No Money to Cultivate Immortality?

No Money to Cultivate Immortality?

Inside the Spirit Realm office of Heartforge Pavilion.

You Chuan said, “This simulated environment is well-suited to Zhang Yu.”

“Enable deep sync, and at the critical breakthrough point, slow playback to 0.3x speed and loop it ten times.”

The customer service agent frowned. “This simulation has a high pain index. If we initiate deep sync, I’m worried the simulated memories will affect his mental state.”

Of course You Chuan knew—deep sync dramatically improved the chances of a breakthrough, but the lingering emotions and sensations from the simulation would also sink deeper into the mind.

Still, he said flatly, “He already agreed to the user agreement. And even if something does happen, it’d be months from now. Who’s going to blame us then?”

The agent added, “But allocating this much computing power just to let him suffer—for free—aren’t we spoiling him?”

You Chuan sighed. “Can’t be helped.”

“The 30-Spirit Coin Guaranteed Breakthrough Plan always banks on the student having enough talent and drive. Most hit Spirit-Flesh Fusion within five runs.”

“If we hit one who keeps stalling... well, that’s just our bad luck.”

…

At that moment—

Zhang Yu opened his eyes within the Spirit Realm and remembered who he was.

He was Zhang Yu, a construction site worker.

But due to injuries, his efficiency had plummeted. Eventually, no site would take him.

Thankfully, technological advances—and the advent of Law Husks—had given him hope.

“Law Husk! A revolutionary product from Tiangong Group. Powered by cutting-edge Immortal Dao technology, it boosts every worker’s performance!”

“Soon, those equipped with Law Husks will finish twelve hours of labor in just two.”

“Tiangong: bringing Immortal Dao technology to benefit all of Kunxu.”

As he stared at the ad playing on-screen, Zhang Yu made his decision.

He sold off everything he could—including both his hands and feet—and took out a massive loan. At last, he installed his Law Husk and regained the ability to work.

They placed him back on a construction site. Each day, he devoured raw materials and spat out high-grade concrete. His work quality soared, and so did his pay.

But the honeymoon was short-lived. His Law Husk, still a first-gen model, began to show violent rejection.

With no funds left, Zhang Yu couldn’t afford the weekly Law Husk calibrations—let alone the monthly overhauls.

His body began to outpace the aging hardware. Structural imbalances followed…

This gradual mismatch drove his Law Husk synchronization rate lower and lower.

“Your sync rate is too low. It’s overloading your motor cortex and causing abnormal activity in the cerebral cortex…”

Listening to the company rep, Zhang Yu murmured, “So that’s why I keep getting phantom pain?”

The rep said, “Pay up first. Then we’ll calibrate your Law Husk.”

“Your body is changing every day. Current Law Husk models can’t auto-adapt. Weekly tuning is essential to keep up.”

“Without it, your body will begin to mutate. Flesh and nerves will start to compensate—”

But Zhang Yu couldn’t even register the rest. He was too broke.

He could only endure the phantom pains, forcing his way through each work shift using the Sacrificial Oxheart Technique.

But the longer he worked, the worse it got—more frequent, more excruciating.

Waves of pain—limbs ripping, organs tearing—kept crashing down. Eyes open, he swore he saw his bloodied stumps all over again.

Driven by desperation, his Sacrificial Oxheart Technique churned faster than ever. He was teetering on the brink of Spirit-Flesh Fusion.

But then—an intrusive thought entered his mind.

“Why? Why won’t my wounds heal?”

…

At that very moment.

In his dorm room—

Under deep sync, the Sacrificial Oxheart Technique began running on its own inside Zhang Yu’s mind. The cellular activity in his missing limbs surged to a peak.

His flesh pulsed madly, as if trying to regenerate the stumps his mind still remembered.

…

His real body began convulsing.

Inside the simulation, Zhang Yu’s virtual body followed suit.

His limbs twitched with frantic energy. The technique broke through, unleashing some kind of bio-reactive transformation.

At that instant, a voice tore through the simulated realm, echoing into Zhang Yu’s mind from the depths of the Spirit Realm.

“Find me…”

Zhang Yu instinctively responded, “Who are you?”

“Find me…”

The voice didn’t acknowledge him, only repeating, “Find my spirit…”

“Find my body…”

“Find my mana…”

…

When Zhang Yu came to again, the Spirit Realm connection had been severed.

He removed the Spirit Realm Mask, dazed, murmuring, “Me?”

His technique continued to circulate naturally—he’d unknowingly stepped into Spirit-Flesh Fusion.

But before he could celebrate, a strange URL surfaced in his mind.

“Did that voice give it to me?”

“Who was that? How could they reach me inside Heartforge Pavilion’s simulation?”

“Was it someone from Heartforge, secretly watching me?”

Just then, a comm request blinked across his EyeNet.

Manager You Chuan’s hologram appeared.

“Zhang Yu… student?” You Chuan’s gaze flickered. “Are you all right?”

Right at the breakthrough’s edge, when Zhang Yu’s simulated body began to transform, the entire environment had cut out.

And seconds later, the simulation crashed.

It had scared You Chuan half to death.

He ordered the staff to lock down logs and suppress the incident, then rushed to contact Zhang Yu directly.

Seeing Zhang Yu safe, You Chuan quietly sighed with relief.

If the student had died, Heartforge Pavilion wouldn’t even bat an eye—but for him, personally, it would’ve been a disaster.

Noticing You Chuan’s off expression, Fu Ji suddenly asked, “Something happened?”

Hearing Zhang Yu explain, Fu Ji gave a sly smile. “Don’t worry. If it were serious, they wouldn’t just call you.”

“To them, this probably looks like a workplace error.”

“Otherwise, why would Heartforge bypass the company and contact you privately? You might be able to bluff them.”

Zhang Yu arched a brow and turned to You Chuan. “What’s going on at Heartforge? That kind of malfunction? I nearly died in there.”

You Chuan felt a jolt of dread. Outwardly, he denied everything. Inwardly, he had no clue what had happened during the cut.

Zhang Yu said coldly, “So you’re not taking responsibility? I want a refund—and I’ve backed up the faulty simulation logs.”

That hit hard. You Chuan had tweaked the simulation settings himself.

Left with no choice, he began bargaining.

Eventually, they reached a deal.

You Chuan: “As long as you don’t initiate a formal refund request, acknowledge service completion, and drop all complaints—I’ll personally refund you 2.5 Spirit Coins a month, for 12 months.”

Privately, You Chuan was thinking: “Fine by me if this Zhang Yu stops his Spirit-Flesh Fusion runs. Just a waste of resources—and dangerous.”

Zhang Yu’s eyes lit up. “What about interest?”

More back-and-forth followed. At last, You Chuan agreed to cover interest as well—3.3 Spirit Coins monthly—just enough to cover Zhang Yu’s loan installments for the Spirit-Flesh Fusion Plan.

Zhang Yu had considered squeezing out more, but he knew—he’d already broken through.

And with everything that had happened—the voice, his biological activation—he wasn’t keen to spill the full story.

This wasn’t something he could make a public fuss about.

“Right now we’re both bluffing. Luckily, I’ve got the upper hand.”

After signing the agreement, Zhang Yu ended the call.

The realization hit: he’d just gotten a free ride through the Spirit-Flesh Fusion Plan.

“Heh. Came out ahead on this one.”

Fu Ji, however, was more concerned about that mysterious URL.

Zhang Yu didn’t log in right away.

Instead, he forwarded it to Zhang Pianpian to check for anything suspicious.

“Where’d you get this?” she asked. “It links to an extremely deep layer of the Spirit Realm—practically the second floor.”

“And it doesn’t look like an old address… more like something that just got generated.”

“But the site is sealed behind encryption. I can’t view its contents. Forcing entry could corrupt it.”

So, under her protective supervision, Zhang Yu logged into the site.

A long moment passed.

“What did you see?” Zhang Pianpian asked.

“A… Heart Technique?” Zhang Yu said, puzzled. “One that’s not in the Grand Library.”

Inside, he thought to himself: “It fits into the Chain Diagram series—part of the Great Sage’s Heir set.”

Zhang Pianpian’s eyes narrowed. “Which technique exactly?”

Zhang Yu read it aloud. She cross-checked it within the Spirit Realm.

Finally, she said, “I’ve found no record of this technique in any database.”

“That means… it’s a black technique.”

Zhang Yu asked, “Black technique? What does that mean?”

She explained, “It’s a Heart Technique not registered in the Ten Major Sects’ Dao Repository. No copyright. No data record.”

“Most people believe black techniques were banned and purged by the Ten Sects.”

“They might be relics of lost sects…”

“Or created by people who’ve since been blacklisted.”

“And you, Senior…” Zhang Yu asked, “Do you think I can train in it?”

Zhang Pianpian paused. “Based on content, I see no danger.”

“In fact, its quality suggests it's at least military-grade—possibly even pre-military prototype.”

“The real danger is in where it came from.”

“And whoever gave it to you might still be watching.”

“But to not train in something this valuable… would be a waste.”

She gave it a moment, then said, “It’s your call.”

“But remember—if you do decide to practice it, keep it hidden. And never activate this black technique while your mind is connected to the Spirit Realm Network. You don’t want to be flagged.”

Not long after Zhang Yu began cultivating the mysterious technique…

The end of August arrived—and with it, the deadline for the final exams.