Chapter 30: I Am Not Cao Cao

Listening to the boss’s tedious explanation, Feng Xue finally understood why the ghosts here were dubbed “precious” by Ninth Aunt.

After all, compared to the countless wandering souls you could summon with a wave of the hand from a mass grave, these artificially cultivated lives, meticulously selected and tempered by time, were undeniably worth their price.

Not to mention they carried no karmic entanglements—binding them wouldn’t tarnish your moral virtue.

Seeing Feng Xue seemed to understand, the boss knew he could raise the price—unlike the cheap, fleeting spirits he usually sold to spoiled heirs, this man clearly intended to buy a guardian spirit, and spirits of this caliber were among the most expensive in the trade.

Getting someone to spend money is easy; getting them to spend it happily and return for more requires making them understand why the price is justified.

He walked to a shelf, pulled out a porcelain vase that looked unmistakably expensive, and said:

“I’ve talked so much, yet I haven’t asked what kind of spirit you need. If you seek a protective spirit, this one inside is perfect. The vase is from the Song imperial court, said to have been a favorite of some empress. The spirit within wears a ceremonial phoenix crown and robe—even if its original form wasn’t truly an empress, centuries of devotion have gathered enough wish-energy that, with proper cultivation, it might even cultivate a trace of phoenix qi to draw imperial dragon qi for your protection. Truly excellent.”

Feng Xue shook his head decisively. Though he wasn’t short on money, the Song dynasty official kiln vase was terrifyingly expensive; as the boss reached for a blue-and-white piece, he hurriedly said:

“I don’t need much from a spirit. Preferably a cultured ghost—doesn’t have to master everything, but at least know a bit of music, chess, calligraphy, and painting. Preferably quiet, not flashy. And finally… it must be able to eat.”

“Uh…?” The boss blinked, stunned by the request. “Sir, I understand the first parts, but ‘able to eat’?”

“My cultivation method emphasizes abundant primal qi and enduring magical power,” Feng Xue explained calmly. The boss was skeptical—primal qi was just refined human essence; no matter how abundant, wasting it made no sense. Did he think the spirit would get overfull?

But since it was the customer’s request, he had no grounds to argue. Spirits severed their karmic ties the moment their original bodies were liberated; even if this man fed it human lives afterward, it wouldn’t implicate him. He might even profit later by charging for spirit exorcism.

After briefly sifting through his inventory, he moved to a shelf holding scrolls, took down three, and placed them on the central display table.

Feng Xue glanced at the scrolls and felt slightly reassured—this casual handling suggested they weren’t ancient masterpieces.

The shopkeeper, unaware Feng Xue was still assessing value, picked up one scroll, unrolled it, and began:

“Of all the female talents, aside from the ‘poetess’ I mentioned earlier, these three stand out. First, this one—the artist is unknown, but the figure is a famed courtesan from a century ago, admired by countless literati who wrote poems and painted her. This piece isn’t the finest, but it happens to house a spirit. It absorbed generations of admirers’ fantasies and yearnings for that beauty—fluent in music, chess, calligraphy, and painting, with a figure and face of peerless elegance.”

Feng Xue studied the woman in the painting and nodded inwardly. Unlike the many ancient portraits he’d seen in his past life—refined yet culturally distant from modern aesthetics—this woman genuinely felt elegant and beautiful to him.

But the boss didn’t stop. He unrolled another scroll—but this one wasn’t a portrait. It was calligraphy, its strokes rigid, unmistakably masculine.

“This calligraphy is a rare authentic piece. Just the name ‘Shen Xian’ alone could fetch a fortune at the Weiguo Shufu Bi auction house. He wrote it mourning his late wife—”

“Next one!” Feng Xue cut him off sharply. He had no interest in other men’s wives—even if they were just AI simulations using their names.

“Oh, oh, I get it… that’s normal,” the boss nodded. Though spirits didn’t actually have such preferences—even their appearance or gender could be reshaped with proper cultivation—he’d met conservative xuan cultivators before. He paused, then remembered another spirit he might have. He swiftly rolled up the third scroll and pulled a brocade box from a corner.

“Most famous female talents were either married or courtesans—you probably don’t want those. How about this one?”

He unrolled the scroll: a small ink-wash landscape. The brushwork, though traditionally bold and unrestrained, felt restrained here—even Feng Xue, not an expert, sensed something off.

Seeing Feng Xue frown, the boss tensed and hurried to explain:

“This painting was done by the daughter of a former chancellor. Her father lost the imperial succession struggle; the painting surfaced during the family’s confiscation. The resentment here was faint—I cleared it within two months of acquiring it. But the spirit born from this painting is stubborn. A hundred years later, it hasn’t faded at all. This usually happens when the original owner’s obsession transfers to the spirit. Such spirits are more sentient and have greater potential, but they demand far more cultivation. Had you not specifically asked for ‘able to eat,’ I’d never have recommended her.”

As he spoke, the boss pointed at the scroll. Feng Xue initially saw only an ink blot—but when his over-the-shoulder vision and his eyes focused together, the blot twitched. Only then did Feng Xue realize something:

On this painting, he hadn’t seen the ghostly silhouette as clearly as he had on every other object in the room.

“You’re right—it’s the ink blot. I’ve thought it vanished several times, but when I looked closer, she was still there, as if she’d become part of the painting itself.”

He then pulled a single-lens, high-magnification jeweler’s loupe from his pocket and handed it to Feng Xue.

“Don’t be fooled by her size—her figure and face are top-tier. Magnify it and you’ll see!”

Feng Xue, listening to the boss’s absurd claims, took the loupe with a stiff face. As he focused, the tiny dot expanded into a full form: she sat by the shore, her long hair spilling loosely beside her, blending with the ink-washed stream. In her small brows and eyes, he could detect a trace of sorrow.

He had to admit—he liked this type. He removed the loupe, steadied his emotions, and said:

“Give me a price.”

Seeing Feng Xue satisfied, the boss felt a quiet thrill. It wasn’t a big sale, but clearing old stock was always welcome.

Back then, he’d been inexperienced—he assumed any spirit-attached item was valuable. He’d held onto this for nearly a century. Such works never fetched antique prices, no matter how long they sat. The brushwork was too ordinary to pass off as a master’s true piece—not even a gullible buyer would be fooled. If the spirit ever decided to leave, he’d lose everything.

Still, the price couldn’t change. He mentally recalculated its original purchase cost, weighed his options, then named a figure:

“Sixty strings, final offer! The painting’s a gift, and I’ll throw in a set of accessories. How’s that?”

The logic behind spirit-attached collectibles was simple.

After death, only a soul with strong attachment—hatred, love, rage, duty, etc.—could linger in the mortal realm. Such spirits clung to whatever object or person anchored their obsession: the enemy’s side, the beloved’s side, or a fixed location as a bound spirit.

An object capable of housing a spirit must have absorbed intense emotion from its owner in life.

As for genuine antiques, that’s another matter—but even non-antique items weren’t ordinary. Even a lover’s keepsake wouldn’t be something unremarkable. For an industry spanning centuries, even items not considered antiques in their time became so after a few hundred years.

But those in the trade know: antiques are valuable only if they’re intrinsically good. Something worthless in its day stays worthless centuries later—and many are fooled.

Many newcomers assume any spirit-attached item guarantees profit—and many end up stuck with unsellable junk.

It’s like in Hunter x Hunter, when Killua buys antiques with “Nen”—most earn a profit, but occasionally you get a gifted but unknown artist’s heartfelt imitation.

Most collectors don’t even know their items house spirits. Yet their affection for the object, and their fantasies about its original owner—“What a magnificent woman this fan once belonged to”—still influence the spirit. It’s not necessary to believe the spirit *is* the original owner for it to be shaped by such thoughts.

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(End of Chapter)