"Esteemed Immortal," he said with a bow, then raised his head, "a mortal's life is short, but I have spent mine counting the wealth of those who move mountains. To ask five hundred for this... it is a humorous opening, I'll grant you." He paused. "But I fear my Master has a much drier sense of humor than yours, and a far more exacting purse. Esteemed Immortal."
Silence fell between them. The woman's rhythmic tapping on the mahogany table was the only sound, a steady, predatory heartbeat. Her gaze narrowed on his body, weighing the mortal's silk robes, the unnerving stillness of his hands, the calmness on his wrinkled face.
To have the audacity to scoff at an Immortal's price suggested he wasn't just a servant, but a confidant—a shadow cast by a very large mountain. Striking him would be no different than slapping the face of the hidden master who sent him.
She smoothed the front of her robes, the flash of irritation in her eyes vanishing behind a mask of practiced grace. In her world, a bruised ego was a poor substitute for a filled coffer.
"A rare wit," she conceded, her lips curving into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Five hundred was a mere pebble thrown to test the depth of the water. There is no need for such somber faces between friends."
She leaned forward, the air around her cooling as her playfulness evaporated. Wuji met her gaze, his expression stretching into a taut, deliberate smile that offered nothing.
"Indeed," he replied, the feigned humility in his voice giving way to the cold tone of a man who held a winning hand. "Then let us dispense with the theater, Immortal. What is the true price? My master's patience is a finite resource, and as you surely know, your shop is not the only one standing under these heavens."
She narrowed her eyes again, feeling the clear shift in the old man's demeanor. She now truly realized that, though mortal, he was not just an average mortal. Then she scoffed, her face shifting to one of pity.
"I find myself growing fond of you, old man," she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "But it seems your master's affection has its limits. She leaves the rot of death qi to fester in your very marrow." She paused. "Tell me—does she truly value the tool, or is she simply waiting for the blade to snap?"
"To be used by a Great Power is a mortal's highest heaven," Wuji said, bowing slightly to hide the strain in his expression. As expected, she saw through his little act of defiance.
"Whether she grants me longevity or allows the grave to claim me is a matter of her divine will. Fifty years I have stood at her side; that is reward enough for a hundred lifetimes." Wuji added, then silenced himself immediately, realizing he was saying more than necessary.
More words meant a greater chance of error, and this cunning woman seemed to be absorbing his words, trying to understand more about the master.
"Fifty years," she mused, the words drifting away like incense smoke.
Internally, her mind clicked through a ledger of possibilities. Fifty years of service is a lifetime for a mortal, but for us, it is a mere season. If the mistress remains in the Qi Cycle realm after such a period, she is a gutter rat clinging to the dregs of her youth.
But if she has stepped into Foundation Pillar Establishment... She clicked her tongue, a sharp sound of annoyance. If I had the mistress here, I could peel back her aura. I could read the cadence of her breathing to find her foundational path, or perhaps detect the qi of her natal weapon hidden in her dantian. Instead, I am forced to read the mountain by looking at a single stone.
She cast a final, calculating glance at Wuji. "It seems I must dig deeper. I only hope this hidden 'tiger' has a deep enough purse to justify the effort."
With a mental flick, she dismissed the notion of the master being from a prestigious lineage. A century and a third spent navigating the jagged peaks of the cultivation world had taught her one truth: power is a flag one flies to keep the vultures at bay.
No sane cultivator would choose the life of a rootless weed if they could join a noble house or sect instead. To her, "loose cultivators" were merely dregs—starving dogs fighting over the scraps of the heavens, and she did not exclude herself from their number.
Those who descended from the high peaks to walk the mortal dust always wore their authority like armor. They adorned their servants with jade pendants and embroidered crests to signal their status and ward off the "inconveniences" of the common world. Yet this man was as bare as a winter branch.
She briefly entertained the idea of a master who disdained such vanity, then dismissed it. Even a humble master would require their servant to bear a mark, it was basic protection against the friction she was trying to kindle. Walking without a crest invited exactly the kind of confrontation they were having now.
She focused back on him, her voice smoothing into the polished silk of a professional dealer. "A Yellow Grade body forging art typically ranges between fifty and two hundred stones, depending on the complexity your mistress requires."
"Is there no flexibility for the higher tier?" Wuji asked, his voice steady despite the weight of her gaze.
"We don't offer discounts here," she replied, a faint, sharp smile forming on her lips. "The authors set the value; we merely collect the toll. To grant a discount would be to steal from our own coffers. I trust your mistress is well-acquainted with the cost of quality."
Wuji hesitated, then leaned in slightly. "In that case... could you perhaps guide me? Which of these would be most effective for... a mortal?"
The woman's tapping finger stilled. "A mortal? Why squander the breath of the heavens on a body that cannot hold it? Why waste resources on ants that might die tomorrow?"
"I cannot say for certain, Senior," Wuji whispered, as if afraid the master outside might hear him. "I have already told you... my mistress is... peculiar."
As he spoke, a bittersweet shadow crossed his weathered face, crumpling his expression, like a man watching his beloved in the arms of a rival. It was a masterpiece of misdirection.
The woman's breath hitched. She didn't speak, but her mind ignited with scandalous theories. She was no stranger to the carnal distractions of immortals—she kept her own stable of "playthings," though she would never dream of wasting spirit stones on their longevity.
"Perhaps I should at least invest in their performance."
Looking closely at Wuji's wrinkled face and the emotions he tried to hide, she felt a sudden, sharp pang of realization, as if she had solved a great mystery. Fifty years. Fifty years of "service" to a woman who refuses to let her favorite toy break, even as death beckons.
"So—" Wuji began, but she cut him off with a sharp, graceful wave.
"I understand," she said, her voice carrying a strange new note of professional respect, or perhaps pity.
She rose and drifted toward the northern shelves, her presence drawing silent nods from the other patrons. Moments later, she returned with a bound manual held between her fingers like a precious secret.
She extended it toward him, her gaze lingering on his face. "This one," she said softly. "If her tastes are as demanding as you suggest, this will suit her best."
Wuji furrowed his brow as he accepted the book. The leather was red. "Crimson Renewal: Flesh-Forging Art," he read aloud, tracing the embossed characters with his thumb before flipping to the first page.
{Every cycle begins in the abdomen, three fingers below the navel. Do not seek qi here; seek pressure.}
"Inhale through the nose in reverse style," Wuji murmured, scanning the words. "Draw the abdomen inward as the lungs swell, compressing the lower viscera like a bellows forcing air into molten iron. Feel the vessels constrict, driving the crimson essence upward along the spine."
He trailed off, flipping through later pages. He recognized the patterns immediately. This wasn't an art for strength or speed—it was for unyielding endurance, a body forging art designed to knit flesh back and seal internal ruptures in the heat of crisis.
The woman watched him, her eyes dancing with a voyeuristic glint. "A fine choice, is it not? I suspect your mistress will find the results transformative."
"Pardon?" Wuji blinked, pulled from his technical analysis.
"There's no need for modesty between us," she purred, leaning against the table. "A woman of her station requires a tool that does not dull with use. With this art, the stamina is inhuman. Even her more exotic desires will be satisfied by a body that refuses to break. Regeneration is a powerful gift in the bedroom, old man."
The realization hit Wuji like a physical blow, she was too deep in the illusion. Exciting, but dangerous. Correcting her never crossed his mind. Instead, he leaned into the role, allowing a flush to creep up his neck, covering his face with a gnarled hand, and letting out a ragged, embarrassed cough as he straightened.
The woman's smile widened into something truly predatory. "Oh? Still so spirited at your age? It seems loyalty was merely the appetizer. Your mistress clearly kept you for the main course."
Wuji offered a strained, submissive bow. While the misunderstanding was a convenient shield, he felt the icy edge of her attention. Immortals were like forest fires—beautiful from a distance, but capable of incinerating you on a whim.
"I shall... take the book," Wuji managed, his voice thick with feigned bashfulness as he turned to retrieve the spirit stones. "And, Senior—"
He stopped. The words for his next request—histories, maps, treatises on arrays—died in his throat. A slave buying a library of strategic intelligence for his mistress's pleasure was a scandalous joke.
A slave buying a library of strategic intelligence was sedition. This cunning woman would wonder why a "plaything" needed to know the geography of the Nine Provinces or the lineage of the Great Sects.
"Yes?" she prompted, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"Thank you for your discretion," Wuji said instead, his voice returning to that of a humble servant. He turned and left to bring the stones.
Moments later outside, he halted before the cart's heavy gray curtains, bowed low, and with a subservient voice said, "Master, the deal is set. Only your part remains."
He commanded the husk silently. Two hundred stones, counted from those now resting above the coffin's black liquid, slid into a bandit's pouch. Then he raised his cupped hands toward the window, not as a man expecting payment, but as a devotee awaiting a blessing from a silent god.
As he guessed, the woman watched from the shop's threshold, her eyes narrowing on the curtains, then on him. Every movement he made reinforced her theory: this was a woman who demanded absolute, ritualistic subservience.
She swept her spiritual sense toward the carriage, only to jerk back as if scorched. She couldn't feel a ripple of aura, no qi, no pressure. Yet her eyes saw a presence that occupied the space, a void where life should be.
She could clearly see the slender, pale hand parting the gray curtains, a brief, ghostly motion. The hand dropped the pouch into Wuji's waiting palms and vanished. As the master withdrew, a stray evening breeze caught the hem of the curtain, pulling it back just a fraction more.
The woman's gaze locked on like a hawk. But all she found was the shimmer of a silk veil, hiding whatever divinity or demon sat within.
"A pity," she mused, retreating to her desk. She retrieved a sliver of jade from her pouch, her fingers instilling a wisp of qi as she sent a pulse of information to her associates. "A hidden master. Low profile. High-tier tastes. Watch her. Find more information."
Moments later, Wuji stood before the reception desk again. He offered the pouch and accepted the manual. As he turned to depart, the woman's voice cut through the air.
"Wait."
He stopped, turning with a bow deep and practiced. "The Esteemed Immortal has further instructions? How may this humble servant assist?"
"You have spent over a hundred stones in my establishment," she said, her voice softening into a mask of professional courtesy. "It is my custom to offer a 'pearl of wisdom' to high-value patrons. A tip to ensure your mistress finds satisfaction in her purchase."
Wuji straightened, his face a neutral mask. "We would be honored by your generosity, Senior. Your kindness will not go unnoted."