"Nothing much, Senior. We only know that cultivators live longer and are divided into two main factions: demonic and righteous."
Wuji's fingers twitched beneath the black cloth.
"Demonic, huh? If Yin Li's memory serves me right, the ones who killed Yin Li's parents were demonic cultivators. Maybe fate has already laid out my path. Maybe cause and effect run deeper than I thought."
But as he sat there quietly contemplating vengeance and power, he remained unaware of what stood just meters away, behind him and inside the shop.
Beneath the shop, down a narrow stone passageway, hundreds of corpses stood in perfect silence.
Rotten yet rigid, their skin a pale blue from death, they stood upright with yellow talisman paper stuck to their foreheads used to suppress them and the Yin Qi they were endlessly emitting. Their eyes were closed. For now.
In the center of the room, the corpse of the paper shop's former owner sprawled on the ground. His body jerked once, then again.
A low gasp escaped his cracked lips as the corpse woke up; however, its eyes were dull and lifeless.
Beside him crouched a thin, hunched man with long, bony fingers; an elongated face; and waxy, cold-looking skin. His back curved like a spider's. When he breathed, it sounded like a dying wind.
He slowly rose to his feet. The old man's corpse followed him like a shadow.
He walked between the rows of dead men, muttering in a voice that seemed to lower the temperature.
"Four hundred Qi refinement realm corpses...yes. Enough for now," he murmured to himself.
He lifted his gaze toward the ceiling as though he could see straight through to the street above.
"When those righteous dogs arrive," he said in a voice so cold it could freeze a man's bones, "they'll learn the wrath of the Blood Slaughter Sect."
Wuji remained quiet for several long moments. The nobles fidgeted uncomfortably and exchanged glances, but none were willing to break the silence.
Then, finally, he spoke. "Here. Two books," he said flatly, reaching into his robe. "They're not cultivation techniques, but they'll increase your chances of being chosen."
He dropped the last two handmade books onto the ground without ceremony.
The group hesitated. No one moved.
"Take the damn books so I can leave," Wuji thought, resisting the urge to sigh aloud.
Chen Dali stepped forward, crouched, and picked them up. He handed them to the old man beside him, who immediately began inspecting the covers with narrowed eyes.
Wuji's shoulders tensed. "Had he seen something wrong?"
The old man said nothing. He silently read the titles. The names were too grand for low-level martial techniques. However, nothing clearly contradicted their legitimacy.
"Perhaps Senior names his works like cultivation methods," the old man thought as he opened the books.
He read for several minutes, his brow furrowing deeper the longer he scanned the pages.
Eventually, he looked up. "Senior... these words. 'Hormonal intensity'? 'Cellular regeneration'? 'Mitochondria'? What do they mean?"
Wuji sighed loudly and shook his head as if he were a disappointed teacher.
"That's exactly why I was reluctant to sell them to you. These books contain cultivation mysteries far beyond your understanding. Just train the parts you do understand; your body will recover faster. As for the rest..." He paused, his voice lowering slightly. "You'll understand them when you become cultivators."
The group's eyes lit up at once. The meaning of his words struck them like thunder.
"We'll understand when we become cultivators"
This meant that they had potential. It meant that this powerful and unknowable master believed they could ascend.
Their anxiety about the upcoming cultivators, about not being chosen, and about being left behind lessened suddenly.
"Thank you for your guidance, Senior," they said in unison, bowing deeply.
Chen Dali stepped forward and bowed again.
"Senior, here are the banknotes," he said, pulling a thick stack from his robe. They were dozens of thin, neatly pressed slips of high-grade paper, sealed with golden ink and marked with regional sigils.
"Each one can be exchanged for a thousand gold coins at any mortal bank," he added respectfully. "Such things are likely meaningless to someone like you, but please accept them."
Wuji's eyes flicked down. Each note was worth a thousand gold coins? And that little brat's holding a stack of at least a hundred?
He nearly flinched. "What a beautiful, fat cash cow. Why didn't I squeeze these nobles from the start? I just sold two books for two thousand, like some street merchant."
Still, his voice remained calm, cold, and distant.
"Gold coins are beneath me," he said flatly, reaching out and taking the stack in a slow, lazy motion. "But I'll accept them. Since your sincerity is...tolerable."
The group all exhaled slightly, relieved.
One of the servants leaned toward another young noble and whispered, "If gold isn't enough for him, should we try herbs? Maybe spirit roots?"
The young noble's eyes lit up. "Yes, herbs." He turned to one of his servants. "Go bring the boxes from the carriage."
The others looked at him enviously, their faces saying, "If only I had brought herbs!"
The servant sprinted off across the street. The road was crowded, but no one dared block his way with nobles and a presumed cultivator watching.
A minute later, the servant returned, panting, and carrying the boxes.
Three rectangular wooden cases, bound with sealing rope, were reverently placed before Wuji.
"Expensive packaging. Good sign," he thought looking at them. He could see some secret competition among the now naive noble youngsters.
"What the hell did I stumble into? These fools are trying to out-donate each other."
Still, Wuji said nothing. He simply closed his eyes again.
Seeing that Wuji remained cold and uninterested, the noble youngsters began to panic.
"Senior, please accept these. They are a token of our sincerity," Chen Dali said quickly. The others followed suit, their voices solemn and respectful.
Their faces were serious and almost reverent, like disciples speaking to an ancient master.
Still hidden beneath the black cloth, Wuji blinked slowly. "Are these noble brats really this easy? Or am I just too damn good? Either way, I'll take it."
He let out a quiet sigh.
They were born into power. Like all mortals, though, even nobles would sell everything; status, pride, and even family, for a chance at immortality. Especially those raised in luxury. To them, wealth was nothing more than a tool.
Unfortunately for this group, they weren't going to get what they thought they were buying. Even if one of them is found to have spirit root, the real Wuji has nothing to do with that anyway.
He finally spoke, keeping his tone steady and ageless.
"Put them down."
Chen Dali obeyed, placing the offerings carefully on the stone near Wuji's feet. He bowed slightly, lowering his eyes and maintaining a respectful posture.
Wuji nodded faintly. "This one understands manners. Then again, maybe he just thinks I'm a hidden ancient who is about to rewrite his destiny. Either way, it doesn't matter. As long as they believe it, it's real enough."
He watched them turn and walk away quietly and reverently.
Then, he exhaled slowly, leaned back against the wall of the paper shop, and pulled the cloth tighter against the chill.
After some time, the third elder and his group finally arrived.
"Finally! I was about to turn into a frozen statue out here," Wuji thought, resisting the urge to shiver. "Damn this cold!"
The elder stepped forward, holding a large pouch about the size of a small melon, tied tightly with cord.
"Senior, here it is."
He set it down beside the boxes and notes that Chen Dali had left earlier. With this Wuji confirmed the bank notes are legitimate and not fake, "Well its not like everyone is trying to scam others like me."
"Good. You may leave. My old friend is about to arrive," Wuji said calmly, keeping his voice aged and vague.
The third elder bowed slightly, then turned to leave. His group followed their hands clasped together from the cold but their faces glowing with excitement and relief.
Once they were gone, Wuji slowly scanned the street.
He could see a few men; thugs, petty third rate martial artist, and gang scouts, watching him from across the market. Their eyes burned with greed, but fear anchored their feet.
Everyone had seen what had transpired outside the paper shop. The gifts. The reverence. The titles.
And the finger that healed itself right before their eyes. And Wuji knew that they want to rob him but they also didn't want to die meaningless deaths.
Wuji sat still for a moment longer, allowing the myth to sink in.
Then, with practiced subtlety, he gathered his spoils beneath the cloth. The banknotes went into an inner chest pocket well it was just under his robe.
The three wooden boxes, he tucked under his right arm. The fat pouch of gold he secured in his left hand.
He rose slowly, still projecting the image of a master who had no need to rush or fear.
He walked through the town in no particular direction, moving just enough to blend into the crowd and flush out any tails.
A few of the watchers followed cautiously. They kept their distance.
They were smart enough to fear him but not smart enough to give up. Still, that was all Wuji needed.
He lost them in the alleys by taking careful turns, making sudden pauses, and taking a few detours. By the time he slipped out the back gate of town and reached the winding dirt road back to his hut, no one was following him.
He adjusted the pouch, stepped into the woods, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that no one had followed him. He walked directly to the hut, murmuring to himself, "I need to lie down for a while."
••••
At the same time, tens of thousands of miles away from Mud Fall Village, deep within an eerie forest, two people were fighting in the air above the forest.