The silence that followed the first "beep" of the heart monitor was heavier than the panic that had preceded it. Elder Song's eyes snapped open, clear and sharp, devoid of the hazy glaze of death. He didn't gasp; he simply breathed, a deep, rhythmic inhalation that seemed to draw the very light from the room.
He looked directly at Mo Jue. In that gaze, there was no confusion—only the recognition of a predator looking at something higher on the food chain.
"Out," Song rasped, his voice like gravel.
"Father, you need rest—" Song Ran started, stepping forward.
"I said... out." The old man's command was absolute. "All of you. Doctors, guards, family. Leave us."
As the room cleared, the Reaper, who had been hovering nervously in the corner, saw his opening.
"My Lord, the paperwork... I'll just... I'll go file the 'clerical error' report now!" the specter squeaked, bowing so low his hood touched the floor. He vanished in a blur of grey mist, fleeing the hospital as if the Nine Hells themselves were snapping at his heels.
Once the heavy oak doors clicked shut, the silence returned, punctuated only by the hum of the machines.
"I saw him," Elder Song said, his eyes fixed on Mo Jue. "The one with the scythe. He was afraid of you."
Mo Jue sat in a chair by the bed, leaning back with a grace that didn't belong to a common office worker. "He is a civil servant. They are easily startled. You, however, have two years of borrowed time. Use them wisely."
The old man struggled to sit up, his gratitude manifesting as a stiff, formal nod. "I have spent eighty years building an empire, young man. I know a debt when I see one. You didn't just save my life; you snatched it back from the void. Name your price. Money? Power? A seat at my right hand?"
Mo Jue smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Money is just paper in this world, and power is a fickle mistress. I have a more... specific set of requirements."
He picked up a notepad from the bedside table and wrote several characters in a calligraphy so ancient and sharp it seemed to cut the paper.
"I need these," Mo Jue said, sliding the paper over.
Elder Song squinted at the list. "Hundred-Year Cold-Jade," "Vermillion Cinnabar of the Deep," "Crystallized Lightning-Struck Wood." His brow furrowed. "These are... rare. Some are museum pieces, others are legendary materials used in traditional alchemy. It will take time and a vast amount of resources to track them down."
"You have the resources," Mo Jue stated. "Consider it the tax on your soul."
Elder Song looked at the list, then at the youth in the hospital gown. He saw a man who could kill a Reaper but was currently dressed like a pauper. He saw an opportunity.
"You wish to remain in the shadows," Song observed. "A man with your... talents... cannot simply walk the streets without attracting the wrong kind of attention. My youngest daughter, Song Ruo, manages our subsidiary, Horizon Tech. It's a quiet environment, focused on logistics and research. Work there. I'll provide a clean identity, a secure residence, and I'll use my network to find your... materials."
Mo Jue's eyes narrowed. He knew what the old fox was doing. By placing him in his daughter's company, Song could keep an eye on him and potentially tie his fate to the Song family permanently.
"I don't 'work' for people, Song," Mo Jue said coldly.
"Consider it a collaboration," the old man corrected smoothly. "You need a mask. I provide the silk to weave it. In exchange, you stay close. If my 'health' should falter again, I'd prefer the doctor to be nearby."
Mo Jue pondered. He needed a place to cultivate undisturbed, and he needed a way to protect Li Tian's sister, Xiao Ni, without drawing the attention of his ancient enemies who might be watching the mortal realms.
"Fine," Mo Jue said, standing up. "I will play the part of your employee. But tell your daughter this: if she tries to order me like a servant, she will find that I am a very expensive person to offend."