Times flew by, and a few days later, Pyradine City was no longer calm. The quiet, stagnant indifference that had once greeted the neglected corners of the West District had been replaced by a localized hurricane of frantic gossip. Like a drop of ink in a basin of clear water, the rumor of the Origins Dungeon Hall had stained the consciousness of every martial artist in the city.
"Have you heard? There's a shack in the slums where you can step into a fragmented world!"
"I heard a merchant's son died ten times in a single morning and walked out with the footwork of a master!"
"Nonsense! It's obviously a demonic soul-draining array designed to fleece you of your spiritual stones!"
"Soul-draining? My cousin saw Wu Feng of the Wu Clan there. He's been going every morning at sunrise. Would a Great Clan heir fall for a cheap scam?"
Rumors spread like wildfire, jumping from the rising steam of the morning teahouses to the bloody grit of the butcher stalls. They traveled from the desperate whispers of beggars to the iron-bound ledgers of wealthy merchant houses, and finally—inevitably—to the ears of those who loved trouble the most: the bored, arrogant scions of the middle-tier clans.
The once-empty, dust-choked shop was no longer empty. It had become the beating heart of a frantic, obsessed subculture.
"MOVE! It's my turn! I've been standing in this gutter since the moon was up!"
"Get in line, you ox! I have the stones ready!"
"Why is that rogue cultivator still in the chair? He's been in the dungeon for two hours! Someone pull him out!"
"Shut up! If you break his immersion, the shopkeeper will come out of his shop and break your ribs personally!"
A chaotic, vibrating crowd had formed outside the Origins Dungeon Hall. The street was so packed that the local street food vendors had moved their stalls closer, selling oily skewers to cultivators who refused to lose their place in the queue. Some stood on tiptoe, crane-necked, trying to catch a glimpse of the "Black Thrones" through the grime-streaked windows. One poor fellow was pressed against the exterior wooden wall so hard by the surging crowd that he looked like a human pancake.
At the center of the storm sat Yuan Bi.
He remained behind the counter, sipping a cup of high-grade Cloud-Mist tea—a luxury he could now easily afford. He watched the madness with the serene, untouchable composure of a man watching a distant sunset from a mountain peak.
"…Business is booming," Yuan Bi muttered into his cup, the steam fogging his calm eyes.
Beside him, Wu Feng leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. His posture had fundamentally changed over the last few days; he no longer stood with the stiff, artificial arrogance of a young master, but with the relaxed, coiled readiness of a predator. Beside him, Bai Fan was cleaning his spectacles, looking as if he had transcended mortal concerns.
Lu Dong, however, was in the thick of it. He was standing near the first chair, waving his painted fan and shouting at a persistent customer: "Back off, you peasant! I saw this seat vacate first! It is mine by divine right of the Lu family!"
"You said that about the last three seats, Lu Dong," Bai Fan sighed, hook-handled spectacles returning to his face. "You've already used two of your three hours today. Why are you fighting the customers for the last sixty minutes?"
"Because if I don't get back in there and kill that Faceless Disciple Zombie, I won't be able to sleep tonight!" Lu Dong snapped, his eyes wide and slightly manic. "I can still feel its fingers on my ribs, Fan! It's a matter of dignity!"
"I heard a rogue cultivator killed ten Zombie Disciples in there yesterday!" a man whispered dramatically to his neighbor in the queue.
"Ten?! Impossible!" a mercenary scoffed. "Without Internal Force? You'd be a breathless husk after the third one. The biological strain of mortal combat is too high."
A third added, "No, no—I heard a guy died twenty times in a single session and still tried to crawl back into the chair while weeping!"
"…That sounds less like progress and more like a mental breakdown."
"In this shop, they are the same thing."
Right then, a loud, grating voice cut through the collective hum of the street. "MAKE WAY! Clear the path for the Zhao Clan!"
The crowd parted instinctively, more out of a desire to avoid a public brawl than out of respect. A young man in excessively luxurious, gold-trimmed robes stepped forward. His chin was raised so high he appeared to be addressing the clouds rather than the people. Behind him followed two stone-faced guards, their hands resting on the hilts of heavy broadswords.
"I am Zhao Tianlong!" he announced, his voice echoing off the rotting rafters of the shop. "First heir of the Zhao family! Where is the master of this establishment?"
The shop fell into a sudden, awkward silence. Yuan Bi didn't move. He didn't even look up from his tea.
"…Ahem," Zhao Tianlong coughed into his hand, his face reddening as the silence stretched. "I said, I am Zhao Tianlong. You should all be honored by my presence."
Still nothing. Finally, a scruffy rogue cultivator in the back whispered, "Who? Is he a traveling actor?"
"I don't know," his friend replied. "Maybe he's the new silk delivery boy? He's dressed like a peacock."
Zhao Tianlong's smile twitched violently. His face turned a deep, bruised purple, but he quickly masked his humiliation with a sneer. He marched to the counter and slammed a heavy, overflowing pouch of spiritual stones onto the wood.
"I heard this place was 'interesting' for those with weak foundations," Zhao Tianlong drawled, eyeing Wu Feng with a mocking glint. "Let me see if this little toy is worthy of a Zhao's time. I want the full package. Registration and three hours."
Yuan Bi set his tea down slowly. "Eleven spiritual stones."
"…You dare charge me a registration fee? I am a Zhao! My family owns the northern granaries!"
"The sign is on the door, Zhao," Wu Feng said, his voice flat and bored. "Yuan Bi treats everyone the same. You're just another customer in the queue."
"Equal opportunity apathy," Lu Dong added, finally stepping away from the chair. "A master of impartial shamelessness. Sit down or get out, peacock. There's a line of twenty people behind you who actually want to grow stronger."
Zhao Tianlong scoffed, shoving the eleven stones forward with a disdainful flick of his wrist. "Fine! I'll play your little mortal game! If I don't clear this 'dungeon' within the hour, I'll have this shack torn down for false advertising!"
He sat down dramatically in the second obsidian chair, donned the pulsing silver helm, and vanished into the Undead Hall.
Five Seconds Later
"AHHHHHHH—!!!"
The scream was so violent it actually shook the dust from the ceiling beams. Zhao Tianlong didn't just wake up; he shot out of the chair like a launched arrow. He stumbled backward, tripped over a low wooden stool, and fell flat on his back, his expensive robes tangling around his legs.
"…GHOST!" he shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the empty air. "A corpse! It moved! It was right in front of me! It didn't have any skin!"
The shop went deathly quiet for a heartbeat. Then, Lu Dong burst out laughing, doubling over and slapping his knee. "HAHAHAHA! Five seconds! A new record for the Zhao family! You didn't even make it past the entrance gate!"
Wu Feng shook his head, looking at the imaginary watch on his wrist. "The old record for 'First-Time Panic' was held by a merchant's clerk at ten seconds. Truly, Zhao, you are a genius of the speed-run."
Bai Fan adjusted his glasses, peering at the Spectator Array that was still flickering above the empty chair. "Technically, the lowest record is still a record. He failed so quickly the Zombie Disciple didn't even have time to swing its arm. He died purely from the psychological shock of the sensory transition."
Zhao Tianlong's face turned a violent shade of forest green. He scrambled to his feet, dusting off his robes with shaking hands. "You… YOU SET ME UP! That was a soul-attack! It's a forbidden illusion!"
Yuan Bi sipped his tea, his voice like cooling silk. "You went in yourself. You paid the stones. Nobody pushed you. If the heir of the Zhao family is afraid of a single unmoving corpse, perhaps you should stick to embroidery."
"Again!" Zhao Tianlong roared, his pride wounded far worse than his soul. He refused to accept such a pathetic defeat in front of a crowd of commoners. He jammed the helm back onto his head.
This time, he clenched his fists. I am not afraid, he whispered to himself in the darkness of the transition. I am Zhao Tianlong! I have reached the third stage of Body Tempering! I am a future powerhouse of the Empire! He opened his eyes in the blood-stained pavilion. He turned a corner in the dark, rotting mansion. A Zombie Disciple was standing there, its head slowly rotating 180 degrees with a series of wet, rhythmic clicks. Their eyes met.
"…Mother."
"AHHHHHHH—!!!"
He ripped the helm off again. This time, he didn't just fall; he crawled backward across the floor like a frightened crab, his boots scuffing the wood. "IT LOOKED AT ME! IT HAS EYES! WHY DOES IT HAVE EYES?!"
Lu Dong was practically rolling on the floor. "Of course it looked at you! You're fresh meat! High-quality, pampered ingredients! The zombies in there love the taste of gold-trimmed silk!"
As the day progressed, the Origins Dungeon Hall became a chaotic symphony of human panic. The Spectator Arrays were active above all four chairs, displaying a montage of terror to the growing crowd outside.
"WHY WON'T IT DIE?! I HIT IT WITH A STOOL!"
"IT BIT ME!! OH GODS, THE PAIN IS REAL! IT'S STILL THROBBING!"
"MY ARM! MY ARM IS GONE—oh… wait, I'm back. It's still there. Thank the ancestors..."
"I DIED AGAIN?! THAT'S NINE TIMES! NINE DEATHS IN TWO HOURS!"
Outside, the screams only served to make the citizens more fanatical. To the commoners, it was a horror show. To the martial artists, it was a miracle. They saw people like Min Luan and Wu Feng standing in the corners, their eyes sharper, their breathing more rhythmic, their skin glowing with a faint, healthy vitality that only came from true, bone-deep martial progress.
Inside, the players experienced the horror and became instantly, hopelessly addicted. A man rushed to the counter, sweat dripping from his nose. "Boss! I have the stones! Another hour! I almost got the Faceless one!"
"Maximum time reached for today," Yuan Bi said, not even looking up. "The rule is three hours. Your mind is at its limit."
"I don't care! I'll pay double! I can't leave it like this! That thing is laughing at me, I know it!"
"Line up tomorrow morning," Yuan Bi replied. "Next."
Meanwhile, in a quiet, shadowy corner near the back, Zhao Tianlong sat silently on a stool. His hair was a complete mess, his gold-trimmed robes were stained with sweat, and his eyes were bloodshot. He was staring at his own hands, which were still trembling with the phantom memory of holding a rusted iron dagger.
"…I can't lose," he muttered to his knees, his voice a hoarse, broken rasp.
Lu Dong peeked over, fanning himself. "Still alive, Young Master Zhao? Or did you finally decide to go home and tell your father the mean shopkeeper was being unfair?"
Zhao Tianlong didn't snap back. He didn't even look up. "I killed one," he said quietly.
Wu Feng raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "Oh? You actually made progress?"
Zhao Tianlong clenched his fists, his eyes burning with a dark, newfound, and slightly disturbing determination. "…It took me six tries. I died six times. He ripped my throat out twice. He bit my fingers off once. But on the sixth run... I didn't scream. I waited for him to lunged. I felt its skull crack under my boot."
He looked up at Wu Feng, his gaze intense and slightly hollow. "I've spent ten years practicing the Zhao family's Roaring Tiger Fist. I thought I was a master. But today... today I realized I didn't even know how to throw a punch without my Qi to guide it. That zombie... it taught me more in six deaths than my tutors did in six years."
Bai Fan nodded approvingly, his expression solemn. "Progress is the only truth in this world. Everything else—wealth, status, robes—is just a shadow."
Zhao Tianlong stood up, his legs shaking, but his posture was different. He looked at the obsidian chair with a mixture of absolute, primal terror and soul-consuming obsession. "I will conquer this dungeon. I don't care how many times I have to die. I will kill every single thing in that hall."
Lu Dong whispered to Wu Feng, "He's gone. The hook is in deep."
Wu Feng nodded. "Completely lost to the abyss. He'll be back here tomorrow at four in the morning."
Bai Fan concluded, "Another satisfied victim of the Origins Dungeon Hall."
Behind the counter, Yuan Bi watched the chaos, the screams, and the burgeoning obsession. He looked at the spiritual stones piled in his spatial ring, and then he looked at the System notification glowing in his mind.
[Shop Level Progress: 2600/5000 to Level 3.]
He felt the thick, potent rush of Origin Internal Force expanding his dantian, mending the last of his old scars. He was no longer just a "healed" cripple; he was becoming a monster in his own right, fueled by the deaths of the city's elite.
He smiled faintly into his tea, the reflection of the rowdy crowd dancing on the surface of the liquid.
"…Good," Yuan Bi whispered.
Outside, the rumors continued to swirl, drawing more and more powerful moths to the flame. Inside, the players continued to fall—and rise again, their spirits tempered in the fire of simulated death, sharper and more dangerous than they had ever been before.
Pyradine City was about to learn that the most dangerous place in the Empire wasn't a battlefield or a palace—it was a small, broken shop in the West District.