From the Oracle Bone Tome, Li Ming pieced together how this world ranked its adepts: five tiers in all. Apprentices first—"mortals with a trickle of power." Then Essence to Qi. Qi to Spirit. Spirit to Void. And finally, Postnatal to Prenatal—the unity of man and heaven, Dao folding back into nature.
Apprentices were easy enough to imagine. Ziyuan, for example—she had a spark in her veins, but without the Tome she couldn't cast a single spell. A grade-schooler in robes. Even ten Ziyuans stacked together wouldn't rate a Kamar-Taj sorcerer's attention.
Essence meant the spark inherited from your parents. Qi was the primordial breath, stored in the kidneys in adulthood. Fill that reservoir and you became the kind of person who ate well, slept well, and could bench-press fate.
When he first blundered into the Mummy world, Li Ming himself was sitting at Essence to Qi—no method, just Merlin's circlet and enchanted draughts. His mana was a dye vat; when he needed more, he poured it in. Without Zhao Zheng's method, brute force might have gotten him to Spirit to Void, but no further. Postnatal to Prenatal? That smelled like demigod territory, still short of Asgard's Warriors Three. Sure, under perfect conditions he could kill them, but Asgardians carried ridiculous magical resistance. Small spells bounced. Big ones took time. And they weren't about to stand still while he chanted.
So he trained. While he tuned out the world and soaked in the Fountain of Eternal Life, a year blurred by.
His biggest gain: using the method to refine mana. Now he stood a fingertip past Qi to Spirit, and entry-level cantrips like spark-fire became a silent glance—one eyebrow singed, the other untouched. He mused: One more realm and I'll hurl eldritch fire bare-handed. Then only the sling ring stays indispensable; staff and rings become shelf candy.
At dusk, pruned from soaking too long, he was toweling off when a shout echoed into the cave.
"Master Li Ming? By order of the Commander, I bring a letter!"
Commander meant Zhao Zheng. Letter made him wary—please, not another scroll of seal script without punctuation.
"Come in," he called, dragging on a shirt.
A soldier in a greatcoat jogged in, rifle on his back. He saluted and held out an envelope. Modern script, neat hand: To Li Ming—Private.
Relief. At least he could read this one. He cracked the seal while Kreacher poured tea. By the end, Li Ming was rubbing his chin.
Two asks. First: lend Zhao the Oracle Bone Tome—he needed heavy artillery spells. Second: come to the Sushi Kingdom—things were getting messy.
Not because a single foe outclassed Zhao. Because there were too many gnats.
It had unfolded like this.
Six months earlier, Zhao hid his troops aboard camouflaged junks and, with sorcery at his back, sailed straight for the Sushi Kingdom. The fleet darted along the coast, raiding city after city to blood his men. At sea, if the enemy sent a picket, Zhao let his soldiers learn their rifles and grind the foe down. If the navy came heavy, he treated them like target practice—one sweep of spellcraft, and not a soul floated afterward.
Then came the land war. With Zhao reinforcing every push, they took several ports as forward bases. But spies saw everything. Word spread: the invaders wielded the supernatural.
At first, the island brass didn't believe it. Multiple confirmations later, panic. They begged the world for aid and scraped their archipelago for anyone with a whiff of occult—onmyōji, ninja, shrine keepers. If it could be pointed at Zhao's army, it was "ceremonially conscripted."
That's when Zhao's headache began.
The Sushi Kingdom loved to boast of "eight million gods." Every rock and ripple had a name, which meant every hedge wizard slapped "divine" on their pets and called them shikigami. Most onmyōji were Ziyuan-level midwits—but they could field hordes. And not all shikigami were borrowed from the spirit world. Plenty were home-brewed—yūrei, earth-bound ghosts stitched from human souls. If an onmyōji ran low, he ordered a killing and topped off his roster.
A sneeze from Zhao could wipe a dozen away. But his men were mortal. Immortal stamina didn't make them mage-proof. Even a weak shikigami could knife a few soldiers. A dead man was still dead.
Zhao's temper frayed. Every night brought fresh casualties from things that slithered through keyholes. Smashing the ghosts changed nothing. The onmyōji stayed well back and puppeted from afar. Kick in one coven's door, and another nest spewed vermin into the camps.
Then came the "helpers." Nations declared they would send troops to aid the Sushi Kingdom. Whether they came to help or to bag Zhao for vivisection was anyone's guess. Either way—more boots, more guns.
So Zhao pulled his lines tight, collapsed exposed positions, and warded the army personally. His letter asked Li Ming to shield the camps while he scythed down the incoming expeditionary forces. After that, they'd squash the onmyōji like houseflies.
Meanwhile, the courier kept side-eyeing the teapot that refilled itself. Seven cups, eight—and still pouring. He very much wanted to pick it up and check inside.
Li Ming set the letter aside. The soldier snapped to attention. "Master, when do we depart for Qin?"
"Qin?" Li Ming blinked, fighting an eye-roll. "Looks like His Majesty still can't let that go."
The soldier understood. He liked it. He was Qin to the bone. The name reminded them who they were, even overseas.
Li Ming turned to Kreacher. "Pack it up. We're moving." Inside, his grin was wicked: Finally—time to see if the famed island beauties live up to the stories.
Minutes later, under the soldier's baffled stare, Kreacher had swallowed the camp into luggage. The man had crammed months of modern crash courses, but he still couldn't place what kind of creature Kreacher was. If Li Ming weren't tight with the Commander, he'd have asked.
"All right," Li Ming said, offering an arm. "Hold tight."
The soldier gripped. Li Ming dissolved into black vapor. Half an hour of wraithflight later, they condensed beside Zhao Zheng's command tent.
Inside, Zhao was mapping annihilation for the foreign "aid" when a surge of magic brushed his wards. He stepped out smiling. "Li Ming. Long time."
He glanced at the courier, who'd dropped to a crouch, gulping air. "What's wrong with him?"
Li Ming rubbed his neck. "Side effect of my flight. He'll be fine."
Zhao nodded once, expression cooling—as if the man's wobble embarrassed him in front of a guest. He stood aside. "Enter." To the soldier: "Useless. Go rest."
The tone was iron, but the man heard the mercy in it. Another Zhao might have ordered lashes. He saluted, crooked grin on his face, and let a comrade steer him away.
Inside, Li Ming drifted to the campaign table. Colored pins bristled from a war map like a child's birthday cake.
Zhao's voice was almost amused. "Each color is a different nation's expeditionary force. More are en route. Give me three days to scythe down the ones already here, and the rest will tuck tail and run. I won't bother giving them pins."
Li Ming pulled the Oracle Bone Tome from his sling bag and passed it over. "Don't kill them all," he said dryly. "What a waste. Round them up, work the mines. Soldiers make excellent labor. And it's not like you don't know curse-seals. What exactly do you think they'll run from?"
Zhao Zheng took the Oracle Bone Tome and chuckled. "Problem is, I don't need more labor." He pointed toward the city under their feet, half amused, half exasperated. "I don't know how vicious these islanders get in that future war you spoke of, but to my eye they're the best workers I could ask for."
"All the miners are locals I rounded up. They're obedient and easy to feed—so easy I don't even assign rations. We just give them the soldiers' leftovers. If there's meat among the scraps, they drop to their knees and thank me. When there aren't enough scraps, they dig wild greens around the pits to fill their bellies."
He laughed, short and sharp. "One night a miner slipped out hungry to gather greens. The patrol spotted him. Before my men could close in, every other miner in that hut bolted out barefoot, dragged him back inside—and my soldiers thought it was a riot. When they pushed in, they realized the islanders were terrified he'd bring punishment down on them. To 'prevent misunderstandings,' they stoned him to death on the spot. Tell me—where else can I find labor that… cooperative?"
He waved it off like a bar joke. "They do have habits I dislike. All that bowing and scraping wastes time. Slows the dig. Any tips on breaking it?"
To Li Ming it didn't sound like a joke. It sounded like Zhao showing off—look how thoroughly I've domesticated them. And something about that midnight "foraging" gnawed at him.
The Sushi Kingdom, in Zhao's grip, was clay—soft, yielding, easy to mold. But under the surface obedience, Li Ming sensed a wolf's snarl waiting. He's an emperor, Li Ming thought. Preaching won't land. Nudge him sideways.
He shrugged. "Break it? Why? Double down. Make the etiquette stricter. Best case, they bow three times to the latrine before untying their belt. And if they carry that habit onto the battlefield? Even better. Picture it: your lines and theirs are steel to steel. They charge with bayonets… and stop to bow three times before stabbing." He tilted his head. "What would you do?"
Zhao rolled his eyes. "Wait politely for the third bow? I'd run him through."
Absurd. Bowing to a living enemy? Why not hand out incense sticks instead of rifles and let them pay respects before dying?
But Li Ming just watched him with that look—keep going.
Zhao narrowed his eyes, thinking it through. "You're saying their servility isn't deep enough yet? That I should etch it into their bones?"
"That's not it." Li Ming steepled his fingers. "I'm asking: how hard would it be to train a nation to bow to the latrine?"
Zhao considered. "Not hard."
"And to train them to bow on the battlefield before they strike?"
A beat. A wry twitch at his mouth. "Feels insane, but… maybe not hard either."
Li Ming lifted a shoulder. "Maybe. Maybe not. Now ask the real question—do you want to rule a people who bow to the latrine?"
Zhao's look said, Only a ghost would want that.
Li Ming ignored it. His eyes were cold when he smiled. "If you don't want them, give them to me. All of them."
Zhao frowned. "All the people of the Sushi Kingdom? To what end?"
"Nothing dramatic." Li Ming leaned in, voice low. "I've been studying gu and wraith-breeding. Hand them over; I strip their souls and raise one supreme wraith the gu way. What do you think?"
Even Zhao felt a chill. To raise high-grade gu, insects devoured insects by the millions. Wraiths fed on flesh and blood. Combine both methods into one apex horror? That smelled like wiping the islands clean.
"No." Zhao shook his head. "I need them—especially the women." Li Ming started to reply; Zhao cut him off with a palm. "Do you know how many soldiers I command?"
Li Ming shook his head. He hadn't watched the terracotta ranks turn to living men.
"Have you ever seen an ancient army made mostly of women? Half women?" Zhao rubbed his brow, awkwardly earnest. "Every soldier I've raised is a man. Blood hot, hearts set on families. Immortal or not, some still want a home and a child or two. How do bachelors carry on the line?"
He went on, matter-of-fact. "So I sent the local men to the mines. The women farm for the army—we can't buy and steal forever—and they'll carry the burden of our lineage. Which is why I won't hand them to your cauldrons."
Li Ming scratched his head. Immortal men still worried about heirs? Eternal life and you're fretting about the family tree?
But the mining story wouldn't let go. "Your Majesty—are you sure that miner went out for greens?"
Zhao glanced over. "I knew you'd ask. I used a soul-search. He was just foraging. Wrong place, wrong fear. An unlucky death."
"Soul-search." Li Ming's eyes narrowed. "In front of the miners?" Zhao nodded. "So they know your face."
Zhao stilled. "You're suggesting someone used a shikigami to steer him—let an infiltrator get a clean look at me for a future curse or a knife?"
"Or he volunteered to be bait." Li Ming tapped his chin. "Either way, that 'accidental' stoning smells like silencing a witness. Did you read the memories of the ones who threw the rocks?"
"There were… many hands." Zhao's gaze cooled. "Hard to tell whose stone killed him."
Good, Li Ming thought. The doubt is finally in.
He pressed. "You said it yourself: he was just hungry. Don't you think his bunkmates knew? Yet they chose to crush his skull. Cruel? I'd say so. That's not how people act—that's how tools act."
Zhao's face darkened. He didn't answer.
Li Ming drew a breath and let it go. "Do you feel invincible yet?"
Zhao's head turned, bleak humor in his eyes. In Qin he'd learned that individuals hardly moved battlefields; armies did. In this age, even with sorcery, what was one man against a machine gun? Against a bomb? He could claim unmatched one-on-one—maybe. But invincible? Hardly.
"Here's what I see," Li Ming said softly. "These islanders have twisted hearts. They're obedient because they're scared of you. If you told them to eat dung, they'd smile and pretend it tasted like truffles. But—" He leaned in. "The day a stronger master appears—or the day technology gives them a weapon that bites even you—remember how those miners treated their own. Then ask yourself how these mild, bowing faces will treat you."
Zhao lifted a hand, palm out, eyes gone flat. "Enough. Leave me. I'll consider it."
Li Ming nodded once and stepped out into the wind.