Immortal World : MILF Dual Cultivation

The descent into the Ghost Market stripped away every trace of orthodox cultivation, layer by layer.

Lin Tian used a rusted spiritual elevator hidden beneath an old watchtower on the sect’s outskirts. The cage groaned and rattled, dropping hundreds of feet through bedrock. Clean surface air gave way fast to something heavier — sulfur, old blood, cheap perfume, roasting meat of questionable origin.

For an Inner Sect disciple, this descent would feel like falling into hell. For Lin Tian, it felt closer to home. The previous owner of this body had spent years scraping by in slums just as rough. That memory sat close to the surface now, familiar in a way that made the smell almost comfortable.

He’d walked through worse without a mask on. At least down here nobody expected him to bow first.

Clang.

The elevator hit bottom hard. Rusted gates screeched open onto District 59.

He stepped out, boots hitting damp stone. His cloak shifted in the stale, humid draft. Under the Pattern Mask Glyph, his face belonged to a scarred stranger in his late thirties — eyes flat, cold, sweeping the crowd with the detachment of something that had stopped being surprised by anything a long time ago.

District 59 sprawled through the ruins of a collapsed mining colony. Scrap-metal towers and hollowed stalagmites stood in for buildings. Blood-red spiritual lights floated overhead, throwing long shadows across walls slick with moss.

The place was full of life. Feral, dangerous life.

Mercenaries in dented armor moved through the crowd, some running crude spiritual-powered prosthetics that hissed steam with every step. Cloaked women whispered offers from the shadows — assassination, illegal dual cultivation, whatever paid. Rogue cultivators haggled loudly over stolen manuals and forbidden pills.

A vendor with half his face replaced by riveted metal roasted strips of mutated demon-beast meat, green fat dripping into open flame. The smell hit hard enough to pull hungry glances from passing scavengers who clearly hadn’t eaten today. Nearby, another stall openly displayed stolen flying swords and volatile talismans — items that meant an execution if found on the surface.

Lin Tian moved through the chaos without flinching and without posturing. He walked like a man who belonged down here. Shoulders loose, hands resting near his waist, close to the pouches holding his smoke pellets and the trigger of his wrist-crossbow.

A hulking cultivator shouldered into him hard, testing him.

He stopped. Didn’t curse. Didn’t push back with Qi. He just turned his head and looked.

Dead eyes. No fear in them, no anger either — just the kind of stillness that came from a man who’d stopped counting kills a while back.

The cultivator hesitated. No spiritual fluctuation coming off this stranger meant one of two things — powerless mortal, or dangerous enough not to need to show it. The eyes made the answer obvious.

He grunted and melted back into the crowd, deciding the fight wasn’t worth whatever this was.

Lin Tian kept walking.

“System.” He kept the thought quiet. “Activate [Insight Eye]. Initiate continuous environmental scan.”

[Insight Eye Active. Scanning surrounding targets…]

The blood-red gloom sharpened under the overlay, the market turning into readable data.

[Target: Rogue Cultivator. Qi Gathering Level 3. Hidden weapon detected: Poison-coated needles concealed in left sleeve.]

[Target: Mercenary. Qi Gathering Level 6. Status: Suffering from severe internal meridian damage. Combat capacity reduced by 40%.]

[Target: Vendor. Mortal. Selling fake ’Foundation Establishment Pills’ composed of compressed flour, dirt, and low-grade stimulant herbs.]

In a market built entirely on deception, this was the ultimate cheat. Every threat here was fully readable — the genuine dangers, the loud frauds, all of it laid bare. He adjusted his path without thinking about it, avoiding the real experts and ignoring the noise.

Back on Earth, this would have been the equivalent of walking into a room with everyone’s credit history displayed above their heads. Down here it was the difference between walking out with what he came for, or not walking out at all.

His destination sat at the market’s core — the central plaza where high-tier trades happened. If a Yang-Fire Crystal existed anywhere down here, it would be behind the doors of an exclusive auction house.

The stalls grew less crude the deeper he went. The merchandise grew more valuable. The crowd grew quieter, sharper-eyed, and visibly stronger.

He passed a wide pit carved into the bedrock, ringed by spectators waving betting slips. An Underground Death Pit — fighters trading blows to the death for spirit stones and rare resources. Blood and cheap alcohol hung thick in the air around it.

He didn’t stop to watch. His focus stayed narrow — find the catalyst for Madam Shen’s Dantian repair. Keep his administrator running at full strength.

A fully healed Dantian meant faster resource authorization, fewer questions from Wang, fewer variables he had to account for every time he needed something moved quietly through the Resource Hall. This trip wasn’t optional. It was maintenance on the one asset that made everything else possible.

Ahead stood a structure of polished obsidian, four armored mercenaries guarding the entrance. Each one carried a presence that put them well above Level 7.

Purple spiritual fire lit the sign above the door: The Obsidian Exchange.

The premier auction house in District 59. The place for contraband too dangerous to trade anywhere else.

He approached. The guards crossed their halberds, blocking him with a hard clash of metal.

“Halt.” The lead guard eyed his scarred face, unconvinced. “Premium auction tonight. Invitation only, or proof of funds past fifty thousand spirit stones. Which one do you have, scarface?”

Neither. Madam Shen controlled the Resource Hall’s wealth, but moving that kind of money into the black market would leave a trail. He’d come down here with materials and nothing else.

“No invitation.” His voice came out rough through the mask. “I don’t pay in spirit stones.”

The guard sneered, tightening his grip. “Then get lost before we break your legs and feed you to the pits.”

“I pay in information. And in blood.” He let [Insight Eye] lock onto the captain, data unfolding beside the man’s head.

[Target: Guard Captain. Qi Gathering Level 7. Flaw Detected: Old frost-poison injury in the third lumbar vertebrae, causing a micro-stutter in his spiritual energy circulation exactly every twelve seconds.]

He stepped forward, ignoring the halberds inches from his chest. He kept his voice low, meant only for the captain.

“Your Qi stutters every twelve seconds. Old frost-poison in your lower spine.” His eyes stayed locked on the captain’s widening pupils. “Hit that exact vertebrae during the stutter, and your defense collapses before you can even swing that weapon. You’d be paralyzed from the waist down.”

The color drained from the captain’s face. That injury was buried, expensive to hide, a death sentence to reveal down here. Nobody should have known.

“Who are you?” His voice cracked, halberd dropping an inch as cold sweat broke across his forehead.

“Someone who needs to get inside.” Lin Tian’s voice carried nothing but flat certainty. “I’d recommend not standing in my way.”

The other three guards exchanged confused glances, but their captain’s pale face told them enough. Weapons lowered, one after another, none of them willing to be the one who questioned it out loud.

He walked past them without waiting for permission, through the iron doors, into the dim, expensive interior of the Obsidian Exchange.

The first obstacle was down.

Now he needed the Yang-Fire Crystal — and a way to walk out with it, empty-handed, from a room full of armed men who valued nothing more than money.

The Vulture was inside the vault. Time to hunt.