After Ten Years of Chopping Wood, Immortals Begged To Become My Disciples

For a decade, I tirelessly chopped wood until my hands were calloused. Then, celestial maidens fell to their knees, pleading for me to take them as my students. Their divine pride shattered like dry branches under my axe. The heavens trembled as these proud immortals groveled before a mere woodcutter. My simple hut became a sacred temple overnight, filled with weeping goddesses begging for wisdom. The scent of pine still clung to my clothes as immortal hands grasped at my rough sleeves. Ten winters passed before they recognized true mastery wasn’t in flying swords, but in perfecting humble labor.