The City Lord, Xu Haoran, reclined in the main hall like a monarch surveying conquered land. Before him, resting on a jade pedestal, lay a pearl suffused with a tranquil blue radiance. The light pulsed faintly, each shimmer stirring the true qi within his meridians. His lips curled upward as he turned it slowly between his fingers.

  “Excellent,” Xu Haoran said, laughter rumbling low in his chest. “This alone can refine my true qi by another layer. Who would have thought the Silver Crane Martial Hall dared to hide such a treasure?” His laughter echoed through the hall, sharp with satisfaction.

  At his side, Commander Qi, an Organ Refining expert whose aura pressed heavily against the pillars, inclined his head. “If they knew what was good for them, my lord, they would have offered it long ago.”

  Xu Haoran waved a hand dismissively. “You cannot fault them. Who among cultivators does not dream of stepping into the Innate Realm?” His gaze hardened. “But dreams do not excuse ignorance. They overestimated themselves.”

  Commander Qi hesitated, then spoke carefully. “A spiritual item of this caliber rarely stands alone. It may be part of a greater legacy. It is possible the Silver Crane Martial Hall has already uncovered what we have been searching for.”

  Xu Haoran’s fingers paused. His eyes narrowed, cold light replacing amusement. “You think they possess that legacy?”

  “We will know,” Commander Qi replied evenly, “once they are made to speak.”

  Xu Haoran exhaled slowly, suppressing the spark of killing intent that threatened to spill out. “No. I will not allow chaos. If word spreads and reaches His Majesty’s ears, matters will become… inconvenient.”

  Commander Qi smiled faintly. “Then we need not act personally. Let the other factions stir the waters. When the time comes, I will ensure the Silver Crane Martial Hall is dug six feet deep, root and branch.”

  The City Lord nodded, the blue pearl vanishing into his sleeve. “Good. I depart for the capital in four months. Let matters ferment until then. When I return, I will punish the other factions for their ‘lawlessness’ and take whatever remains.”

  Commander Qi clasped his fists. “It will be done, my lord. Quietly. Without drawing attention.”

  Xu Haoran leaned back, eyes half-lidded, already envisioning the path ahead. The board was set. Now, all that remained was patience.

  Chen Mo remained blissfully ignorant of the storm clouds gathering over the Silver Crane Martial Hall. Had he known what fate was quietly sharpening its fangs, he would have bundled his belongings and slipped into the mountains without a backward glance. Instead, he sat calmly in his office, methodically counting stacks of silver notes while Zhou stood opposite him, posture straight and eyes lowered.

  Two hundred and fifty taels.

  The weight of it felt unreal. Even Bone Forging experts rarely saw such wealth flow through their hands so casually. Chen Mo’s fingers paused as he finished counting, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He looked up at Zhou, satisfaction clear in his eyes.

  “Good work,” he said simply.

  He reached into the stack and separated two silver notes, placing them on the desk and sliding them forward. “This is for you.”

  Zhou stared, his breath catching. Twenty taels.

  “My lord… this is too much,” he said, voice trembling despite himself.

  Chen Mo waved it off. “You earned it. Keep working well and things will only improve.”

  For an ordinary attendant like Zhou, who scraped by on fifteen hundred copper coins a month, receiving twenty taels every two weeks was nothing short of a leap across heaven and earth. His hands shook as he accepted the notes, gratitude and fear tangled tightly in his chest.

  Chen Mo stood, adjusting his robes as if the matter were trivial. His expression grew thoughtful as he turned toward the door.

  “It’s time,” he said lightly. “I’ll be heading out.”

  Zhou lifted his head. “My lord…?”

  “The black market,” Chen Mo replied, eyes glinting. “You gave me directions earlier. I intend to see it for myself.”

  With that, he stepped out of the office, silver heavy at his waist and ambition heavier still. Unseen threads were tightening around the city, but for now, Chen Mo walked forward, following the scent of profit and power into the shadows.

  Chen Mo hailed a carriage and gave directions toward the Silver Crane Martial Hall district. Appearances mattered. In a place where law enforcement cultivated suspicion as diligently as qi, a straight line was safer than a clever one. If anyone was watching, they would see only a dutiful steward returning to familiar ground.

  Only when the carriage reached the bustling market streets did he disembark.

  The noise swallowed him whole. Vendors shouted, carts creaked, children darted between sleeves and hems. Chen Mo slipped into the current like a drop of water into a river. Near Zhou Heng’s trading store, he turned into a quiet corner, his movements unhurried. A change of clothes later, his refined steward’s robes were gone, replaced by plain garments and a wide bamboo hat that cast his face in shadow.

  For a fleeting moment, he was reminded of his hunting days. Back when survival depended not on seals and documents, but on patience, silence, and knowing when to vanish.

  He headed toward the city docks, where the river breathed damp air into the streets and the Iron Fang Gang held dominion. Following Zhou’s instructions, he slowed near a narrow alley tucked between warehouses stained with age and grime.

  A burly man stepped into his path. A long scar split the man’s cheek like a warning etched in flesh.

  “Five taels entry fee,” the man growled. “No fighting. No arguing.”

  Chen Mo didn’t speak. He produced the silver and placed it into the man’s waiting hand.

  The scarred man stepped aside.

  Chen Mo entered.

  The alley opened inward, folding upon itself like the gut of some enormous beast. Paths branched and rejoined. Lantern light glimmered dimly through layers of cloth and smoke. Figures moved everywhere, faces concealed behind hats, veils, or masks. Transactions were conducted in murmurs. Stalls displayed their wares without pride or apology.

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  This was the black market.

  Here, medicine sat beside poison. Weapons lay next to cultivation manuals whose origins were better left unquestioned. Everything had a price, and every price carried risk.

  Chen Mo moved steadily, neither hurried nor hesitant. His goal was clear. Grade two medicinal powder came first. Weapons were optional, only if something truly suitable revealed itself.

  The only thing that concerned him was quality. In this place, labels lied as easily as men breathed.

  Following the landmarks Zhou had described, Chen Mo turned down another narrow passage, eyes scanning discreet signs and subtle markings. Somewhere ahead was the shop his contact’s cousin had recommended.

  And somewhere behind him, the city continued to breathe, unaware that one of its shadows had begun to grow teeth.

  Chen Mo soon found his destination. From the outside, the shop looked painfully ordinary, the kind of place one’s eyes slid over without pause. People entered and left at a steady rhythm, neither hurried nor cautious. Inside, an old man sat behind the counter like a piece of worn furniture, waving Chen Mo aside with a casual gesture to wait his turn.

  When the counter finally cleared, Chen Mo stepped forward and spoke plainly, as if buying rice. “Grade two medicinal powder.”

  “Twenty taels per packet,” the old man replied without lifting his head.

  The price made Chen Mo’s pupils tighten. At the school, such powder cost fifteen taels at most. Still, his expression remained unruffled. “I’ll take ten packets.”

  That changed everything.

  The old man’s eyes lit up as though someone had struck flint. His posture straightened, his voice warming instantly. “Esteemed guest, please come inside.” He waved a servant over to mind the counter and ushered Chen Mo into a back room screened by hanging cloth.

  As the old man bustled about preparing the goods, Chen Mo spoke calmly. “If the quality matches what I’ve heard, I’ll become a regular.”

  The old man chuckled, confidence dripping from his smile. “Rest assured, my lord. Top-tier quality. Our reputation isn’t built on empty words.”

  A brief round of bargaining followed, neither side yielding too easily. In the end, silver changed hands. One hundred and ninety taels for ten packets. Painful, but acceptable.

  Before leaving, Chen Mo asked offhandedly, “Where can I find a decent weapon?”

  The old man pointed toward the far end of the alley. “Last shop. Can’t miss it.”

  Chen Mo followed the direction without delay. The weapon shop greeted him with prices that bordered on robbery. Even the cheapest dagger demanded twenty taels. These weren’t decorative trinkets, though. Any one of them could pierce flesh hardened by Muscle Refining with enough intent behind the strike.

  After a moment’s consideration, Chen Mo selected a sharp, unadorned dagger and paid thirty taels without flinching.

  When he finally stepped back into the maze of the black market, his pouch felt almost weightless. Ten taels of silver remained.

  He didn’t regret a single coin.

  Money, after all, was only valuable when it could be turned into power.

  What worried Chen Mo now was the possibility of being followed.

  He wasn’t naive. Places like the black market were magnets for predators, and in his previous life he had read more than enough stories where a careless protagonist stepped out of an alley only to be relieved of both wealth and life. His fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger beneath his robe as he quietly prepared himself. If things went wrong, he was ready to burst into Threaded Movement and flee without hesitation.

  Yet nothing happened.

  No footsteps lingering behind him. No hostile gazes clinging too tightly. No sudden blockage in the crowd.

  As he moved with the flow of people, Chen Mo gradually realized he might be overthinking it. This world bred fools, yes, but it also bred survivors. No one here would strike blindly without first weighing a target’s background and strength. A young man who could casually spend nearly two hundred taels on medicinal powder and walk out calmly was not someone to provoke lightly.

  That realization eased his nerves.

  Blending into the bustling streets, Chen Mo shed the air of caution little by little and made his way back toward the eastern facility. The city swallowed him whole, his figure dissolving among merchants, porters, and wandering cultivators.

  Now that the resources were finally in his hands, there was no time to waste.

  Silver could vanish. Opportunities could rot.

  Only strength, once forged, truly belonged to him.

  Back in the side room, Chen Mo summoned his focus inward and checked his panel.

  The numbers had climbed steadily, each increment a quiet testament to stolen time, risk, and silver. Skin Refining had already stepped firmly into the Middle Copper stage, and his Threaded Movement, though far from complete, was steadily shedding its clumsiness. The progress was not flashy, but it was relentless.

  Two weeks.

  By then, he would be fifteen.

  Chen Mo’s thoughts sharpened as the path ahead unfolded clearly in his mind. The Golden Skin stage. A realm where flesh would no longer fear scorching heat, where boiling water became little more than a discomfort, and where ordinary blunt weapons would glance off without leaving more than a bruise. For others, this stage was guarded by uncertainty, bottlenecks, and wasted months. For him, it was simpler. No riddles. No walls. Just points to grind.

  With the panel, bottlenecks were nothing more than numbers waiting to be filled.

  A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

  He poured the medicinal powder into the basin, watching the water darken and steam rise, then stepped in without hesitation. As the liquid swallowed him, warmth turned to burning, and burning to a familiar, grinding pain. Chen Mo regulated his breath, circulating qi and blood with practiced precision.

  The bath closed around him like a crucible.

  And he welcomed it.