Moments later, most of the foot traffic in the market had converged around Mo Fan's stall, creating quite the bustling scene.
However, so-called "bustling business," when unsupported by sufficient strength, often becomes synonymous with "inviting trouble."
On the tattered cloth spread before Mo Fan, Spirit Stone fragments had already piled into a small mound.
Those cheap yet effective "substitute materials" had spread through the lower-tier rogue cultivators like a virus, not only clearing out most of the inventory he'd brought back from the cliff bottom but also making the surrounding stallholders—still stubbornly guarding their overpriced goods—green with envy.
Cutting off someone's livelihood is like killing their parents.
"Move it! Get the hell out of my way!"
A burst of rough shoving shattered the harmonious commerce. Several thuggish cultivators in mismatched Daoist robes bulldozed through the queuing rogue cultivators, forcing their way to the front of the stall.
The leader was a middle-aged brute with a face full of hardened flesh, at the third level of Qi Condensation.
Mo Fan remembered him.
This was the stallholder from next door, the one selling "authentic Fire-Poison Ants." That talisman apprentice from earlier had only turned to buy Mo Fan's venom sacs because he couldn't afford this man's goods. Clearly, Mo Fan's "price dumping" operation had left him without a single sale all morning.
"Hey, kid."
The brute planted one foot on the edge of Mo Fan's stall. His somewhat clouded eyes flickered with greed and menace as he toyed with two crimson Fire-Poison Ant eggs in his hand.
"Business is good, huh? But the quality of these venom sacs of yours... something seems off, doesn't it?"
He bent down, his grease-slicked face pushing close to Mo Fan's hood, voice dripping with sinister intent: "Such heavy Yin energy and corpse stench—couldn't be that you made these using some unspeakable dark arts, could it? According to market rules, selling demonic items means the enforcement squad hauls you off and cripples your cultivation."
Pinning labels.
This was the market thugs' favorite trick. Muddy the waters, slap the "demonic cultivator" label on someone, and all those timid rogue cultivators would naturally scatter. Then everything on this stall—Spirit Stones and goods alike—would be his for the taking.
The rogue cultivators who'd been scrambling to buy indeed changed expressions, instinctively stepping back several paces.
Mo Fan sat cross-legged on the ground. Beneath the shadows of his hood, those eyes were calm as a pool of stagnant water.
He offered no defense, nor did he employ any spells.
In this crowded, watchful place, the moment he used [ Corpse Explosion ] or summoned skeletons, he'd truly cement his identity as a "demonic cultivator." Then it wouldn't be these few punks coming for him, but the Azure Cloud Sect's Enforcement Hall.
"Get your filthy foot off."
Mo Fan's voice was hoarse, devoid of discernible emotion.
"Heh! Don't know what's good for you, do you?"
Seeing this "newcomer" refuse to submit, the brute flew into a humiliated rage. He sneered coldly, extending a large hand covered in black hair, reaching straight for Mo Fan's collar, intending to hoist him up like a chicken.
"Today I'll just inspect your goods on behalf of the enforcement squad—"
His hand reached to within half a foot of Mo Fan.
And in that very instant.
Mo Fan, who'd been sitting motionless as a statue, moved.
No spiritual energy fluctuation. No spell-light gleaming. Only pure, blur-fast muscular explosion.
Mo Fan's right hand shot up like a striking viper, five fingers forming a claw, locking onto the brute's wrist with unerring precision.
His fingers, tempered through countless cycles of Corpse Poison refinement, were now hard as five steel spikes, sinking deep into the brute's flesh, clamping directly onto his wrist bones.
Crack.
A crisp, tooth-aching sound of splintering bone rang out with piercing clarity amid the noisy market.
"AAAHHH—!!"
The brute's tough-guy words caught in his throat, instantly transforming into a pig-slaughter scream.
Before he could even process what happened, he felt an overwhelming, irresistible force crushing his wrist. This power was nothing a Qi Condensation cultivator's body should possess—it was like being clamped by a humanoid Spirit Beast!
Mo Fan remained cross-legged on the ground, hadn't even shifted his rear end an inch.
He merely pressed his wrist downward slightly, gave it a twist.
THUD!
The brute—third level of Qi Condensation, over one hundred eighty jin—crumpled like a defenseless ragdoll, single-handedly forced to his knees by Mo Fan!
His kneecaps slammed heavily against the stone slabs with a dull thud.
The brute's face contorted in agony, cold sweat instantly soaking through his back. He struggled desperately, trying to rally his internal spiritual energy for a counterattack, but Mo Fan's hand was like a mountain, crushing down on his pulse points, leaving him unable to muster even a shred of strength.
Silence.
Deathly silence.
The surrounding rogue cultivators who'd been watching the spectacle—some even preparing to kick a man while he was down—fell instantly quiet. Everyone's eyes went wide, staring at this inconceivable scene before them.
No flashy spell-light bombardment. This was the most primal, most direct, most visually impactful form of—violence aesthetics.
"A body cultivator..."
Someone in the crowd sucked in a sharp breath, exclaiming in a low voice, "This is a ruthless character who's trained it into his very bones!"
Mo Fan slowly raised his head.
Though the hood still concealed most of his face, those exposed eyes were cold as the frigid winds at the bottom of Abandoned Sword Cliff.
He stared at the thug leader kneeling before him, trembling in pain, and added a fraction more pressure to his grip.
Crack... crack...
The brute's wrist groaned under the strain, as if it would shatter completely the next second.
"I sell my trash. You sell your treasures."
Mo Fan's voice wasn't loud, yet it drilled clearly into every ear present.
"Well water doesn't interfere with river water. Understand?"
The brute no longer dared act tough. The terror of being locked onto by death sent him nodding frantically, snot and tears streaming down his face: "Understand! I understand! Senior, spare me! My hand... my hand's about to break!"
"Scram."
Mo Fan released his grip, flinging the brute away like garbage.
The brute clutched his purple-black wrist, scrambling and crawling into the crowd. He didn't even dare throw out a single threatening word as he fled in panic with his equally stupefied lackeys.
After this episode, the air around Mo Fan's corner seemed to freeze solid.
No one dared look down on this stall for its shabbiness anymore, nor did anyone dare question the source of goods for their cheap prices. The looks directed at Mo Fan now held less greed and more reverence.
This was a ruthless body cultivator not to be trifled with. In the chaotic rogue cultivator district, this kind of label was more effective than any authenticity seal.
The remaining business proceeded exceptionally smoothly. Mo Fan couldn't be bothered haggling anymore and simply bundled up his remaining miscellaneous materials, selling them at a low price to several middlemen dealers who specialized in bulk purchases.
A quarter of an hour later. The tattered cloth lay empty.
Mo Fan gathered up the cloth, dusted off his rear, turned, and melted into the crowd—concealing his achievements and fame.
In a secluded alley near the Myriad Treasures Tower.
Mo Fan tallied the day's gains.
"From the stall just now, sold a total of 28 low-grade Spirit Stones."
"Plus the 15 from selling the Iron Bone Art incomplete manuscript earlier."
"And what I've scrimped and saved over these past few months, plus what I talked Old Lü out of... 4 in total."
Mo Fan's fingers rummaged through the pile of Spirit Stones, his mental abacus clicking away.
28 + 15 + 4 = 47.
47 low-grade Spirit Stones.
This was a fortune. For an outer division menial, this was nearly a decade's worth of savings.
But Mo Fan's face showed not a trace of a smile. Instead, his brows were tightly furrowed as he stared fixedly at the Spirit Stones in his hand, as if trying to glare flowers into blooming from them.
"47 stones..."
He raised his head, looking toward the resplendent Myriad Treasures Tower across from the alley entrance.
Inside, on the counter there, that orthodox body cultivation manual called "Body Forging Record" was priced at—50 stones.
"Just 3 short."
He patted himself down.
The storage pouch was empty. Apart from that battered dagger and the cannot-see-the-light-of-day No. 001 and No. 003, he had nothing left to sell.
As for the [ Shadow Leopard Cloak ] he was wearing?
That was his lifesaving divine equipment in the wilderness, and also the disguise for his "mysterious figure" identity—absolutely could not be sold. Once he sold it, his next trip to the cliff bottom would be running naked.
"A single coin can stump a hero, indeed."