Under the shopkeeper's suspicious gaze, Mo Fan waved his hand grandly, lavishly spending 40 Spirit Stones. With a strange, somewhat sleazy smile, he left the Myriad Treasures Tower, his bosom now holding a gossamer-thin silk veil.
He touched the 7 remaining low-grade Spirit Stones in his pocket—his last emergency funds.
Mo Fan didn't idle with this pocket change either. He immediately plunged into the outer miscellaneous goods district, purchasing a large batch of cheap, durable everyday items for cliff bottom emergencies.
His originally empty storage pouch was once again stuffed full, with Summon No. 001 squeezed inside, rather like an uncollected package.
"The remaining money isn't enough for pills or magical artifacts. But to outfit my 'bodyguard' with a proper appearance—that's more than sufficient."
He didn't rush out of the city, instead turning into the small alleys on the market's outskirts that specialized in rogue cultivator business.
Passing a clothing shop with an "Old Clothes Recycling" sign, Mo Fan stopped. He picked through the selection, spending several broken Spirit Stones on an oversized black martial outfit, thick-soled cowhide boots, and somewhat worn but sufficiently sturdy long leather gloves.
"Customer, this size... looks like it's for a two-meter-tall giant?"
The shopkeeper looked oddly at the extra-large clothing.
"Mm, have a foolish hulk of a relative at home. Not bright, but strong." Mo Fan fabricated without changing expression, paid, and left.
With everything purchased, he couldn't return to the servants' quarters. Too many eyes there—if someone saw him dressing a skeleton in his room, the Law Enforcement Hall would invite him for tea tomorrow.
He needed an absolutely sealed, absolutely private space.
Mo Fan found a cheap inn called "Cloud-Arrival Inn" at the market's edge. The environment was noisy, housing only low-level rogue cultivators awaiting tasks—no one would care what the neighbors were doing.
"One lower room. The most secluded, quietest kind."
Tossing out 10 broken Spirit Stones, Mo Fan received a greasy copper key.
Click.
The door locked. Still uneasy, Mo Fan moved a table to block the doorway and pasted two inferior soundproofing talismans on the window cracks—freebies from that talisman apprentice at the stall earlier.
Assured everything was secure, he took a deep breath and patted his storage pouch.
"Come out, 001."
With spatial fluctuation, that nearly two-meter-tall skeleton covered in white bones appeared in the cramped guest room. It still gripped that rusty sword tightly, soul-fire flickering eerily in its eye sockets, radiating a stay-away chill.
"Come, try on clothes."
Mo Fan approached like a fussy mother, holding the just-purchased black outfit.
Dressing a skeleton was an extremely bizarre and laborious task. Though No. 001 was obedient, its joints were stiff and it couldn't cooperate. Mo Fan expended tremendous effort getting the loose martial outfit on it, then struggled to put those cowhide boots on its feet.
Finally, the gloves.
When those leather gloves covered No. 001's horrifying bone hands, standing before Mo Fan was no longer a monster, but someone wrapped head to toe as... a strange person.
Though the body was covered, above the neck remained a white skull, actually looking even more terrifying—like a headless horseman.
"The key lies in this."
Mo Fan pulled out that 40-Spirit-Stone [ Moon-Veiled Gauze ] from his bosom.
This face veil was thin as cicada wings, barely perceptible in hand.
Mo Fan solemnly stood on tiptoe, draping the veil over No. 001's skull.
However, the anticipated miraculous transformation didn't occur.
The veil hung limply like ordinary rag on the skull, sliding down along the cheekbone. Through the thin gauze, one could still clearly see those two dancing green ghost fires inside, plus that row of white teeth.
Not only did it fail to conceal, it made No. 001 look like a perverted killer who'd stolen a bride's veil.
"...Tsk."
Mo Fan frowned deeply. "Why no reaction?"
He carefully recalled the shopkeeper's introduction and previous instructions.
[ Moon-Veiled Gauze: Requires spiritual power or divine consciousness to activate, transformation follows will. ]
"Activate... follows will..."
Mo Fan slapped his forehead. "I'm an idiot. This thing is a magical treasure—it needs the user's 'intent' to control the illusory face. Though No. 001 is LV. 4, it only has combat instinct, no 'self-awareness.' It doesn't even know what a 'face' is, naturally can't activate the mask."
Like installing a 4K monitor on a computer without an operating system—it could only show a black screen.
"40 Spirit Stones... wasted?"
Mo Fan circled No. 001 twice, looking at that blockheaded skeleton, his gaze gradually sharpening.
"Since it has no brain, I'll lend it mine."
Since No. 001 couldn't generate the thought "what I want to look like," then he as master would do it.
Mo Fan recalled that soul-separation feeling during the Demon-Eye Rabbit battle, forcibly taking over the skeleton body.
[ Undead Sovereign · Forced Override ]
"Once more."
Mo Fan sat cross-legged on the bed, regulated breathing, let his heartbeat gradually calm, entering meditation.
As intent concentrated, that invisible spiritual thread connecting him and No. 001 began thickening and brightening.
"System, activate override mode. Target: 001."
Hummm—
That familiar, nauseating dizziness struck again. Mo Fan felt his consciousness like extracted water, flowing through pipes into another container.
Vision instantly darkened, then lit up again.
Upon reopening his eyes, the world had changed.
The originally colorful guest room became gray-white wireframe data streams. His body felt impossibly light—no breathing rhythm, no heartbeat, couldn't even feel his footsteps.
Mo Fan looked down.
He no longer saw his somewhat rough hands, but a pair of distinct-jointed claws wrapped in black leather gloves.
He raised his head, looking forward.
A familiar face appeared in view.
That flesh-body named "Mo Fan" now sat cross-legged on the bed, eyes tightly shut, expression calm, chest slightly rising and falling—like a shell that had lost its soul.
"Looking at my own body sitting across from me..."
Mo Fan (No. 001) raised his hand, touching his nonexistent chin, an indescribable chill rising within. "This feeling... is really damn eerie."
Was this the Necromancer's ultimate perspective?
But now wasn't the time for amazement.
Override state severely drained mental power—he must fight quickly.
"Mana synchronization."
Mo Fan's thought moved. His consciousness now in the skeleton body, the skeleton's necromantic Mana connected with the original body. He mobilized a stream of pure Mana, slowly injecting it into the [ Moon-Veiled Gauze ] covering the skull.
Hummm...
Nourished by Mana and consciousness, that originally lifeless veil suddenly lit up, emitting soft luminescence.
"Transformation follows will... change for me!"
Mo Fan's mind began frantically designing.
This face can't be too handsome—too handsome attracts bees and butterflies, invites unnecessary trouble. Can't be too ugly either—too ugly is unforgettable, might even attract guard scrutiny.
Must be ordinary. The kind that vanishes in a crowd. But must match 001's temperament—cold, unapproachable.
As Mo Fan's intent infused, the veil's surface light and shadow began distorting and recombining.
The originally hollow skeletal face gradually manifested blurred facial contours.
Skin that waxy yellow of chronic malnutrition. Sparse eyebrows, sunken eye sockets. Very thin lips, tightly pressed, revealing meanness and coldness. To increase intimidation, Mo Fan deliberately outlined a faint, old blade scar across its left cheek, as if slashed by a sharp weapon.
"Solidify."
With the last trace of Mana injection, that light-shadow layer completely stabilized.
Luminescence faded.
The original skull disappeared, replaced by a middle-aged swordsman's face with realistic texture, even pores clearly visible.
If one didn't reach out to touch (since underneath remained bone without flesh), by sight alone, this was a living person.
"Phew..."
Mo Fan severed the mental connection.
Consciousness instantly snapped back to his body like a spring.
"Cough cough cough!"
Mo Fan on the bed suddenly opened his eyes, gasping heavily, forehead covered in cold sweat. This precise micro-control was more exhausting than a fight.
Ignoring rest, he immediately raised his head, looking toward the bedside.
No longer stood that horrifying skeleton.
Standing there was a thin, upright middle-aged swordsman in black, carrying a rusty sword on his back.
He wore leather gloves, brim pulled low. That waxy yellow, scarred face showed no expression, his whole body radiating weathered, cold killing intent.
Even motionless, that innate "stay away from me" aura was enough to make low-level Qi Condensation cultivators give wide berth.
Perfect.
Except those eyes remained somewhat vacant and lifeless, there were virtually no flaws. But paired with this cold outfit, such vacancy seemed more like an expert's indifference.
Mo Fan stood up, circling this perfect "work" twice.
He reached out, forcefully patting that rock-hard shoulder—felt rigid, all bone.
"From today, you don't need to hide in the bag anymore."
Mo Fan looked at that face he'd personally crafted, lips curving in a satisfied smile.
"You have a name now."
"Mo Yan."
"Henceforth, you are my personal guard—the taciturn Mo Yan."