Chapter 80: A Fellow Countryman from the Martial Kingdom

The mine tunnel was narrow, the air stagnant, and the darkness oppressive. The ground was damp, and there was an inexplicable stench of decay, as if it hadn’t been cleaned in centuries. This odor was even worse than the prison cells on the pirate ship.

“No wonder no cultivators are willing to work here! The cultivators in the Immortal Village look down on us—who could stand this stench, crowded in here with a bunch of mining slaves?” Ye Mo frowned as he walked deeper into the mine.

At intervals, a faint phosphorescence glimmered on the tunnel walls, just enough to make out the interior. The passage twisted and turned, with many complex branches, making it nearly impossible to tell which way led where. After a while, Ye Mo felt as though he’d wandered into a labyrinth.

He grew worried; it seemed he’d need someone to lead the way, or else risk getting lost in this maze of tunnels with no idea where he might end up. Yet, at this time, the slaves had all gone out to eat and catch their breath—the mine was nearly deserted.

Suddenly, he caught a faint sound—the sporadic scrape of a shovel chipping at rock.

“Someone’s still mining!”

Ye Mo’s hearing was keen. He listened carefully, then followed the sound down a side passage.

At the end of a tunnel several hundred feet long, an old mining slave with grizzled hair, dressed in a ragged short shirt, was laboriously working away at the rock face. It took more than a dozen swings of his pick to pry out a single fist-sized piece of ore.

The ore wasn’t scattered loosely, but embedded in the hard rock. To extract the raw black iron, one had to break apart the surrounding stone; carrying out a chunk of rock whole wouldn’t count toward the quota.

The old slave’s strength was meager—barely two hundred pounds—and his aim was poor. He struck several times without hitting the same spot. As with chopping wood, only by striking the same point repeatedly could one cut through the spiritual timber or extract the ore. Missing the spot only slowed the process.

After dozens of strikes, he’d left only a two-inch groove on one side of the ore.

Exhausted, the old man threw his pick to the ground and slumped down, gasping heavily.

“Grandfather, have some water,” Ye Mo said, stepping forward and handing him his waterskin, then sitting down across from him. Just half a year ago, he’d been a street brawler himself, so this was nothing unfamiliar.

The old slave started, twisting around to peer through the gloom at the young man in martial attire who had approached him.

“It’s mealtime—why didn’t you go out?” Ye Mo asked casually.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” The old man gratefully accepted the waterskin, took a long swig, then handed it back, asking his question.

Ye Mo nodded.

“You have to hand in thirty pounds of raw ore to get two black cakes and a bowl of soup. Anything less, and you get nothing. This morning I only dug up a dozen pounds; if I go out now, I won’t get any food, and the ore will be confiscated, maybe I’ll even get whipped by the overseer. So why bother? I’ll dig some more this afternoon, make up thirty pounds, and eat tonight.”

He didn’t pry into Ye Mo’s background, just caught his breath and continued with a sigh.

“If they don’t let people eat their fill, how do they expect them to mine?” Ye Mo wondered aloud. “If the slaves had enough to eat, they’d have strength to dig more ore.”

“In this whole mining district, hardly any slave gets enough to eat.” The old man sighed, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “We were all tricked, kidnapped or sold and brought here. We dreamed of becoming immortals, so we boarded the sea ships, never expecting to end up mining slaves in these tunnels. Who would willingly dig ore here all their lives?”

“There are frequent uprisings in the mines—slaves fighting against the overseers, trying to escape. Once, they even managed to lure an immortal to his death, which enraged the mine lord and led to a mass execution.”

“That’s why the overseers never dare feed us too well—they fear we’ll revolt if we have the strength.”

Slaves luring and killing a cultivator?

Ye Mo was taken aback. He hadn’t expected the slaves to be so fierce, even able to kill a cultivator. Glancing around at the maze-like tunnels, he realized that with their numbers, the slaves did have a chance.

He felt a chill of unease.

His own hope was that one day he might become a city lord, with his own spiritual island and Immortal Village—perhaps even running a mine himself. That was why these things concerned him.

“You’re new, so there are new slaves coming in? It’s been a while since anyone new arrived here. At its peak, there were over a thousand of us, but now only five or six hundred remain.” The old man looked at him curiously.

“Only five or six hundred? Where did the others go?” Ye Mo exclaimed in shock.

“The others? Dead, of course. Starved, sick, beaten, or just old age. Every day, someone dies. There’s a pit outside the valley—they throw the bodies in and burn them. When my old bones can’t work anymore, I’ll end up there too.”

The old man laughed coldly, his voice bleak and detached.

Ye Mo shuddered. He hadn’t expected things to be so bloody here.

“I’m a new miner, but not a slave. I’m here to dig for spirit stones.”

After a moment’s silence, he finally spoke his purpose, hiding nothing.

“Mining for spirit stones? When did—wait, spirit stones? You’re an immortal?” The old man muttered dully, then suddenly realized, his face changing as he glared at Ye Mo.

After a long moment, his flushed face slowly regained composure. Shaking his head, he muttered, “Old fool, I thought too much. You must not be one of those overseers sent to spy on us. Since that immortal was killed, none of the overseers dare set foot in these tunnels.”

With that, he stood up, bowed deeply, and said respectfully, “Immortal master, forgive my old eyes for not recognizing you. My apologies!”

“No need for such courtesy,” Ye Mo said, helping the old man up.

“As an immortal, the headmen and overseers won’t give you too much trouble. But most of the rich seams are occupied by the strongest slaves—everyone has their own spot. It’s best not to try to take someone else’s place, or you’ll stir up trouble. Even as an immortal, you could suffer if you cross them.”

The old man sat down again, offering his advice.

“Thank you for the warning. I’m new here and know nothing about the place. I’ll need your guidance.” Ye Mo nodded, pulling a packet of dried sea fish from his pocket and handing it over. It was fish caught on the sea voyage, dried for storage.

“This—is this dried sea fish? Thank you, immortal master! I haven’t tasted anything so fragrant since I came to these mines.” The old man was startled, then tore into the meat, devouring it hungrily. His dim old eyes shimmered with tears.

“Take your time—there’s plenty more, it’s nothing special. I’ll be mining here for a while and can bring you more whenever I come,” Ye Mo said, his heart aching at the sight. These slaves lived worse than animals, especially the old and weak, who never knew if they’d see another day.

“How long have you been here?” Ye Mo handed him the water again.

“Twenty years, give or take,” the old man replied, gulping down water and thinking back. “I never kept count, but it must be close. I was from the capital of Wu State, tricked into going to sea at thirty-five, told there were Immortal Villages in the Eastern Sea where we could learn from real immortals.”

“Those heartless traffickers cheated over a thousand martial artists, brought us here across the sea. Before we even got off the ship, we were sold. Then a bunch of overseers and immortals drove us straight into these mines as slaves.”

“Many resisted, but were cut down on the spot. The rest could only dig for ore and scrape by.”

“In this mining district, there’s a riot every few months. Each one is crushed, and many slaves are purged. I’m old now—not sure how much longer I can last.”

The old man shook his head, his clouded eyes staring blankly at the tunnel wall. After a long pause, he chewed another bit of dried fish.

“You’re from the capital of Wu State? So am I!” Ye Mo was surprised by the old man’s background.

“You’re from the capital too?” The old man gripped Ye Mo’s arm in excitement, asking urgently, “Do you know the Great General’s Mansion on Wenhua Lane in the southern city?”

“The Great General’s Mansion in the south city?” Ye Mo blinked—what a coincidence. As a boy, he’d helped out there for half a month. It was one of the most prestigious military families in Wu State’s capital.

“Yes, that’s the one! How is Old General Wei?” the old man asked, his tone anxious.

“Should be well. When I went to sea, Old General Wei was still hale and hearty, often riding out to hunt. The Wu royal family always valued the Wei clan. He’s already in his seventies, one of only three great generals in the state. For generations, the eldest sons of the Wei family have been made marquises or high ministers. But what connection do you have to General Wei?” Ye Mo asked, puzzled.

“So long as he’s well, I can rest easy. I’m ashamed of myself as a son. Years ago, I quarreled with the old man and left Wu State in anger, hoping to become an immortal, but ended up boarding a trafficker’s ship in Donglai, and the rest is bitter history.” Thinking of his hardships, the old man’s face was full of misery.

“You’re not General Wei’s third son, Wei Nanzheng, are you?” Ye Mo was shocked. The third son’s disappearance had once caused a great stir in the capital. Ye Mo had been a child at the time and hadn’t known the details, but his own father had once served under General Wei and died in battle. That was why Ye Mo remembered the Wei family so well, and had even harbored a faint resentment.

Old folks in the city would sometimes mention the general’s rebellious son.

Ye Mo looked at the old slave’s weathered face, so deeply lined he looked closer to eighty than forty or fifty. He couldn’t help but sigh; whatever resentment lingered in his heart now dissolved. If this man had stayed in Wu, he might have become a high and mighty general himself.

“So you know my name, little brother!” the old man said, eyes bright with hope. “Can you tell me about the Wei family?”

Ye Mo obliged, but spoke only of the good, making up what he didn’t know. They talked for a long while, until noisy footsteps echoed in the tunnel—the other slaves were returning to work.

Wei Nanzheng was reluctant to end the conversation.

“Little brother, let’s talk outside tonight after work. For now, let’s mine. You’re new and not familiar with the tunnels; this is a low-yield area, only us old and weak ones stay here. Let me show you around—if we find a rich seam, you can earn more spirit stones.”

“I was just hoping Brother Wei could guide me,” Ye Mo said with a smile. In these mines, it was hard to get by without a local acquaintance.