**Chapter 2: The Liquidator's Ledger and the Art of Talismans**
The first pale, anemic rays of dawn filtered through the fist-sized hole in the thatched roof, casting a cold, grey light over the squalor of the hut.
Lu Chen sat cross-legged on the ragged, straw-stuffed mattress, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and rhythmic. For the first time since transmigrating into this brutal world, he did not feel the bone-deep, gnawing ache of impending death. The air in the Outer Slums was still freezing, the frost clinging to the wooden walls, but a localized aura of warmth radiated from his skin, melting the ice in a two-foot radius around him.
He opened his eyes. They were clear, sharp, and absent of the desperate, hollow look that had haunted the original owner's reflection.
He took a deep breath, drawing the thin, ambient spiritual energy of the slums into his lungs. He guided it down into his dantian, following the familiar, yet vastly improved, circulatory path of the *Green Wood Sutra*.
*Whoosh.*
The spiritual energy in his meridians flowed like a steady, calm river, completely unlike the stagnant, muddy trickle of yesterday. Reaching the third level of Qi Condensation had fundamentally transformed his mortal shell. His senses were sharper; he could hear the scuttling of a rat beneath the floorboards with perfect clarity. He could smell the distinct metallic tang of the frost outside, separated from the pervasive stench of the slums.
With a mere thought, the glowing blue panel materialized in his vision.
## **[Name]:** Lu Chen
**[Age]:** 19
**[Cultivation]:** Qi Condensation Level 3 (Solid)
**[Spirit Root]:** Five Elements (Inferior Grade)
**[Lifespan]:** 19 / 65 Years
**[Spells]:** Spirit Rain Art (Beginner), Earth Spike (Beginner), **Fireball Spell (Proficient)**
**[Professions]:** **Talisman Maker (Rank 1 - Low Grade)**
**[Innate Talent]:** Corpse Devouring
"Sixty-five years," Lu Chen murmured, the words feeling heavy and miraculous on his tongue.
He had essentially stolen four decades of life from the pulverized corpse of Zhou Ming. In his previous life on Earth as a corporate liquidator, time was money. Here, time was literally cultivation. But as he reveled in his renewed vitality, his analytical mind, honed by years of ruthless corporate maneuvering, quickly identified the glaring bottleneck in his new existence.
He closed the panel and focused inward, attempting to draw in more of the ambient spiritual energy to push toward the peak of Level 3.
It was agonizingly slow.
It felt like trying to suck a thick, frozen milkshake through a tiny, cracked straw. His Five-Element mixed spirit root—Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth—was a curse of the highest order. In the cultivation world, a single-element Heavenly Spirit Root was prized because it allowed pure, unfiltered absorption of that specific elemental Qi. A five-element root meant that every breath of spiritual energy he took had to be painstakingly filtered, separated, and refined, rejecting four-fifths of the energy to isolate the wood-attribute Qi required for his *Green Wood Sutra*.
"At this rate," Lu Chen calculated, his brow furrowing, "even with my extended lifespan, meditating naturally would take me ten years just to reach Level 4. The ambient Qi in these slums is too thin, and my aptitude is absolute garbage."
The reality was stark. The Orthodox path of bitter, secluded meditation was closed to him. He was not a genius blessed by the heavens; he was the dregs.
"But I have the panel," he whispered, a cold, predatory light flashing in his eyes. "The heavens closed the door, but this panel kicked open a window. Why spend a decade filtering thin air when I can just... harvest the refined cultivation of others?"
Zhou Ming's corpse had provided a massive influx of pure, easily assimilated energy. It was the ultimate shortcut. However, Lu Chen was not foolish enough to believe he could just go on a mindless killing spree. The Green Rock Cultivation Market had rules. The Inner City was strictly policed by the Foundation Establishment ancestors of the Green Rock Sect. Even here in the lawless Outer Slums, blatant mass murder would draw the attention of the enforcement squads, or worse, a rogue demonic cultivator looking to eliminate competition.
He needed to be smart. He needed to be invisible. He needed to act like a scavenger until he was strong enough to be a predator.
Lu Chen stood up, his joints popping satisfyingly. He walked over to a rickety wooden chest in the corner of the room, pulling out a small, hidden pouch from beneath a false bottom. He poured the contents into his palm.
Three shattered pieces of low-grade spirit stones, and twenty-two spirit coins (mortal currency infused with a microscopic trace of Qi, used by the lowest dregs).
It was a pathetic sum. Not even enough to buy a single, decent meal at the Inner City pavilions, let alone cultivation resources.
"Poverty is the mother of all desperation," Lu Chen sighed, slipping the pouch into his robes. "Time to go to work."
### The Red Earth and the Blood-Thread Rice
The morning air was a biting whip against his face as Lu Chen stepped out of his hut. The Outer Slums were a labyrinth of dilapidated shacks, crooked alleyways, and open sewers, built precariously against the sheer, grey cliffs that enclosed the Green Rock Valley.
He walked for twenty minutes, navigating the frozen mud and avoiding the hollow-eyed, emaciated cultivators who were already awake, scurrying like rats to find their daily sustenance.
He eventually reached the terraced spirit fields on the outskirts of the market. This was the lifeblood of the Green Rock Sect, and the chain that bound the loose cultivators to their miserable existence.
Lu Chen approached his leased plot—three acres of dull, reddish soil. Planted in neat rows were stalks of Blood-Thread Rice. The plants were currently knee-high, their leaves a pale, sickly green with distinct, pulsing crimson veins running down the center. This rice was a staple food for Qi Condensation cultivators, providing a mild, steady stream of vital energy that mortal food could not offer.
However, cultivating it was a nightmare. Blood-Thread Rice required constant, daily nourishment of wood-attribute Qi and precise watering. If the soil dried out, the crimson veins would wither, ruining the crop.
Lu Chen stood at the edge of his field. In his memories, this was the most grueling part of the day. The original host would exhaust his pitiful Level 2 Qi just to water one acre, leaving him drained, coughing blood, and vulnerable for the rest of the day.
"Let's see the difference," Lu Chen muttered.
He formed a hand seal, his fingers moving with an unfamiliar yet perfect fluidity. He tapped into the robust reservoir of Qi in his dantian and envisioned the gathering of moisture.
*"Spirit Rain Art!"*
He pointed his index and middle fingers toward the sky above his plot. A profound suction force emanated from him. The ambient moisture in the freezing air rapidly rapidly condensed. Within seconds, a dark, heavy cloud, roughly twenty feet in diameter, formed directly over his field.
Lu Chen flicked his wrist.
A gentle, shimmering rain began to fall. But this was not ordinary water; the droplets possessed a faint, verdant glow, infused with Lu Chen's wood-attribute Qi. As the spirit rain touched the Blood-Thread Rice, the sickly plants visibly perked up. The crimson veins pulsed with renewed vigor, drinking in the spiritual nourishment.
Lu Chen sustained the cloud, slowly walking the perimeter of his three acres, guiding the rain until the reddish soil was perfectly saturated.
When he finally dispersed the cloud, he checked his internal reserves.
"Incredible," he breathed. "I only used about ten percent of my total Qi. The density and purity of Level 3 spiritual energy are in a completely different league than Level 2. The original host was essentially trying to push a boulder up a hill, whereas I am just rolling it down."
"Well, well, well. Look at the little sickling."
Lu Chen turned around, his expression instantly smoothing into a mask of mild subservience. Standing on the adjacent plot was Old Ma, a grizzled, hunched man in his fifties who was stuck at Level 3 of Qi Condensation. Old Ma had a face like weathered leather and a perpetual scowl. He was a survivor, a man who had seen decades of slum violence and had learned to mind his own business—mostly.
"Morning, Uncle Ma," Lu Chen greeted, cupping his hands in a polite, formal gesture.
Old Ma leaned on his crude wooden hoe, his shrewd eyes raking over Lu Chen. "You look... less dead than yesterday, boy. Managed to scrounge up a Qi Recovery Pill? You were coughing up chunks of your lungs two days ago."
"Just a lucky break with my meditation, Uncle Ma," Lu Chen lied smoothly, his voice adopting the meek tone of the original host. "The cold finally broke my fever. I feel a bit more energetic today."
Old Ma snorted, a plume of white breath escaping his nose. "Energetic won't save you from the Blood Wolves, boy. Today is the fifteenth. Rent day for the fields, and protection fee day for the gang. You better have those spirit fragments ready, or they'll use you as fertilizer for the sect's premium spirit herbs."
Lu Chen's heart skipped a beat as he accessed the original host's memories regarding the dates. Old Ma was right. The rent for the three acres was due to the Green Rock Sect overseer tomorrow, but today, the local slum enforcers—the Blood Wolves—would be coming around.
"Thank you for the reminder, Uncle Ma," Lu Chen said, bowing his head slightly.
"Don't thank me, just don't die on my property line," Old Ma grumbled, turning back to his own field. "It's a hassle to drag a corpse to the mass grave."
Lu Chen turned away, his eyes narrowing. The Blood Wolves gang. Wang Ba, the man who had killed Zhou Ming last night, was a mid-tier enforcer for that exact gang.
If the gang came to collect today, and Lu Chen had no money, they would beat him half to death, or worse, confiscate his harvest, which meant he would default on his rent to the Sect and be executed or sold into the spirit mines.
He had twenty-two spirit coins. The protection fee was one low-grade spirit stone. One stone equaled one hundred coins. He was vastly short.
"I need capital," Lu Chen deduced, striding away from the fields and toward the bustling, chaotic center of the Outer Market. "And I need it before sundown."
### The Outer Market and the Alchemist's Scrap
The Outer Market of Green Rock Valley was a sprawling, chaotic bazaar of desperation and deceit. Tents made of stitched monster hides and rickety wooden stalls lined the muddy thoroughfare. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat, cheap incense, and the sharp, acrid tang of low-grade alchemical fumes.
Cultivators of all shapes and sizes milled about. Most were clad in coarse, grey or brown robes, their faces hidden beneath wide-brimmed bamboo hats. Trust was nonexistent here; everyone kept one hand resting near their storage pouches or the hilts of their weapons.
Lu Chen navigated the crowd with practiced ease, his posture hunched, his aura tightly concealed. He projected the image of a miserable, sickly Level 2 cultivator—someone not worth robbing.
His destination was not the grand, multi-story pavilions of the Inner City merchants, where real treasures were sold. His destination was "Fatty Chu's Scrap Emporium," a disorganized, foul-smelling tent at the very edge of the market.
Fatty Chu was an obese, sweating man at Level 4 of Qi Condensation. He made his living buying the heavily damaged, failed, or completely useless scraps of higher-level professions and selling them to desperate low-level cultivators hoping to find a diamond in the rough.
"What do you want, Lu boy?" Fatty Chu grunted as Lu Chen entered the dim tent, not even bothering to look up from an abacus he was flicking with surprisingly nimble fingers. "If you're here to beg for an extension on that loan, my answer is a broken kneecap."
"No loan today, Boss Chu," Lu Chen said, keeping his voice quiet. "I need to buy some raw materials."
Fatty Chu finally looked up, his small, piggy eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Materials? You? You can barely afford to feed yourself, let alone practice a profession. What are you looking for?"
"Yellow-grade spirit paper. The cheap stuff. And a bottle of low-grade Iron-Tusk Boar blood ink," Lu Chen stated firmly.
Fatty Chu laughed, a wheezing, unpleasant sound. "Thinking of becoming a talisman maker, eh? Did you find a manual in a ditch? Boy, talisman making requires intense spiritual control and an ocean of wealth to burn through trial and error. You'll just ruin the paper."
"That's my business, Boss Chu," Lu Chen replied, placing his twenty-two spirit coins and the three shattered spirit stone fragments on the counter. "Is this enough for a bundle?"
Fatty Chu sneered at the meager pile of wealth. He swept it up with a fat hand. "For this garbage? I'll give you ten sheets of the lowest-grade yellow paper—the stuff with impure spirit fibers that practically misfires on its own—and half a vial of stale boar blood ink. No brush. Take it or leave it."
It was a blatant rip-off. Ten sheets of low-grade paper and half a vial of ink should cost fifteen coins, tops. But Lu Chen didn't have the time or the strength to haggle or fight.
"Deal," Lu Chen said, his face expressionless.
Fatty Chu tossed a small, poorly tied bundle of coarse, yellowish paper and a small glass vial filled with thick, dark red liquid onto the counter. "No refunds when you blow your own fingers off."
Lu Chen grabbed the materials, shoving them deep into his inner robes, and swiftly exited the tent. As he walked back toward his hut, he sifted through the inherited memories of Zhou Ming, the dead talisman maker.
Talisman making was not merely drawing pictures. It was the art of using a spiritual medium (the ink) to trap the intricate, violent flow of a spell's Qi matrix onto a physical carrier (the paper). The paper had to be infused with spiritual energy; the ink had to possess natural spiritual conductivity (hence monster blood or cinnabar).
Zhou Ming had spent ten years and thousands of spirit stones failing, learning, and finally mastering the creation of Rank 1 Low-Grade talismans. He had the knowledge, the muscle memory, and the intricate understanding of the runes burned into his very soul.
When Lu Chen devoured him, he didn't just get a textbook; he got a decade of internalized, flawless practice.
### The Art of the Brush and the Liquidator's Trap
Back in the freezing, isolated safety of his hut, Lu Chen cleared off his only piece of furniture—a wobbly, rotting wooden table.
He didn't have a specialized, spirit-infused talisman brush. Those cost dozens of spirit stones. Instead, he pulled out a crude, mundane writing brush he used for keeping his farm ledgers, made from ordinary wolf hair. It would make the process exponentially harder, as a mundane brush resisted the flow of spiritual energy, but he had no choice.
He laid out the ten sheets of coarse yellow paper. They were terrible quality, filled with visible bumps and imperfections that would disrupt the flow of Qi. He uncorked the vial of stale Iron-Tusk Boar blood ink. The metallic, pungent smell of old blood filled the small room.
Lu Chen took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He mentally separated the corporate liquidator from the immortal cultivator. He let Zhou Ming's inherited instincts wash over him, taking the driver's seat of his fine motor skills.
When he opened his eyes, they were utterly devoid of emotion, entirely focused.
He dipped the mundane brush into the thick, red ink. He didn't just coat the bristles; he channeled a thread of his wood-attribute Qi down his arm, through his fingertips, and into the wooden shaft of the brush, forcing it into the bristles to mix with the monster blood.
The mundane brush groaned, a microscopic crack appearing on the wood as it strained to contain the spiritual energy.
Lu Chen moved.
He pressed the brush to the first sheet of yellow paper. He didn't paint; he *carved* the spiritual energy into the paper using the ink as a conduit.
*Swish. Swoosh. Flick.*
His hand moved with blinding speed and unerring precision. He was drawing the complex, interlocking runic matrix for the *Fireball Spell*. It required thirty-six distinct strokes, and the flow of Qi had to be perfectly consistent. If he poured in too much Qi, the cheap paper would ignite. If he poured in too little, the rune would fail to hold the spell.
The mundane brush dragged and sputtered, fighting him every step of the way. Sweat beaded on Lu Chen's forehead, mixing with the freezing air to create a faint vapor around his face.
Stroke thirty-four. Stroke thirty-five.
Stroke thirty-six.
Lu Chen lifted the brush with a sharp, decisive flick, sealing the spiritual matrix.
For a breathless second, the red runes painted on the yellow paper glowed with a fierce, searing orange light, humming with explosive power. The cheap paper curled slightly at the edges, groaning under the pressure.
Then, the glow slowly faded, sinking into the paper, leaving behind dark, dried red lines that looked entirely unremarkable to a mortal eye.
Lu Chen exhaled a long, shaky breath, wiping his brow.
**[Success. Rank 1 Low-Grade Fireball Talisman created.]**
A notification briefly flashed on his mental panel, confirming what his senses already told him. He had done it. On his first try, using garbage materials and a mundane brush, he had successfully crafted a talisman. The inherited proficiency from the Corpse Devouring talent was terrifyingly effective. It completely bypassed the decades of trial, error, and wasted resources that crippled most aspiring professionals.
"One down. Nine to go," Lu Chen muttered, his eyes gleaming with a manic focus. "Let's turn this scrap into a small fortune."
He worked for two straight hours. The mental strain of controlling the Qi flow through the resistant mundane brush was immense, draining his Level 3 reserves rapidly.
By the time he finished, his hands were trembling, and his head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache.
He looked down at the table.
Out of ten sheets of paper, he had succeeded seven times. Seven completed talismans lay before him. Five were *Fireball Talismans*, offensive and highly lethal. Two were *Golden Light Barrier Talismans*, the exact same defensive type Zhou Ming had used the night before to block Wang Ba's heavy sword.
Three sheets of paper had turned to ash when the unstable Qi matrix collapsed due to the impurities in the cheap paper. A seventy percent success rate with garbage materials was something that would make a grandmaster talisman maker in the Inner City spit blood in envy.
Lu Chen carefully stacked the seven talismans and tucked them securely into the inner breast pocket of his robes, right against his heart.
In the Outer Market, a single Rank 1 Low-Grade Fireball Talisman sold for three low-grade spirit stones. A defensive Golden Light Barrier Talisman sold for five.
He had just turned an investment of twenty-two worthless copper coins into a net worth of twenty-five spirit stones. In the span of a single morning, he had become significantly wealthier than ninety percent of the cultivators in the slums.
But Lu Chen didn't smile. The wealth was useless if he couldn't protect it, and the immediate threat was still looming over him.
*Bang! Bang! Bang!*
The sudden, violent hammering on his flimsy wooden door shattered the quiet of the hut, nearly tearing the hinges off the frame.
"Open up, Lu you sickly rat!" a harsh, grating voice shouted from the alleyway. "It's the fifteenth! The Blood Wolves are here for the collection! If you make me kick this door down, I'm taking a finger for the inconvenience!"
Lu Chen's expression went utterly flat, his eyes turning as cold and dark as the abyss. The corporate liquidator stepped forward.
It was time to deal with the debt collectors.
He adjusted his robes, ensuring the talismans were easily accessible, and walked toward the door.
He pulled the rusted bolt and opened it.
Standing in the snow were two men. They wore matching grey robes with a crude insignia of a snarling wolf's head stitched in red thread over their chests.
The one who had knocked was a tall, lanky man with a pockmarked face and a missing front tooth. He radiated the aura of a Level 2 Qi Condensation cultivator.
The second man stood a few paces back, leaning heavily against the wooden wall of the adjacent shack. He was burly, broad-shouldered, and held a massive, ghost-head broadsword wrapped in dirty rags. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, and a thick bandage around his right thigh was slowly seeping dark, foul-smelling blood.
It was Wang Ba.
Lu Chen's heart gave a single, hard thump against his ribs, but his face remained a mask of terrified submission.
"G-good morning, big brothers," Lu Chen stammered, shrinking in on himself, projecting the aura of his weak, Level 2 self. "I... I know it's the fifteenth."
"Save the stuttering, rat," the lanky man spat, stepping forward and shoving Lu Chen roughly in the chest. Lu Chen allowed himself to stumble backward, playing the part perfectly. "One low-grade spirit stone. Hand it over, or we start taking pieces of you."
Lu Chen kept his eyes averted, but his peripheral vision was locked onto Wang Ba.
Wang Ba was in bad shape. Zhou Ming's final, desperate act of crushing the poison vial had clearly taken a severe toll. The burly man's Level 3 aura was incredibly erratic, flickering wildly. He looked like he was barely holding himself upright, let alone ready for a fight. He had likely insisted on coming on the collection route to maintain his intimidating reputation, knowing that showing weakness in the slums was a death sentence.
*He's weak. He's dying. He's a walking treasure chest of cultivation and martial arts skills,* Lu Chen thought, the Corpse Devouring talent humming softly in the back of his mind like a hungry beast.
"Big brothers, please," Lu Chen begged, dropping to his knees on the freezing dirt floor of his hut. "The frost... the frost damaged my crops. I don't have a whole spirit stone. I only have..."
Lu Chen reached into his robes, his hand bypassing the stack of talismans and instead retrieving his small, pathetic pouch. He poured the three shattered stone fragments onto the floor.
"This is all I have! Please, give me a few more days to harvest some early rice! I beg you!"
The lanky man looked at the fragments and sneered in disgust. He raised his heavy leather boot, aiming a vicious kick directly at Lu Chen's face.
"Useless trash! You think this beggar's change is enough to insult the Blood Wolves?!"
Before the boot could connect, a raspy, strained voice called out from the alley.
"Enough, Skinny."
The lanky man stopped, his foot inches from Lu Chen's nose, and looked back at Wang Ba.
Wang Ba grimaced, shifting his weight off his injured, poisoned leg. He looked at Lu Chen with dead, apathetic eyes. To Wang Ba, Lu Chen wasn't even a person; he was just an insect crawling in the dirt.
"The kid is dying anyway. Look at him," Wang Ba wheezed, his voice lacking its usual booming cruelty. "Beating him to death yields no stones. Take the fragments as interest. Tell him he owes two stones next week. If he doesn't have it by then, we'll harvest his organs for the alchemists. Let's move on. My leg... needs rest."
Skinny spat on the dirt floor near Lu Chen's hands. He bent down, greedily snatching up the three fragments. "You hear that, rat? Boss Wang is feeling generous today. Two stones next week. Or you're spare parts."
Skinny turned back to the alley, offering a shoulder to help support Wang Ba's weight. The burly man leaned heavily on his subordinate, his heavy footsteps dragging through the snow as they moved down the alley toward the next victim.
Lu Chen remained on his knees in the doorway, his head bowed, until the sound of their footsteps faded completely into the ambient noise of the slums.
Slowly, Lu Chen raised his head. The subservient, terrified look vanished, replaced by an expression of terrifying, absolute calm. He stood up, brushing the dirt from his knees.
He had lost his last bit of wealth, but he had gained something far more valuable: intelligence.
Wang Ba was crippled. The poison was actively fighting his spiritual energy, dropping his combat power drastically. Furthermore, to heal from that kind of necrotic poison, Wang Ba would need to hole up in his residence and fall into a deep meditative trance to forcefully expel the toxins. He would be deaf to the world, completely isolated, and utterly vulnerable.
"Two stones next week?" Lu Chen whispered to the empty alleyway, his hand resting over his heart, where the seven powerful talismans sat warm against his chest.
A grim, predatory smile touched the corners of his mouth.
"I don't think you'll live to see next week, Boss Wang. A liquidator always balances his books. You took my wealth today..."
Lu Chen stepped back into his hut, quietly shutting the wooden door and sliding the rusted bolt securely into place. The shadows of the room seemed to eagerly swallow him up.
"...Tonight, I will collect your life, your cultivation, and your heavy sword as payment with extreme interest."