Worldwide Class Change: Minimal Effort, Maximum Reward!

Several days passed.

Classes continued. Seminars, practical assessments, the gradual accumulation of evaluated work that the academy’s grading system converted into the ranking points that determined everything downstream.

Lin Yi attended every session. He completed every assessment. He studied in the evenings, and he did not find partial understanding acceptable. Formation theory in particular had gaps he was closing methodically, working through the foundational literature in the academy’s digital library with the same systematic attention he applied to everything.

He also spent the evenings thinking.

Not about the rankings, which had settled into a configuration that was drawing continued attention from other students and had produced several more indirect approaches from sect leaders and individual students looking for affiliation. He had declined all of them.

He was thinking about the sect question, which he had not made yet.

The more time he spent inside the academy’s operational structure, the more clearly he could see the architecture of how resources flowed and where they concentrated. Individual students generated individual outputs. Strong individual students generated stronger individual outputs. But the multiplier effects of collective action under the sect system created a compounding advantage that individual performance, however exceptional, could not fully replicate.

He had understood this in the abstract before arriving, at least in theory. What several days of classes and expedition analysis added was weight, something grounded and difficult to ignore. It was no longer just an idea floating in his mind but a system with structure, rules, and visible outcomes. The gap wasn’t hidden, and it wasn’t subtle either. It was laid out in front of every student who cared to look closely enough.

The specific resources that top-ranked sects accessed were not merely quantitative improvements on what individual students received. They were qualitative in a way that changed everything. Crimson Vanguard’s priority access to the advanced dungeon circuits gave its members clearance opportunities in environments rated two ranks above what the academy’s standard expedition offerings could reach, effectively letting them grow in places others weren’t even allowed to step into. At the same time, mentorship allocation priority gave top sect members first pick of instructor time slots, including sessions with faculty who had real-world experience at levels far beyond anything a controlled classroom could replicate.

And then there was the resource distribution tied to first-place sect ranking, which pushed the gap even further. It included material packages the academy sourced specifically for high-performance teams, curated rather than mass-issued. Some of those items never appeared on the open hunter market at all, and the few that did came with prices so high they might as well not exist for ordinary students. What this really meant was simple. The strongest groups weren’t just ahead. They were being steadily moved onto an entirely different track.

Lin Yi ran the calculation across multiple scenarios and arrived at the same conclusion each time.

A solo student accumulating individual score, even at the output rate he had demonstrated in the first expedition, would reach a ceiling. Not an insurmountable ceiling. But a ceiling defined by the limits of what individual clearance data, individual academic performance, and individual rankings could unlock within this institution’s framework. The resources beyond that ceiling required collective access. And collective access required a sect.

He had known this. What he had been working through was the other half of the question.

Joining an existing sect meant entering someone else’s structure. It meant operating within a framework that had been built for a purpose that was not his, by a leader whose priorities and his own would not align perfectly, inside a collective whose composition he had not chosen. Crimson Vanguard was the strongest option by every objective measure, and Xie Yanran was a capable leader by every observation he had made. But joining Crimson Vanguard meant accepting a position within it. Not defining it. Not building it toward anything specific. Accepting its current shape and working within that shape toward whatever the collective prioritized.

That was not what he wanted.

What he wanted was something that he had always wanted, which was to build from nothing toward something that carried no ceiling he had not chosen for himself. He had done this in Jianghe, starting as an E-Rank Laborer class holder in a room full of people who found that laughable and ending as the tournament champion and the regional examination record holder. The process of that arc was not incidental to the outcome. The arc was the point. Building from below, through each stage, with a direction that he had set rather than inherited, was the version of the thing that he found meaningful.

A sect he created would start at the bottom. No accumulated ranking from previous sessions. No existing reputation. No resource priority. Just a registered collective with the minimum three members and a combined score of zero.

That was exactly the right starting point.

He thought about the name for longer than he thought about most things. Names were not trivial. A name communicated something about direction. The sects in the academy’s registry had names that told him things about their founders’ priorities: Crimson Vanguard communicated assault and priority. Azure Tide communicated flow and adaptability. Iron Bastion communicated defense and permanence. Each name was a declaration of the principle the founder had built around.

He wanted something that communicated scale. Not current scale. Intended scale. The kind of name that would seem presumptuous when the sect was founded and accurate when it was done.

Celestial Legion.

He arrived at it the way he arrived at most conclusions, by working through the alternatives and identifying which one was most precisely true.

Legion communicated not just strength but numbers with purpose, a collective built for sustained campaigns rather than individual encounters. Celestial connected to the thread that ran through his equipment, his dungeon acquisition, the note in his inventory whose significance he still did not fully understand, the presence that had appeared on Floor 33 of the Dragon God Tower. Whether that thread resolved into something concrete or remained a background current, it was the most distinctive thing about the path he was on, and naming the sect after it was honest.

Celestial Legion.