For ten days, the subterranean lava tube was Shen Mo's tomb and his sanctuary. He lay in the absolute darkness, his body a canvas of agony, his mind a fractured landscape. The physical injuries were the least of his concerns; it was the gaping wound in his soul, the phantom limb where Ghost 1 used to be, that was the source of his torment. It was a constant, grinding ache that no amount of meditation could soothe, a spiritual bleed that left him feeling hollowed out and incomplete.
He consumed the last of his healing salves and Qi restoration pills, his meager resources barely enough to stabilize his condition. He forced himself into a meditative state, not to cultivate, but simply to hold his shattered consciousness together. He focused on the first layer of the [Nine-Layered Pagoda Meditation], rebuilding the metaphysical walls brick by painstaking brick. The process was grueling. Every attempt to focus was met with waves of psychic pain from his soul injury.
By the eleventh day, he was functional. His physical wounds had scabbed over, and his Qi was no longer in chaotic turmoil, but the soul wound remained, a deep well of weakness. He knew he could not stay hidden forever. Elder Jin would not give up the hunt easily. He had to return to the only place that offered any semblance of safety: the heart of the beast itself.
The journey back to Blacksand Oasis was a paranoid, nerve-wracking ordeal. He traveled only at night, using what little Qi he had to maintain the [Misty Shadow Form]. He moved like a wounded animal, flinching at every unexpected sound, his spiritual sense a weak, flickering candle in the vast darkness. He was a ghost haunted by his own failure.
When he finally reached the city walls, he didn't go to his boarding house. He didn't seek the comfort of his luxurious room. He walked directly to the Drowned Rat. He was a battered, desperate man, and he had no other recourse. He was going to confront the shadows.
He pushed through the tavern door, his presence a vortex of cold fury and pain that made the few drunken patrons instinctively shy away. He walked to the bar, his crimson eyes, burning with a feverish light, locking onto the massive bartender. He didn't present a pouch or a token. He simply stared.
The bartender met his gaze, his own dead eyes showing a flicker of surprise at Shen Mo's wretched state. After a long, tense moment, he gave a slow nod and jerked his head towards the beaded curtain.
Shen Mo descended the stone steps, his every step an effort of will. He strode into the vast, moss-lit hall, past the silent, veiled Ferrymen, and walked directly to the Toll Taker's desk. He didn't stop at the respectful ten paces. He walked right up to the desk of polished black stone and slammed his Iron Oarsman's plaque down upon it. The sharp crack echoed in the cavernous silence.
"I require an explanation," Shen Mo's voice was a low, dangerous rasp, warped by his veil and raw with pain.
The Toll Taker's mirrored veil tilted, the void-like surface reflecting his own battered, furious image back at him. "You have failed your contract, Oarsman. It is you who owes an explanation."
"My contract was a death sentence," Shen Mo shot back, his voice rising. "The intelligence was flawed. Mad Dog Kang knew I was coming. He knew my codename. He was paid by an outside party to set a trap. The Azure Wind Sect convoy had two additional seventh-level protectors that were not in the briefing. This organization prides itself on flawless intelligence. Twice, I have been sent into a slaughterhouse based on your 'flawless' information. This was not a contract. It was a betrayal."
He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. "Was it a test? Am I so disposable that you would use my life to probe an unknown enemy? Or is there a traitor in your midst, selling your Ferrymen's lives for a pouch of spirit stones?"
A heavy, dangerous silence descended on the hall. The other Ferrymen, who had remained like statues, now shifted, their veiled heads turning towards the unprecedented confrontation at the desk. The air grew thick with a pressure that had nothing to do with cultivation and everything to do with the fury of a slighted god.
The Toll Taker did not move for a full minute. When it finally spoke, its voice was not the cold, raspy tone he was used to. It was a low, guttural snarl, a sound of pure, condensed rage that seemed to make the very air vibrate.
"You accuse us of betrayal?"
The Toll Taker slowly rose from its seat. "The incident with the bandit Kang was flagged. The client was a minor noble house, using a complex series of intermediaries. We began an investigation, but such things take time. Your success in that mission was... unexpected, and it muddied the waters."
"This second incident," the Toll Taker's voice dropped to a deadly whisper, "is an intolerable insult. To provide us with deliberately false intelligence is an act of war. To use one of our own contracts as a weapon against us is a blasphemy that has not occurred in three hundred years."
Shen Mo stood his ground, but he could feel the sheer, overwhelming killing intent pouring off the Toll Taker. This was not the anger of a bureaucrat; it was the fury of a predator whose territory had been violated.
"We do not betray our own, Vermillion Ghost," the Toll Taker snarled. "We are not a righteous sect, full of posturing and internal strife. We are a business. And you are our asset. To damage an asset is bad for business."
The Toll Taker raised a slender, pale hand. Two figures detached themselves from the shadows of the hall and appeared before the desk. Their auras were so vast, so ancient and powerful, that Shen Mo felt his own cultivation stagnate in their presence. They were Helmsmen.
"Helmsman Wraith," the Toll Taker commanded, its voice ringing with absolute authority. "The client for the Kang contract was the House of Jin in Verdant Oasis. Go there. Leave nothing but dust and screams. I want their entire bloodline erased from this world. Seize their treasury."
The figure called Wraith, whose shadow veil seemed to drip with an unnatural cold, gave a single, sharp nod and vanished. Not with a flash step, but by simply dissolving into the shadows.
"Helmsman Asphodel," the Toll Taker turned to the second figure, whose presence felt like the beautiful, deadly poison of a rare flower. "The client for the Azure Wind Sect contract was the Silent Water Sect. They sought to eliminate a rival and test our reach. Go to their mountain. I want their sect bell to ring a funeral dirge for a thousand years. Burn their scripture halls. Salt their spirit fields. Seize their vaults."
Asphodel bowed gracefully and melted away, leaving behind the faint, sweet scent of death.
Shen Mo watched, stunned into silence. He had come here expecting a confrontation, a denial, perhaps even a punishment. He had not expected this. This was the true power of The Paid Ferrymen. It was not just an organization of killers; it was a force of nature, a subterranean empire that could erase a noble house and a powerful sect from existence with but a single command.
The Toll Taker settled back into its seat, the terrifying rage receding back into a cold, professional calm. "An example must be made. The world will be reminded that our contracts are absolute, and our intelligence is not to be tampered with. We have been insulted. And we always collect on our debts."
The mirrored veil turned back to Shen Mo. "You have been wronged by this affair. You have suffered. The organization will compensate you. One third of the wealth seized from the House of Jin and the Silent Water Sect will be delivered to your account with the Quartermaster. Consider it an apology."
Shen Mo was speechless. A third of the treasuries of an entire noble house and a cultivation sect? The amount of wealth would be astronomical, beyond anything he could have imagined.
"You are grievously wounded," the Toll Taker continued. "Your service is valued. You are granted an indefinite leave of absence to recover. The Quartermaster will provide you with anything you require. Do not return to duty until you are whole."
With a dismissive wave, the audience was over.
Shen Mo walked back to the Quartermaster's repository, his mind reeling. The old man was waiting for him, a knowing look in his sharp eyes.
"I heard the commotion," the Quartermaster said, a rare hint of sympathy in his voice. "A messy business. But profitable, for you."
"I need to heal," Shen Mo said, his voice still hoarse. "My soul is injured."
"A common, if unfortunate, consequence of our line of work," the old man nodded. "We have what you need. A Soul Mending Elixir. Brewed from the tears of a Spirit Naga and the heart of a thousand-year-old Soul-Calming Tree. It can mend even the most grievous spiritual wounds. The price is ten thousand mid-grade spirit stones."
It was a price that would bankrupt nations. But Shen Mo didn't flinch. "I will know the value of my compensation in a few days. I want the elixir. Whatever remains of my compensation, I want it converted into resources. A fifty-fifty split: half in high-grade spirit stones, the other half in the best Foundation Firming Pills you have. Leave nothing in the account. I want it all."
The Quartermaster's eyes gleamed with understanding. "An all-in wager on your own advancement. A bold move. Very well."
For the next week, Shen Mo waited. Then, the news began to trickle into Blacksand Oasis. The entire city was buzzing with two unbelievable stories. The wealthy House of Jin in Verdant Oasis had been annihilated overnight, their entire lineage slaughtered, their treasury vanished. And the powerful Silent Water Sect, a dominant force in the southern territories, had been attacked by a single, shadowy figure. Their elders were found dead, their sacred halls were a smoldering ruin, and their vaults were empty. The underworld was in an uproar. A clear, terrifying message had been sent.
A few days later, the Quartermaster informed him that his account had been credited with a sum that made his head spin. After the deduction for the elixir, the remaining fortune was converted into a small mountain of gleaming high-grade spirit stones and dozens of jade boxes containing precious, potent pills. His liquid assets were now effectively zero, all of it transformed into pure potential.
He returned to his room and began the long process of recovery. He consumed the Soul Mending Elixir. The taste was like liquid moonlight, and the moment it entered his system, a warm, soothing energy enveloped his fractured soul. The process was agonizing, like knitting together severed nerves one by one, but he persevered.
Months passed. The city outside moved on, but in his hidden room, time stood still. When the last of the elixir's energy was absorbed, he felt... whole. The gaping wound in his soul was gone. But it was not just healed. The scar tissue, the reforged essence of his being, was stronger, denser, and more resilient than before. His mind felt sharper, his control over his consciousness more absolute. The trial by fire had tempered his very spirit.
With his soul restored, his first priority was not cultivation. The rules of his art were absolute. He could not progress until his soul was complete, until he restored the clone he had lost. He sat cross-legged, the black feather of the Myriad Shadow Raven before him. He focused on the conceptual foundation of the Qi Condensation realm, the space Ghost 1 had once occupied. He poured his Qi into the feather, a massive, draining torrent of energy. A vortex of shadow erupted, and from it, a new, bare figure emerged, a perfect copy of himself. He named it Ghost 1 anew. The trinity was restored. The familiar mental strain returned, but his newly fortified mind handled it with a practiced ease.
Only now, with his soul whole again, could he begin his assault on his cultivation bottleneck. He created a massive array with the high-grade spirit stones, filling his room with a swirling vortex of pure, dense Qi. He consumed the Foundation Firming Pills one by one, their potent energy surging through his meridians. His cultivation, once a slow crawl, was now a thundering charge, fueled by an obscene amount of brute-force resources.
The seasons changed outside, but he did not notice. He was a man on a mission. He broke through to the seventh level. Then the eighth. The sheer density of Qi required was immense, but he had the resources to pay the price. Finally, after nearly a year of absolute seclusion, he opened his eyes.
The power thrumming through his body was immense. The Qi in his dantian was no longer a river, but a vast, deep lake, polished and condensed to its absolute limit. He was at the peak of the ninth level of Foundation Establishment, a single step away from forming a Golden Core.
He stood up, his body lean and hard as forged steel. He manifested his two clones, Ghost 1 and Ghost 2. They were now fully equipped, perfect mirrors of himself. The connection was stronger, clearer than ever before. His strengthened soul now managed the triple consciousness with ease.
He was healed. He was stronger. And he was ready.