The days passed quietly and uneventfully.
Shen Jietian’s life quickly settled into a monotonous, grinding routine.
Every morning before the sun could peek above the horizon, he left his small courtyard in the South District, and every night long after dark, he dragged his exhausted body back across the threshold.
Nothing changed.
At least, not on the surface.
The East Market remained as noisy and chaotic as ever.
Shrewd merchants shouted their daily promotions, independent cultivators bargained fiercely over every fragment of spirit stone, rugged beast hunters displayed freshly gathered materials, and weary herb gatherers unloaded baskets filled with mountain treasures.
The massive crowd flowed endlessly through the dusty streets like a river.
And every single afternoon, Shen Jietian could be found standing in the exact same spot along the thoroughfare, holding his handwritten papers.
“Black Mist Market Bulletin,” he would call out evenly.
“Three pieces of Spirit Sand per copy.”
Sometimes, desperate gatherers would slow their footsteps to inspect his sign, but the vast majority simply walked right past him.
Some cast casual glances at the loose sheets before walking away with a look of indifference, while others openly laughed at his eccentricity.
A few curious souls stopped to ask superficial questions, but very few actually completed the transaction.
During the first three days following his very first sale, Shen Jietian managed to liquidate only one additional copy.
The buyer took the paper and vanished into the crowd, never to return.
Shen Jietian wasn’t even sure if the man had bothered to read the data or had simply used the paper to kindle a fire.
On the fourth day, he sold absolutely nothing.
On the fifth day, he managed to sell a single copy.
On the sixth day, his ledger remained completely stagnant at zero.
The meagre handful of Spirit Sand he earned barely managed to cover the raw cost of the coarse paper and alchemical ink he consumed.
If someone were to calculate the operation’s logistics honestly, he was actively losing money.
Yet, Shen Jietian continued his daily vigil.
His analytical mind understood that stopping would do absolutely nothing to improve his current financial situation, and deep down, his dual-world awareness insisted that his foundational thesis was correct.
The dangerous cultivation world fundamentally valued actionable intelligence; the populace simply had not realized the immense efficiency of centralized data yet.
The only true comfort came during the quiet evenings.
After returning to his shack, Shen Jietian would consume his solitary bowl of yellow spirit rice and immediately transition into a cross-legged meditative state to circulate his mantra.
Although his progress was incredibly slow, his refined senses could still detect minute, microscopic improvements within his body.
They were painfully, agonizingly tiny increments.
He was firmly at the Fourth Layer of Qi Refinement, but the more he cultivated, the more he understood the terrifying structural difficulty of the path ahead.
The density of spiritual energy required for each consecutive advancement increased exponentially.
The energetic chasm separating the Fourth Layer from the Fifth Layer was far vaster than the entire distance he had travelled from the First to the Fourth.
Without a continuous influx of premium resources, a standard advancement would take years of blind, repetitive labor.
Perhaps many years.
Whenever those dark, heavy thoughts threatened to stall his determination, Shen Jietian’s focus would inevitably shift toward the translucent blue system panel floating in his field of vision.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Main Quest: Return Home
Requirement: Reach Late Qi Refinement (Layer 7)
Current Progress: Layer 4
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Three more layers.
It was a phrase consisting of only three simple words, yet the actual spatial and temporal distance separating him from the goal felt entirely enormous.
He calmly closed the interface and resumed his slow, repetitive meditation, anchoring his mind against the despair.
Several days later, Shen Jietian arrived at his designated spot in the East Market as usual.
The hot afternoon sun hung low in the western sky, casting long, dusty shadows across the stalls.
Business was exceptionally slow.
The muddy lanes were packed with people, but very few inhabitants displayed any interest in purchasing abstract information.
The vast majority of loose cultivators heavily preferred tangible, material assets—refined alchemical pills to heal their wounds, protective paper talismans to deflect attacks, forged iron weapons to slay beasts, and raw medicinal herbs to liquidate for quick cash.
These were immediate things they could physically touch and evaluate.
Information was far more abstract, requiring a level of market literacy that the resource-starved crowd simply did not possess.
Suddenly, a wide shadow fell directly across his display table, blocking out the fading sunlight.
Shen Jietian slowly lifted his eyes to find an elderly man standing before his station.
The man wore a set of plain, unadorned gray robes.
There were no expensive, high-conduction materials woven into the fabric, no official righteous sect insignia embroidered on the cuffs, and absolutely no powerful, oppressive aura radiating from his frame.
At a casual glance, he appeared to be nothing more than a completely ordinary, aging mortal peasant.
Yet, Shen Jietian’s sharp, analytical observation immediately logged several highly critical details.
The old man’s hands were incredibly rough, heavily covered in jagged, faded scars and dense callouses—the undeniable structural marks left behind by decades of intensive manual labor in the wilderness.
His leather boots were ancient and heavily scuffed, yet they were meticulously cleaned and grease-maintained; they were purely practical, survival-oriented footwear, entirely devoid of decorative trim.
Furthermore, the woven herb basket strapped to his broad back was dark with long use, yet it was surprisingly, meticulously organized; custom wooden dividers separated the different species of delicate plants to prevent their spiritual essences from contaminating one another.
Most importantly, his eyes were remarkable.
They were incredibly sharp, perfectly calm, and deeply observant.
They were the unmistakable eyes of a pragmatic veteran who had managed to survive the meat grinder of the independent cultivation path for an exceptionally long time.
The old man reached down and picked up a copy of the bulletin.
Instead of merely skimming the title or dismissively tossing it aside like the previous observers, he actually began to read the text with immense focus, tracking the characters line by line.
Several long, silent moments passed between them as the noise of the marketplace rumbled in the background.
Finally, the elder lowered the paper slightly, his raspy voice breaking the silence.
“Did you personally write these records, little brother?”
Shen Jietian offered a composed nod.
“Mostly, yes.”
“Mostly?” the old man pressed, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“A few specific structural details regarding transport timelines were extracted from conversations with caravan laborers and herb gatherers.”
The old man nodded slowly and returned his gaze to the sheet, reading through the logged entries: Moonleaf Grass procurement variances, Spirit Dew Flower seasonal density, Stoneback Lizard scale market valuations, current commercial warning matrices, and active regional scam reports.
Suddenly, his eyes brought their movement to a halt, locking onto a specific data block near the bottom:
Green River Medicine Pavilion.
Current Moonleaf Grass purchase price: Five Spirit stones.
The veteran looked up, his expression thoroughly serious.
“Did you verify this specific purchasing rate?”
“I did.”
“Personally?”
“Personally,” Shen Jietian replied unblinkingly, meeting his gaze.
“I stood outside their main dispensary and verified three separate transactions three mornings ago.”
The old man stared deeply at the youth for several long seconds, uttering no words.
He was simply observing the boy’s micro-expressions, weighing the psychological validity of his posture.
Then, he gently placed the bulletin back onto the wooden table.
“Interesting,” the old man murmured.
That single, neutral word caused a ripple of genuine surprise to flit through Shen Jietian’s mind.
It was the very first positive, non-mocking reaction his business model had received from a seasoned elder since its inception.
Without asking for a discount, the old man reached into his pouch, pulled out the exact currency, and placed it on the wood.
“How much?”
“Three pieces of Spirit Sand.”
The elder paid the fee without a single shred of hesitation.
There was no aggressive bargaining, no condescending mockery, and no dry laughter.
That absolute, dignified pragmatism alone made him vastly different from every other inhabitant filling the East Market.
The old man tucked the paper bulletin securely into a clean compartment of his herb basket.
But instead of turning around to leave, he pulled up a small wooden stool resting near the stall and sat down heavily.
Just then, a traveling mortal tea vendor happened to be navigating his cart through the lane.
The old man raised a hand, purchased two cheap cups of ordinary tea, and smoothly pushed one toward the youth.
“Sit down, little brother,” the senior commanded softly.
Shen Jietian hesitated for a brief fraction of a second before accepting the offering, sliding onto his own bench across the table.
For several moments, neither of them spoke a word, allowing the chaotic roar of the surrounding market to fill the silence between them.
Finally, the old man took a measured sip of the hot liquid, his eyes locking onto the youth.
“Why exactly are you spending your limited lifespan doing this kind of paper work?”
The direct question caught Shen Jietian slightly off guard.
Most of his rare customers only cared about the actual content written on the page; they possessed zero curiosity regarding the philosophy driving the broker behind the table.
After analyzing the old man’s demeanor for a moment, he decided to answer with unvarnished, Earth-trained honesty.
“Because structured information possesses immense, intrinsic value in any market.”
The old man suddenly broke into a soft laugh.
It wasn’t the harsh, mocking sneer of the wealthy merchants; it was the genuinely amused, analytical chuckle of a man who found the statement incredibly novel.
He took another slow sip of his tea, leaning forward.
“If structured information truly possesses such immense value, little brother…
then why exactly are your clothes so patched, and why are you currently poor?”
Shen Jietian froze mid-motion, the cup hovering near his lips.
The old man’s tone carried no malice or intent to humiliate; if anything, it sounded entirely curious, like a scholar testing a hypothesis.
Yet, the raw truth of the question still landed heavily against his psyche.
After a brief pause, Shen Jietian let out a bitter, self-mocking smile.
“I suppose it is because absolutely nobody in this city currently agrees with my thesis.”
The old man chuckled again, shaking his head.
“No, child.
That is fundamentally not the reason why your business is failing.”
He extended a calloused finger, pointing through the dust toward a clearing in the market.
“Look at that herb seller operating over there.”
A short distance away, a middle-aged merchant was locked in a fierce, red-faced argument with a customer over a bundle of roots.
“He actively possesses localized information,” the old man noted.
He shifted his finger, pointing toward a large, heavily armed cultivator carrying a massive bag of raw beast pelts past their station.
“Look at that hunter.
He understands exact information regarding beast patterns and danger zones within the peaks.
He knows it well.”
The finger traced another coordinate.
“The talisman apprentice down the lane knows information about resource shortages, the commercial merchants know information about supply line disruptions, and the caravan leaders understand international values.”
The old man leaned his back comfortably against the pillar.
“Every single living soul operating within this market understands that information possesses value, child.
They use it every day to survive.”
Shen Jietian’s brow furrowed tightly as his analytical mind raced to parse the contradiction.
Then why—
Before he could articulate the query, the old man calmly interrupted his internal monologue, tapping his cracked fingernail against the paper bulletin.
“The core problem with your enterprise isn’t a lack of valuable information, child.
The root problem is a complete lack of trust.”
The chaotic noise of the busy marketplace suddenly seemed to grow remarkably quiet within Shen Jietian’s perception.
The old man’s gaze remained perfectly calm and unyielding.
“If I walk up to a fellow gatherer and tell him exactly where a pristine cluster of Moonleaf Grass is growing this season, he will believe my words without a single shred of doubt,” the elder reasoned smoothly. This chapter is updated first at NovelPing.
“Why?
Because he has known my face for twenty years.
He knows my record.” He shrugged his shoulders casually.
“They know the character of Old Liu.”
The name had finally been introduced: Old Liu.
The senior herb gatherer took another calm sip of his tea.
“If a veteran beast hunter warns the gathering parties about a dangerous pack migrating into a low-risk zone, the people will instantly alter their routes and listen.
Because they have seen his scars and they know his history.”
“If a prominent merchant patriarch states that material prices are going to skyrocket tomorrow morning, the buyers believe his claims immediately.
Because they have conducted transactions with his firm for years.”
His rough finger tapped the handwritten bulletin once more, locking eyes with the youth.
“And you?
Who exactly are you to this market?”
Shen Jietian remained completely silent, the realization hitting his mind with absolute precision.
Old Liu offered a small, knowing smile.
“Absolutely nobody in this market knows your face, your history, or your character, child.”
The words weren’t delivered with cruelty, nor were they meant to insult his effort; they were simply a cold, mathematically verifiable truth of human psychology.
For the very first time since launching his venture, Shen Jietian parsed a massive structural blind spot in his model.
The premium quality of his gathered data wasn’t the issue.
The physical exhaustion of his labor wasn’t the issue.
The absolute precision of his handwritten metrics wasn’t the variable causing the failure.
The primary problem was his own lack of personal brand equity.
He possessed absolutely zero reputation in Black Mist City.
In a cutthroat world where a single piece of false information could easily guide a cultivator straight into an ambush or financial ruin, the market had absolutely no logical reason to trust the unverified words of an anonymous, impoverished Fourth Layer failure standing by the road with a stack of papers.
Old Liu slowly rose from his stool, the crimson sun finally dipping completely beneath the city walls to signal the arrival of twilight.
The old gatherer adjusted the heavy leather straps of the herb basket on his broad shoulders, securing his gear.
“I will personally test the validity of the metrics written in this document tomorrow morning,” the senior stated, lifting the paper bulletin slightly into the cool evening air.
“If your data actually turns out to be structurally useful to my business…
I will come back.”
Without waiting for a formal response, he turned on his heel and walked away, his sturdy frame seamlessly disappearing into the flowing mass of the evening crowd.
Shen Jietian remained seated on his bench for a very long time, watching the dark path where the old man had vanished.
His analytical mind completely disassembled and reconstructed the conversation, processing the new variable.
Trust.
It was such an incredibly simple, baseline word within his Earth memories, yet within the brutal, might-makes-right reality of the cultivation world, it was infinitely more difficult to mine and refine than the raw information itself.
Three full days trickled by before Old Liu finally crossed the boundary of the East Market again.
This time around, the veteran gatherer wasn’t traveling alone.
A significantly younger, less experienced herb harvester accompanied his footsteps—clearly an apprentice or a close associate whom the old man was guiding through the trade.
Old Liu navigated his way directly through the dense rows of stalls, walking straight toward Shen Jietian’s familiar wooden table.
Without uttering a single, solitary word of greeting, he reached into his sleeve, pulled out six pristine grains of raw Spirit Sand, and placed them down onto the wood with a sharp click.
“Give me two copies,” the old man commanded simply.
Shen Jietian blinked in surprise, his mind instantly logging the data point, before his hands moved with practiced velocity to hand over two fresh copies of the handwritten bulletins.
The younger herb gatherer immediately took his copy, his eyes widening as he began eagerly scanning the recorded price lists, while Old Liu calmly tucked his own copy into his robes.
Then, the senior turned his sharp gaze back to look at the youth.
For the very first time since they had met, a distinct, visible trace of genuine structural approval manifested deep within the old man’s observant eyes.
“The recorded Moonleaf Grass purchasing rate at the Green River Pavilion was completely accurate down to the last spirit sand, little brother.”
Shen Jietian felt a sudden, small surge of pure, unadulterated professional satisfaction blossom within his chest.
Old Liu continued, his voice dropping slightly.
“Your information successfully saved my expedition nearly two full spirit stones in lost margins during liquidation.”
Two whole spirit stones.
To an independent loose cultivator operating within the slums, that was an immense, highly respectable amount of hard currency—capital that could easily fund weeks of basic survival and cultivation resources.
The old veteran offered a slow, firm nod of his head, his posture shifting with respect.
“Keep writing these papers, kid.
Don’t stop.”
Turning around on his heel, he began to guide his apprentice back toward the market exit.
After taking several paces into the thick dust of the lane, the old man suddenly brought his boots to a temporary halt.
Without bothering to turn his head back to face the stall, he spoke one final, heavy sentence that resonated through the air: “If the information inside these sheets consistently stays this accurate…”
A faint, knowing smile broke through the dense, graying whiskers of his weathered face.
“…then you can rest assured that more people will inevitably come to your table.”
Then, Old Liu stepped forward, his frame seamlessly dissolving into the chaotic vortex of the market crowd, leaving Shen Jietian standing completely alone behind his station.
The young man lowered his eyes, staring intently at the six grains of raw Spirit Sand resting quietly against the wood of his table.
His very first recurring conversion.
His very first word-of-mouth referral.
And for the very first time since embarking on this ridiculous, information-brokering business…
he felt a profound, warm certainty settle over his re-forged soul, confirming that perhaps—just perhaps—he wasn’t walking the wrong path after all.
End of Chapter 14
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