Victory, Kenji Tanaka discovered, was an asset that required careful management. His triumph over the outer courtyard, a feat of efficiency so crushing it bordered on the supernatural, had not earned him admiration among his peers. It had earned him something far more valuable and, at the same time, more dangerous: visibility.

The morning routine in the servants’ pavilion was no longer a monotonous murmur of resignation; now, it was a silence charged with static electricity. When Kenji passed, conversations died out. The gazes, once filled with pity or disdain, were now a mixture of suspicion and an almost fearful fascination. He had become “the weirdo with the broom,” an anomaly in an ecosystem built on sweat and blind obedience.

Xiong, the burly thug whose authority was based on physical intimidation, now avoided him as if Kenji carried a contagious disease. For Xiong, a man whose universe was governed by the simple equation that more strength equaled more power, Kenji’s silent, logical competence was heresy. It was like trying to punch the wind: frustrating, useless, and, ultimately, humiliating.

But the most significant change had manifested in his supervisor. Lao Wang no longer assigned him tasks with the certainty of his failure, but with a mixture of panic and morbid curiosity.

“Analyst,” Lao Wang called him that morning, using a nickname that had started as a joke and now clung to Kenji like a second skin. His face, normally a map of quiet resignation, was contorted with confusion. He led him to a corner of the laundry pavilion, where the air smelled of bleach and the sour sweat of a hundred servants. “Matriarch Feng is… pleased with your… efficiency,” he said, pronouncing the word as if it were an arcane term from a forbidden text. “She says expenses on brooms are down. Who pays attention to broom expenses? But she does.”

Lao Wang rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of pure desperation. “The problem is, now I don’t know what to do with you. You’re too good for sweeping, but…” his gaze swept over Kenji’s scrawny body, “…you’re useless for anything else. So, today, this will be your task.”

He pointed to a mountain of potatoes and turnips piled in a corner of the kitchens. “Peel. All day. Try not to cut off a finger. It would be a waste of resources.”

Kenji nodded once, his face a mask of neutrality. “Tuber processing protocol. Understood.”

For Kenji, the assignment wasn’t a punishment. It was an opportunity. A promotion. Lao Wang had moved him from the “exterior maintenance department” to the “supply logistics nerve center,” also known as the kitchen. It was the perfect place for the second phase of his plan: intelligence gathering.

While his hands, still weak but increasingly deft, moved with an economy of motion that turned the act of peeling potatoes into a study in optimization, his ears and eyes worked at full capacity. The kitchen was the beating heart of the clan, the place where all information, all gossip, all resources passed through. And Kenji, the ghost in the corner, became its silent auditor.

In his mind, the chaotic swarm of people in the Silver Cloud Clan began to organize itself into a sharp, ruthless org chart.

• Level 1: Servants (Unskilled Labor).

  • Assets: Replaceable bodies.

  • Function: Repetitive tasks.

  • Analysis: High turnover, low morale, easily managed through a system based on fear (loss of rations) or reward (extra rations). Inefficient in the long term, but functional.

  • Conclusion: I am here. This is the base of the pyramid.

The sound of a knife slicing through the air made him look up. One of the disciples with blue trim on his robe had entered the kitchen to demand, not ask for, an herbal tea outside of scheduled hours. His arrogance was that of a novice who thinks he’s a veteran.

• Level 2: Disciples (Skilled Personnel).

  • Analysis: Divided into visually identifiable sub-levels by trim color.

    • Blue Trim (Juniors): The most numerous. Their power is inconsistent. Their attitude is a mix of arrogance toward inferiors and fearful submission to superiors. Cannon fodder.

    • Green Trim (Intermediates): Less numerous, they move with more authority. They occupy the best training courtyards. They receive higher quality rations. The equivalent of mid-level managers.

    • Silver Trim (Seniors): He had barely seen a couple of them. They always walk alone. The other disciples move aside as they pass as if they were royalty. Their power is palpable, a pressure in the air. They are the ones who really pull the strings.

  • Conclusion: The promotion system seems clear, likely based on “cultivation” strength. A brutal meritocracy. I like it.

It was then that the atmosphere in the kitchen changed. The usual bustle died down. The cooks lowered their heads. The blue-trimmed disciple who was demanding his tea turned pale and slipped out through a back door. A heavy silence, like the one that precedes the arrival of a monarch, fell over the place.

Kenji felt an invisible pressure, a change in the density of the air. It was not a fluctuation of Qi. It was pure, distilled authority.

Three figures entered the kitchen. They were old men with white beards and simple robes that, paradoxically, looked more expensive than the embroidered silks of the disciples. They looked at no one. Their eyes were fixed on a distant point, as if the mundane world of pots and steam were a mere annoyance in their path.

Matriarch Feng, who was coming down the opposite hall, stopped and bowed her head. It was not a deep, servile bow. It was a minimal, economical gesture, a movement so precise and short it was almost a masterpiece of respectful insolence. A formal acknowledgment of their status, but devoid of all warmth or real submission. Kenji analyzed the gesture: a power play, not one of weakness. A clear message for those who knew how to read it: “I acknowledge your rank, but I do not submit to your will.”

• Level 3: The Council (Elders).

  • Analysis: The true source of political power. Matriarch Feng, a woman who ruled her own kingdom with an iron fist, shows them a calculated, not servile, respect. They are not involved in day-to-day operations, but their influence is the foundation upon which the clan’s decisions are built. They have the final say.

The elders passed without a single glance at Feng and disappeared down a corridor leading to the noble quarters. As soon as they were gone, life returned to the kitchen, as if someone had pressed the “play” button again.

“Did you see that, boy?” an old cook hissed at him while chopping onions with furious speed. “Those are the Three Hawks, the Council Elders. They say the Great Elder is the only one who dares speak to the Clan Master in his seclusion. And they say his counsel is the only thing the Master listens to now that he’s lost in his grief.”

• Level 4: The Clan Master.

  • Analysis: An almost mythical figure. The cook speaks of him in a tone of fearful reverence. Immense power, but currently inactive, disconnected from daily management. The reason? Emotional trauma. A personal crisis.

  • Conclusion: This creates a power vacuum at the top. A vacuum that is, logically, being exploited by the Council and the next in the line of succession.

And the “next in the line of succession” were impossible to ignore. They were the crown princes, the sons of the Clan Master. Kenji had seen them on several occasions, strutting through the courtyards as if the mansion were their personal playground.

A sharp cry, followed by a choked sob, came from the training courtyard adjacent to the kitchens. Kenji peeked through a dirty window, just in time to witness a lesson in discipline, Silver Cloud Clan style.

Zian, the firstborn, a young man with a sharp face and eyes as cold as ice, had a blue-trimmed disciple kneeling before him. The offense, apparently, had been a flawed greeting.

“Are you a disciple of the Silver Cloud or a peasant learning to prostrate himself?” Zian’s voice was like a whip. “Again! And this time, show the respect you owe your superior!”

The young disciple trembled, repeating the bow over and over while Zian watched him with sadistic boredom.

• Level 5: The Successors (The Princes).

  • Analysis: Their power is derived from lineage, not merit. Zian’s leadership style is based on fear and intimidation. An inefficient tactic that generates resentment and undermines long-term morale. They are a risk to the clan’s stability.

The organization’s skeleton was mapped out. Kenji felt the cold satisfaction of an analyst who has obtained a competitor’s complete org chart. It was a hierarchical system, brutal, but understandable.

But then, as he continued to methodically peel a mountain of turnips, his ear, now tuned to detect anomalies, caught a conversation. It was at the special meal preparation station, where a young servant girl named Mei was preparing a tray. It was smaller, with more delicate dishes than the hearty feasts intended for the brothers. Fine porcelain, a small bamboo shoot as a garnish.

“Poor Miss Xiao Yue,” Mei said quietly to a friend. “She’ll be dining alone in her courtyard again.”

Kenji, scrubbing a gigantic pot in a corner, processed the name. Xiao Yue.

Anomaly detected.

The name didn’t fit into his org chart. A “Miss.” Female. Eats alone. Not part of the family dynamic of the arrogant brothers. Who is she?

His curiosity, which was really his instinct for identifying hidden opportunities, was piqued. Anomalies in a system often concealed weaknesses or, more interestingly, untapped potential.

Days later, while helping a gardener transport fertilizer—a task assigned to him by Lao Wang in the hope that the stench would finally break his stoic spirit—the old man paused near a secluded, quiet courtyard at the back of the mansion. He cut a perfect white camellia and, with a discreet, almost clandestine gesture, left it on the low wall.

“The Young Miss likes white flowers,” the gardener muttered, more to himself than to Kenji. “It’s the least I can do. No one else seems to remember her.”

Cross-referenced data: two independent mentions of the same unidentified asset. An emerging pattern.

Kenji began to focus his attention, filtering the noise of the servants’ gossip for any mention of this mysterious “Xiao Yue.” His patience, a virtue he had cultivated during countless meetings, finally paid off.

One afternoon, two of the mansion’s oldest personal maids, women who had served the Clan Master’s late wife, were speaking in low voices as they folded silk sheets. Kenji was nearby, silently sweeping the hallway, having become an invisible piece of the furniture.

“It’s a real shame,” one said. “The Clan Master only has eyes for his sons and the glorious future they’ll bring to the clan. He barely visits his own daughter.”

“And the girl has a gift,” the other replied, her voice filled with sadness. “I remember what the late Madam used to say. She said that Xiao Yue’s spiritual roots were like a pure spring, perhaps even deeper than Young Master Zian’s. But a spring needs a channel, and no one bothers to dig one for her.”

“She’s so quiet, the poor thing. Always alone, reading or just looking at the trees. But don’t be fooled, that girl sees everything. She has her mother’s eyes. She watches and watches. I wonder what she’s thinking behind that silence.”

Kenji stopped sweeping for an instant. The information flooded his mind, fitting into place to form a clear and fascinating picture.

Hidden asset.

• Codename: Xiao Yue.

• Position: Daughter of the leader, but ignored due to a culture focused on male heirs.

• Attributes: Superior potential (“pure spiritual roots”). Untapped potential.

• Current Performance: Low, due to zero investment in her development. No mentors, no resources, no guidance.

• Psychological Analysis (preliminary): Lonely. Resentful. Likely starved for recognition.

• Strategic Conclusion: She is a diamond in the rough. A high-potential resource completely abandoned.

His mental org chart was redrawn. Zian and the other brothers were a closed market. Untouchable. Arrogant. Influencing them from his current position was impossible. It would be like a janitor trying to get a meeting with a vice president to propose a new strategy.

But the daughter… the daughter was different.

She’s an undervalued project within a large organization. Ignored. Eager for an investor who sees her potential.

Kenji felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold in the hallway. It was the raw thrill of a strategist who has just found the opportunity of a lifetime. The project that could take him from irrelevance to the top.

Her success will become my success. Her rise will give me access to the highest levels of this organization.

He stopped sweeping. His task for the day was done, but his real work had just begun. He had found his project. His “Project Odyssey” in this new world. It wasn’t sweeping courtyards. It was the optimization and development of Xiao Yue.

She would be his champion. His key investment. His path to power.

Now, he just had to figure out how to arrange the first meeting. And for that, he needed a promotion. He needed to get out of the kitchen and closer to the halls of power. He needed Matriarch Feng, the only person in this place with a mind pragmatic enough to recognize value beyond brute force, to notice him again.

He looked at the half-peeled pile of potatoes. An inefficient system. An opportunity. The plan began to form in his mind, a flowchart of flawless logic and monumental audacity. His next move wouldn’t be with a broom, but with a potato peeler.