I'm Just an Innkeeper, Why Are You All Kneeling?

The morning rush at the Lin Fan Teahouse had crossed the delicate boundary separating a thriving retail establishment from an absolute organizational disaster.

By nine in the morning, every single wooden table in the primary dining hall was occupied. The queue outside stretched around the corner of the local spice market, filled with townspeople, visiting merchants, and exhausted low-tier cultivators, all waiting for a taste of Sect Master Lu’s soft butter rolls or a freshly brewed pot of Lin Fan’s jasmine tea.

The kitchen was operating at peak efficiency. Lin Fan worked behind the counter with serene, practiced speed, pouring tea, slicing warm loaves, and plating delicate pastries. In the back, Sect Master Lu was in a state of baking euphoria, shaping dough with the reverence of a master artisan. In the washing yard, Scartail and his reformed bandits—now proudly calling themselves the Dishwasher Guild—scrubbed porcelain cups with synchronized, hyper-focused precision.

The problem wasn’t the food, the tea, or the cleanliness. The problem was the middle of the room.

”State your desires, mortal,” Crimson rasped, standing over a small wooden table where a young scholar sat shivering. Crimson held a small wooden notepad and a charcoal pencil, his red eyes glowing beneath his dark hood with intense, predatory focus. ”Do not let your hesitation waste the precious seconds granted to you by the Heavens. What brew does your spirit seek?”

The poor scholar squeezed his eyes shut, his tea saucer rattling against the tabletop. ”I—I just wanted a simple pot of mountain green tea! Please don’t refine my soul!”

”A humble choice. Does your mind possess the temperance to endure its warmth? Noted,” Crimson muttered, writing down the order with enough downward pressure to snap the charcoal pencil in half.

Ten feet away, Scartail slid across the polished wooden floorboards on his knees, holding a damp cotton rag in both hands. He executed a tactical slide-tackle beneath a customer’s chair, wiped a stray crumb off the table legs in a fraction of a second, and popped back up to a crisp posture.

”TABLE FOUR DUST-FREE, CHIEF!” Scartail shouted at the top of his lungs, scaring a wealthy silk merchant into dropping his spoon into his soup. ”CLEANLINESS LEVEL IS MAXIMUM!”

Lin Fan paused mid-pour, rubbing his temples as a low headache began to pulse behind his eyes.

The teahouse was suffering from a massive operational bottleneck. Crimson was a high-tier assassin; asking him to politely recommend a morning pastry selection was like asking a dragon to hand out party favors. The ex-bandits were fiercely loyal, but their idea of customer service involved shouting military updates and slide-tackling near food service areas.

”This is unworkable,” Lin Fan murmured to himself, placing a tray of fresh cups onto the counter. ”We’re losing half our table turnover time because the customers are too paralyzed by fear to actually read the menu. We need real staff.”

Not martial bodyguards. Not reformed highwaymen. Actual waiters. People who knew how to smile, carry a tray steadily, and explain the menu without threatening a customer’s spiritual existence.

During the late afternoon lull, Lin Fan went into the storage shed behind the kitchen and retrieved a flat plank of spare cedar wood. Taking a thick calligraphy brush and a pot of dark black ink, he painted a simple, neat message across the smooth wood:

HELP WANTED

Position: Teahouse Server / Waiter

Requirements: Polite demeanor, high patience, clear communication, and the ability to carry trays steadily.

Benefits: Fair daily wages, hot meals included.

Inquire within.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Lin Fan walked out to the front entrance, pulled a brass nail from his pocket, and hammered the sign neatly onto the oak doorframe right next to the operating hours.

Crimson materialized from the shadows beside the door, inspecting the wooden board with sharp, analytical eyes.

”Owner,” Crimson said softly, his brow furrowed beneath his hood. ”Is this a screening mechanism? Are you testing the temperance of those who wish to walk the Path of Humble Service under your guidance?”

Lin Fan sighed, hanging the hammer back on his belt. ”No, Crimson. It’s a job posting. I’m hiring waiters. People to take orders and bring tea to the tables so you don’t terrify every scholar who walks through the door.”

Crimson stared at the sign for three seconds, his mind immediately processing the statement through six layers of high-level assassin logic.

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A job posting, Crimson thought, his eyes narrowing slightly. A brilliant cover story. The Owner is signaling that his inner sanctuary is accepting practitioners. ’Polite demeanor and patience’ obviously means a refined, unshakeable Dao heart. ’Ability to carry trays steadily’ is clearly code for maintaining balance amidst the heavy weight of celestial truths. The Owner is taking personal disciples under the guise of mundane labor!

”Understood, Owner,” Crimson said, bowing deeply. ”A wonderfully profound method. Only those who truly seek the Dao will understand the call.”

”It’s literally just a help-wanted sign, Crimson,” Lin Fan said, turning back inside to lock up the registers. ”Don’t overthink it.”

Lin Fan went to bed early that night, entirely oblivious to the absolute seismic wave of excitement his wooden sign was about to unleash upon the regional cultivation world.

It began at roughly seven in the evening, when Young Master Fang of the local Galesword Clan strolled past the teahouse. He paused to admire the building’s serene aura, caught sight of the newly nailed wooden plank, and read the inscription under the pale moonlight.

Young Master Fang’s breath hitched in his throat. His eyes bulged.

”’Help... Wanted’?” Fang whispered, his hands trembling as he read the words again. To a cultivator whose entire existence revolved around grand imperial decrees, ancient scriptures, and hidden master-disciple legacies, simple commercial prose was a profound, mystical cipher.

Fang’s internal translator went into overdrive:

Help Wanted $\rightarrow$ THE SUPREME SOVEREIGN IS OPENING HIS PERSONAL SANCTUARY TO SEEKERS!

Teahouse Server / Waiter $\rightarrow$ ATTENDANTS OF THE DIVINE TEA! TO SERVE HIS BREW IS TO HANDLE CONCENTRATED CELESTIAL WISDOM!

Polite Demeanor & Patience $\rightarrow$ A STRICT REQUIREMENT FOR A SERENE DAO HEART! THE MASTER REJECTS ARROGANCE!

Ability to carry trays steadily $\rightarrow$ MASTERY OVER BALANCE AND INTENSE SPIRITUAL PRESSURE!

”Merciful heavens,” Young Master Fang gasped, stumbling backward into the street. ”The Senior is accepting disciples! He is disguising his grandest teachings behind the humble task of serving tea! To serve at his side is to receive direct enlightenment from an Immortal!”

Fang didn’t run home; he used his high-grade wind-stepping technique, blurring across the rooftops of Qingshui Town like a blue lightning bolt. Within two hours, emergency transmission talismans and messenger birds were flying out of the Galesword Clan compound in every direction.

By midnight, the rumor had mutated, scaled up, and spread across three whole mountain ranges.

In the Iron Mountain Sect, the Grand Elder smashed his teacup in awe: ”The Senior of Qingshui Town is recruiting disciples into his personal lineage! He requires those with pure patience and a humble mind! Send our most promising young scholars immediately!”

In the Cloud Mist Faction, the Chief Strategist assembled the elite ranks: ”The Sovereign requires individuals who can ’carry trays steadily’—which clearly means holding absolute focus under immense spiritual pressure! Put on simple robes, purge all pride from your hearts, and march to Qingshui Town!”

By four in the morning, the main thoroughfare outside the Lin Fan Teahouse was completely packed.

Cultivators, young geniuses, renowned scholars, and old sect elders from across the empire had gathered on the cobblestones. Because the sign specified ”polite demeanor and high patience,” everyone was acting on their absolute best behavior. Arrogant young masters who usually demanded instant respect were bowing politely to passing townspeople. Senior Golden Core elders were sitting quietly on the dirt road, cross-legged in deep meditation, purging every trace of pride from their minds to prove their ”humble Dao hearts.” Some young geniuses were even balancing flat cobblestones on their open palms, practicing their tray-carrying stability in silent, intense concentration.

No one argued. No one pushed. The atmosphere was thick with absolute, reverent stillness. Everyone was waiting for the dawn, desperate to be chosen as a tea-serving disciple under the Supreme Senior.

At six o’clock the next morning, the soft morning light filtered through the second-story bedroom window.

Lin Fan stretched his arms, yawned, and sat up in bed. He put on his simple black trousers, wrapped his clean white linen apron around his waist, and walked downstairs to start the morning routine.

”Alright,” Lin Fan muttered to himself as he filled the copper kettle with fresh spring water. ”I put the sign up last night. Qingshui Town is pretty small, but maybe two or three local teenagers saw it. It’d be nice to hire a couple of polite kids who want to earn a few silver coins.”

He walked over to the front entrance, carrying a wooden clipboard in one hand and a clean polishing cloth over his shoulder.

”Time to see if anyone showed up for an interview,” Lin Fan said pleasantly.

He slid back the heavy deadbolt, unlatched the brass chain, and pulled the double oak doors wide open, stepping out onto the front porch with a welcoming smile.

”Good morning, everyone, if anyone is here for the—”

Lin Fan stopped.

The smile froze on his face. The polishing cloth slipped off his shoulder and fell onto the floorboards.

Standing—and sitting—directly in front of his doorstep were over four hundred cultivators, elders, and scholars, all wearing simple, spotless robes, sitting in pristine, perfectly aligned rows.

The moment the oak door opened, the entire four-hundred-person crowd bowed as one, their foreheads touching the dusty cobblestones in deep, reverent unison.

”WE GREET THE SOVEREIGN!” four hundred voice echoed softly across the quiet street, filled with intense spiritual piety. ”WE HAVE HEARD YOUR CALL TO THE PATH OF SERVICE! PLEASE GRANT THESE HUMBLE SEEKERS THE BLESSING TO SERVE YOUR TEA AND COMPREHEND YOUR HEAVENLY DAO!”

Silence returned to the street. Four hundred people remained bowed low, waiting breathlessly to see who amongst them possessed a pure enough Dao heart to be granted the sacred privilege of waiting tables.

Lin Fan stood alone on his porch. He looked at the bowing elders. He looked at the young geniuses balancing stones on their hands. He looked at his wooden clipboard, which currently had a single sheet of paper attached to it with three basic interview questions: 1. Do you have weekend availability? 2. Can you carry four cups without spilling? 3. How do you handle an unhappy customer?

Lin Fan slowly closed his eyes, took a deep, agonizingly long breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

”...I just wanted someone to clear table four,” Lin Fan whispered to the morning breeze.