Chapter 5: The Empire of Dirt I Apparently Rule

They say knowledge is power.

Which is why I decided to get some — before someone showed up asking me to duel a tiger made of lightning or negotiate with a sect that could afford meat.

It had been nearly two weeks since I woke up in this new body.

So far, I’d learned three things:

1. I’m technically in charge of eight hundred people.
   
   
2. My existence bankrupted the clan.
   
   
3. My grandfather is so scary he once intimidated a wildfire into extinguishing itself.
   
   

What I hadn’t learned yet?

Who we are. Where we are. And why the hell there are so many stone goats carved into everything.

“Bring me a map,” I’d told Elder Zhang that morning.

He returned with what could best be described as a paper towel that had survived a natural disaster.

I stared at it, then at him.

“This is the latest version?” I asked, gently poking a burnt edge.

“It’s… traditional,” he said, with the nervous pride of someone showing off a family heirloom that smells like soup.

To be fair, I did learn some things:

1. We live in the 

Ironspine Mountain Range

 — which is less a mountain range and more a labyrinth made by a drunk god with a chisel.

Remote. Misty. Secluded. Full of weird beasts and weirder terrain.

The perfect place to get lost, train in secret, or die without witnesses.

Aunt Mei once described it as “beautiful and blessed.”

I now realize that’s code for “economically useless.”

2. The Shen Clan controls one main compound, and three 

branch settlements

.

I asked Elder Zhang to list them.

He took a deep breath like he was about to read names off a tombstone.

• Eastern Branch: “Tragically… no longer with us.”
  
   Translation: Grandpa Wuji went full Mortal Kombat and deleted them.
  
  
• Northern Branch: “Focused on defensive arts and wall maintenance.”
  
   Translation: They’re the security guards.
  
  
• Western Branch: “Specializes in logistics and herbal cultivation.”
  
   Translation: They grow kale and complain about the budget.
  
  

And the Southern Branch?

“Oh, the Southern Branch… left.”

“…Left?”

“Departed. Relocated. Possibly joined a traveling troupe of mercenary chefs. It’s unclear.”

Ah. So I rule over a fractured clan with one missing limb, one crippled arm, and one grumpy pair of gardeners.

“So,” I said slowly, “what exactly is our role in the region?”

“Ah,” Elder Zhang coughed. “We are one of the respected clans in the… mid-tier category.”

“Be honest.”

“We’re not invited to continental conferences.”

“…Go on.”

“There is a pamphlet. But our name is in small print. On the back. Next to the tax disclaimers.”

Right.

So the Shen Clan is not a powerhouse. It’s not even a house. It’s the shed behind the house, guarded by traumatized goats and overgrown with medicinal debt.

Worse, our so-called region?

It’s called the Hidden Spine Prefecture, which sounds impressive until you learn it’s:

• Mostly mountainous wilderness,
  
  
• Full of spiritual beasts who hate humans and taxes,
  
  
• Politically irrelevant,
  
  
• And economically best known for moss.
  
  

Moss.

There are sects out there trading dragon teeth, phoenix feathers, and spiritual jade. Meanwhile, the Shen Clan’s biggest export is damp disappointment.

But perhaps the greatest indignity?

The nearby sects don’t even treat us like rivals.

We’re local color.

One elder once referred to us as “that mountain people with the scary old man and weird soup.”

Later, in private, I sat alone in the main hall with the giant ancestral portrait of Grandpa Wuji glaring down at me like he knew I was about to do something weak and administrative.

I muttered, “We’re basically the fantasy equivalent of an off-brand cult.”

No response.

Just silence.

And the distant sound of someone yelling about a goat stealing their laundry.

I scribbled a few things on a scroll.

Shen Clan Assessment (By Me, The Unwanted CEO):

• Location: Middle of nowhere. Very scenic. Very cursed.
  
  
• Status: Technically alive.
  
  
• Branches: One gone, one anxious, one annoyed, one MIA.
  
  
• Strength: Grandpa.
  
  
• Wealth: My medical receipts.
  
  
• Prospects: Probably need a bake sale.
  
  

I sighed and leaned back.

“…Maybe I can fake a prophetic dream and declare we’re entering a hundred-year seclusion.”

Aunt Mei walked by and handed me tea.

“You’re not giving up, are you, Young Master?”

“No,” I said, sipping it slowly. “Just contemplating if I should sell the courtyard geese for startup capital.”

“They’re sacred, you know.”

“Well, so was our dignity. But here we are.”

[End of Chapter 5]