As Lin Feng contemplated his plans, the morning slipped away. By noon, his strategy was set: he'd take the afternoon off and head to the free market.
Snapping out of his thoughts, he glanced toward a corner of the shop. Eyes narrowing, he murmured:
"Still no sign of Cao Yang? He must know those four died at my place. Running scared?"
Cao Yang deserved no mercy—Lin Feng would've killed him if possible. But the coward had fled. Tracking him down wasted precious time Lin Feng didn't have.
...
After noon, Lin Feng informed Manager Li he was leaving early. The old man's gaze darkened, but Lin Feng ignored it. This job meant nothing now; he'd quit once his ventures stabilized.
Soon, Lin Feng arrived at the Eastern Market. Yesterday's errand had been rushed, but today he strolled leisurely from the entrance, absorbing the chaos.
The market was a kaleidoscope of goods: talismans glittered beside raw ore; medicinal herbs shared stalls with beast hides and dog-eared cultivation manuals. Occasionally, someone hawked spirit tools or combat techniques—priced at hundreds of spirit stones, far beyond Lin Feng's means.
His wide-eyed curiosity painted "easy mark" on his forehead. Vendors swarmed, peddling wares with predatory smiles. Their grins faded when he haggled with razor precision, quoting prices that scraped the absolute minimum they'd accept.
An hour yielded just two finds: mid-grade artifacts at 80% damage, plus repair materials. Undamaged goods offered slim profits; shattered ones rarely appeared—who'd buy trash besides him?
Frustrated, Lin Feng switched tactics. Spotting a vacated stall, he darted forward, claimed the space, and spread a cloth on the ground. No goods displayed—just his voice cutting through the din:
"Attention, fellow cultivators! Buying damaged artifacts! Eighty to ninety percent wear! Don't care if it's a spirit tool or dao artifact—if it's broken and useless, sell it here! Better than gathering dust! Turn junk into stones for new treasures!"
Silence. Then snickers rippled through the crowd.
"Buying ninety percent damaged junk? Is he insane? What profit's in that?"
"Pfft! 'Spirit tools or dao artifacts'? Even cracked, those are life-savers! Who'd sell? And could he even afford one?"
"Some rich collector, maybe? Looks like a low-level cultivator. Probably gave up on advancing."
"Actually… my cousin nearly died using a damaged axe mid-hunt. If I had scrap like that, I'd dump it here."
Lin Feng's stall became a spectacle. Soon, a skeptic approached.
"You actually buy eighty percent damaged gear?"
A man in his twenties thrust forward a dagger veined with cracks.
"Mid-grade artifact. Ninety-one percent damaged. You want it?"
Lin Feng's pulse quickened—perfect. He feigned scrutiny while his power assessed:
Repair Materials: Grade-II Iron.
Outwardly, he shrugged.
"One clash with a low-grade weapon, and this shatters. Still… I'll take it. Two stones."
The seller's eyes widened.
"Deal!"
As coins clinked, murmurs spread:
"He paid! What's his game? A scrap-artifact hoarder?"
"He knew the damage rate instantly. Maybe he's a specialist?"
A line formed. Lin Feng's voice rang out, sharp and cheerful:
"Low-grade artifact, ninety percent wear? One stone.
Mid-grade, eighty percent? Three? Nah—two stones. Here!
Half-used talismans? Yes! Multi-strike spell talismans? Premium price!
Too new? Keep it. I only want near-dead gear!"
Fifteen minutes. Nineteen artifacts. His pouch dwindled from twenty-five stones to six.
"Closing up!" Lin Feng announced. Groans rose from latecomers as he bundled purchases into his cloth sack.
He turned to leave—when a burly man blocked his path.
"Heard you buy scrap? Got something… special."
Lin Feng shook his head.
"Out of stones. Try tomorrow—"
"Look first!" The man pressed a palm-sized object into Lin Feng's hand. Dull metal, charred edges, and a jagged fracture across its surface—yet intricate glyphs glimmered where the break exposed its core.
Lin Feng froze. His breath hitched.
"This is…"