The morning after the Red Placard was posted.
When Lin Mu pushed open the door of his stone house and walked toward the External Affairs Hall, he momentarily wondered if he had fallen victim to some kind of hallucinatory bewilderment Gu.
At this hour on ordinary days, the stronghold's streets would be filled with the sounds of early risers quarreling over stall spots, or even last night's drunks brawling by the roadside, still not sobered up.
The air should have been thick with hostility and restlessness—that was the true color of Black Blood Stockade.
But today, the streets were terrifyingly quiet.
No, more precisely—terrifyingly "harmonious."
Passing an alley entrance, Lin Mu witnessed a scene that made his eye twitch.
A burly man with a fierce face and a Punishment Hall token at his waist was hurrying along when he accidentally knocked over an old mortal man carrying buckets of night soil on a shoulder pole.
On any other day, that old man would already have been kicked flying. If unlucky, he'd have ended up with several broken bones.
But today, the burly man stiffened for a moment, then actually forced out a smile uglier than crying.
He bent down and personally helped up the old man, who was trembling with fear. He even extended his palm-leaf-fan-sized hand and "gently" patted nonexistent dust off the old man's clothes.
"Are you alright, old-timer? The road is slippery—you need to watch your step, hehe..."
That laugh was dry as a rusty saw cutting wood, raising goosebumps all over Lin Mu's body.
A few steps further, he spotted two sworn enemies who normally fought bloody battles over water sources, now meeting on a narrow path.
Lin Mu expected a good show and unconsciously rested his hand on his blade hilt.
To his surprise, these two men stopped three paces apart and actually cupped their hands at each other, their faces wearing constipated expressions of "mutual admiration":
"Good morning, Brother Zhang. You're looking well today."
"You too, Brother Li. Elegant as ever, elegant as ever."
With that, both turned simultaneously, their movements perfectly synchronized.
But in that instant of turning, Lin Mu clearly saw them roll their eyes dramatically behind each other's backs. The hands gripping their blade hilts bulged with veins—clearly cursing each other's ancestors eighteen generations back in their minds.
Pfft...
Lin Mu nearly couldn't suppress his laughter.
He shook his head, lowered his bamboo hat, and quickened his pace.
"So this is the power of the 'character assessment'?"
Lin Mu silently marveled. "Because the rules are vague, because no one knows which corner those so-called 'assessment teams' are hiding in, everyone is afraid to make mistakes."
"They can only perfect the 'formalities.' For that twenty percent of the evaluation score, this Black Blood Stockade—where killing is as common as breathing—has overnight become a land of propriety."
Absurd, yet utterly real. This was how power distorted rules.
Passing through this bizarre "civilized zone," the tall wooden building of the External Affairs Hall came into view.
If the changes on the street were absurd, then the scene at the External Affairs Hall entrance was sheer madness.
This place used to be deserted. Apart from a few poor souls who had no choice but to take missions to scrape by, no one wanted to come to a place with little profit and too many rules.
But today, it was a sea of people.
The queue stretched from the main hall all the way to the stone lions at the street corner. A dense mass of heads bobbed and swayed, every face written with longing and anxiety.
The reason was simple—"clan contribution points."
In that nebulous "character assessment," contribution points were the only quantifiable hard metric.
Taking missions meant earning points; earning points meant tickets to the path of becoming a True Inheritance Disciple.
At the entrance of the External Affairs Hall, Lin Qiang was so busy his feet barely touched the ground.
This former schoolyard bully, now a registry clerk at External Affairs, was drenched in sweat as he struggled to maintain order.
His voice had gone hoarse from shouting, his clothes were wrinkled from being jostled, but his expression radiated unprecedented excitement and flush.
On the second-floor balcony, Lin Maomao—the External Affairs Hall manager who normally only knew how to drink tea, slack off, and coast through his days—had today, for once, dressed himself properly.
He stood with hands clasped behind his back, his plump belly thrust forward, face glowing with satisfaction as he gazed down at those clan elites who usually ignored him but now looked up at him with desperate eyes.
That look in his eyes was like watching a flock of fat sheep ready for slaughter, or perhaps savoring some supreme thrill of power.
"Make way! Make way!"
Lin Mu relied on his steward's robe to squeeze through the crowd with difficulty.
Lin Qiang, sweating profusely over his registrations, looked up. Seeing it was Lin Mu, his eyes lit up instantly.
He even abandoned his work, leaning out from behind the counter to call out loudly:
"Brother Lin Mu! You're finally here! Quick, quick, upstairs! We're going crazy busy today!"
His tone had lost its former timidity, replaced by the warmth of "we're all in the same boat now." At this turning point, every steward in External Affairs was a person of real power who controlled resources.
Lin Mu nodded without saying much. Under the envious and jealous gazes of the crowd, he ascended to the second floor.
Pushing open the door to his steward's compartment and closing the heavy wooden door behind him, half the outside clamor was instantly shut out.
Lin Mu walked to the desk and sat down, pouring himself a cup of cold tea.
His gaze fell on the corner of the desk.
There sat a Sound Transmission Gu specifically used to receive internal clan communications.
At this moment, this Gu—which normally didn't activate even once in half a month—was flashing an eye-piercing red light, vibrating incessantly, emitting a buzzing drone as if it might explode at any second.
Lin Mu casually channeled a thread of Primeval Essence into it, connecting to the messages.
Instantly, countless chaotic voices exploded in his mind, like hundreds of ducks quacking simultaneously.
"Steward Mu! It's Ergou from the neighboring courtyard! Please give me a 'street sweeping' task! Even without Primeval Stones is fine—I just need the contribution points! I'm begging you!"
"Brother Lin Mu... I'm a friend of your distant great-uncle's third aunt's nephew!"
"I heard there's a cushy 'spirit field tending' job in the east section. Can you save it for me? I'll treat you to drinks later!"
"Honorable Steward, I'm from the Refinement Hall..."
Pleas of every kind, connections being claimed from every angle, humble requests of every sort—all flooded Lin Mu's ears. This was power made tangible.
Lin Mu listened expressionlessly, his fingers tapping the desk rhythmically. He didn't rush to reply, but patiently filtered through the jumbled information.
Most of it was garbage—the wails of those destined to be mere spectators.
But soon, his fingers stopped.
Among the chaotic cries for help, several transmissions bearing special spiritual markers stood out conspicuously. They were steady, forceful, carrying an unmistakable air of pride.
These were signals from the seeded competitors.
Lin Feng.
Lin Yan.
Lin Ze.
Lin Mu narrowed his eyes, the corner of his mouth curving into an amused arc.
"It seems this so-called Grand Competition for True Inheritance hasn't even begun its official contest, yet the moves outside the arena have already been delivered to my doorstep."