The morning fog had barely cleared from the reinforced gates of Wu-Tan Outpost when the heavy thud of synchronized footsteps drew the attention of the gate guards and lingering spies.
Lin Yuan marched at the head of the formation, his expression completely detached from the murmuring crowd that quickly gathered along the muddy thoroughfare. Behind him, the ten young guards moved like a single, multi-limbed entity. Clad in pristine, slate-gray uniforms that bore not a single tear, their high-density steel blades rested precisely at their hips. They carried heavy leather crates slung over their shoulders, the strain visible only in the tautness of their optimized muscles, yet their breathing remained unnaturally uniform.
As they crossed into the outer district, Lin Yuan signaled for the crates to be set down outside the Iron Lattice Inn.
The heavy lids were pulled back, revealing a staggering haul that defied every law of local wilderness hunting. Packed neatly within the straw were dozens of pristine 0-4 Chitinous Stalker carapaces, completely severed venom glands preserved in sealed vials, and bundles of rare, unblemished Iron-Root Herbs still dripping with fresh valley mud.
From the shadows of the neighboring alleys, scouts belonging to the Liu and Zhao families watched the display with visible paleness. They had expected a massacre—or at the very least, a crippled, bleeding remnant crawling back for Gao Xun's protection. Instead, a squad of ten teenagers had walked into a forbidden zone and returned completely unscathed, hauling wealth that would normally take a veteran guild months to accumulate.
"Ten men... all at Layer 0, Level 4," a scarred mercenary muttered from a tavern porch, his tankard halting halfway to his mouth. "They didn't just survive. Look at their armor. Not a single scratch. Who the hell trained them?"
The whisper spread through the outer district like a contagion. The rowdy, volatile mercenaries who usually treated shopkeepers with casual brutality suddenly looked at the Iron Lattice Inn with a low-key, deeply rooted fear. Lin Yuan was no longer viewed as a frail, eccentric scholar-smith hiding behind the Gao family's coattails. He was now recognized as a quiet, terrifying powerhouse operating a private, elite paramilitary force whose mechanical efficiency felt distinctly non-human.
With the psychological perimeter firmly established, Lin Yuan systematically turned his attention to scaling the infrastructure. He had no intention of wasting his own processing time on mundane daily logistics; his hands needed to remain free to absorb data and push toward the 0-10 Perfect Stage.
By midday, the ground floor of the expanded inn resembled a corporate hive rather than a frontier tavern. Lin Yuan had aggressively recruited local talent, dividing the business into a highly organized, medieval-style corporate hierarchy.
For the Front-of-House, he hired three sharp, smooth-talking local merchants who had spent years operating independent stalls. Rebranded as Head Salesmen, they wore clean linen robes and spoke fluent mercenary slang, seamlessly managing the rowdy crowd. They handled the tavern floors, kept the high-calorie liquor flowing, and aggressively pitched Lin Yuan's tiered weapon-repair schedules to incoming squads.
For the critical Back-of-House operations, Lin Yuan acquired the services of Master Chen, an experienced but disgraced elder clerk whose previous merchant house had been ruined by outer district turf wars. In an era where literacy was scarce and double-entry bookkeeping on parchment was a highly guarded trade secret, Chen was an invaluable asset.
"The cash flow must be balanced against the coal intake every six hours, Master Lin," Chen murmured, his trembling fingers dipping a quill into ink as he stared at the massive parchment ledgers.
"Record every grain of iron grit and every copper coin," Lin Yuan replied coldly.
What Chen did not know was that beneath the floorboards, the central processor in Lin Yuan's suit was secretly running parallel computational logs. Every stroke of Chen's quill, every ledger entry, and every weight calculation was scanned and verified by the AI. If a single copper coin went missing due to embezzlement, the system would flag it instantly.
The masterstroke of his expansion, however, lay in his new Procurement Desk. To completely shatter the trade blockade imposed by the Liu and Zhao families, Lin Yuan hired local runners to manage a direct commodity exchange desk inside the inn's courtyard.
He hung a massive slate board outside the gates, detailing a revolutionary policy: The Iron Lattice Inn would now accept raw, unprocessed materials directly from the Sinking Mire—such as graviton ores, intact beast bones, and rare flora—as direct currency. Mercenaries could pay for their rooms, their heavy meals, and their premium weapon maintenance without ever needing to exchange their goods for the town's official coin.
The counter-play was devastatingly effective. Why would a hunter sell their hard-earned beast parts to the Zhao family's pawnshops at a massive discount just to buy overpriced grain, when they could bring the raw material straight to Lin Yuan and get pristine gear maintenance and premium lodging under one roof?
The mercenaries effectively became Lin Yuan's automated, outsourced resource collectors. They braved the dangers of the valley, while Lin Yuan sat at the center of the web, watching raw materials flood into his secure vaults by the cartload.
By the end of the week, the economic equilibrium of Wu-Tan Outpost had completely buckled.
The Liu family's traditional smithing guild stood entirely empty, their furnaces burning fuel with no blades to repair. The Zhao family's medicine warehouses sat stagnant, their prices forced down in a desperate attempt to compete with the high-density rations Lin Yuan was now manufacturing using the outsourced herbs. Lin Yuan had effectively seized control over the liquidity of the outer district, starving his rivals out using their own blockade as leverage.
Late that evening, as the common room buzzed with the heavy laughter of well-fed hunters, a sudden silence fell over the establishment.
The heavy timber doors of the inn were not burst open, but struck three times with the heavy, measured cadence of a military staff. The mercenaries near the entrance scrambled backward, clearing a wide path.
An armored vanguard of four elite soldiers stepped inside. They wore the lacquered, deep-crimson plate armor reserved strictly for the personal guard of the Town Master (0-5). The air in the room grew heavy as the lead officer stepped toward the counter, his eyes scanning the slate-gray guards standing silently along the walls before locking onto Lin Yuan.
The officer did not draw a weapon. Instead, he reached into his breastplate and withdrew a heavy, thick scroll sealed with crimson wax and bordered by fine, gold-embossed filigree.
He placed it firmly on the counter.
"From the Master of the Outpost," the officer announced, his voice echoing clearly through the silent tavern. "An invitation to the private inner district manor tomorrow evening. A formal banquet to celebrate the... changing prosperity of our outer district."
The officer offered a stiff, formal bow, turned on his heel, and led his men back out into the night.
Lin Yuan picked up the heavy scroll, his fingers tracing the cold gold embossing. Across his vision, the AI blinked with a steady green notification, logging the structural signatures of the inner district guard's equipment.
The absolute sovereign of the town had finally spoken. It wasn't an assassination squad or a threat; it was an official acknowledgment. Lin Yuan had successfully forced the ruler's hand, stepping past the status of a mere merchant to become a permanent, undeniable player on the political board of Wu-Tan Outpost.