Chapter 987

Demon Stone Small Realm, Zhen Shan Sect.

In the dark mine tunnel, a Qi Refining seventh-layer cultivator named Zhu Zi was hammering away at a second-grade purple stone ore the size of a human skull.

In each hand he held a hammer and chisel; blood-colored magic power surged through his meridians, chipping off layers of gray-white ore skin.

He did not know that with every strike of his mining tool, a barely perceptible amount of his lifespan and vital blood drained away, flowing into the purple stone, completing a process akin to consecration, maximizing the ore’s intrinsic quality.

Zhu Zi’s mining continued for several hours.

Ding!

With a clear chime, a gem the size of a thumb emerged, faintly tinged with crimson, glowing softly.

This was the finished product: purple jade stone.

“Out already? Zhu Zi brother beat his usual time by half an hour.”

Dozens of other human Qi Refining cultivators nearby were busy too; some looked on with envy.

“Has Zhu Zi brother been working here for fifteen years already?”

“Just five more years, and he can go home, marry a wife, have children—take thirty-six concubines, live in endless bliss. Then Zhu Zi brother will finally enjoy peace…”

“We still have work to do—time to harvest talisman herbs. We’re born to labor, not like the Sect Master, who can only rest when he’s dead.”

“That’s true, harvesting talisman herbs is easy—anyone can do it. Nothing compared to mining.”

Around them, Qi Refining cultivators chatted amid the clanging of hammers, their talk reviving a little strength, stirring a bit more vitality and vigor.

“Still early.”

Zhu Zi wore a simple, earnest expression.

He carefully tucked away the purple jade stone, glanced warily around, and headed toward the sect’s main hall.

The sect strictly forbade infighting among kin; violators were executed. Few dared steal others’ ore.

Yet even so, it still happened.

Zhu Zi had heard of miners who were robbed—those who stole were punished, but the miner himself died too, a tragic waste.

Zhu Zi passed through various mine tunnels, reached the entrance, and walked past spirit fields and spirit herb gardens.

Along the way he met many cultivators, male and female, some the offspring of Foundation Establishment Elders.

Yet all were the same—every one worked. Some tended spirit herbs, others handled spirit fish, some turned soil; everyone hurried past, none idle.

‘It’s good to be the child of a Foundation Establishment Elder…’

Zhu Zi glanced enviously at the spirit farmers tending herbs in the garden; when they looked his way, he quickly lowered his head.

These spirit farmers had it far better than miners.

Most miners died before age forty.

Only a tiny few with exceptional talent survived to marry and have children.

He himself had nearly died once—his body weakened, his mind hazy, certain he was about to perish.

Luckily, he pulled through.

But the children of Foundation Establishment Elders were different: they didn’t have to stay in mines daily, lived under sunlight, had lighter work, and each lived at least to sixty; some even surpassed it.

Miners and them? One in heaven, one in hell.

Zhu Zi wound through paths, finally arriving at the sect’s main hall.

Called the main hall, it was in truth a half-mountain cave converted from a mine—flat green stone, decorated with worthless glowing pearls.

Such a standard, in the Northern Plains, wouldn’t even be worthy of a martial sect’s ancestral hall.

‘The oppression and plunder by the Demon Rock Clan… truly extreme…’

Jiang Ding withdrew a strand of spiritual sense from his Spiritual Void Realm, silently observing the sect, assessing the survival state of humanity in this world.

In truth, by his own habits, he should have chosen a deserted place and buried himself.

That way, no karmic ties, no contact with people—safest.

Yet the Shadow Demon Abyss’s Soul Concealment Divine Art had its own logic: hiding within the spiritual essence of mortals or cultivators allowed for far greater stealth—even high-tier cultivators’ spiritual senses might fail to detect him.

This was the crystallized Daoist wisdom of the Shadow Demon Abyss on concealment and stealth.

Objectively speaking, for extremely high-tier cultivators, wilderness and populated areas were equally detectable—no place was truly hidden, not even buried underground.

But populated areas had one advantage: the spiritual essences were chaotic, varied—ideal for concealment.

Zhu Zi looked up at the main hall, glittering with glowing pearls, and stepped inside with reverence. Seeing two old men within, his tension deepened; he bowed respectfully: “Uncle, disciple comes to submit today’s purple jade stone.”

“Good.”

One gray-robed elder seated cross-legged nodded slightly, saying nothing more.

Zhu Zi dared not disturb further; he placed down the purple jade stone and retreated carefully.

After he left, the gray-robed elder waved his hand, drawing the stone to a large stone jar nearby, then took out a bamboo slip and recorded nine merit points under “Zhu Zi 279.”

“Nine points?”

The blue-robed Foundation Establishment cultivator beside him blinked in surprise. “By custom, shouldn’t it be five? The sect takes one, the higher-ups split one or two, and you and I each get one.”

“Does this boy have ties to you?”

“Or did you feel pity? Useless. This kind of mine slave, trained in the Blood-Burning Spirit Art, is already seventh-layer Qi Refining at such a young age—he’ll be lucky to live past fifty. No need to waste anything.”

“Better to let the spirit stone stay with us. Strengthen our cultivation, and the sect grows stronger too.”

He urged his old friend, knowing his kindness.

He knew his old friend was kind-hearted and advised him.

The gray-robed Foundation Establishment cultivator sighed softly.

“It’s the Sect Master’s order.”

“The mine slaves have been squeezed too hard lately—nearly at their limit. We must ease up slightly, or they’ll lose the will to live.”

“If too many mine slaves die, we won’t submit enough ore—and we’ll die too.”

“We must… give them hope, from time to time.”

The blue-robed cultivator fell silent.

“They have hope… what hope do we have?”

“They have hope… what about ours?”

“We too cultivate the Blood-Burning Spirit Art. We advance faster, yet even as Foundation Establishment cultivators, our lifespan is barely a century, and we never rest.”

“We also cultivate the Blood Burning Spirit Art; we advance far faster, yet even if we reach Foundation Establishment, our lifespan is no more than a hundred years, and we have no idle moments each day.”

The gray-robed elder shook his head.

“If only we could become the Sect Master’s direct disciple…”

Both fell silent for a moment, then each took a stone, hammer and chisel clinking as they carved, using special techniques to peel away ore skin while infusing their magic power and vital blood into the stone, consecrating and enhancing its quality.

This was higher-grade ore, requiring Foundation Establishment cultivators to carve and consecrate—no one else could do it.

“The Sect Master’s direct disciple…”

Neither knew that atop the mountain peak, an old man with white temples and a face full of wrinkles was also striking a third-grade ore, consecrating it with his magic power and lifespan. Hearing their words, he let out a bitter laugh.

Yet these two did not know that atop the peak, an old man with white temples and a face full of wrinkles was likewise striking a third-grade ore, refining it with magic power and his own lifespan and vital essence, and upon hearing their words, he let out a self-deprecating laugh.

“The Sect Master… is a mine slave too.”

Jin Zhenjun stared at the hammer and chisel in his hands—two treasures that had accompanied him for over two hundred years.

He stared blankly for a long time.

Then,

Ding ding ding ding…

The unceasing, numbing sound of mining resumed, rigid and mechanical.

No one knew how long this sound would last.

For even this life could not continue much longer—other powerful clans coveted this place, even though it was so barren.

For even this life could no longer be sustained; other powerful clans coveted this place, no matter how barren it was.

Three