Gu Wujiu decided to figure out exactly how much he had to his name first.
He searched the entire room. The oil lamp on the table was nearly empty, and the pile of gray robes in the corner gave off a sour smell that suggested they hadn't been washed in ages. Under his pillow, his fingers found something hard—a drab gray stone the size of his palm, with a crookedly carved character on it: Gu.
“What is this?”
“An identity token for an outer disciple,” the system said lazily. “Made of ordinary mountain stone. Worth approximately the same as a random pebble picked up off the side of the road. Very fitting for the Host's current net worth.”
Under the bedboard, he found a cloth pouch containing three pitch-black pills. They smelled like moldy scraps of traditional medicine.
“Fasting pills, lowest grade. One pill keeps you from feeling hungry for a day. Outer disciples of the Heart-Eater Sect are issued three per month.” The system paused. “In other words, there are thirty days in a month, and the sect covers one-tenth of your meals. For the rest, you're on your own.”
“So this is basically a sweatshop.” Gu Wujiu stuffed the pills back into the pouch. “It's worse than a blood-and-sweat factory. At least those places provide boxed lunches.”
“I suggest the Host adjust his expectations. You are not a wage worker. You are cannon fodder at the very bottom of an evil sect. Cannon fodder is not protected by labor laws.”
He said nothing more. He tucked the pouch into his robe, then walked to the door.
The door was wooden, with several cracks running through it. Through the gaps, he could see the hazy light outside. He took a deep breath and pushed it open.
Outside was a narrow alley lined on both sides with stone houses identical to his, packed tightly into two rows like the handshake buildings of an urban village. Damp mist filled the alley, limiting visibility to about a dozen paces. The ground was packed dirt, uneven and pocked with holes. In some places, there were dark red stains.
He lowered his head and glanced at the stains.
Blood. Dried blood.
“Friendly reminder,” the system chimed in at just the right moment. “The outer disciple district of the Heart-Eater Sect sees an average of forty-seven fights, twelve crippling injuries, and three disappearances every month. Most of those who disappear are taken for cultivation practice.”
“For cultivation practice?”
“The Heart-Eater Sect's cultivation techniques require devouring other people's minds and spirits. Where do you think those minds and spirits come from?”
Gu Wujiu fell silent for two seconds.
He had spent so many years in the underworld that he'd seen every kind of darkness. But “capturing people as cultivation materials” still went beyond anything he could wrap his head around. The most vicious loan shark in an urban village might chop off a finger at worst.
“Fine,” he said, his tone so calm that even he found it a little surprising. “I get the rules. Survival of the fittest. Just don't get eaten.”
“It's rare for the Host to say something intelligent. However, with your cultivation at the first level of Qi Condensation, you are at the very bottom of the food chain here. Roughly equivalent to... a paramecium.”
“Can you stop comparing me to things from biology class?”
“My apologies. I may have overestimated the paramecium.”
He couldn't be bothered to reply and continued down the alley.
After walking roughly a hundred paces, he reached a somewhat wider clearing at the end of the alley, something like a small plaza. Several people in gray robes stood around in groups of two or three. Some leaned against the walls with their arms folded, eyes closed as they rested. Others squatted on the ground, fiddling with who-knew-what. No one spoke. The atmosphere was as gloomy as a funeral home's waiting room.
Gu Wujiu swept his eyes across the area and instinctively began assessing it.
This had been his old line of work in his previous life—whenever he entered a new place, the first thing he did wasn't look for friends. It was figure out who was the most dangerous, who was easiest to bully, and who was a fence-sitter.
The few people leaning against the wall with their eyes closed had steady auras and relaxed postures. They were old hands in this territory and not to be trifled with. The two squatting on the ground were as skinny as bamboo poles, their eyes darting around. They were about as low on the ladder as he was.
There was also someone in the corner of the plaza.
The person was curled up behind a stone pillar, hugging their knees and making themselves as small as possible. One sleeve of their gray robe was torn nearly off, exposing an arm covered in purplish bruises. Their face was buried in their knees, so Gu Wujiu couldn't make it out, but their slight build made them look like a young boy who hadn't finished growing.
Gu Wujiu's gaze lingered on the person for one second before moving away.
None of his business.
He was a clay Bodhisattva crossing a river himself—he could barely save his own skin, let alone worry about anyone else. First, he needed to figure out the rules here, find a way to survive, and then—
“Ding.”
The corner of his eye twitched.
“The system has detected a quest target.” That irritating voice returned, carrying a hint of pleasure. The pleasure made Gu Wujiu want to strangle it. “The Heart-Eater Sect disciple behind the stone pillar meets the criteria for ‘encountering a difficulty.’ The Host is advised to go help.”
“What is it? Weren't you looking for a quest target?”
“I was looking for a way to survive.”
“Helping him is your way to survive.” The system's tone was so sweet it was cloying, like sprinkling a layer of frosting over a wound. “Friendly reminder: eleven shichen remain until the quest deadline. Failure to complete by the deadline will deduct all Merit Points. All of them. Reaching zero is equivalent to death.”
Gu Wujiu stood where he was, looking at the boy curled into a ball, then at the expressionless gray-robed people in the plaza.
Not one of them spared the boy a glance.
It wasn't that they hadn't seen him. They had seen him, then pretended they hadn't.
He was far too familiar with this scene. It happened every day in the urban village. Someone got beaten. Someone got robbed. Everyone walked past with their heads down, pretending nothing had happened. Because if you got involved, you became the next victim.
He used to be the kind of person who walked past with his head down too.
No. He used to be the kind of person doing the beating.
“What are you hesitating over, Host?” The system's voice drifted lightly through his mind. “Are you calculating the cost and benefit of helping someone? Excellent. That is entirely in character for you. Let me do the math—don't help, and you die. Help, and you might not die. Even a kindergartener could do that calculation.”
“Shut up.”
“Okay. The clock is still ticking.”
Gu Wujiu gritted his teeth.
He strode toward the stone pillar.
Not because of kindness. Not because of any sense of justice. Simply because he would die if he didn't help, and Chen Hao's greatest virtue in this life—no, his previous life—was that he was afraid of dying.
At least, that was what he told himself.
He reached the stone pillar and looked down at the boy. Up close, he could see that the boy was even younger than he'd thought, around fourteen or fifteen. His face was pale, his lips cracked and dry, and his left cheek was swollen badly. A ring of purplish bruises surrounded one eye.
He'd been beaten. Not just once, either, but repeatedly. Some of the bruises were fresh and others old, layered on top of one another.
The boy sensed someone approaching and abruptly raised his head. His eyes were filled with terror. Like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, he shrank backward.
“D-Don't hit me anymore... I really don't have any spirit stones left...”
Gu Wujiu froze for a moment.
Then he squatted down, doing his best to make his voice sound less frightening. Though, based on his experience in his previous life, his “nonthreatening” voice was probably only ten percent gentler than the one he used while collecting debts.
“I'm not going to hit you.”
The boy stared at him with wide eyes, clearly unconvinced.
“Really. I'm not.” Gu Wujiu paused. Coming from an evil sect disciple, that statement admittedly wasn't very convincing, so he changed tack. “There'd be nothing in it for me.”
The boy blinked. He seemed to find that reason far more believable than “I'm a good person.”
“What’s your name?”
“...Z-Zhou Xiao'an.”
“Who hit you?”
Zhou Xiao'an's lips trembled. His eyes flicked toward the other side of the plaza, then quickly darted away as he shook his head.
He didn't dare say.
Gu Wujiu followed his gaze. On the other side of the plaza, three gray-robed disciples were huddled by the wall, muttering to one another. One of them was clearly a full head broader than the others. He had a shaved head and a scar running horizontally across his face.
Gu Wujiu looked away.
“How long have they been bullying you?”
Zhou Xiao'an lowered his head, his voice as faint as a mosquito's hum. “...Three months.”
“What have they been taking?”
“S-Spirit stones. My monthly allotment, and... my fasting pills.”
Gu Wujiu glanced at the three fasting pills in his robe and suddenly felt their weight.
Three pills could cover ten days. If they were stolen, you had to go hungry for the rest of the month. A fourteen- or fifteen-year-old kid had been starving in a place like this for three months—and still getting beaten on top of it.
He stood up.
“All right. I understand.”
Zhou Xiao'an looked up at him, confusion in his eyes along with a faint, disbelieving flicker of hope.
“You... you're going to help me?”
Gu Wujiu glanced at him and tugged at the corner of his mouth, producing a smile that wasn't particularly pleasant.
“Help you?” He tucked his hands into his sleeves, his tone as cold and indifferent as if he were discussing a business deal. “Kid, in a place like this, nobody ‘helps’ anybody.”
The light faded from Zhou Xiao'an's eyes.
“But,” Gu Wujiu continued, turning to look at the three people across the plaza, “people do business.”
In his mind, the system's voice rose幽ly: “What do you plan to do, Host? If you confront them head-on, with your cultivation at the first level of Qi Condensation, your odds of winning are—let me calculate—zero point three percent.”
“Who said I was going to fight them head-on?” Gu Wujiu replied mentally, the curve of his lips widening slightly.
Chen Hao had never made a losing deal.
But what he was best at was making other people think they'd gotten a great deal, when in reality they'd been sold—and were still helping count the money.
He walked toward the three across the plaza, his pace neither fast nor slow, his posture loose and casual, like he was out taking a stroll.
The system was silent for two seconds, then let out a soft laugh of unclear meaning.
“Well, this is interesting.”