By the time Mo Fan returned to his ramshackle hut, darkness had fully descended.
He lit an oil lamp and sat down at a wooden table riddled with cracks, taking stock of his "war reserves."
Beyond the pouch of low-grade Spirit Stones that absolutely could not see the light of day, he didn't actually have much in the way of liquid assets.
The pair of Bloodshot Demon Eyes lay wrapped carefully in two layers of oiled paper. These were core materials from a tier-one mid-rank Spirit Beast—the lever he intended to use to shift the gears of fate.
Besides that, there was the freshly-tanned Demon-Eye Rabbit Pelt, still carrying a faint coppery smell, and several stalks of companion spirit grass he'd plucked while pretending to gather herbs.
"Your sadness is too shallow, like a talentless actor~"
Mo Fan hummed a little tune as he practiced expressions in front of the water basin, studying his reflection. He was rehearsing a look of "humble but sincere" gratitude.
Corners of the mouth raised fifteen degrees. Gaze angled slightly downward.
Project an air of simple-minded honesty from someone who hasn't seen much of the world—but not so much as to seem stupid.
This was a survival instinct honed in his previous life as an "academic laborer," cultivated through countless encounters with clients and thesis advisors.
After straightening his clothes, Mo Fan tucked the items into his robe, blew out the oil lamp, and settled in to wait for tomorrow's performance.
The Outer Sect Menial Affairs Office of the Azure Cloud Sect.
Located at the center of several hundred menial villages, the office was already bustling despite the early morning hour, with people streaming in and out in endless currents.
From Mo Fan's vantage point, he could see countless village heads hunched over like Old Lü, queuing in long lines—some to deliver this month's spirit grain quota, others to beg for a few extra winter coats.
The Azure Cloud Sect's outer sect administered three hundred menial villages, with tens of thousands of mortals and bottom-rung cultivators dependent on it.
Such a massive population base meant that "Spirit-Root Testing"—an activity that should have been a benefit—had become a significant resource drain. After all, activating a spirit-testing stone burned Spirit Stones too.
With limited resources, they had no choice but to implement a "quota allocation system."
And that was the fertile soil from which unofficial rules grew.
Mo Fan avoided the crowded main hall, navigating with practiced ease to a side chamber. There, a middle-aged fat man sat with his legs crossed, sipping tea while berating his subordinates.
Steward Liu.
The same petty official Old Lü had mentioned—"greedy for money, but reasonable enough"—who had accepted spirit grass to cover up Mo Fan's injury report.
"Well, well. Isn't this the little Lu Seven who broke his leg?"
Spotting Mo Fan limping in, Steward Liu raised an eyebrow and set down his teacup.
"What's this? Shouldn't you be lying in bed like a corpse? What brings you to my door? Let me be clear—if you can't meet this quarter's quota, broken leg or not, your pay gets docked."
"Uncle Liu, you wound me."
Mo Fan's face instantly arranged itself into an expression of guileless warmth. Rather than approaching directly, he drifted naturally to Steward Liu's side, positioning himself to block the view of others nearby.
"I've just recovered enough to move around a bit, and my first thought was to come pay my respects. Your generosity last time—Little Seven has kept that kindness close to his heart."
As he spoke, he produced the neatly folded Demon-Eye Rabbit Pelt from his robe as if by sleight of hand. Bundled with it were several stalks of Tranquility Grass tied with red string.
The whole package slid silently into Steward Liu's sleeve.
Steward Liu's arm dipped with the weight. A brief touch told him this was quality merchandise.
That rabbit pelt especially—the fur gleamed, without a single blemish. Perfect for making knee warmers, or perhaps a scarf for the wife back home.
"Ahem."
Steward Liu withdrew his hand without changing expression. The stiff face he'd worn moments ago melted away like rendered lard.
"You've got some conscience, kid. Out with it then. Nobody climbs a holy mountain without a reason. Let me guess—you want me to arrange some light duty for you during the preliminary selection for the Grand Competition?"
"Uncle Liu sees right through me. But actually, what I've brought today is an even greater fortune—one meant for the 'sky' above our little corner of the world."
Mo Fan lowered his voice conspiratorially, pointing upward.
Steward Liu started, then caught on: "You mean... Deacon Wang?"
Deacon Wang. Mid-stage Qi Condensation cultivation. He oversaw "miscellaneous affairs and personnel" for dozens of surrounding villages—a genuine power broker who could decide spirit-testing quotas.
"I stumbled upon something rare in the back mountains."
Mo Fan patted his chest. "A treasure like this is a curse in my hands. Only in the Deacon's possession could it truly shine—a fine sword presented to a worthy hero. But someone of my status would never dare disturb the Deacon's peace directly, so..."
"You want me to make an introduction?"
Steward Liu studied Mo Fan through narrowed eyes. He was a clever man. If Mo Fan dared call it "something rare," it must be worth far more than this rabbit pelt.
If he could gain face before Deacon Wang, he as the introducer would naturally share in the glory.
"Fine."
Steward Liu rose, adjusting his robes. "Consider yourself lucky, kid. Deacon Wang happens to be reviewing accounts in the inner hall today. Follow me, keep your wits about you, and don't run your mouth."
The inner hall's décor was noticeably more luxurious—thick carpets covering the floor, the air suffused with faint sandalwood incense.
Deacon Wang was a jowly middle-aged man, currently sprawled in an armchair. He was rolling two iron walnuts between his fingers, his face a mask of impatience.
"Old Liu, what's the meaning of bringing some menial in here? If this quarter's spirit grain quota comes up short, no amount of begging will help."
Deacon Wang didn't even raise his eyelids. The arrogance of a superior practically oozed from him.
"Sir, this boy says he found a treasure in the back mountains and wishes to present it to you." Steward Liu wore an ingratiating smile as he gave Mo Fan a push.
Mo Fan stepped forward smoothly. Before Deacon Wang could erupt, he executed a textbook deep bow.
"Deacon, sir. This humble one is Lu Seven. Greetings and well-wishes."
Neither servile nor presumptuous, he cut straight to the point.
"Though my eyes are untrained, I know that treasures possess spirits—they choose their masters. This item burns in my hands. Only in your possession, sir, can it fulfill its true purpose."
The flattery was delivered without fanfare, yet it settled quite comfortably on Deacon Wang.
"Oh? Big words for a small man."
Deacon Wang finally opened his eyes, regarding Mo Fan with newfound interest.
"Let's see it then. If you've brought me garbage as a joke, you know the consequences."
Mo Fan wasted no words. He drew from his robe a tightly wrapped oiled paper bundle, setting it on the desk and gently unfolding it.
Hmmmm.
As the paper parted, a faint aura of blood-malice spread through the room.
Two eyeballs the size of walnuts lay there—entirely crimson, with what appeared to be blood vessels still swimming within. They rested quietly on the desk, emitting a subtle red glow.
The Bloodshot Demon Eyes.
Deacon Wang's own eyes went perfectly round. He jerked upright in his chair, and the iron walnuts slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the table.
As a mid-stage Qi Condensation cultivator, he knew exactly what these were worth. Primary materials for refining "Illusion-Breaking Artifacts" or "Clear-Sight Pills"!
Even if he didn't use it himself, these would fetch at least five or six low-grade Spirit Stones on the black market.
That was three months of his salary!
"These are... eyeballs from a tier-one mid-rank Demon-Eye Rabbit?"
Deacon Wang drew a deep breath. He reached out to take them, then noticed that Mo Fan's hands hadn't withdrawn—they remained respectfully positioned at the edge of the desk.
The moment of transaction had arrived.
"Sir has excellent eyes."
Mo Fan smiled, his fingers gently nudging the pair of eyes forward, placing them within the Deacon's easy reach.
A psychological suggestion: The goods are already yours, but I still have something to say.
"This humble one has a younger brother named A-Song. He just turned ten this year. I wished to request a spirit-testing quota for three months from now."
Deacon Wang's hand paused in midair.
His brow furrowed. That greedy gleam receded somewhat, replaced by his practiced bureaucratic manner.
"A quota? Ah, that's difficult indeed. This year's quotas were distributed long ago. You know how many people are trying to jump the line these days..."
He was raising the price.
Mo Fan sneered internally, but his face remained a picture of humble anxiety.
"Sir, this humble one understands your difficulties. But this child... I've observed that his bone structure is exceptional. Truly remarkable."
Mo Fan leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, and delivered the killing blow:
"Consider this, sir: if this child actually tests positive for Spirit Roots—even low-grade ones—he'll have emerged from a village under your jurisdiction."
"When the higher-ups review the records, they'll see that you had the discerning eye to identify talent for the sect. That merit of recommendation... it will all be credited to your name."
Deacon Wang froze.
He looked at Mo Fan, and for the first time, there was genuine regard in his eyes.
This kid... he gets it!
This wasn't just a gift. This was offering political achievements!
The goods would be his. The credit would be his. And all this kid wanted was a quota that was essentially worthless otherwise. No matter how you calculated it, this deal was pure profit.
"Ha ha ha ha!"
Deacon Wang suddenly burst into laughter, his fleshy cheeks quivering. He snatched up the demon eyes, caressing them fondly. Then, almost as an afterthought, he unclipped a wooden token from his belt and tossed it to Mo Fan.
"Good! I appreciate a young man with such awareness. Bring that child in three months. I'll have his name added to the list."
Mo Fan caught the token steadily, and the weight on his heart finally lifted.
The admission ticket—secured.
Deacon Wang, riding high on his excellent mood, seemed to feel this display of "generosity" wasn't quite magnanimous enough. He tossed out another casual pointer:
"Consider yourselves lucky—you've hit a good window. If this batch of spirit testing actually produces some quality seedlings, they'll be just in time for the Outer Division Grand Tournament in six months."
"It's a once-every-three-years event. If someone manages to make a showing there, even an outer division menial could have a shot at turning their fate around."
Six months.
Outer Division Grand Tournament.
Mo Fan's pupils contracted slightly.
This was a critical intelligence node.
Spirit testing in three months—that was A-Song's checkpoint. The Grand Tournament in six months—that was everyone's checkpoint.
"Many thanks for the guidance, my lord!"
Mo Fan bowed deeply once more, then made his exit with impeccable tact, not lingering a single second longer than necessary.
Stepping through the administrative office doors, he was greeted by the cool night breeze.
Mo Fan touched the cold wooden token tucked against his chest, then felt his empty sleeves.
The Demon Eyes and Rabbit Pelt he'd nearly died to obtain had become someone else's pocket change in the blink of an eye.
But he didn't feel a shred of regret.
"Two eyeballs in exchange for a loyal little brother with limitless potential? The ROI on this investment is off the charts."
Mo Fan glanced back at the brightly lit administrative office, a mocking smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"'The King of Hell is easy to meet, but the little demons are hard to deal with?' Heh."
"As long as the price is right, even demons will push your millstone for you."
"Six months..."
He murmured to himself.
When the time came, he absolutely had to find a way to join in on this so-called Grand Tournament. After all, there would certainly be plenty of fresh experience waiting for him there.