I want to understand what it really means to live like one. What better way than to ask those who walk the path every day?"

Mira studied him, her expression unreadable. "That's not something most people would bother with."

"I'm not most people," he replied, voice even. Then he leaned forward slightly. "Speaking of paths… what do you know about the Knowledge Exchange?"

At that, Bran scoffed, setting his empty cup down with a dull clack. "What do you know about it, kid? That's not beggar business."

"I don't know anything," Apollo said plainly, "That's why I'm asking. It just seems... strange, that so many are traveling here just to talk about 'knowledge.' There's got to be more to it."

Bran's brows furrowed. "What's it to you?"

"Just curious," Apollo shrugged. "When you hear nobles, rogue cultivators, and sect disciples all flying into the same city, it makes you wonder what's so special about it. That's all."

Mira hesitated for a moment, then sighed, glancing around the bar. The low chatter of drunk beggars, the clinking of cups, and the occasional laughter filled the cramped, dim room. A few others were half-asleep at the tables, while one man near the wall was drunkenly humming to himself as he stared at the ceiling.

"Rumor has it," Mira began, voice low, "that the Knowledge Exchange isn't really about exchanging knowledge at all. At least, not publicly. Some say it's a front—a way to gather the talented, the foolish, and the desperate into one place."

Bran grunted. "That's just hearsay."

"Maybe," Mira said, unfazed. "But there's more. Others say it's a screening ground. A stage. You show off what you know—be it a lost technique, a unique theory, or even an ancient relic—and someone watching in the shadows might pluck you from obscurity."

"That sounds more dangerous than rewarding," Apollo muttered.

"Oh, it gets better," Mira leaned in, lowering her voice further. "There's word going around that this year, there'll be an underground auction after the exchange. Not the usual city stuff—real treasures. Ancient manuals, unknown spirit herbs, maybe even forbidden artifacts."

"Hmph," a one-eyed beggar grunted from a nearby table. "I heard someone's trying to use the Exchange to stir up something... big. Like a coup, or some rebellion."

"Rebellion?" another man laughed from across the room, missing most of his teeth. "Don't be stupid. More like bait. This whole thing's a trap for geniuses. You show up, shine too brightly, and the wrong people notice. Then boom—gone."

"I wouldn't be surprised if some major factions are watching from the shadows," Mira added. "Recruiting… or eliminating."

Apollo remained quiet, the information settling in his mind like puzzle pieces. His gaze wandered to the rim of his cup.

"I see," he said simply.

"You were thinking of sneaking in, weren't you?" Bran narrowed his eyes.

Apollo gave a slow shake of the head. "Not interested in events I wasn't invited to. Just… gathering stories."

That's a lie.

"Hmph." Bran still didn't look convinced.

Mira, however, smiled faintly. "Well, there's no harm in being curious. But if you value peace, keep your distance when the day comes."

"I'll keep that in mind," Apollo said, taking another sip, though his thoughts were already elsewhere.

Rumors were rumors—thin threads of truth wrapped in a tapestry of exaggeration and drunken talk. But Apollo knew one thing: there's no smoke without fire. Among the lies, at least one flame burned.

"But I heard another thing," slurred a gravelly voice from the far side of the bar.

Everyone turned.

A hunched beggar, beard tangled like weeds and cheeks blotched with drink, swayed slightly in his seat as he held up a chipped cup. "You guys probably haven't heard it yet."

"Then tell us already," Bran said, annoyed by the theatrics.

The beggar grinned with a few missing teeth. "You know about the Black Art Sect, right?"

At that, a few chuckles and scoffs echoed around the room.

"We all know about that infamous sect," Mira said, rolling her eyes. "Dark techniques, forbidden rituals. Cultivators who treat their own bodies like experimental cauldrons."

The name stirred an immediate reaction. Even Apollo straightened slightly in his seat, his sharp gaze falling on the drunk like a dagger cloaked in cloth.

Ever since arriving in Manida Land, that name had surfaced again and again in the whispers of alleys and the eyes of wary cultivators. The Black Art Sect wasn't just feared—they were avoided. If they were here in the city, then something important was happening.

"Hehe," the drunk laughed, licking his cracked lips. "They're here... because they're hunting someone."

The room fell quiet again.

Mira's gaze sharpened. "Do you know who?"

Apollo's ears perked up, and his eyes narrowed. The beggar might be drunk, but something about his voice—calculated, slow, too clear in its slurring—made Apollo's instincts prickle. This guy isn't drunk. He's pretending.

"Someone... wearing a bamboo hat," the man said dramatically, pausing to take a long sip. "A Lightning Attribute Cultivator."

A low murmur swept through the beggars like a breeze through brittle leaves.

"Lightning?" Bran frowned. "That's rare. I've only met two in my life with that attribute. Most don't last long, anyway. That kind of power tends to draw too much attention."

Mira folded her arms. "A bamboo hat and lightning? That's oddly specific."

"I know, right?" the beggar chuckled. "But that's what I heard. Heard it from a merchant who saw someone fitting that description being shadowed by cloaked figures—looked like Black Art Sects. He didn't stick around to confirm, but he swore they were stalking him."

The mood shifted. The casual air of gossip twisted into something colder. Unease hung in the air like thick smoke.

"Could be a coincidence," Mira offered, though even she didn't sound convinced. "Still... Curse Arts versus lightning techniques… I don't know who'd win. Depends on the Cultivator."

"Eh, it's just a rumor," the beggar shrugged, waving his cup lazily as he leaned back. "Probably nothing."

The conversation resumed casually, the tension deflating like a patchy balloon as the other beggars began speculating, laughing, or returning to their drinks.

But Apollo?

He sat frozen.

A lump formed in his throat.

His hand slowly tightened around his cup until the rim cracked silently beneath his grip.

Lightning… bamboo hat… being hunted…

A single name flared in his mind like a bolt striking open sky: Sir Guo.

"What the actual f*ck," Apollo muttered under his breath, pupils constricting.

He felt a chill crawl across his back. That man—enigmatic, kind, mysterious, and dangerous in equal measure—was the only Lightning Cultivator Apollo had met who wore a bamboo hat.

Why would the Black Art Sect be after him?

Apollo leaned back in his seat, eyes scanning the room now with different intent. Suddenly, every whisper, every glance, every face could be an informant. Were they watching him too? Did they follow him here? Or were they just after Sir Guo?

One thing was certain: if that rumor was true, then this city wasn't safe anymore.

And tomorrow was the Knowledge Exchange.

If Sir Guo shows up… it might become a battlefield.