Someone died in the Washing Room!
Just like that, a life was snuffed out before everyone's eyes.
It was so sudden, so bizarre, it hardly seemed real.
The patrolling Steward was alerted and immediately came over with a few guards. He had them drag the corpse away with instructions to send it to the mortuary for last rites and burial.
While handling the matter, the Steward's expression was indifferent, as if death were a common sight. He didn't even investigate how the weasel-faced man had died. He only turned to the other menial workers and said, "Alright, alright, what's all the fuss about? Everyone dies eventually. As long as you're alive, just do your work properly, you hear?"
With that, the Steward and the guards took the dead man away, leaving without a trace.
It was as if... the dead man had never been there at all.
The Second Wash Room fell silent. It was at this moment that the new batch of menial workers truly and clearly understood just how easy it was to die after being tainted by Malice!
Legend had it that those who entered the Washing Room rarely lived more than three to five years. But from the looks of it now, forget three to five years; you'd be blessed by the heavens just to survive another one or two.
In the quiet of the Second Wash Room, everyone's hands seemed to tremble as they worked.
Song Ciwan's hands were trembling too. She was just as shaken.
It was a shock unlike any she had ever felt. Her blood ran cold, and an indescribable weight settled on her heart.
'Everyone dies eventually,' she thought, 'but to die like this... it's truly heartbreaking.'
The day passed in repetitive, mechanical labor. No other "major incidents" occurred in the Washing Room until evening came, and the workday ended.
The Steward settled the wages for the menial workers. Yes, in the Washing Room, they were paid daily.
Song Ciwan received one hundred copper coins, which slightly eased the heavy feeling she'd had all day.
One hundred cents a day meant she could earn at least three taels of silver a month. For the common folk, this was indeed a top-tier salary.
She also received a set of Sheep Demon Lungs from the Steward. She decided on the spot to take the lungs, head to the market for some grains and side ingredients, and go home to make spicy stir-fried lung.
'I'll just spend twenty cents,' she planned, 'and save the remaining eighty to pay off my debt at the end of the month.'
Song Ciwan was living her life with a plan. The side ingredients wouldn't cost more than a few cents; her main goal was to stockpile grain.
She wouldn't stockpile too much at once, just two or three measures each day. Over a month, that would add up to a considerable amount.
She would also dig a cellar at home. Besides storing grain, she could also keep well-preserved vegetables and other daily necessities there.
Song Ciwan, meticulously planning her budget, strolled over to the market. She was still wearing her "menial worker battle-robe," which maintained its special effect of making even dogs keep a ten-foot distance.
The South City market was bustling with activity. A butcher chopped meat and bones with a loud THUMP-THUMP-THUMP, his bellowing cry as loud as a war drum, "Choice lamb here! Selling it cheap today, eight cents a pound..."
There were also vendors sitting on the ground, their produce spread out before them. They remained silent until a customer approached, at which point they would hastily call out, "Homegrown vegetables! Two bunches for a cent! Have a look, ma'am?"
Beggars weaved through the crowd with hunched backs, holding out their bowls and calling out in low, humble voices, "Kind sir, please be charitable, just a mouthful to eat, just one bite..."
Around the corner was a tofu pudding stall. Steam rose from a wooden bucket, carrying the rich aroma of scallions and savory sauce.
Several regular customers were crowded around. An old man holding a wooden cup had pulled up a stool and was telling a story with a chuckle. "And that's why they say a Great Scholar's brush can command a thousand armies! On that day, dark clouds pressed down on the city as if to crush it! The Hengshui Dragon King flew into a rage, and the waves rose thousands of yards high! Countless River Demons rode the waves, threatening to destroy the city! Oh, the suffering of Cangling!"
"All the Demon Extermination Envoys of our Cangling County rushed into action! Innate Martial Artists leaped hundreds of yards at a time, moving as if in flight! Immortal Daoist Zhenrens brandished Talismans and chanted spells, unleashing a rain of Flying Swords! Buddhist Arhats with the strength to hold up the heavens brought down their Demon-Slaying Pestles, shattering the bones and tendons of countless Demons..."
He spoke with such passion that spittle flew from his mouth, describing the grand scenes as if he had witnessed them himself. The surrounding audience listened, dumbfounded, letting out gasps of amazement from time to time.
When would common city folk ever get to see such sights—leaping hundreds of yards or swords falling like rain?
In the mortal world, people knew only of birth, old age, sickness, and death. They might never see the Immortals and Demon Fiends of legend in their entire lives, yet they spent their whole lives imagining them.
Someone sighed with feeling, "Listening to our Mo the Crooked tell stories is so much more interesting. Those storytellers in the Qianming Street teahouses are just money-grubbers, and they only tell the same old stale tales. It's so boring!"
Another person agreed, "Isn't that the truth? It's always some down-and-out kid who finds a martial arts master, achieves Skin Refining in ten days, Refining Tendons in a hundred, and Bone Forging in a thousand. Within five years, he generates Qi Blood and reaches the stage of Refining the Internal Organs. Then he grabs a Nine-Ring Saber, charges into a demon's den alone, slashes his way through, and kills the Demon to avenge his parents. After that, he joins the Demon Slayer Guard, gets an Official Position, becomes famous, and marries a beautiful woman. We're all sick of it..."
Someone laughed teasingly, "Heh heh heh, if you're so sick of it, how come you're so Skilled at retelling it?"
Another person interrupted them impatiently, "Hey, why do you guys keep getting sidetracked? Weren't we listening to the part about the Great Scholar commanding a thousand armies... a thousand... whatever, ten thousand horses? Can't you pay attention!"
But it was too late. The storyteller, Mo the Crooked, was already angry. "Forget it, I'm done talking! You're all a bunch of fidgety blockheads! I'm going home! This old man is going home to feed his chickens!"
The surrounding listeners grew anxious. Some quickly apologized, others tried to convince him to stay. But Mo the Crooked was a stubborn old coot. He ignored all their pleading, simply picked up his stool, held his wooden cup out to the tofu pudding stall, and said loudly, "Old Chen! A refill! Your Old Mo here spoke for a full hour today, so hurry up and refill it!"
The stall's owner, Old Chen, quickly ladled a scoop of tofu pudding into Mo the Crooked's wooden cup, adding scallions, sesame oil, and pickled vegetables. He stammered, "O-Old Mo, then y-y-you... you'll c-come back t-tomorrow!"
Satisfied with his tofu pudding, Mo the Crooked waved a hand. "Alright, I'll be back tomorrow! And don't be shorting me my two bowls!"
With that, he walked straight off, clutching his stool and carrying his wooden cup with a pronounced limp.
No wonder he was called Mo the Crooked; he was lame in one leg.
Song Ciwan, who had been standing nearby and gotten to listen to the story for free, saw Mo the Crooked limping past her and quickly stepped aside to make way.
But unexpectedly, a ruffian who had failed to convince the storyteller to stay, suddenly feeling resentful, stealthily stuck out his leg and tripped Mo the Crooked.
Mo the Crooked instantly lost his balance and pitched forward.
Just as he was about to fall flat on his face, Song Ciwan, with quick eyes and fast hands, caught his wooden cup with one hand and grabbed his arm with the other. Only the stool he was holding went flying.
"OW!" a cry of pain rang out.
It was followed by a dull THUD.
It turned out the flying stool had hit the ruffian who had tripped him. The ruffian immediately hopped up and down, clutching his injured foot and howling in pain.
Mo the Crooked steadied himself and glared angrily at the ruffian.
The ruffian glared back, but his eyes fell on Song Ciwan. Seeing her gray outer shirt with its red trim, he was first startled, then terrified. "You... you're... you're from the Washing Room!"
Song Ciwan's lips moved, but before she could speak, the ruffian shouted again, "She's from the Washing Room! Hahaha, Mo the Crooked, you're screwed now!"
After saying this, the ruffian turned and disappeared into the crowd to escape.
The surrounding onlookers also scattered in a hurry. Someone from the Washing Room? Better keep your distance! Mo the Crooked had just stumbled for no reason a moment ago—could it be that he was already affected by the Bad Luck from the Washing Room?
Song Ciwan, however, was a little stunned. She paid no mind to the reactions of the others—she couldn't be bothered with them. What astonished her was that at the very moment she had supported Mo the Crooked, her Heaven and Earth Scale had activated again.
The ethereal Balance Plate and scale beam appeared. On the Balance Plate rested a ball of pale-green qi: [Eighty Percent Hermit's Qi. A great Hermit hides in the city. Can be traded.]
Hey! Huh?
'What is going on? Is this a pleasant surprise or a nasty shock?'
'Eighty Percent Hermit's Qi... where did that come from?'
Song Ciwan's gaze fell on Mo the Crooked, who was grimacing in annoyance.