Volume 1: Bo'an Awakening & The Calamity Storm
Chapter 47
Bo'an Magic Black Market & Healing Elixir!
Nightfall over Bo’an City never brought the tranquil, peaceful grace of distant steppes or idyllic grasslands. The moment the final streaks of turbid, blood-red dusk sank behind the majestic ridges of Mount Cang Lei, darkness swallowed the weathered terracotta roof tiles whole, yielding the stage to a chaotic, perilous underworld stirring beneath the shadows.
If East Street reigned supreme as the domain of opulent estates bathed in the dazzling glow of mana-crystal chandeliers belonging to great clans like the Lings, and South Street was the impoverished, soot-stained haven of the destitute working class, then West Street was this frontier city’s festering yet savagely vibrant scar.
Directly bordering the suburban dense forest and the decommissioned border defense garrison, hidden behind crumbly, moss-stained brick ramparts and buried deep beneath a labyrinthine network of bomb shelters dating back a century to the great demonic beast wars, sprawled an immense underground bazaar that operated completely outside the jurisdiction of the Magic Association: the West Street Black Market.
Crackle... hiss...
Mana-infused animal fat torches, mounted along damp granite cavern walls, sputtered and popped in faint bursts, casting sickly, jaundiced halos into the gloomy corridor. The subterranean air hung suffocatingly thick with sulfur and thousand-year-old mildew, blended with the raw, pungent metallic reek of fresh demonic beast blood recently poached beyond the perimeter defense line. Hazy ribbons of smoke from cheap herbal cheroots drifted lazily overhead, curling into fractured stone vaults and stinging the corners of the eyes.
Along the uneven cobblestone walkway, slick and treacherous from rusting sewer seepage, solitary silhouettes slunk past one another in grim silence. Not a single person dared reveal their true visage. They donned tattered ash-gray tactical cloaks, deep cowls pulled low across their brows, or concealed their faces behind grotesque beast-hide masks depicting wolves, vultures, and hyenas.
Here, every standard of conventional morality or municipal decree was reduced to scrap paper. In darkened alcoves, rough burlap cloths laid out on the flagstones displayed an illicit cornucopia of contraband: unrefined, toxic magic ore glowing with faint green fumes; jagged, razor-sharp fangs and talons from peak Servant-class beasts still clinging to rotting gristle; moss-draped artifacts looted from ancient ruins out in the untamed barrens; and ominous, pitch-black forbidden magic scrolls.
Transactions in the West Street Black Market transpired in hushed murmurs no louder than a mosquito’s hum. Grimy, crumpled mana banknotes and unmarked crystal chips traded hands fluidly beneath billowing sleeves. In this forsaken pit, a single careless word or an inopportune, inquisitive glance could easily be paid for with a poisoned dagger thrust straight through the heart.
Amidst that tense undercurrent laden with murderous intent, a tall figure clad in an ink-black cloak strode forward with unhurried grace.
His face was entirely concealed beneath a gleaming silver mask meticulously engraved with swirling crimson flame sigils—the trademark persona of the hunter known as “Fan Shen.” The heavy tactical cloak draped cleanly from broad shoulders all the way down to his heels, completely veiling his physique and suppressing every trace of internal mana fluctuation. His footsteps were firm yet light as a drifting feather, soles grazing puddles of stagnant muck without producing the slightest splash or sound.
The youth behind the silver mask was none other than Lin Feng.
Following the harrowing, life-or-death battle in Drainage Conduit No. 3 where he eradicated the Poison Claw Ape Lord, Lin Feng had not paused to rest on his laurels. Over the past half month, assuming the mantle of the seasoned bounty hunter Fan Shen, he had accompanied the Azure Wind Hunter Squad across nearly a dozen perilous commissions beyond the restricted border zones of Cang Lei Ridge.
Armed with the terrifying lethality of his pitch-black, violet-flecked Lightning Arc and a Fire Star Core elevated to the 4th tier with its cascading Fiery Burst property, the name “Fan Shen” had rapidly blossomed into an underground legend among Bo’an City’s hunter circles. After every blood-soaked wilderness foray, bounties had been divided squarely without dispute. Tucked securely inside his breast pocket at this very moment was a sleek, black-iron anonymous mana credit card boasting an astronomical balance exceeding three hundred thousand magic coins—a fortune that an honest mana-truck driver like his father, Lin Hai, would never dare dream of amassing in an entire lifetime.
Yet Lin Feng had not risked life and limb hunting ferocious beasts, walking the razor’s edge between life and death in the savage wilderness, merely to squander it on opulent luxuries or wallow in superficial splendor.
He harbored only one burning, all-consuming purpose: Lin Xiaomo’s legs.
The residual memories of this body, intertwined with the profound, genuine familial bond nurtured across years of hardship, surged relentlessly within Lin Feng’s heart. Five years ago, when Xiaomo was merely a sweet, innocent eleven-year-old girl, a roaming pack of stray beasts had breached South Street’s residential perimeter. In an instinctive bid to shield her older brother, her thighs and lumbar spine had been violently shredded by the venomous claws of a Black Demon Wolf. Though emergency medical intervention had saved her life, the wolf’s insidious necrotizing venom had corroded and severed her mana meridians, permanently killing the motor nervous pathways throughout both lower limbs.
For five agonizing years, Xiaomo had remained confined to a creaking, weathered wooden wheelchair, enduring bone-chilling bouts of throbbing ache whenever the biting mountain gales blew down from Cang Lei Ridge. Yet she always wore a gentle, obedient smile. She brewed his tea, knitted his wool scarves, and never once wept or uttered a word of grievance before her father or brother. Her heartbreaking resilience and maturity were like a jagged thorn lodged deep inside Lin Feng’s chest, driving him with relentless fervor to hunt down a cure at all costs.
At Bo’an City’s accredited magic hospitals, every distinguished apothecary and healing mage had shaken their heads in helpless dejection. To reconnect meridians that had remained withered and dead for five long years, conventional restorative draughts were utterly useless—no better than tossing a handful of salt into an ocean. He was required to procure two legendary, tightly regulated medicinal treasures: pristine “Spirit Condensation Holy Water” and a “Life-Renewing Snow Lotus Root” aged over thirty years.
Both were peerless subterranean tributes, harvested exclusively from thousand-year-old glacial crevasses situated in the sovereign nesting grounds of Commander-class monstrosities atop Mount Cang Lei’s highest summits. Strictly monopolized by the military garrison and the Magic Association, they never appeared on the legitimate public market. The only plausible avenue to lay hands on them was the magic black market.
Following the precise directions provided by Captain Yang Zuo—a crafty old fox who knew every grimy alley and hidden corner of Bo’an City like the back of his hand—Lin Feng veered into one of the narrowest, most secluded tunnels in the western sector.
At the end of the dead-end corridor, a battered, rotted black-oak door came into view. Hanging askew above the lintel was a cracked wooden placard bearing three jagged characters scrawled in dried crimson ink: “Hundred Herb Hall.”
Without hesitation, Lin Feng pushed the heavy wooden door open.
Screeech... clack...
Rusted iron hinges groaned shrilly against the silence. An overpowering, pungent odor instantly assailed his nostrils: a heavy cocktail of bitter medicinal roots and musk, commingled with the stinging vapor of grain liquor preserving pickled venomous mana scorpions and foot-long centipedes inside murky glass jars lining rows of dark wooden shelves.
The underground apothecary was cramped, spanning less than twenty square meters. The sole light source emanated from an inferior Light-element Magic Stone dangling by a frayed wire from the ceiling, casting a pale, dreary gray haze over the room.
Hunched behind a rough-hewn stone counter sat an emaciated old man who resembled nothing so much as a skeleton wrapped in leathery skin. He wore a grimy, ash-colored robe and a battered, pointed felt cap. One of his eye sockets was deeply gouged out, covered by an ancient patch of blackened leather; the remaining eye was as milky and cloudy as that of a dead carp, yet within it flickered a cold, calculating, predatory gleam. Clamped between his wrinkled, tobacco-stained lips was an exceptionally long brass pipe. Thick plumes of greenish smoke billowed lazily from the bowl, exuding an acrid, pungent stench.
This was the proprietor of Hundred Herb Hall—Old One-Eye, one of the most notorious medicinal contraband smugglers in Bo’an City’s underworld.
Hearing the door open, Old One-Eye did not even bother lifting his head fully. His milky eye merely slanted sideways across Lin Feng’s sweeping black cloak and gleaming silver mask before he spat a glob of brownish phlegm onto the flagstone floor. When he spoke, his voice grated like two rusty iron plates grinding against one another:
“Hours are over. Hundred Herb Hall doesn’t sell cheap painkillers to penny-pinching mercenaries. Say your piece, and if you haven’t got the coin, get lost. Don’t waste my breath.”
Contempt and haughty condescension saturated every syllable. In this dog-eat-dog underworld, anyone lacking the crest of a major aristocratic clan or a military officer’s badge was routinely dismissed as an impoverished stray or a lamb waiting to be sheared.
Lin Feng stood erect before the stone counter, arms hanging naturally beneath the wide folds of his sleeves. Unruffled by the old scoundrel’s insolence, a deep, steady baritone echoed calmly from behind the silver mask:
“I require a vial of top-grade ‘Spirit Condensation Holy Water,’ along with an intact ‘Life-Renewing Snow Lotus Root’ aged thirty years or older. Do you have the stock?”
Clack!
The brass pipe paused mid-air, slipping slightly from Old One-Eye’s grasp and striking the stone counter with a sharp, hollow thud.
The old man’s solitary eye widened to its limit, the pupil contracting violently as he stared at the black-cloaked silhouette as if he had just heard the most preposterous fairy tale under the heavens. A dense pocket of green smoke caught in his throat, sending him into a fit of harsh, hacking coughs.
“You... what did you say?!” Old One-Eye rasped, slamming his brass pipe onto the table. Leaning forward, he propped his withered, twig-like hands against the stone slab: “Spirit Condensation Holy Water? A thirty-year-old Life-Renewing Snow Lotus Root?! Brat, do you even comprehend the words tumbling out of your mouth?!”
A sneer twisted his visage, causing the deep wrinkles across his sallow cheeks to bunch together like dried leather:
“The Life-Renewing Snow Lotus grows only along ten-thousand-foot glacial crags, battered day and night by howling blizzards and guarded by nests of Froststorm Winged Birds! Old Third’s five-man veteran squad risked their necks climbing up there last month—three died, one was permanently crippled, and only one barely dragged back a single root with its spiritual essence intact! As for Spirit Condensation Holy Water, that is a miraculous marrow-cleansing dew distilled from the northernmost permafrost bogs, accumulating barely a few drops once every decade! What do you think my Hundred Herb Hall is? A vegetable stall outside the city gates?!”
Lin Feng remained motionless, silent as a carved granite statue. His patience for evasive posturing was threadbare:
“I did not ask for its pedigree, nor did I ask how many lives were spent procuring it. I asked one simple question: Do you have it, or not?”
The cold, uncompromising aura radiating from the silver-masked youth caused Old One-Eye to stiffen slightly. A quiet, suffocating pressure—akin to an ancient volcano slumbering beneath a fragile tectonic crust—drifted imperceptibly from the figure across the counter, sending an icy prickle down the old smuggler’s spine.
Yet the inherent greed and cunning of an underworld scavenger swiftly reasserted control. Old One-Eye rolled his milky pupil, calculating frantically in his mind: The fellow conceals his face, wears utilitarian field garb, and though his voice is composed and firm, the cadence is distinctly youthful. Someone scouring the black market for high-tier meridian-restoring reagents is nine times out of ten buying for a crippled family member out of sheer, desperate agony.
And in the black market, the desperate were always the juiciest prey to skin alive!
At this realization, Old One-Eye threw his head back in a harsh, dry cackle, exposing a row of crooked, tartar-crusted yellow teeth. Slowly, he raised three bony, trembling fingers:
“Yes! Of course I have them! In the entirety of Bo’an City, aside from the deepest vaults of the Ling Clan manor, only my Hundred Herb Hall possesses these two treasures! But their price... is not something a bottom-feeder can casually daydream about.”
His tone hardened into a vicious, mocking growl, his solitary eye gleaming with feral avarice:
“Two hundred and fifty thousand magic coins! Not a copper coin less! Hard currency on the spot, paid in full! If you have the coin, take the goods. If not, haul your ass out of my shop right this second before I summon my enforcers to snap your legs and dump your carcass into the gutter!”
Two hundred and fifty thousand magic coins!
That exorbitant price was an outright extortion, a blade pressed directly against the jugular!
A luxurious three-story townhouse in Bo’an City’s prime municipal district barely fetched one hundred thousand magic coins. An ordinary working-class household, slaving away for decades without eating or drinking, could rarely hoard even fifty thousand. Two hundred and fifty thousand magic coins was enough to fully outfit an entire elite hunter squad with standard Basic-tier defensive magic apparatus! On the illicit market, the true value of both items combined hovered around one hundred and fifty to one hundred and eighty thousand at most. The old scoundrel had deliberately inflated the sum by nearly half, intending either to squeeze his mark dry or savor the sight of a broken customer falling to his knees in pathetic supplication.
Old One-Eye crossed his withered arms over his chest, a smug, triumphant smirk curling the corner of his lips as he waited for the youth to tremble, stammer, and begin pleading for mercy.
However, he could not have been more mistaken.
Beneath the cool sheen of the silver mask, Lin Feng’s eyes did not waver so much as a millimeter.
To others, two hundred and fifty thousand magic coins was an astronomical fortune, the accumulated labor of several lifetimes. But to Lin Feng, money was merely a collection of lifeless numbers. As long as it allowed Xiaomo to stand on her own two feet again, as long as his little sister could run and laugh freely beneath the brilliant sun, even if the price were five hundred thousand or a million magic coins, he would not hesitate for a single heartbeat!
Whoosh!
No haggling. No bickering. No hesitation.
From within his sweeping sleeve, Lin Feng’s gloved hand flicked with effortless casualness.
A rectangular card forged from pitch-black metal, edged in shimmering platinum filigree and deeply embossed with the crackling lightning crest of the Federal Arcane Bank, spun gracefully through the air before embedding itself half an inch deep into the solid granite counter!
“Swipe it. Bring the goods.”
The words were clipped, icy, and dropped like a thunderclap across the cramped, dingy room!
The triumphant smirk on Old One-Eye’s face froze instantly. His solitary eyeball bulged so violently it threatened to pop clean out of its socket.
That black-metal card trimmed with platinum filigree... that was an authentic Platinum Magic Crystal Card! An anonymous, bearer-grade account that strictly required a minimum unencumbered reserve balance of no less than two hundred thousand magic coins just to be issued! A nameless nobody clad in a dust-stained cloak within the squalor of West Street had just tossed out a Platinum Magic Crystal Card like a discarded splinter of firewood?!
Old One-Eye’s withered fingers trembled uncontrollably. Gulping down a mouthful of dry saliva, he snatched the card and violently jammed it into the crystal reader nestled beneath the counter.
Hummmm——!
The arcane circle etched atop the reading crystal flared with brilliant luminescence. A vibrant string of emerald-green characters materialized crisply in mid-air:
[Transaction Confirmed: 250,000 Magic Coins Successfully Deducted! Remaining Balance: Sufficient!]
Beep... beep...
The rhythmic mechanical chime fell upon Old One-Eye’s ears like the solemn tolling of an ancient doomsday bell. Two hundred and fifty thousand magic coins in cold, unadulterated funds had been transferred directly into his private underground vault in the blink of an eye!
The smuggler slowly raised his gaze toward Lin Feng, his breath ragged and wheezing like a hunted animal that had just narrowly escaped the jaws of a predator. Every shred of previous arrogance, mockery, and disdain had dissolved into thin air, replaced entirely by profound terror and bone-deep dread. A man who could toss out a quarter of a million magic coins without batting an eye was neither an ordinary student nor a ragged sellsword! This was a bona fide wilderness reaper—or the hidden scion of an apex aristocratic dynasty traveling incognito!
Had he pushed his luck a fraction further, the old scoundrel had no doubt his brittle bones would have been ground into fine ash right inside this cellar!
“M-My Lord! S-Sire, please wait just one moment! This humble old fool will fetch your treasures this instant!”
Old One-Eye’s tone turned sugary sweet in an instant. His crooked spine bowed almost double until his nose nearly brushed the counter, baring his yellowed teeth in an ingratiating, frantic grimace. Whirling around, he scurried toward the reinforced stone partition behind the counter.
Reaching a blank expanse of wall, he rapidly depressed three concealed stones in a precise, intricate sequence. With the grinding groan of heavy iron gears, a thick steel vault door slid smoothly aside. From within the hidden chamber, he carefully cradled a deep crimson sandalwood chest sealed with three overlapping Ice-element warding talismans.
Setting the chest atop the counter, Old One-Eye’s trembling hands gently peeled back the ice talismans and eased the lid open.
A wave of biting, sub-zero frost instantly billowed forth, causing plumes of white mist to swirl lazily across the cold stone surface.
Nestled snugly upon a bed of pristine white velvet were two extraordinary items:
The first was a root approximately half a span long, pale and translucent like carved white jade. Delicate, crystalline striations patterned its surface, pulsating with a faint, pure azure light. Though severed from its stalk, the root exuded a vibrant, primordial life force so potent that the ambient air prickled with rejuvenating vitality—an intact, thirty-year-old Life-Renewing Snow Lotus Root!
Beside it lay an exquisite miniature flask carved from a solid nugget of emerald nephrite. Within swirled an iridescent, pale green elixir. Despite being hermetically sealed with arcane beeswax, a soothing, crystalline fragrance seeped past the cork, causing the mental intent within Lin Feng’s sea of consciousness to thrum with refreshing clarity—Spirit Condensation Holy Water!
Lin Feng stepped forward. Rather than reaching out recklessly, he silently projected a razor-thin strand of Dual-Element mental perception—attuned to both Lightning and Fire—to meticulously sweep every millimeter of both reagents. Aided by the subtle resonance of the Primordial Dragon Pendant against his sternum, no concealed poison, necrotic blemish, or volatile ward could escape his scrutiny.
Pure medicinal essence. Perfectly preserved potency. Zero impurities or toxic adulteration.
It’s the real deal.
Lin Feng breathed a quiet sigh of relief, feeling an immense boulder that had crushed his chest for five long years lift slightly. With a swift flick of his sleeve, he swept the sandalwood chest into the inner lining of his black cloak, securing it tightly against his chest where the gentle, nurturing warmth of the slate-gray dragon pendant shielded it.
Retrieving his black-and-platinum card from the smuggler’s quivering grasp, Lin Feng turned on his heel and strode resolutely toward the doorway without uttering another syllable.
“Safe travels, My Lord! Please honor my humble Hundred Herb Hall again whenever you have need!” Old One-Eye’s sycophantic cries still echoed in the cellar as the heavy oak door swung shut.
Stepping back into the corridor, the oppressive, iron-and-sulfur atmosphere of the West Street Black Market rushed in to meet him once more. Lin Feng tugged his cowl lower over his brow, quickening his pace along the subterranean stone corridor toward the emergency exit shaft leading to the surface.
However, as he rounded a shadowed U-shaped bend—a blind spot where the murky torchlight could not penetrate and where moisture-slicked walls were choked with thick patches of grime—Lin Feng’s footsteps abruptly hitched.
Nourished day in and day out by the Primordial Dragon Pendant, his mental senses and physical perception were many times sharper than those of any ordinary Basic Mage. From within a deep, jagged fissure in the damp masonry just ahead, he detected two faint, sinister auras—slimy and venomous, akin to coiled pit vipers lying in wait.
Accompanying those auras were hushed, fragmented whispers carried along the subterranean draft.
Lin Feng instantly extinguished every trace of radiating mana, pressing his back flush against an alcove of damp stone as he held his breath and listened.
“The elixir... the third batch... has it been successfully delivered?” rasped a harsh, reedy voice laced with suppressed savagery.
“Rest easy... everything is proceeding precisely according to Lord Deacon’s divine blueprint,” a second, deeper voice replied, dripping with cruel satisfaction. “That kid Lu Yuan handled his role flawlessly. Exploiting his internship post at the Central Hydrological Monitoring Station, he has already slipped the entire reservoir of ‘Berserk Demonifying Solution’ into the main underground aqueducts supplying the municipal reservoirs.”
“Excellent! That solution is completely colorless and odorless, dissolving seamlessly into fresh water. Ordinary mages and the surveillance arrays of the Cang Lei Ridge military garrison won’t detect the slightest trace.”
“Hmph. Once the wild beast packs drink from the contaminated groundwater, the latent catalyst will detonate their feral instincts into uncontrollable frenzy... Just in time for the Feng Lan nobility’s grand graduation tournament. When the time comes, the outer boundary barriers will shatter, and tens of thousands of demon wolves and berserk fiends will flood the streets in a feast of slaughter! The entirety of Bo’an City will be converted into a blood-soaked altar to welcome the advent of the Divine Blood!”
“Hush! Shut your filthy mouth! Do you have a death wish, invoking the sacred name of the Divine Blood down here?! The Lord Deacon issued a strict gag order—anyone who leaks a whisper will be cast into the venomous pit to be devoured alive by a myriad of vipers! Withdraw immediately, Lu Yuan is waiting for our rendezvous at the suburban relay post...”
The rustle of coarse fabric followed. Two gaunt, hunched silhouettes clad in ash-gray cowls—the faint emblem of a weeping, blood-dripping eye embroidered across their backs—slipped swiftly through the gloom, vanishing into the subterranean shadows like a pair of sewer rats.
Behind the stone outcropping, Lin Feng remained frozen.
Yet beneath the silver mask, his pupils had contracted to pinpoint needles, brimming with chilling dread!
Lu Yuan? The municipal water supply? Berserk Demonifying Solution? A blood-soaked altar to welcome the Divine Blood?!
The disconnected anomalies of the past few weeks suddenly aligned into a terrifying, coherent tapestry within his mind! The abnormal nocturnal howling of wolves echoing from the peaks of Mount Cang Lei, the erratic frenzy of wild beasts encountered during squad commissions, and the duplicitous demeanor of Lu Yuan—a classmate who played the consummate model student at school yet harbored a dark, inscrutable malice...
Every single clue pointed toward a monstrous, apocalyptic evil—the notorious magic terrorist syndicate that had orchestrated the slaughter and ruin of entire metropolises across the continent: The Nether Church!
They were conspiring to poison the city’s freshwater lifeline, igniting a cataclysmic frenzy to lure the feral beast hordes of Cang Lei Ridge into breaching the defenses and massacring innocent citizens! A devastating tempest of apocalyptic proportions was quietly brewing in the dark, primed to tear Bo’an City to bloody ribbons!
Lin Feng clenched his fists until the knuckles beneath his tactical gloves popped with muffled cracks.
He understood with absolute clarity that with his current cultivation as a Basic Mage, if this disaster erupted on the morrow, he possessed neither the raw power to halt an overwhelming beast tide nor the strength to confront the formidable leaders of the Nether Church. He had to become stronger! He needed to shatter his current bottlenecks, fully unlocking the terrifying potential of his Innate Dual Elements and the Primordial Dragon Pendant!
Yet... that was a battle for tomorrow.
Tonight, the life and future of his little sister, Xiaomo, was the sole priority that commanded his soul!
Lin Feng pressed his palm firmly against his chest, feeling the reassuring, solid contour of the sandalwood box safeguarding the Spirit Condensation Holy Water and the Life-Renewing Snow Lotus Root.
Without another heartbeat’s hesitation, Lin Feng sank his stance and pushed off the damp cobblestones. An invisible gust of wind swirled beneath his boots, transforming his figure into a dark streak that ripped through the gloom of the West Street Black Market, hurtling toward the surface and shooting like a loosed arrow straight toward the humble, beloved alleys of South Street!