Lu Ziming and the others stared, jaws tight, as Tong Yang handed over six million Spirit Money, anger simmering inside.
This guy’s jacking up the stakes—what a bootlicker!
With Tong Yang leading the charge, the other two fifth-tiers couldn’t bear to offer less than six million—afraid of pissing off Fang Xiu.
In the end, they all paid to stay alive. Those short on cash signed up for heavy debt with brutal interest.
“Take me to the pawnshop,” Fang Xiu said, voice steady.
A thought flickered in their heads. 'Is he cashing out to ditch the Land Between?'
They’d coughed up over twenty million combined. With his Taotie army shredding Specters out there, he might’ve actually hit a billion!
No one questioned the Taoties’ strength—they’d felt it up close. If anyone could pull it off, it was him.
A buzz of excitement ran through them, and they stumbled over each other to guide him.
“Sir, this way!” Lu Ziming and the rest practically dripped with flattery now.
Before, it was the Taotie swarm scaring them stiff. Now? They were falling over themselves to suck up, a glimmer of hope in their eyes.
Only those who’d dragged through years in the Land Between could understand—finally, a real crack at getting out.
Fang Xiu caught their eagerness, reading their minds. He didn’t bother correcting them.
Instead, he let Yang Ming and the others loose.
Over the past few days, Yang Ming’s team had patched up, even riding along with the Taotie army to hunt Specters.
When their Spiritual Energy dipped, they’d slip back into a Taotie’s guts to refuel.
Soon, they stepped out from the beast’s insides into Whitestone.
The instant Yang Ming spotted Lu Ziming, rage flared in his eyes—still raw about the guy getting away last time.
Lu Ziming freaked, shouting, “I’ve given up to Fang Xiu! Paid six million Spirit Money!”
“Xiu, trash like him doesn’t deserve air!” Yang Ming growled.
“He’s got use for now,” Fang Xiu said, not bothering to hush his voice.
Lu Ziming’s heart jumped. Use for now—meaning when that ran dry, he was toast. Fear twisted in his stomach.
Fang Xiu didn’t give a damn what Lu Ziming felt. He held all the power—handling one guy was nothing. One nod, and the Land Between’s psychics would take care of it. But offing him could wait. He had a hunch to chase first.
Minutes later, they brought him to the pawnshop.
The place oozed shadow. Darkness hugged its corners, two lanterns dangling with weak green light over the door.
Below, a faded “Pawn” character glowed dimly, spooky in the gloom.
Tong Yang bent low, fawning as he shoved open the groaning wooden door. A thin stink of rot drifted out.
“Sir, here it is,” Tong Yang said. “All your Specter kills get logged here—no chance someone snags your Spirit Money. No proof needed. Just tell the shopkeeper you’re cashing out, and he’ll count your kills and pay.”
Fang Xiu took in the place, cool and collected. A big wooden screen blocked his view—old-timers called it a “shame shield,” hiding the broke or fallen from the embarrassment of selling their lives.
Beyond the screen, a high counter stretched up. Behind it stood a rotting corpse.
Odd thing was, despite the decay in the air, everything—counter, walls, lanterns—looked spotless, like something unseen kept it perfect.
Fang Xiu eyed the corpse. It didn’t talk. The others watched him, eyes wide, holding their breath for the payout.
The pawnshop stayed quiet, a slow dread thickening the stillness.
Then, Fang Xiu broke it. “Cash me out.”
The corpse twitched alive.
Its bony, fleshless hand dipped into a drawer, joints popping like old metal. Crack, crack. The noise scraped through the hush.
The group couldn’t hold back their curiosity and hype, whispering guesses about how much Spirit Money Fang Xiu would pull in.
Sixty-plus Taoties in his crew? Even playing it safe, each could smash a million Specters a day, easy. Sixty times a million—that’s sixty million daily!
Fang Xiu had been grinding for over a week; the haul had to be insane, a figure too big to even grasp.
They stretched their necks, practically buzzing, as the corpse dug around.
At last, it paused, dragging out three pitiful Spirit Money bills and dropping them on the counter.
The room went still. Three bills? That’s all? No chance!
Maybe… high-value ones? Fifty million each, perhaps? They guessed.
Fang Xiu grabbed the bills, cool as always, a theory already brewing in his head. He fanned them out in his hand, and every stare zeroed in.
Then someone lost it, yelling, “Three thousand?!”
A guy stuck in the back chimed in, “You mean three million, right?”
No one replied. They just gaped, stunned, at the bills in Fang Xiu’s grip. Each one was a thousand. Total: three grand.
Yang Ming charged the counter, slamming his fist down. “Hey, shopkeep, you blind or something? Xiu’s been out there wiping out tens of millions of Specters these last few days, and you give him three thousand? Hand over the rest, or I’ll rip this joint apart!”
“Figures,” Fang Xiu said, voice level.
Yang Ming blinked, whipping around. “Xiu, what’s that supposed to mean?”
Fang Xiu didn’t answer, slipping into his thoughts.
His hunch was dead-on.
Whitestone thrived on psychics taking out Specters. When a Specter bit it, its energy juiced up the town, keeping things running.
That’s where Spirit Money came from—your cut matched what you fed Whitestone.
Fang Xiu might’ve crushed over a hundred million Specters, but he hadn’t tossed the town a single one. Nearly all went straight down the Taoties’ throats, bulking up his army.
These three thousand? Likely from random Specters the Taoties squashed by accident while lumbering around.
Good thing he hadn’t scrapped Lu Ziming and the others yet.
That’s why he’d held off—he’d had a feeling Whitestone wouldn’t let him cheat the setup.
If he couldn’t bend the rules, he’d need bodies to crank out cash. Sticking to just himself and his team, even without spending a penny, hitting a billion Spirit Money would drag on forever.
That’s where Lu Ziming’s crew fit in.
Step one: get them working, piling up money for him.
Step two: when they’d stacked enough, drain their Spiritual Energy dry.
Milk them for all they’re worth—no leftovers. Flawless plan.
Translator's note: Why not just let the Taoties kill Specters for one single day?