Chapter 3: First Sale of the Essence

The rain hadn’t fully stopped, its drumming fading only into a dull, persistent hiss against the wet, moss-slicked cobblestones. The dim streetlamp at the alley’s end cast broken, flickering shadows on the ground. Water dripped from the eaves, pattering against the aged roof tiles in a monotonous, muffled rhythm, weaving a suffocating net over the cramped, damp workshop. The air was thick with the unique, heavy scent of old paper, pine resin, and wet earth—the distinct flavor of time sedimented into something dense and unyielding.

Suddenly, the wooden door behind him was wrenched open with brute force. A gust of cold air mixed with the stench of rain slammed into the tiny space, shattering the fragile silence. The intruder wore a pitch-black raincoat, water streaming off the hem, yet not a drop seemed to stain the clean floor beneath his feet. He didn’t bother to wipe himself dry. His eyes, seemingly ordinary on the surface but bottomless in depth, swept over Shen Jingzhe’s hand with a hawk’s ruthless sharpness, then dropped to the martial manual on the table that was in the process of being reassembled. The corner of his mouth curled into a faint, teasing arc, like a predator watching its prey thrash uselessly in a snare.

He felt that primal force of the martial source merging with his meridians, a sore but satisfying warmth spreading through his limbs and bones, as if every muscle fiber was cheering in relief. The memories of struggling in the mud, the humiliation of being looked down upon—every single one dissolved into this warm current. He slowly closed his eyes, his fingertips lightly brushing the suspended droplet, sensing the vast, surging vitality contained within. The last shred of anxiety in his heart smoothed out. This wasn't just the result of cultivation; it was the cornerstone upon which he would rebuild his dignity.

This timing gap felt absurdly calculated. It was as if a pair of ancient, cold eyes were staring through layers of fog, fixing on every move he made. The fact that the head of the Underground Auction House had dared to leak the info, daring to shove ten million in cash into his hands, meant he absolutely would be watching his every step. And the landlord’s "urgent notice"? It came too perfectly, like a blade pressed to his throat. It cut off his retreat while forcing him to react within the shortest possible time.

Shen Jingzhe ended the call and stepped out of the alley. The rain had stopped; the clouds had torn open, and the city’s neon lights stung his eyes, looking alien and harsh. Skyscrapers loomed in the night, their glass facades reflecting broken shards of light. The opulence that once suffocated him now looked like nothing more than a series of static paintings. He stepped into the high-end apartment whose lease had just expired. The mirrors reflected a figure that was no longer the limp, burdened son-in-law, but someone cold, upright, and unyielding. That uprightness wasn’t just about his posture; it was about his spine.

The deal was struck. Moments later, ten million in cash hit his account via a Dark Web transfer. Shen Jingzhe watched the numbers change on his phone screen, his expression calm and still. There was no manic joy, only the settling peace of dust landing on a desk. For him, those digits were no longer cold wealth; they were chips he could trade for freedom. He confidently dialed the bank’s customer service line and calmly terminated his mortgage.

Mo Qianji’s pupils contracted sharply. He saw a faint layer of golden light ripple across Shen Jingzhe’s fingertips—the sign of martial source energy overflowing, an aura that no ordinary artisan could possess. The glow was subtle, yet it was enough to burn his eyes and scorch the arrogance deep in his gut. His demeanor softened instantly, even taking on a hint of deference, as if his previous bluster had just been a move in a probing game.

Shen Jingzhe’s voice remained level, betraying not a ripple of emotion. He hung up and turned toward the bedroom. No frantic packing, no lingering regret over losing his next foothold. He pulled open the wardrobe and retrieved a black suit. It was one he had specially commissioned last night, the fabric lightweight and breathable, prepared specifically for the variables that were about to hit.

Mo Qianji narrowed his eyes, sizing up the man who had once been nothing but a fallen son-in-law in his view. That formerly humble, enduring figure had vanished completely, replaced by a detachment and coldness that made it hard to even look at him directly. He walked slowly to the desk, his fingers tapping the surface lightly. The rhythm was casual, but it carried an invisible, heavy pressure. He probed, “...”

Standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the sea of lights, he felt no more ties binding him. The wind slipped through the gap in the window, fluttering the curtains, as if washing the rain and dust off his shoulders. Suddenly, his phone vibrated. The screen displayed the word “Landlord.” That was his last connection point in this city, and the umbilical cord that was about to be cut.

The next morning, the sky was just beginning to brighten. Shen Jingzhe dragged his simple luggage and stood at the entrance of the high-end apartment. The corridor was bustling with people dressed in dazzling clothes, yet most wore blank expressions, like polished porcelain dolls. He took a deep breath. The air smelled of expensive fragrance, but underneath it lay a suppressed, heavy fatigue.

Shen Jingzhe didn’t look up. He merely flicked his fingertips gently, and the ten droplets of Martial Dao Condensed Liquid traced an elegant arc through the air, dropping into a pre-prepared jade bottle with a crisp, clear chime. His voice was cold, devoid of any warmth, as if everything that had just happened was nothing more than a trivial interlude.

Deep in the back of the wardrobe sat an ancient jade pendant. It was his father’s keepsake, and the only anchor for him in this chaotic world. He rubbed the surface of the jade lightly with his fingertips, feeling its faint chill, and his heartbeat steadied.

He thought of his father’s death years ago, of that scroll of martial manual soaked in blood, and of the bottomless eyes of the head of the Underground Auction House. All the threads converged at this moment, pointing toward a massive, dangerous dark vortex he hadn’t yet touched.

Shen Jingzhe didn’t explain the sudden move, nor did he reveal to anyone that he’d just acquired a massive windfall. On the surface, he was just an ordinary cultivator, a wage-earner who had just cleared his debts. At least, that’s how it looked to outsiders.

He had originally planned to stay in that high-end apartment for a few more days, settling his qi and studying the specific effects of the Martial Dao Condensed Liquid. But life’s script never played by the rules, especially when it was being twisted by an invisible giant hand.

"Miracle? You’re just a rag-picker artisan. Without my channels, this stuff would rot in your hands into waste paper. Three million. Take it and leave, or I’ll let you know who’s boss in the underground."

Shen Jingzhe rose to his feet with the fluidity of moving water. He placed the jade bottle into a special airtight box. The box was forged from some unknown metal, its surface shimmering with a faint runic glow that could isolate external spiritual energy fluctuations.

The elevator doors slid open slowly, the metal interior reflecting two silhouettes. The shadow remained in the dimly lit hallway, not stepping in, just letting out a light laugh. The sound echoed through the empty corridor, chilling and eerie.

"Your condensed liquid has high purity." The shadow lowered its voice, the corner of its mouth twisting into a grotesque grin. "But I’ve heard you’re hiding a complete fragment of the martial manual. The shopkeeper didn’t tell you that, did I?"

Mo Qianji spoke up, "Mr. Shen, can't sleep in the middle of the night? Whetting a knife or brewing a potion? I know that smell. It’s rich." His voice was low, carrying a metallic texture that reverberated in the tight space.

The landlord’s voice on the other end was cracking with tears, sharp and anxious: "Mr. Shen, that old house you’re renting... it’s going to be demolished. I hear it’s forced clearance in three days. You... you gotta move fast!"

Shen Jingzhe finally raised his eyes. His gaze was as still as dead water, but deep down, there were undercurrents strong enough to sink a battleship. He looked at Mo Qianji as if looking at a sailor trying to find a new continent with an outdated map.

"Exclusive agency is fine, but on one condition. Before every supply, you must be present to witness the restoration process, and you must not leak the core secrets. If you break the contract, I won’t send bodyguards. I’ll send assassins."

He closed his eyes, the warm sensation of the Martial Dao Condensed Liquid slowly circulating through his body surfacing in his mind. The manual was restored, the funds were in hand, but this did not mean safety. On the contrary, the stronger he became, the more he stood at the tip of the spear.

Mo Qianji paused for a moment, rubbing his chin, his gaze traveling back and forth over Shen Jingzhe. A flash of calculation and appreciation sparked in his eyes. He was a merchant and a hunter, and he smelled a bigger profit here.

"I’ve heard the Lin Family’s young mistress really lost face today. Your skill in restoring martial manuals is enough to make the old-timers in the underground circle red with envy. Name your price. For this batch, I’ll take it all."

Shen Jingzhe’s finger tapped the desk, the rhythm slow and firm. Each tap seemed to strike a fragile nerve in Mo Qianji, the sharp *tap, tap, tap* sounding unnaturally clear in the silent night.

"I don’t sell off the farm. I want long-term cooperation, an exclusive agency. I want your channels, and my output goes only to your auction house. As for the price, it follows the market, but the floor is set by me."

His gaze passed through the reflection in the elevator mirror, looking toward the corner, where something seemed to be writhing. A hallucination? No. In the underlying logic of this city, there are no hallucinations.

Mo Qianji’s expression shifted slightly, then he sneered, leaning forward, his oppressive presence spiking. The wet, cold raincoat seemed to become an extension of his power, shrouding the space between them.

A shadow slipped past like a ghost, pressing against the wall. The figure wore a gray trench coat and a black mask, revealing only a pair of hazy, sharp eyes.

"Three days. The demolition date." The shadow’s voice carried through the distance, tinged with mockery. "Don’t die looking ugly. I haven’t squeezed every last drop out of you yet."

"Market price acquisition? Mo Qianji, your business acumen is getting sharper. Too bad, I don’t sell trash. I sell miracles."

"Boss Mo visits in person. If you’re just here for a chat, please excuse me. If it’s for something else, show me your chips."

"Three million to buy ten years of cultivation and risk? Boss Mo, you underestimate my sincerity and overestimate your own confidence."

Shen Jingzhe offered a light, indifferent smile. The expression was cold, with a hint of cunning underneath, the upward curve of his mouth a silent provocation.

Those watchers hidden in the dark, those greedy eyes coveting his martial manual fragments, were tightening the noose bit by bit.

Shen Jingzhe didn’t stop walking, not even turning his head back. He merely tilted his gaze slightly, sweeping over the shadow: "Is there something?"

"Sir, your mortgage has been paid in full. Your account balance is sufficient. Do you wish to proceed with wealth management..."

The fingers gripping Shen Jingzhe’s phone tightened slightly, his knuckles turning white. Demolition? Right at this critical juncture?

The moment the elevator doors closed, Shen Jingzhe leaned back against the cold metal wall, exhaling a slow breath.

"I don't know what you're talking about." His voice was cold, stripped of any extra emotion.

The voice was hoarse, like sandpaper grinding over rough stone, carrying a friction that made people uncomfortable.

Just as he was about to step into the elevator, a low whoosh of wind suddenly came from his side.

Shen Jingzhe’s step paused for a second, then returned to normal as he continued walking toward the elevator.

"Looks like I overstepped. Mr. Shen, let's change the terms of our talk."

"Deal. Remember, you can be protective, but don't go grabbing at things that aren't yours."

The elevator numbers flickered, showing it was ascending.

Shen Jingzhe opened his eyes, his gaze as cold as frost.

The elevator *dinged*, stopping at the top floor.

Or, was the vortex waiting for him to jump in?

"Got it. I'll move."

"No need. Thanks."

Was he about to walk into the vortex?

"Shen Jingzhe."

The door opened.

Three days.

The sunlight was blinding, but it couldn't warm the cold glint in his eyes. He stepped out of the elevator. Behind him, in the dim hallway, the remnants of that hoarse laugh seemed to linger, following him like a shadow, refusing to leave.