Shen Mo descended the stone steps for the second time that night, the heavy iron door booming shut behind him, sealing him once again in the cold, silent heart of the Ferrymen's lair. The atmosphere in the vast, moss-lit chamber felt different now. Before, he had been an intruder, an unknown variable being judged. Now, having paid his first toll in blood and spirit stones, he was one of them. The dozens of veiled figures scattered throughout the hall remained motionless, but he could feel a subtle shift in their perception of him—a transition from suspicion to a cold, professional acceptance.
He walked across the smooth flagstones, his footsteps the only sound, and stopped once more before the massive desk of polished black stone. The Toll Taker sat as before, an enigmatic void in the shape of a person.
"The debt on Fei is settled," the raspy, androgynous voice stated, not as a question, but as a fact. "The cleansing was clean. The payment was exact. Your probation is concluded."
From beneath the desk, the Toll Taker produced a small, flat wooden plaque, no bigger than Shen Mo's palm. It was carved from dark, aged wood, and on its surface was a single, crudely etched symbol of an oar.
"You are now a Bronze Oarsman," the Toll Taker explained, its voice devoid of any congratulatory tone. "This is the lowest rank within The Paid Ferrymen. Oarsmen handle the simple crossings—cleansings, debt collections, and the elimination of mortals or low-level cultivators who have slighted us. Your performance on these tasks will determine your future."
The plaque slid across the desk, stopping before him. Shen Mo picked it up. It was cool to the touch.
"Our structure is simple, Vermillion Ghost. It is a river, and we all have our place in the boat. The ranks are divided into five grades: Bronze, Iron, Silver, Gold, and Black Gold. You are a Bronze Oarsman, the muscle that pulls us forward. Prove your worth, complete your contracts without error, and you may one day ascend through the grades to become a Black Gold Oarsman. Only then are you eligible to challenge for the rank of Ferryman."
The Toll Taker's slender, pale hand gestured vaguely towards the silent figures in the hall. "They are Ferrymen, ranging from Bronze to Black Gold. They are the core of our organization, tasked with the true work of assassination. Their targets are clan heirs, sect disciples, and established experts. They are the reason our name is whispered in fear."
The voice dropped, taking on a heavier, more significant tone. "Above the Ferrymen are the Helmsmen. They are the elite, the masters of our craft who steer our course. Their targets are patriarchs, elders, and those whose deaths can shift the balance of power in a kingdom. To even speak their codenames is to invite disaster."
"And above them?" Shen Mo asked, his curiosity piqued.
The mirrored veil seemed to focus on him, a palpable weight pressing down. "Above them are the ones who command the fleet. You are not worthy of that knowledge. Know your place, Oarsman. Do your job, and you will be rewarded. Fail, and you will be forgotten."
The message was clear. This was a world of rigid hierarchy, built on a foundation of successful kills. To ascend, one had to prove their lethality time and time again.
"Your quarters have been assigned," the Toll Taker continued, gesturing to one of the hulking figures standing near a pillar. The Ferryman gave a stiff, silent nod and began walking towards a dark, unlit corridor Shen Mo hadn't noticed before. "Follow Ferryman 'Silence.' He will show you to your dwelling. Rest. Await your next contract."
Shen Mo followed the assassin, who moved with an unnerving lack of sound. They passed through the corridor into a network of tunnels, all carved from the same black rock. The air here was even colder. After a few minutes of walking, 'Silence' stopped before a simple, unmarked stone door and pushed it open before melting back into the shadows without a word.
Expecting a spartan cell, Shen Mo was taken aback by what he found. The room was a hidden sanctuary of surprising luxury. The floor was covered by a thick, soft rug woven from the fur of some snow-white demonic beast. The bed was a large, comfortable frame of dark, polished wood, piled high with silk sheets and fur blankets. A finely crafted desk and chair sat in one corner, while a set of shelves held various teas and wines. The light came not from glowing moss, but from several fist-sized pearls embedded in the ceiling, casting a soft, warm glow that could be brightened or dimmed with a touch of Qi. Most impressively, the floor was inscribed with the faint, silver lines of a permanent Qi-gathering array, which pulled the ambient spiritual energy of the earth into the room, making it an ideal place for cultivation. It was a golden cage, a luxurious tomb, a statement that while their work was bloody, their rewards were commensurate. The Paid Ferrymen lived better in the dark than most nobles did in the light.
Shen Mo sat on the edge of the bed, the silence of his new home pressing in on him. He finally had a moment to himself, a moment to take stock. He emptied the storage pouch he had taken from Scythe, the slain Ferryman leader. The contents were practical and valuable. There were over five hundred mid-grade spirit stones, a small fortune for a lone mercenary. There were several vials of pills—high-grade healing salves, Qi-restoration pills, and a potent-smelling antidote for at least a dozen common poisons.
But the most valuable items were three scrolls.
The first scroll was a detailed map of the southern territories, marked with dozens of cryptic symbols. He recognized some as locations of hidden caches or safe houses, information that was priceless to anyone living outside the law.
The second scroll contained a cultivation art called the [Misty Shadow Form]. It was not a combat technique, but a concealment art. When practiced to a high level, it allowed a cultivator to blend their aura with the surrounding atmosphere, making them nearly undetectable to spiritual sense. For an assassin, this was a divine technique. Scythe and his team had used a rudimentary version of it, but the scroll detailed the full, profound art.
The third scroll was a manual of techniques for the scythe, Scythe's chosen weapon. While the weapon itself was useless to him, the principles behind the techniques—angles of attack, manipulation of killing intent, and Qi control—were universal. He could adapt some of them to his own sword style.
He had struck a fortune in the midst of disaster. These resources, combined with the backing of The Paid Ferrymen, would allow his cultivation to advance at a speed he could only have dreamed of as a simple mercenary.
He spent the next two days in his luxurious room, a ghost in his own tomb. He didn't sleep. He activated the room's array, a dense wave of pure Qi washing over him, and used it to fuel his recovery. He finally purged the last of the debilitating after-effects of the Berserker's Bloodsoul Pill. His meridians healed, stronger and more resilient than before, tempered by the violent energy. He studied the [Misty Shadow Form] with obsessive focus, memorizing its intricate Qi pathways. He didn't have time to master it, but he managed to grasp the basics, learning to soften the edges of his aura, to make his presence less like a sharp stone and more like a gentle breeze.
On the morning of the third day, a faint chime echoed in his room. It came from the Oarsman's plaque, which he had placed on the table. A new contract had been issued.
He returned to the main hall. It was as silent and still as he had left it. The Toll Taker sat behind their desk, a timeless fixture of the underworld.
"Vermillion Ghost," the raspy voice echoed as he approached. "Your first official contract has arrived. The client has paid the deposit. The target has been chosen."
Another black jade slip slid across the desk. Shen Mo took it, and the information flooded his mind.
Target: "Mad Dog" Kang.
Cultivation: Peak Sixth Level, Foundation Establishment.
Identity: Leader of the "Black Fangs," a notorious bandit group operating in the badlands east of Blacksand Oasis.
Details: Kang is a vicious and paranoid rogue cultivator. He recently plundered a shipment of rare ores belonging to a client of The Paid Ferrymen. The client wants him dead and the ores retrieved.
Known Associates: The Black Fangs number around thirty, a mix of Qi Condensation and low-level Foundation Establishment cultivators. Kang is never seen without his two lieutenants, both at the fourth level of Foundation Establishment.
Location: Fortified camp in the Serpent's Tooth Canyon.
Time Limit: Five days.
Payment: One hundred mid-grade spirit stones upon completion.
This was a significant step up from the merchant Fei. Mad Dog Kang was a cultivator of equal standing to Shen Mo's own base level, and he was surrounded by a small army. This wasn't a simple cleansing; it was a true assassination, requiring infiltration, strategy, and overwhelming force at the decisive moment.
"The Black Fangs are rabid dogs," the Toll Taker's voice cut through his thoughts. "But they are still dogs. A true Ferryman does not concern himself with the barking of strays. He simply puts them down. Do not disappoint us."
"Understood," Shen Mo said, crushing the jade slip.
He returned to his room only long enough to gather his things. He strapped Glimmer to his back, secured his pouches, and made sure the shadow veil amulet was fastened securely. He was ready.
Ascending the stairs and leaving the Drowned Rat, he felt the warm night air of Blacksand Oasis on his skin. He didn't head for the city gates. Instead, he moved to the rooftops, a dark-robed specter flitting across the sandstone buildings under the light of the twin moons.
The Serpent's Tooth Canyon was a two-day journey on foot, a treacherous maze of rock and shadow. He would need to be at his best. As he left the city walls behind, melting into the darkness of the surrounding desert, he felt a strange sense of calm. The life of a mercenary had been about uncertainty, about scrambling for the next meal, the next job. This was different. This was a hunt. He had a target, a purpose. He was no longer just a survivor.