"Eat faster, all of you! You've got fifteen minutes—no more!"
The guards cracked their whips through the air, barking orders with grim faces.
The column of four or five hundred mountain dwellers stretched out like a long serpent along the winding trail, measuring the earth one weary step at a time. Now they had halted to eat.
The mountain folk ate poorly—mostly whatever dry rations they'd brought from home: a coarse cornmeal biscuit and a gourd of water. It got the job done.
A meal like that didn't cost a single penny, which made it the thrifty choice. (A thousand pennies made one silver tael.)
The guards from the Mountain Patrol Division, on the other hand, lived differently. They even traveled with their own cook, dishing out Sweet-and-Sour Spirit Chicken, jade ravioli, Fragrant Meat Fried Rice, fish and tofu soup...
The mouthwatering aromas drifted far down the line.
Each of those dishes probably cost dozens—maybe even a hundred—pennies.
Word was that the higher-ranked hunters ate medicated meals every day, food infused with spiritual energy. The value of that was beyond anything an ordinary mountain dweller could dream of.
Heng, meanwhile, was starving—his stomach growling so loudly it felt like his backbone was rubbing against his belly. Forget the guards' feast; he didn't even have the basic rations the other mountain folk were eating!
The golden cauldron was powerful, sure, but it couldn't put food in his mouth.
He thought about asking a few of the original owner's acquaintances for something to eat, but when they saw him swaying on his feet, eyes glazed with hunger, they assumed he was still sick. They steered clear as fast as they could.
Some clutched their meager portions tighter, unwilling to share even if it meant watching him collapse.
Heng couldn't blame them. They were all scraping by. Why should anyone else have to feed him?
A wave of bitterness washed over him. A single penny could bring down the mightiest hero.
So hungry... so damn hungry.
If only I had some money.
He couldn't help the thought. Was he really going to die—not from poison or demons, but because he couldn't afford a biscuit that cost a few pennies?
Just when things looked bleakest, a stranger's voice sounded beside him.
"You look half-starved. Here, take this."
Heng looked up and saw a young guard with a boyish face standing in front of him.
A soft white biscuit was pressed into his hand.
"Well, well—Young Tian playing the saint again? People die out here every day. You planning to save them all?"
Laughter and jeers rose from the other guards.
The young man said nothing in reply.
Heng thanked him quickly, taking the biscuit with both hands and tearing into it like a starving wolf. In that moment he committed the name—and the face—to memory.
He never forgot a debt, and he never forgot a grudge. A single act of kindness like this—he would repay it one day.
The column moved on.
After half a day's march, the group finally stopped.
The trail ahead disappeared into a wall of thick, swirling fog that no light could pierce.
They had arrived: Mist Valley, the edge of the Hundred Thousand Mountains—the place where the toxic mists were thinnest.
Staring at the rolling fog bank, Heng clenched his fists. Excitement and nerves battled inside him.
It was time. Time to enter the mountains, hunt for treasure, and change his fortune.
This dog's life wasn't fit for a human being. He had to make it big—he had to.
"Brother Heng, once we're inside, we've got to look out for each other, right?"
Scab Li sidled up, leering and winking.
Heng felt ice in his veins, but on the surface he acted as though he hadn't heard a word. He simply turned and followed the column straight into the mist.
Before, he might have feared the man.
Now, with the cauldron's help, the only thing Heng worried about was Scab Li not making his move.
The moment he stepped into the mist, it felt like entering another world.
From the original owner's memories, every trip into the mountains brought a prickling itch all over the skin—like thousands of ants and snakes crawling across it. Unbearable.
The longer you stayed, the worse it got. Eventually the skin would break down and rot.
Rumor had it the Mountain Patrol Division had once experimented on mountain dwellers. If someone stayed in the mist too long without coming out, the rot spread inward—until lungs, heart, everything turned to pus. Horrific.
But Heng felt none of that now.
Instead, a faint coolness washed over him.
With every breath, every step, he sensed a subtle energy flowing into his body, slowly strengthening it.
The benefits were gradual—you wouldn't notice much right away—but over months and years, they would add up tremendously.
The other mountain dwellers around him were gritting their teeth, clearly fighting the torment.
No one dared waste time. They scattered into the underbrush, searching for herbs and treasures to turn in—or, if they were lucky, to claim a small reward.
Heng headed deeper into the forest.
The Mist Absorption ability didn't just protect him from the poison—it also let him sense spiritual objects.
He followed the faint pull at his nose and mouth, guiding him through the trees.
Before long, he spotted a reishi mushroom half-buried in a clump of grass and dirt.
"The cap looks like an almond—small, but easily several decades old. Valuable."
Rough estimate: on the black market, something like this would fetch at least a hundred pennies.
Reishi grown in the mist carried trace toxins if the age was low; older specimens were purer and worth far more.
Still, even at a hundred pennies, if Heng turned it over to the Mountain Patrol Division guards, he'd only get ten pennies as reward.
The Division squeezed the common mountain folk dry.
That was why the original owner—starting at thirteen and foraging for five or six years—had only managed to save three silver taels.
Unless Heng earned hunter status, or became a true warrior, he had no leverage to negotiate better terms—or keep everything for himself.
Hunter status wasn't easy to get.
You needed the corpse of a spirit beast to trade for it.
Spirit beasts were plants or animals deep in the mountains that had absorbed the essence of sun and moon, gaining unnatural power.
Killing one was incredibly difficult.
Take Southern Ridge Town, where Heng came from—hundred thousand households, yet only a few hundred registered hunters.
Most of those spots were hereditary.
The number who earned the rank by personally killing a spirit beast? Maybe one or two a year, if that.
Of course, you didn't always have to kill one yourself.
Some veteran hunters sold excess corpses.
But the price? At least a hundred silver taels.
Steep, yes—but worth it. A hunter outranked an ordinary Mountain Patrol guard.
Just look at the difference in their meals: hunters ate medicated food that constantly strengthened the body.
And hunters got to ride horses.
If Heng had a colt, he could race through the mist, covering ground fast—his treasure-hunting efficiency would skyrocket.
Hunters were the ones who could actually bargain with the Mountain Patrol Division.
"Becoming a hunter is too hard in the short term. Maybe I should just make a break for it. Handing over this reishi for a pittance hurts too much."
A plan formed.
He wasn't afraid of the mist anymore. Why not run?
With Mist Absorption guiding him to treasures far better than anyone else could find, saving up a hundred taels wasn't impossible.
Then he could buy a spirit beast corpse, register as a hunter, return to town legally—no longer a fugitive slave—and rise above the rest.
Escape. Hunt treasure. Save money. Become a hunter.
The path forward grew clearer in his mind.
Of course, the Hundred Thousand Mountains held dangers beyond the mist—venomous snakes, insects, mountain spirits, ghosts. Hiding long-term wouldn't be simple.
He'd need to scout carefully, find a safe place to hole up.
For now, Heng kept moving through the forest.
Soon his senses tingled again—a faint whisper of spiritual energy.
Another treasure?