The moment Shen Mo crossed the threshold, the heavy iron door swung shut behind him with a deep, resonating boom that seemed to shake the very foundations of the world. The sound was absolute, a seal being placed on his former life. The dim, smoky light of the Drowned Rat was gone, replaced by an oppressive, impenetrable darkness. The only sensory input was the cold, musty air flowing up the stairs and the faint, rhythmic drip of water somewhere in the depths below.
His spiritual sense, still recovering but sharp as ever, was his only guide. He extended it cautiously, probing the darkness. The stairs were made of rough-hewn stone, descending in a tight spiral. The walls were cold and damp, slick with a thin layer of moisture. There were no hidden traps or arrays that he could detect, only an overwhelming sense of age and silence. This place had existed for a very long time.
He descended for what felt like an eternity, the only sound the soft scuff of his boots on the stone. With each step, the weight of the earth above him seemed to grow, a physical pressure that promised to crush anyone unworthy. This was not just a descent into a basement; it was a descent into the underworld, a place far removed from the sun and the laws of the surface.
Finally, the stairs ended, opening into a vast, cavernous space. Faint, cold light emanated from fist-sized, moss-like organisms clinging to the high, vaulted ceiling, casting long, dancing shadows across the floor. The chamber was immense, far larger than the tavern above could possibly conceal, suggesting it was part of a much larger subterranean complex. The architecture was stark and brutalist—thick pillars of black rock supported the ceiling, and the floor was paved with smooth, featureless flagstones.
The chamber was not empty.
Dozens of figures stood scattered throughout the hall, all clad in the same unadorned, dark charcoal robes as the assassins he had fought. Each of their faces was shrouded in a veil of shifting, magical darkness, a swirling void where a face should be, from which two faint, cold pinpricks of light sometimes gleamed. It made them anonymous and identical specters of death. None of them spoke. None of them moved. They stood like statues, their killing intent suppressed to an almost nonexistent level, yet the combined pressure of their presence was suffocating. Shen Mo felt his instincts scream. He was a wolf who had just walked into a den of sleeping tigers.
At the far end of the chamber, seated behind a simple, massive desk carved from a single block of polished black stone, was another figure. This one was not standing. They wore a plain, unadorned black robe, and their face was shrouded differently—their veil was a perfect, smooth void of absolute black that reflected a distorted, monstrous version of Shen Mo back at himself. The air around this figure was a void. Shen Mo's spiritual sense, which could pick out a scorpion under ten feet of sand, slid right off them as if they didn't exist. This person was an expert of a realm he couldn't even begin to fathom. A Core Formation expert? Or perhaps something even more terrifying.
This was the Toll Taker.
Shen Mo walked forward, his pace steady and deliberate, his hand never straying far from the hilt of Glimmer. He felt dozens of unseen eyes tracking his every move. He stopped ten paces from the desk, a respectful but not subservient distance. He said nothing. In a place like this, the first one to speak was the one who needed something.
He simply reached into his pouch, took out the wooden cup with the Ferryman's Toll inside, and placed it on the floor in front of him.
The featureless veil of the Toll Taker tilted slightly. A hand, pale and slender, emerged from the black robe. The figure made a beckoning gesture. The wooden cup slid across the flagstones as if pulled by an invisible string, coming to a halt on the desk's surface.
The Toll Taker picked up the coin, holding it between their thumb and forefinger. A faint, dark Qi, so pure and dense it was almost black, enveloped the coin. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the skull visage on the coin began to glow with a faint, ghostly green light. A wisp of ethereal smoke rose from the coin, coalescing in the air above the desk.
The smoke swirled and solidified, forming a hazy, three-dimensional image. It was a scene from the Crimson Expanse. Shen Mo saw himself, his white hair stained with blood and dust, facing down the Ferryman leader known as Scythe. The image was from Scythe's perspective, the last moments of his life replayed in ghostly detail. He saw his own desperate gambit with the Berserker's Bloodsoul Pill, the suicidal charge, and the final, fatal thrust of Glimmer. The image flickered and died as Scythe's life force had, the last thing it recorded being Shen Mo's cold, crimson eyes.
The verification was complete. The organization's methods were as terrifying as their reputation suggested. They left nothing to chance.
The Toll Taker placed the coin back on the desk. A voice, raspy and androgynous, seemingly coming from the void of the veil itself rather than a person behind it, echoed in the silent hall.
"The Toll of Ferryman Scythe, seventh level of Foundation Establishment. Paid in full by an unknown cultivator, sixth level of Foundation Establishment. The kill is verified. The debt is settled. A position is vacant."
The voice paused, the mirrored veil seeming to stare directly into Shen Mo's soul. "You have earned the right to cross the river. But the journey is not without its rules. Listen closely. Your old name is dead, buried in the sand with your past. Here, you are a number and a codename. Nothing more."
The Toll Taker gestured to a nearby pillar. A section of the stone slid away, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside was a new set of dark charcoal robes and a small, dark amulet on a leather cord.
"That amulet generates your veil. It is your face. You will never deactivate it in the presence of another member, not in this hall, not in a safehouse, not on a mission. To reveal your identity is to forfeit your life. Is that understood?"
"Understood," Shen Mo's voice was flat, betraying no emotion.
"To kill a Ferryman of Scythe's rank is no small feat. You have earned a privilege few are granted. Your codename will be your only identity, a legend to be whispered in the dark. Choose it well. What will you be called?"
Shen Mo stood in silence for a moment. A name. His old one was gone. Here, he was a ghost, a number. But a codename... a codename was a piece of himself he could keep. What defined him? What was the last thing his enemies saw? He thought of his crimson, or vermillion, eyes, and the ghostly way he moved.
"Vermillion Ghost," he said, his voice steady.
The Toll Taker's veil tilted in a gesture of acknowledgement. "So be it. From this day forward, you are Vermillion Ghost."
"Contracts are issued from this hall. The details are delivered via encrypted jade slips. The price is set. A thirty percent tithe is paid to the organization upon completion. This is non-negotiable. It pays for our network, our intelligence, our silence. Is that understood?"
"Understood."
"Failure to complete a contract is not an option. If a mission is failed, the Ferryman does not return. We do not tolerate weakness or incompetence. The river only flows one way. Is that understood?"
"Understood."
The Toll Taker fell silent for a moment, the weight of their gaze pressing down on him. "Your entry is probationary. You have proven you can kill one of us. Now you must prove you can kill for us. Your first contract is a test. A cleansing."
A black jade slip slid across the desk, stopping before Shen Mo. He picked it up. As his fingers touched it, information flooded his mind. It wasn't a high-profile assassination of a clan elder or a sect master. The target was a merchant named Fei, currently residing in Blacksand Oasis. According to the brief, Fei had hired the Ferrymen to eliminate a business rival. The contract was completed, but Fei had attempted to short them on the payment by a mere ten percent.
It was an insult. And The Paid Ferrymen did not tolerate insults.
"The target is insignificant," the Toll Taker's voice echoed. "A fifth-level Foundation Establishment cultivator with two guards of the same level. For you, this should be trivial. This is not a test of your strength, Vermillion Ghost. It is a test of your professionalism. We require confirmation of the kill and the retrieval of the full, original payment, plus a twenty percent penalty fee. No witnesses. No trail. Be a ghost. You have until sunrise."
Shen Mo crushed the jade slip in his hand. It crumbled to dust. "Understood."
"Your gear is in the alcove. Your quarters will be assigned upon your return. Do not fail." The Toll Taker waved a dismissive hand, their attention already gone, as if Shen Mo had ceased to be of any importance.
He walked to the alcove and donned the new gear. The robes were made of a tough, yet supple fabric, expertly tailored to allow for silent movement. He could feel a faint enchantment woven into the threads, designed to muffle sound and resist tearing. It offered better protection than his old mercenary armor. He strapped Glimmer to his back and fastened the amulet around his neck. A cold energy washed over his face, and the world grew darker as a veil of swirling shadow erupted into existence, shrouding his features. From his side, it was like looking through a dark haze; to an outsider, his face was a void. He was no longer Shen Mo, the mercenary. He was Vermillion Ghost, an assassin of The Paid Ferrymen.
He turned and walked back the way he came, past the silent, statuesque figures of his new brethren. As he reached the staircase, the black iron door swung open for him. He ascended, emerging back into the Drowned Rat. The massive bartender gave him a single, indifferent glance before turning away.
Shen Mo stepped out into the night. Blacksand Oasis was still alive with activity, but he moved through the crowds like a phantom, his new identity a cloak of shadows. The information from the jade slip was precise, including the location of the merchant Fei's courtyard residence in the city's merchant district.
He didn't approach it directly. He spent an hour circling the district, observing from the rooftops. He noted the patrol patterns of the city watch, the number of lights on in the surrounding buildings, and the layout of Fei's residence. It was a well-fortified compound for a merchant, with high walls and a single, heavily guarded gate.
The two guards at the gate were lazy, leaning on their spears and talking in low voices. They were indeed at the fifth level of Foundation Establishment. A direct assault was foolish and loud. A professional did not use a hammer when a needle would suffice.
Shen Mo waited for the moon to pass behind a thick cloud, plunging the street into near-total darkness. He dropped from the rooftop into a narrow alley behind the residence. The back wall was ten feet high, smooth stone. For a mortal, it would be a significant obstacle. For him, it was nothing. With a light push from his toes, he vaulted over the wall, his body a silent arc in the darkness, and landed in the garden on the other side without a sound.
His spiritual sense spread out, mapping the entire compound. He located the two guards at the front gate, and two more patrolling the inner courtyard. The target, Fei, was in the master bedroom on the second floor, seemingly alone.
He moved through the ornate garden like a wisp of smoke, his dark robes blending perfectly with the deep shadows cast by the decorative rockeries. The first patrol was approaching. Two men, walking side-by-side.
[Void Flash Step]
He flickered. His movement was so fast, so silent, it didn't even stir the air. He appeared directly behind them. Before they could even register a change in the atmosphere, Glimmer was in his hands.
The blade was a whisper. One clean, horizontal slash. It passed through both of their necks simultaneously. For a split second, the two guards stood frozen, their conversation cut short. Then, their heads slid from their shoulders in perfect unison, their bodies slumping to the ground with a soft thud. Shen Mo was already moving before they hit the ground, a ghost leaving no trace but death.
He scaled the side of the building, clinging to the ornate latticework of a window frame. He peered into the master bedroom. Merchant Fei, a portly man in fine silk robes, was pacing nervously, a half-empty wine jug on his table. He was clearly agitated, likely regretting his decision to cheat a den of vipers.
The window was magically sealed. A minor inconvenience. Shen Mo placed his palm on the frame, channeling a thin, precise stream of his Qi. He didn't shatter the array; he found its weakest point, the node that regulated its energy flow, and overloaded it. The faint hum of the seal died with a soft crackle.
He slid the window open and slipped inside, as silent as the night itself.
Merchant Fei spun around, his eyes wide with terror. "Who—"
He never finished the question. Shen Mo crossed the room in a single flash step. He didn't even draw his sword. His hand shot out, his fingers clamped around the merchant's throat, stifling his scream. Fei's eyes bulged, his face turning purple as he clawed uselessly at the iron grip.
"The Ferrymen collect their debts," Shen Mo's voice was a cold, distorted rasp, muffled and warped by the shadow veil.
Crack.
With a simple, brutal twist, he snapped the merchant's neck. He held the body for a moment, letting it go limp before gently lowering it to the floor. No mess. No struggle. Professional.
He found the merchant's storage pouch. Inside was a small mountain of spirit stones. He quickly counted out the original contract price and the additional twenty percent penalty, pocketing it. He left the rest. The Ferrymen were not thieves; they were collectors.
His work was done. He exited through the window, closing it behind him. He retraced his steps, leaving the compound of death as silently as he had entered. The two guards at the front gate would not discover what had happened until their shift change in the morning. By then, he would be long gone.
He returned to the Drowned Rat. The bartender was still there, wiping the same glass. Shen Mo walked to the bar, placed a small, heavy pouch of spirit stones on the counter, and pushed it forward.
The bartender glanced at the pouch, then at the water clock on the wall. The entire task had taken less than two hours. He gave a slow, almost perceptible nod. He then pointed a thick thumb towards the beaded curtain.
Shen Mo passed through it once more, descending the stone steps into the cold, dark heart of the Ferrymen's lair. His first toll had been paid. His new life had truly begun.