“Eat faster, you lot! You’ve got one quarter-hour, no more!”
The guards swung their leather whips, their voices sharp and merciless. A winding column of four to five hundred mountain folk, like a weary serpent, trudged along the mountain path, their steps heavy. Now, they paused to eat.
The mountain folk’s meal was pitiful—self-brought rations, usually a tough grain bun and a gourd of water, just enough to stave off colpse. A single meal cost less than a copper coin, cheap as dirt. (A thousand coppers make one tael of silver.)
But the Mountain Patrol Division guards? They ate like kings. They’d brought cooks, dishing out feasts of spiced chicken, dumplings, fried rice with sausage, and steaming fish-tofu soup. The mouthwatering scents drifted far.
Each dish probably cost dozens, if not hundreds, of coppers. Word was, the high-ranking hunters ate even better—medicinal meals infused with spiritual energy, their value beyond what any mountain folk could dream of.
Jiang Heng was starving, his stomach gnawing at his spine. Forget the guards’ vish spread—he didn’t even have the measly rations of his peers!
That golden cauldron was a marvel, but it couldn’t fill his belly.
He thought about begging a bite from the original owner’s old acquaintances, but seeing his shaky steps and gssy eyes, they figured he was still sick. They steered clear. Some clutched their scant food tightly, unwilling to spare a crumb, even if he dropped dead.
We’re all dirt-poor. Why should they share with me?
A bitter pang twisted Jiang Heng’s heart. A single coin can break a hero.
So hungry. So damn hungry!
If I had a few coppers…
He couldn’t shake the thought: I’ve got a treasure like this cauldron, and I’m going to starve for want of a cheap bun?
But then, a voice cut through his misery.
“You’re half-dead from hunger. Here, take this.”
Jiang Heng looked up. A young guard with a boyish face stood before him, pressing a soft white bun into his hands.
“Hey, Tian, pying the saint again?” another guard mocked. “These mountain folk die every day. You gonna save ‘em all?”
The young guard stayed silent, his face calm.
Jiang Heng thanked him profusely, grabbing the bun with both hands and tearing into it. In his heart, he carved the name Tian and this kindness into memory.
Jiang Heng settles scores and repays debts. This small favor—I’ll make it right.
The mountain folk trudged on.
After half a day’s march, they stopped. The path beneath their feet stretched into a churning sea of thick fog.
They’d arrived.
This was the Misty Valley, the edge of the Hundred Thousand Mountains, where the miasma was thinnest.
Staring at the roiling fog, Jiang Heng clenched his fists, his heart pounding with excitement and dread.
Time to enter the mountains, hunt treasures, and make my fortune!
This wretched life isn’t fit for a dog. I’ve got to get rich!
“Brother Jiang,” a slimy voice oozed, “in the mountains, we should watch each other’s backs, right?”
Rat Li slunk over, winking with a greasy smirk.
Jiang Heng sneered inwardly but kept his face stone-cold, ignoring him. He turned and marched into the fog with the others.
Before, I’d have feared you.
Now, with this cauldron, I’m daring you to try something!
Stepping into the fog felt like crossing into another realm.
The original owner’s memories painted a grim picture: every mountain trip brought a maddening itch, like snakes and ants crawling over his skin. The longer you stayed in the miasma, the worse it got, until your flesh rotted.
The Mountain Patrol Division, it was said, had tested this on mountain folk. Stay too long, and the rot would creep inward, turning your organs to pus—a gruesome end.
But Jiang Heng? He felt only a faint, soothing coolness.
As he moved and breathed, a subtle energy seeped into his body, strengthening him bit by bit. The benefits were slow, but over years, they’d be immense.
Around him, the other mountain folk clenched their jaws, fighting the miasma’s torment.
No one wasted time. They scattered into the brush, hunting for herbs and treasures to turn in for rewards—or to avoid a beating.
Jiang Heng headed deeper into the forest. His [Qi Devouring] ability didn’t just shield him from miasma—it let him sense spiritual treasures. Guided by faint traces of spiritual energy tickling his senses, he pressed on.
Soon, he spotted a prize in a patch of grass and dirt: a glowing Lingzhi mushroom, pulsing with spiritual energy!
“This lingzhi’s cap is small, like an almond, but it’s got decades of growth. It’s worth a fortune!”
On the bck market, it could fetch one hundred coppers. Lingzhi from the miasma could carry toxins if too young, but this was a gem.
Turn it over to the Mountain Patrol Division, though? He’d get a pathetic ten coppers.
The division bled the mountain folk dry. It was why the original owner, starting at thirteen, had only saved three taels after years of backbreaking work.
Unless Jiang Heng rose to hunter—or better, a martial cultivator—he’d never negotiate better terms. He might even keep every coin!
But becoming a hunter was no small feat.
It required a spirit beast corpse.
Spirit beasts were pnts or animals that drank in the essence of sun and moon, gaining powers beyond mortal ken.
Killing one was a nightmare.
In South Mountain Town, with its hundred thousand households, there were only a few hundred hunters—most born into it. Earning the title by sying a spirit beast? One or two a year, if that.
You could buy a spirit beast corpse from veteran hunters, though.
The price? A jaw-dropping one hundred taels.
It was a fortune, but worth it. A hunter outranked even the average Mountain Patrol Division guard. Just look at their food—hunters ate medicinal meals that forged their bodies over time.
And hunters rode horses.
With a steed, Jiang Heng could race through the miasma, hunting treasures ten times faster.
Hunters can even haggle with the Mountain Patrol Division!
“Becoming a hunter’s a long shot for now,” Jiang Heng thought. “Maybe I should just run. Handing over this lingzhi for pennies stings too much.”
A pn took shape.
With his miasma immunity, why not flee? His Qi Devouring made him a better treasure hunter than most. A hundred taels—a pipe dream for others—was within his reach!
He’d save up, buy a spirit beast corpse, and become a hunter. Then, he’d return to town, shake off the fugitive bel, and rise above them all!
Escape, hunt treasures, stack coins, become a hunter!
His path grew clear.
But the Hundred Thousand Mountains held more than miasma—venomous snakes, insects, and spirit creatures prowled within. Hiding here wouldn’t be easy. He’d need to scout and find a safe foothold.
For now, Jiang Heng pushed deeper into the forest. Suddenly, his senses tingled—a faint pulse of spiritual energy brushed against him.
Another treasure?
