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

Morning arrived in Qingshui Town, bringing with it the crisp air of early autumn and a quiet, peaceful stillness.

Lin Fan stretched, tied his apron around his waist, and walked downstairs. The teahouse was immaculate. The bandits had spent the entire night utilizing high-level wind and water techniques to polish the floorboards until they reflected the ceiling. In the kitchen, Sect Master Lu was humming a Daoist sutra as he violently kneaded dough, adding plenty of water to ensure it ”yielded” to the cosmos.

It was a good morning. Business was steady, his staff was mostly house-trained, and the System hadn’t threatened his spleen in over twenty-four hours.

Lin Fan walked to the front door, flipped the wooden sign to OPEN, and pulled the door inward.

He stopped.

The peaceful stillness of the morning was a lie. The street outside was not empty. In fact, it was the exact opposite of empty.

There was a line.

It didn’t just stretch down the porch stairs; it snaked down the dirt road, curled around the town square, and disappeared past the city gates. There were hundreds of people. There were traveling merchants nervously clutching coin purses. There were arrogant Young Masters in silk robes standing stiffly beside their bodyguards. There were old, wizened cultivators floating slightly above the dirt to avoid dirtying their shoes. There were even normal mortal farmers, drawn by the rampant rumors of a shop that served miracles in a cup.

Between the Golden Jade Teahouse burning down, Elder Mo’s explosive breakthrough, the legendary koi fish, and the rumors of a hidden supreme expert living in town, Lin Fan’s teahouse had accidentally become the most famous tourist destination in the region.

Lin Fan stared at the endless sea of humanity.

His first reaction was not joy. It was not the thrill of impending wealth.

It was pure, unadulterated retail dread.

He slowly turned his head. He looked at Crimson, who was standing at attention by the counter, radiating the quiet, lethal intensity of a coiled viper. He looked at the five reformed bandits, who were holding their serving trays like riot shields. He looked at Sect Master Lu, who was currently crying over a wet ball of dough.

”Question,” Lin Fan said, his voice flat. ”Can any of you actually take orders properly?”

Silence fell over the room.

The bandit leader looked at his feather duster, sweating nervously. Crimson’s hand instinctively drifted toward the hilt of his black sword, as if calculating how many customers he could assassinate before the line thinned out.

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Lin Fan closed his eyes. He had made a terrible mistake. He had opened a highly popular hospitality business and staffed it exclusively with martial arts zealots.

”Crimson,” Lin Fan sighed, walking behind the counter and pointing to the register. ”You are on the till. Take their orders. Take their money. Do not kill them. Bandits, you are on table service. Go.”

”At once, Owner!” Crimson marched behind the counter. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, straightened his spine, and unleashed a fraction of his newly ascended Saint-realm aura.

The temperature in the teahouse instantly dropped to freezing. The doors rattled.

The first person in line, a rather wealthy-looking cultivator in green robes, stepped onto the porch. He was a Golden Core expert, used to being treated with extreme reverence. He swaggered in, ready to demand the best table.

Crimson’s glowing red eyes snapped toward him.

”NEXT!” Crimson roared, his voice carrying the compressed killing intent of a thousand battlefields.

The Golden Core cultivator physically jumped, his swagger instantly evaporating. He felt like a massive, invisible blade was hovering directly over his neck. His knees knocked together.

”ORDER!” Crimson commanded, slamming his palm onto the wooden counter. The wood didn’t break—because the System protected it—but the shockwave made the cultivator’s teeth rattle.

”I... I...” the cultivator stammered, sweating profusely. ”T-Tea...”

”WHICH ONE?!” Crimson demanded, leaning forward, his aura pressing down so heavily the cultivator’s spiritual shield shattered like cheap glass. ”SPEAK TRUTHFULLY OR FACE THE VOID!”

From the kitchen doorway, Lin Fan threw a wet rag against the wall.

”CRIMSON!”

The terrifying, world-ending pressure vanished in a microsecond.

Crimson snapped to attention, his lethal aura evaporating into thin air. He smoothed down his apron, clasped his hands politely in front of his waist, and looked back at the terrified, hyperventilating customer.

”...Which tea would the honored customer prefer?” Crimson asked, his voice suddenly smooth, quiet, and completely monotone.

Lin Fan rubbed the bridge of his nose. ”Less honored. More normal.”

Crimson stared blankly at the wall. Normal? What is normal? How does one suppress an enemy ’normally’? He had no idea what the Owner meant, but he nodded anyway. ”Yes, Owner.”

The Golden Core cultivator, meanwhile, was having a profound existential crisis.

He had just felt the aura of a Saint. A legendary, mythical existence that could wipe out his entire sect with a single flick of a wrist. This terrifying Saint had nearly crushed his soul to dust just for hesitating on an order.

And yet, the moment the young man in the plain clothes yelled his name, the Saint heeled. Like a disobedient puppy getting scolded for barking at the mailman.

Heaps of heavens... the cultivator thought, his eyes wide as he looked at Lin Fan, who was currently organizing tea cups with an expression of profound annoyance. The rumors were understated! The Owner isn’t just an expert... he commands Saints like common servants! He is a living god!

”F-Five low-grade stones!” the cultivator squeaked, violently slamming exactly five stones onto the counter, terrified of overpaying and angering the god. ”Green Heart Tea! Please!”

”Table three,” Crimson said robotically, sliding the exact change into the drawer.

The cultivator bowed so low his forehead nearly scraped the floorboards, then scurried to his table.

The chaotic ballet of the morning rush began.

The bandits rushed around the room, employing profound footwork techniques just to deliver hot water. Sect Master Lu was frantically slicing soft bread with sword-ki, weeping tears of joy every time a customer complimented the crust. And Crimson stood at the register, a terrifyingly efficient cashier who occasionally had to be reminded by Lin Fan not to draw his weapon when customers asked for extra napkins.

From behind the brewing station, Lin Fan looked out at the packed dining room, the crowded courtyard, and the line that still stretched out the door. The drawer was overflowing with perfectly exact change.

More customers absolutely meant more money.

But as Lin Fan watched all this chaos, he realized the dark truth of the hospitality industry.

More customers also meant so, so many more complaints.