Morning came too fast.

Tianxun — still trapped in the weak body of Douzi — was rudely awakened by a hoof to the face.

The goat.

Still living in his room.

Still beefing him like they had unfinished Wulin beef from a past life.

---

He limped out, water bucket in one hand, broken broom in the other, ready for another day of fake-it-till-you-make-it cultivation.

But waiting for him in the courtyard was Wu Dali — shirt off, chest puffed, standing in a puddle like a knockoff war god.

Wu Dali: “Douzi! I challenge you to a duel!”

Tianxun: “…A duel? Bro, I just woke up with goat breath in my mouth. Chill.”

Wu Dali: “Not a fight. A Laundry Duel. Whoever folds clothes faster, better, cleaner — wins. Loser washes everyone’s pants… by teeth.”

---

The crowd: “OOooooOOHHH!”

---

The rules?

One hour.

Forty sets of crusty martial robes.

Points for speed, precision, and… scent?

Tianxun looked at his scrawny hands and sighed.

“I used to slice mountains. Now I’m folding Auntie Zhang’s underwear like it’s a sacred scroll.”

But hey — you don’t become the strongest cultivator in history without learning focus.

He tapped into his old technique:

> “Wind-Like Hand of Heavenly Grace.”

(Originally used for palm strikes. Today? Folded like destiny.)

Tianxun moved like a sewing god. Robes fluttered into shape. Sleeves aligned like military ranks. He even threw in bonus origami towel animals.

Wu Dali, meanwhile, folded like he was wrestling wild pigs.

The goat, once again, judged from the sidelines.

---

Victory, But At What Cost?

Tianxun won. Obviously.

But as he stood proudly, his knees gave out and he collapsed into a pile of socks.

“Body of a pigeon. Soul of a god. I need ginger tea… and my real abs back.”

That’s when the mysterious old granny appeared.

She smelled like vinegar, had more wrinkles than a cursed raisin, and floated three inches off the ground.

---

Granny: “Little trash bag… you folded with the aura of a thousand heavens.”

Tianxun: “…Thanks?”

Granny: “That technique… I haven’t seen it since the war of Nine Spatulas.”

Tianxun: “…Since the what?”

---

She leaned in.

“I’ve seen that birthmark. You're not just Douzi. You’re the Chosen Mop. The one destined to awaken the lost technique of… Celestial Spring Cleaning Fist.”

Tianxun: “Lady… are you drunk?”

Granny: “Drunk on destiny, baby.”