Morning sunlight poured over the twenty-foot-high walls of Dry-Well Town, making the newly paved stone streets shine like polished gray iron.
Two days had passed since Pei Xuan and his people took over Green-Willow Oasis and turned it into the town’s Southern Suburb. With the population jumping to 9,000 people and everyone working hard for red paper flowers on Abacus Su’s work-point board, the whole town sounded like a giant beehive.
At the northern end of Main Street, right beside the bubbling Sweet-Spring Spirit Well, stood the most popular building in town: Old Guo’s Number One Public Noodle and Bun Canteen.
Four huge iron cauldrons sat over roaring red-coal stoves. Inside the biggest cauldron, rich brown beef broth bubbled and rolled, sending up thick white steam that smelled of star anise, roasted chili oil, slow-cooked ox bones, and sweet desert onions.
“Make way! Coming through with fresh soup!”
Old Guo, his round belly wrapped in a clean white apron, swung a two-foot iron ladle with one arm. Ever since he broke through to Rank 1 Peak Martial by swinging heavy woks every day, his arms were thicker than a normal man’s thighs. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed a ball of dough into the air, pulled it ten times with both hands, and turned it into a hundred thin, bouncy white noodles that splashed straight into the boiling pot.
Beside the wooden counter, fifteen-year-old Hong Ling stood on a small wooden stool. She wore a red cloth headband, held a heavy kitchen cleaver in her left hand, and clicked an abacus with her right hand while collecting copper coins from a long line of hungry bricklayers.
“Three copper coins for a big bowl of Braised Scorpion-Beef Noodles! Pickled garlic is free, up to two cloves per person!” Hong Ling shouted in a clear, sharp voice. She glared at a burly former bandit near the front of the line. “Hey! Scarface Wolf! I saw you stuff four garlic heads into your pocket! Put two back right now, or I will shave your eyebrows off with my cleaver!”
Scarface Wolf, who used to be a terrifying Rank 2 bandit chief before Old Wei cut his horse in half, shrank his neck like a scolded turtle. He sheepishly placed two pickled garlic heads back into the clay jar.
“Miss Hong Ling, don’t be mad,” Scarface Wolf said with an awkward grin, pointing at the three little red paper flowers pasted on his yellow shirt. “My bricklaying squad laid four hundred stone road tiles yesterday. Master Su said I could have an extra spoonful of chili oil today!”
“Chili oil is fine, stealing garlic is not!” Hong Ling hummed, dropping a giant ladle of tender beef chunks and crispy fried scorpion tails onto his noodles. “Next!”
Across the street, sitting under the shade of a newly sprouted green willow tree, Pei Xuan took a sip of warm spring tea and looked at the glowing blue screen floating in front of his eyes.
“Thirty-five thousand Loyalty Points a day,” Pei Xuan whispered to himself, a happy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Less than two months ago, when his biased father, the Iron-Wolf Marquis, kicked him out to this desert, he only had thirty-five broken mud huts, a dry mud hole, and thirty points a day from Old Wei, Hong Ling, and Old Guo.
Now, he had 9,000 well-fed people, twelve giant Armored Scorpion Dump Trucks hauling snow-white salt from the north valley, and a full town of stone houses.
“My Lord, try one of these!”
A booming voice shook the willow leaves overhead. General Tie Zhan—a seven-foot-tall mountain of muscle with a buzzed iron-gray beard—walked over carrying a bamboo steamer stacked high with fist-sized meat buns.
Tie Zhan stuffed a whole steaming lamb-and-onion bun into his mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed it down with a loud gulp.
“The morning patrol is done, My Lord,” Tie Zhan said, wiping bun grease from his chin with the back of his hand. “The 3,700 new folks from Green-Willow Suburb are all settled in. Only problem is, we have too many farmers and not enough wet farmland! Our Sweet-Spring Well is great for drinking and watering a few hundred acres of Meat-Potatoes, but if we want to plant real winter grain for ten thousand people, we need a whole river.”
Beside Pei Xuan, skinny Abacus Su pushed his thick brass-rimmed spectacles up his nose and flipped open a thick ledger book.
“General Tie is right, My Lord,” Abacus Su said, his fingers twitching as if counting invisible coins. “Right now, our 9,000 citizens eat 18,000 catties of food every single day. And General Tie by himself eats as much as twelve men.”
“Hey! I am training five hundred recruits!” Tie Zhan protested, hugging his bamboo steamer tightly against his chest. “Shooting thirty-foot Blade-Waves takes a lot of calories!”
“I am not cutting your bun rations, General,” Abacus Su said dryly. He pointed his ink brush toward the western horizon, where a jagged black mountain range cut across the sky ten miles away. “Behind that Black-Stone Mountain Ridge flows the White-Jade Snow River. Every spring and autumn, millions of gallons of snowmelt water rush down that river and pour uselessly into the western poison swamps. If we could dig a ten-mile stone canal straight through Black-Stone Ridge, we could turn ten thousand acres of flat desert outside our west gate into prime grain fields!”
Pei Xuan looked toward the western mountains and frowned slightly.
“I checked Black-Stone Ridge on my map yesterday,” Pei Xuan said. “That ridge isn’t soft sandstone. It is solid black granite, three hundred feet thick and ten miles wide. Even if I use the Fusion Cube to make Rank 2 iron pickaxes and put all 9,000 people to work digging rock, it would take us half a year to cut a canal through that mountain.”
“Half a year is too slow,” Old Wei agreed, resting his Rank 2 Blood-Iron Mechanical Arm on the pommel of his heavy broadsword. “Winter will hit the Red-Sand Wastes in less than a month. If the ground freezes before we plant a fast crop of spirit wheat, we won’t have enough flour to last until spring.”
Pei Xuan tapped his teacup with his finger, looking at his 68,500 LP balance.
He could spend 50,000 LP to fuse a giant batch of exploding mining powder, or fuse a tunnel-digging monster. Both would work, though they would burn through almost all the points he was saving to upgrade his own cultivation to Rank 3 Grandmaster.
Just as Pei Xuan was thinking about which fusion recipe would be cheaper, a sudden hush fell over the crowd near the northern town gate.
Step. Step. Step.
A young man walked slowly through the open gatehouse into Dry-Well Town.
He looked about nineteen or twenty years old, tall and straight as a pine spear, dressed in a long white robe that had been washed so many times its edges were frayed and patched with rough gray cloth. His black hair was tied up with a simple wooden pin, and his face was as pale and cold as winter snow.
Slung across his back was a four-foot-long sword wrapped tightly in faded gray linen. Even through the cloth wrapping, a faint, sharp hum leaked out into the air—making the hairs on Old Wei’s and General Tie Zhan’s necks stand straight up!
General Tie Zhan stopped chewing his bun. His eyes narrowed, and his hand dropped instantly to the hilt of his heavy iron saber.
“My Lord... watch out,” Tie Zhan whispered in a low, tight voice. “That kid’s footsteps don’t leave a single mark in the dust, and the air around his back feels like a thousand tiny razors. I can’t even see the bottom of his cultivation! He is way stronger than me!”
Pei Xuan sat up straight and focused his eyes on the white-robed young man.
With a soft ding inside his head, the RTS System Tooltip popped open above the stranger’s head.
When Pei Xuan read the glowing golden text, he nearly choked on his mouthful of spring tea.
Rank 5 Foundation Establishment?!
Pei Xuan’s heart pounded like a war drum.
In the entire Red-Sand Wastes—and even in his father’s Iron-Wolf Marquisate—a Rank 3 Martial Grandmaster like Tie Zhan was treated like a general who could command ten thousand troops. Rank 4 Qi Gathering cultivators were called “Living Immortals” and served as royal advisors to kings!
And a Rank 5 Foundation Establishment master? Those were core disciples or elders of the great Immortal Sects! They could fly through the sky on their swords, put up spirit shields that blocked siege crossbows, and slice a city gatehouse in half from a mile away!
Best of all, according to the 10x Point Table:
- Rank 3 = 1,000 LP/day
- Rank 4 = 10,000 LP/day
- Rank 5 = `100,000 LP/day`!
If Pei Xuan could get this kid’s Loyalty up by just ten points—from 50 to 60—this single guy would give him three times more points every midnight than all 9,000 people in Dry-Well Town combined!
“General Tie, Old Wei, put your hands off your weapons,” Pei Xuan murmured quickly, keeping his voice calm. “Act normal. Don’t scare the big fish away.”
Out in the middle of the street, Ye Guhan kept walking with his chin tilted up at a forty-five-degree angle. His hands were tucked behind his back, and his dark eyes stared up at the white clouds as if nobody in this dusty mortal town was worthy of his gaze.
Grrrrr-ROOOOOWL!
A sound like a dying water buffalo echoed from under Ye Guhan’s white robe.
Two little kids playing with a wooden top near the well stopped and stared at Ye Guhan’s flat stomach.
“Mommy,” one little boy said loudly, pointing a chubby finger. “That big brother has a frog monster inside his tummy!”
Ye Guhan’s pale ears turned bright pink. He stiffened his back, coughed coldly into his fist, and tried to walk faster past the canteen.
I am Ye Guhan, the youngest Foundation Sword Genius of the Northern Sky, he told himself firmly. Even if I haven’t eaten for three days since dropping into this cursed desert, a cultivator of my realm is above vulgar mortal cooking—
Just then, Old Guo lifted the heavy wooden lid off the main iron cauldron.
WHOOSH!
A thick cloud of fragrant white steam rolled straight across the street and hit Ye Guhan right in the face.
That broth wasn’t made with ordinary water or normal beef. It was boiled with Lv.2 Sweet-Spring Spirit Water, seasoned with blood-boosting Snow-Crystal Salt, and simmered for six hours with Rank 2 Scorpion-Fed Ox Brisket and Meat-Belly Potatoes!
To an injured cultivator whose meridians were dry and cracked, that steam smelled like liquid heaven.
Ye Guhan’s right foot stopped in mid-air.
His nose twitched once. Twice.
Slowly, like a rusty iron weathervane turning in a gale, Ye Guhan’s head swiveled toward Old Guo’s noodle stall. His eyes locked onto a big blue-and-white porcelain bowl sitting on the counter, where thick, glossy white noodles swam in ruby-red soup topped with five thick slices of tender braised beef and a handful of bright green scallions.
Gulp.
Ye Guhan’s throat bobbed up and down.
On the other side of the street, Pei Xuan almost laughed out loud reading the tooltip.
Without realizing it, Ye Guhan’s two feet had already betrayed his proud brain. Before his mind could tell his legs to keep walking toward the south gate, he was already sitting straight-backed on a long wooden bench at Table Four of the noodle stall!
Old Guo walked over with a clean rag over his shoulder and a friendly, fat-cheeked smile.
“Welcome to Dry-Well Town, young swordsman!” Old Guo boomed cheerfully. “You look a bit pale from traveling the desert. Would you like a bowl of our signature Rank 2 Braised Scorpion-Beef Noodles? It warms the blood and clears tired meridians!”
Ye Guhan kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to look down at the menu board.
“Hmph. Since I happen to be resting my feet at your bench,” Ye Guhan said in a voice colder than an icicle, “bring me one small bowl. Light on the green onions. I only wish to taste the water quality of this oasis.”
“Right away! One signature beef noodle, light onions!” Old Guo yelled toward the stove.
Thirty seconds later, a steaming porcelain bowl the size of a washbasin was set down in front of Ye Guhan, along with a pair of clean bamboo chopsticks.
Ye Guhan picked up the chopsticks with three long, pale fingers. Tell-tale calluses from gripping a sword hilt for fifteen years covered his palm. Moving slowly so nobody would think he was starving, he lifted a single strand of noodle to his lips and took a tiny bite.
The moment the bouncy, spring-water noodle and rich beef soup touched his tongue, Ye Guhan’s dark eyes flew wide open!
BOOM!
A warm wave of gentle, pure vitality exploded down his throat and flowed straight into his dried-up stomach. From his stomach, streams of warm heat rushed into his cracked chest meridians, soothing the sharp sword-wounds left by the Shadow-Bat Sect’s poison daggers!
What kind of mortal cook is this?! Ye Guhan screamed inside his own head.
The slow, graceful immortal act vanished in half a second.
SLUUUURP! GULP! SLUUUURP!
Ye Guhan buried his face in the washbasin-sized bowl! His chopsticks moved so fast they turned into a gray blur, leaving afterimages in the air as noodles, beef chunks, and crispy scorpion meat vanished into his mouth like a tornado sucking up haystacks.
Within ten seconds, he lifted the giant porcelain bowl with both hands, tilted his head back, and drank every last drop of the spicy red broth.
CLANG!
He slammed the empty bowl down on the wooden table, let out a long breath of white steam, and raised two fingers without turning his head.
“Waiter! Two more bowls! Keep the green onions!”
“Coming right up!” Old Guo grinned from ear to ear. Every great cook loved a customer who ate like a starving wolf.
SLUUUURP! CLANG!
“Waiter! Three more bowls! Extra beef brisket!”
SLUUUURP! CLANG!
“Four more! And bring a plate of that pickled garlic!”
Around the noodle stall, the bricklayers, salt miners, and town guards slowly stopped talking and chewing. One by one, they turned to stare in amazement at Table Four.
Even General Tie Zhan walked over, holding his half-eaten meat bun in his hand as his jaw dropped open.
“Good grief,” Tie Zhan whispered to Pei Xuan, watching the skinny white-robed swordsman demolish his twelfth bowl of noodles without his flat belly puffing out even half an inch. “Where is he putting all that soup?! Does he have a storage bag inside his stomach?! Even I stop at ten bowls!”
Pei Xuan watched the glowing tooltip above Ye Guhan’s head with a huge grin.
By the time fifteen minutes had passed, eighteen empty porcelain bowls were stacked in two neat, wobbling towers on Table Four. Four empty garlic saucers sat beside them, stripped down to the dry papery skins.
Finally, Ye Guhan let out a soft, satisfied burp that smelled strongly of braised beef and raw garlic.
His pale cheeks were now healthy and pink, and the cracked meridian in his chest had stopped bleeding completely.
Recovering his icy, aloof expression, Ye Guhan pulled a clean white silk handkerchief from his collar and dabbed the corners of his mouth with slow, graceful care.
“Not bad,” Ye Guhan said coolly, standing up from the bench and brushing an invisible speck of dust off his patched white sleeve. “For a mortal kitchen in the middle of the barren wastes, your broth has a trace of culinary comprehension. Waiter, take this silver and keep the change.”
With his chin tilted proudly toward the sky, Ye Guhan reached his right hand into his left sleeve to pull out his embroidered money pouch.
His fingers touched nothing but threadbare cotton.
Ye Guhan’s hand froze.
Wait.
Keeping his face completely stiff and emotionless, he casually slid his left hand into his right sleeve.
Empty.
A tiny drop of cold sweat rolled down the back of the Rank 5 Sword Genius’s neck.
Still looking up at the clouds, Ye Guhan reached inside the front fold of his robe. He patted his chest. He patted his waist sash. He patted both hips. He even casually lifted his left foot and tapped his ankle boot against his calf.
Not a single Spirit Stone. Not a single chunk of silver. Not even a single rusty copper coin with a square hole in the middle!
Then, a horrifying memory flashed through Ye Guhan’s mind like a bolt of lightning:
Three days ago, when Elder Blood-Claw of the Shadow-Bat Sect slashed at my waist over the quicksand pit... the silk cord of my money pouch snapped and fell into the quicksand!
Right at that moment, clack-clack-clack!
Hong Ling marched over to Table Four, spinning a heavy iron kitchen cleaver in her left hand while holding out her small, calloused right palm directly under Ye Guhan’s nose.
“Thank you for your patronage, Young Master!” Hong Ling said brightly, counting the two tall towers of empty bowls with the tip of her cleaver. “Eighteen big bowls of Rank 2 Braised Scorpion-Beef Noodles at three coppers a bowl, plus six extra scoops of beef brisket at two coppers each! That comes out to sixty-six copper coins total! Cash only, no tabs!”
Around the noodle stall, two hundred burly bricklayers, General Tie Zhan, Old Wei, Abacus Su, and Pei Xuan all went dead silent, staring directly at Ye Guhan’s outstretched, empty hand.
Under the bright desert sun, the proud Rank 5 Foundation Sword Genius stood frozen like a stone statue, his icy white face turning redder than a boiled lobster from his collar all the way to the tips of his ears!
“Sixty-six... copper coins?” Ye Guhan’s voice cracked half an octave higher as his fingers trembled inside his empty sleeve. “I... I seem to have left my silver in my other trousers...”
Hong Ling’s cute smile vanished instantly. She slammed the flat of her heavy iron cleaver onto the wooden table with a loud WHAM! and yelled at the top of her lungs:
“OLD WEI! GENERAL TIE! WE HAVE A DINE-AND-DASHER AT TABLE FOUR!!”