The return to Blacksand Oasis was a silent, methodical affair. Shen Mo and his two clones moved under the cover of darkness, their path guided by the flawless, real-time reconnaissance of their shared consciousness. The trinity melted back into the city's chaotic embrace before the sun had fully risen, leaving no trace of their passage. Shen Mo stored his clones, the familiar relief of a singular perspective washing over him, and made his way back to the Drowned Rat.
The tavern was as grim and silent as ever. He approached the bar and placed Elder Chen's storage pouch on the counter. It was a silent declaration of success. The massive bartender eyed the pouch, then Shen Mo, his dead eyes lingering for a moment longer than usual. He took the pouch and disappeared through the beaded curtain.
This time, the wait was longer. Nearly thirty minutes passed, a period of tense silence in which Shen Mo simply stood, his posture relaxed but his senses on high alert. Finally, the bartender returned. He placed a heavy pouch of spirit stones on the counter, along with Shen Mo's Oarsman plaque. The plaque was different. The crudely etched oar was now inlaid with a dark, lustrous metal that seemed to absorb the dim light. It was iron.
"The contract on Elder Chen is complete," the bartender's gravelly voice rumbled. "The client is satisfied. The Toll Taker is satisfied. Your payment, minus the thirty percent tithe, and your promotion."
Shen Mo accepted the items. The pouch contained one hundred and forty mid-grade spirit stones. A significant sum, but it was the plaque that held more value. He was now an Iron Oarsman. He had taken his second step up the bloody ladder.
"A message from the Toll Taker," the bartender added, his voice dropping slightly. "Your performance was... noted. You have earned the right to access the Ferrymen's private exchange. Show your plaque to the Quartermaster. He will know what it means."
With that, the bartender turned away, the conversation finished. This was an unexpected boon. A private exchange meant access to resources not available on the open market—specialized equipment, rare information, and perhaps even the shadow veil amulets he so desperately needed.
Shen Mo descended the familiar stone steps into the Ferrymen's lair. The vast, moss-lit chamber was the same, filled with silent, veiled figures. He walked past them, ignoring their veiled gazes, and headed not for the Toll Taker's desk, but for a different, heavily reinforced iron door he had noticed before, set into the far wall. A single, hulking Ferryman stood guard, his arms crossed over his chest. His aura was thick and heavy, at least at the seventh level of Foundation Establishment.
Shen Mo approached and presented his new Iron Oarsman's plaque. The guard's veiled face tilted down, his unseen eyes examining the iron inlay. After a moment, he gave a curt nod and stepped aside, pulling the massive door open.
The room beyond was not a store, but a sterile, well-lit repository. The walls were lined with shelves and weapon racks, each item displayed with meticulous care. A thin, elderly man with a wispy gray beard and spectacles perched on his nose sat behind a counter, diligently polishing a wicked-looking dagger. He was the only person in the room whose face was not covered by a shadow veil. His cultivation was deceptively deep; Shen Mo could feel a terrifying power coiled beneath the man's frail exterior, a power that far surpassed his own. This was the Quartermaster.
"An Iron Oarsman," the old man said without looking up, his voice dry as dust. "Here to spend your blood money, I presume. What do you need?"
Shen Mo stood in silence for a moment, the words hanging in the air. He could feel the old man's casual, condescending judgment. It was the look of a man who had seen a thousand killers come and go, all of them just tools to be supplied and eventually discarded.
"Is there any other kind of money in this city?" Shen Mo's voice was a cold, distorted rasp, utterly devoid of emotion but sharp as a shard of ice. "Or in this hall?"
The Quartermaster's hands, which had been moving in a smooth, practiced rhythm, stilled. He slowly set the dagger down and looked up, his sharp, intelligent eyes peering over his spectacles. A long moment of silence passed. Then, the corner of the old man's mouth twitched into a thin, dry smile.
"A practical one," he said, a note of genuine interest in his voice. "Good. Pragmatism keeps you alive longer than honor. You'd be surprised how many new recruits come in here thinking they're righteous heroes on a dark path. You, at least, know what you are." He gestured to the counter. "You have my attention, Vermillion Ghost. What is it you require?"
The shift in tone was subtle but significant. He was no longer just another Oarsman; he was an individual.
"I require equipment," Shen Mo stated. "Two sets of standard-issue Ferryman robes and two shadow veil amulets."
The Quartermaster's eyebrows rose slightly. "An unusual request. Most Ferrymen are solitary creatures. Why the need for two extra sets of our official gear? Are you planning on arming a squad?"
"My methods require redundancy," Shen Mo replied, his voice a stone wall, offering no further explanation.
The old man stared at him, his thin smile returning. He could likely sense he was being stonewalled, but he seemed to respect it. "Very well. Your methods are your own. The robes are fifty mid-grade spirit stones each. The amulets are a restricted item, one hundred stones each. Three hundred total. Do you have the funds?"
Three hundred stones. It was a staggering price, designed to keep such items exclusive. As he prepared to make the transaction, a thought surfaced in Shen Mo's mind. The mental strain of his clones was his greatest weakness. An organization of this scale, with access to the darkest corners of the world, must have solutions.
"This exchange," Shen Mo began, his tone probing, "does it trade in soul-cultivation techniques?"
The Quartermaster's smile vanished, replaced by a look of sharp, clinical assessment. "You ask a heavy question, Oarsman. We have everything a cultivator could dream of, for a price. Soul arts are not rare, merely... exclusive. Their value is astronomical, as they form the very foundation of the great sects. To trade in them is to invite their wrath, a risk that carries a premium."
"What is the cost for a basic technique? Something for mental fortitude."
The Quartermaster tapped a long finger on the counter. "The most basic soul-tempering art we have is the [Nine-Layered Pagoda Meditation]. It is a foundational technique, but a profound one. The first layer alone is enough to significantly strengthen a Foundation Establishment cultivator's mind. The price for the first layer is two hundred mid-grade spirit stones."
Five hundred stones in total. It was more than he had. It was a fortune that would take him a dozen more contracts to earn. But the mental strain was a weakness he could not afford to leave unaddressed.
"I will take the robes, the amulets, and the first layer of the technique," Shen Mo stated, his voice unwavering.
The Quartermaster raised an eyebrow. "You do not have the funds."
"The payment for my last contract was one hundred and forty stones. The payment for my next contract will cover the rest. I will take the items now, and the full price of five hundred stones will be deducted from my future earnings."
It was an audacious request, asking for a massive line of credit. He was leveraging his entire future on this transaction.
The old man stared at him, his gaze piercing, as if weighing Shen Mo's very soul. He was calculating the risk, the probability of this new Oarsman surviving long enough to pay his debts. After a long, tense silence, he gave a slow nod.
"The organization invests in its most promising members," he said, his voice returning to its dry, business-like tone. "Your request is approved. But know this, Vermillion Ghost. The Paid Ferrymen always collect their debts. One way or another."
He turned and retrieved the items. The two sets of robes, the two precious amulets, and a small, unassuming jade slip containing the soul technique. Shen Mo accepted them, a mountain of debt now on his shoulders.
He returned to his luxurious, hidden room. He now had a fully equipped trinity, but he was deep in the red. For the next two months, he lived the life of a true Iron Oarsman. The plaque on his table chimed frequently, each time signaling a new contract, a new debt to be paid in blood.
The missions were a brutal, relentless grind. They were not the high-stakes infiltrations of his first two contracts, but the dirty work upon which the organization's fearsome reputation was built. He was sent to collect on a debt from a gambling den master who thought he could hide behind his army of thugs; Shen Mo left the den master's head on his own counting table and walked out with the money. He was tasked with silencing a noble's son who had witnessed a Ferryman on another contract; Shen Mo slipped into the heavily guarded estate and made the death look like a tragic accident, a drunken fall from a balcony. He hunted down a rogue cultivator who had stolen a package from a Ferrymen courier, a grueling chase that led him through the treacherous swamps south of the badlands.
He didn't complete these missions alone. He used his clones with ruthless efficiency. Ghost 1 would be the scout, spending days observing the target, learning their habits, their weaknesses, their escape routes. Ghost 2 would be the saboteur, creating diversions, disabling guard formations, or setting traps to funnel the target into a predetermined kill zone. And Shen Mo, the main body, would be the blade in the dark, the final, decisive blow.
He never took unnecessary risks. He never engaged in prolonged battles. His every action was calculated, precise, and brutally effective. He became a ghost story whispered among the city's underworld, the Iron Oarsman who left no tracks and no witnesses.
With each completed contract, his debt to the Quartermaster shrank. The seventy stones from one job, a hundred from the next. Slowly, painstakingly, he clawed his way back to zero. After two months of non-stop work, he finally cleared his debt, with a modest surplus of eighty mid-grade spirit stones to his name.
During this time, he practiced the [Nine-Layered Pagoda Meditation] relentlessly. The first layer of the mental pagoda was now solid, a stable foundation in his sea of consciousness that greatly reduced the strain of controlling his clones. The headaches were gone, replaced by a manageable mental fatigue.
His cultivation, however, had barely progressed. Two months of constant work would have pushed any other sixth-level cultivator to the brink of the seventh level. For him, the progress was almost imperceptible. The trade-off was starkly clear: he was the most terrifying Iron Oarsman in the organization, capable of completing missions far above his pay grade, but his personal advancement was crawling at a snail's pace. He came to a crucial realization: his natural cultivation was crippled, but that didn't mean his advancement had to stop. It simply meant he could no longer rely on ambient Qi and time.
He needed to brute-force his progress. He needed a mountain of resources—high-grade spirit stones to form dense Qi arrays for his secluded cultivation, and powerful alchemical pills that could directly bolster his Qi. These things cost a fortune. His motivation was no longer just about paying debts or climbing ranks; it was a desperate, calculated race to buy the power he could no longer cultivate at a normal speed. The only way to acquire such wealth was to take on the most dangerous, highest-paying contracts.
Late one night, after returning from a particularly messy job, his plaque chimed once more. He descended to the main hall, now a seasoned veteran of its cold, silent traditions. He was no longer a newcomer, but a proven, reliable killer.
The Toll Taker's voice held the same flat, emotionless tone, but the contract it offered was anything but ordinary.
"Iron Oarsman Vermillion Ghost," the raspy voice echoed. "You have cleared your debts. Your record is flawless. A Black Gold-grade contract has been posted. The client is a person of... significance. The target is a sect protector. The risks are extreme. The rewards, however, are substantial. Do you accept the briefing?"
Shen Mo stood in silence. He had spent two months in the grind, honing his skills, paying his dues. Now, a true challenge had arrived. This was the kind of mission that could earn him the fortune he now desperately needed to fuel his advancement, and perhaps the favor required to acquire the next level of his soul technique. This was the kind of mission that could get him killed.
"I accept," he said, his voice a steady, cold whisper. The next chapter of his bloody journey was about to begin.