The journey back to Blacksand Oasis was a surreal and deeply unsettling experience, a trial of mental fortitude that rivaled any physical battle Shen Mo had ever fought. In the silent, moonlit desolation of the badlands, he was no longer a single entity, but a trinity of consciousness bound together by a single soul.
His main body, which he now thought of as the 'Anchor', remained in the shallow cave, deep in a meditative trance. The primary focus of his will was here, guiding the slow, arduous process of healing. He directed the flow of Qi through his battered meridians, soothing the internal injuries from the array's blast and slowly replenishing his depleted reserves. The process was agonizingly slow. He could feel the permanent drag on his cultivation, the consequence of creating his clones. It was like trying to draw water from a well with two new holes drilled in the bucket; the spiritual energy he absorbed from the world seemed to dissipate in three directions at once, a third to him, a third to Ghost 1, and a third to Ghost 2. The reality of his crippled cultivation speed was a cold, hard weight in the pit of his stomach.
Meanwhile, Ghost 1 was his eyes and ears, a silent scout moving two miles ahead of his Anchor's position. It flitted from shadow to shadow, its movements swift and silent. Through its senses, Shen Mo experienced the whisper of the wind through a narrow canyon, the crunch of sand underfoot, the distant cry of a night hawk. It was unarmed and unarmored, a fragile vessel, but its purpose was not to fight. Its purpose was to see, and to ensure the path was safe.
Ghost 2 was his shield, a tireless sentinel positioned half a mile behind the cave, concealed perfectly within a cluster of jagged rocks. It remained utterly motionless, a living statue whose only function was to watch their backtrail. Through its senses, Shen Mo felt the patient stillness of the desert night, the slow crawl of a scorpion across a nearby rock, the subtle shifts in the wind that might carry the scent of an approaching enemy.
To say the experience was disorienting would be a profound understatement. In the beginning, it was a chaotic, nauseating storm of sensory input. While his Anchor body focused on the intricate flow of Qi, his mind was simultaneously processing the feeling of Ghost 1's feet on loose scree and the sight of the twin moons from Ghost 2's vantage point. It was a constant, three-pronged assault on his consciousness. Several times, the sheer sensory overload threatened to shatter his meditative state, causing his Qi to roil dangerously.
He quickly learned that he couldn't process everything at once. He had to learn to filter, to prioritize. He pushed the consciousness of his clones into the background, turning them into a subtle, peripheral awareness. He learned to treat their input less like his own senses and more like a detailed, real-time map overlaid on his mind's eye. The sharp, vertigo-inducing chaos slowly subsided, replaced by a dull, persistent headache and a deep, soul-level exhaustion that meditation could not touch. This was the price of the [Myriad Shadow Soul Art], a mental tax that would likely never go away.
After a full day of healing, his Anchor body had recovered enough to travel. Ghost 1 had confirmed the Black Fangs were not in pursuit; they were likely in disarray, a headless snake thrashing in its death throes. He recalled Ghost 2, and in a strange, almost seamless process, willed it to enter his body. The clone walked up to him, became ethereal, and merged into his chest, disappearing into the newly formed soul-space. The mental burden lessened slightly, the third stream of consciousness vanishing, though the drag on his cultivation remained. One clone stored, one active.
He left the cave, Ghost 1 still scouting far ahead, and began the long trek back to the city. The journey was tense. He was still injured, and now he had a new vulnerability. If one of his clones, lacking proper equipment and his primary weapon, Glimmer, were to be discovered and destroyed, he didn't know what the feedback would do to his soul. The imparted knowledge had been vague on that point, merely hinting at "grievous spiritual damage."
He arrived at the walls of Blacksand Oasis just before dawn on the fifth day, the absolute deadline for his contract. He recalled Ghost 1, storing it away alongside its brother. The sudden return to a single stream of consciousness was a profound relief, like surfacing after being held underwater. The world felt simpler, quieter.
He didn't enter the city immediately. Instead, he found a secluded spot to change out of his tattered Ferryman robes and into the simple traveling clothes he had given his clones. He reactivated his shadow veil, but with his ordinary attire, he no longer looked like an assassin of a legendary organization. He looked like any other down-on-his-luck rogue cultivator, a face that would be forgotten the moment it was seen.
He entered the city with the morning crowds and made his way to the Drowned Rat. The tavern was empty save for the massive, silent bartender, who was wiping down the counter with a dirty rag. Shen Mo walked to the bar. He placed Mad Dog Kang's storage pouch on the stained wood. Then, from his own pouch, he took a single, heavy piece of the rare ore he had taken from the cave—proof that he had reached the objective.
The bartender's dead eyes flickered to the pouch, then to the ore. He gave a slow, almost perceptible nod. He picked up the items and, without a word, disappeared through the beaded curtain.
Shen Mo waited. He didn't sit, didn't order a drink. He simply stood, a silent, veiled statue. Ten minutes later, the bartender returned. He placed a heavy pouch of spirit stones on the counter, along with Shen Mo's Oarsman plaque.
"The contract is complete," the bartender grunted, his first words to Shen Mo. His voice was like gravel grinding together. "The Toll Taker is pleased. Your payment, minus the thirty percent tithe."
Shen Mo took the pouch. A quick spiritual probe confirmed the presence of seventy mid-grade spirit stones. He then picked up his plaque. The crude oar symbol was now etched with a faint, bronze-colored inlay.
"Your rank has been recorded. You are a Bronze Oarsman, with one successful contract on your ledger." The bartender turned away, his duty done. The message was clear: get your reward and get out.
Shen Mo didn't go down to the Ferrymen's lair. He had no desire to face the Toll Taker just yet, not until he had time to think. He left the tavern and disappeared into the chaotic maze of Blacksand Oasis.
He returned to the rundown boarding house where he had stayed before, paying for another week in his windowless room. The moment the door was sealed, he let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He sank onto the cot, his mind a whirlwind.
He had succeeded. He had survived a trap that was meant to kill him. He had completed the contract and been paid. On the surface, it was a victory. But beneath the surface, the waters were dark and treacherous.
Someone had leaked his codename and his mission. Kang had known he was coming. The fact that the Toll Taker had paid him without question could mean one of two things. Either they were unaware of the leak, which seemed unlikely for an organization of their caliber, or they were aware and his survival was an unexpected, perhaps even unwelcome, outcome. Was the contract a test set by the organization itself, a way to see if he was resourceful enough to survive a betrayal?
And then there was the client. The one who had hired them to kill Kang, and then apparently paid Kang to kill him. It was a convoluted, dangerous game, and he was the piece being moved across the board. His life was forfeit if he couldn't figure out the players.
For now, direct investigation was impossible. He was a Bronze Oarsman, the lowest of the low. He had no power, no influence, and asking questions about a compromised contract would be tantamount to suicide. His only path forward was the one laid out by the organization: take contracts, grow stronger, and increase his rank. Power was the only currency that mattered in this world. With enough power, he could demand answers. Without it, he was just another disposable ghost.
His gaze fell upon his storage pouches. His priorities had shifted dramatically. He laid out his plan with cold, methodical precision.
First, recovery. He would spend the next few days in complete seclusion, using the spirit stones he had to fully heal his body and acclimate to the mental strain of his clones. He would practice manifesting and storing them, and work on processing the simultaneous streams of consciousness until the headache became manageable.
Second, resources. He needed to earn spirit stones, and quickly. That meant taking on more Oarsman contracts as soon as they became available. He would have to be a model assassin, efficient and flawless, to build his reputation and his wealth.
Third, soul and mind. The [Myriad Shadow Soul Art] was a double-edged sword. The mental strain was a critical weakness. He now had a new, urgent priority: to seek out any and all resources that could strengthen his soul and mind. Soul-nourishing pills, rare spiritual herbs, or even cultivation techniques focused on mental fortitude were no longer luxuries, but necessities for his survival and growth. Without a stronger mind, using his clones in a high-stakes battle would be a suicidal gamble.
Fourth, equipment. This was his most immediate and difficult problem. He unsheathed Glimmer, its pale gray steel absorbing the dim light of the room. It was a masterwork blade, his companion through countless battles. But it was unique. A single, irreplaceable weapon. For a man who was now three, it was a liability. His clones needed to be perfect extensions of himself, and that included their weapons. He couldn't afford any hesitation or unfamiliarity in the heat of battle. A cold, pragmatic decision formed in his mind, the kind a true professional makes. He would sell Glimmer. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, but it was necessary. A high-grade spiritual weapon like this would fetch a massive price in the black markets of the city. With those funds, plus his own, he could commission a master blacksmith to forge a set of three perfectly identical swords. They might be a step down in quality from Glimmer, but their uniformity was now a far greater strategic asset.
It was a daunting task. His cultivation speed was now permanently crippled, a fact that gnawed at him. He had briefly entertained the idea of having his clones cultivate alongside him, but the knowledge from the feather had been cruelly specific on that point. Only the Anchor, the original body, could actively cultivate and absorb Qi from the heavens and earth. The clones were reflections of his soul, sharing in its state but unable to improve it on their own.
He hadn't sacrificed his long-term potential, merely the speed at which he would reach it. But what he had gained in return was a terrifying advantage. At the sixth level of Foundation Establishment, he now possessed the combat power of three cultivators of the same level. He was, in effect, a one-man assassination squad. Against any single opponent in his realm, he was an unbeatable force. It was a trade-off: a massive increase in his immediate tactical power and versatility at the cost of a slower journey to the higher realms.
He looked at his hands. He had made his choice in that dark cave. He had chosen the path of the ghost with two shadows. There was no going back.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He manifested his two clones within the small room. They stood silently, bare and waiting for his command. He was no longer just Shen Mo. He was Vermillion Ghost. And his war in the shadows had just begun.