The boy, shaped by the apocalypse, might not be noble in the traditional sense, acting out of self-interest at his core. Yet he was willing to “sacrifice” his own for the collective. Others might never know of his act, or if they did, most would laugh it off, perhaps cynically calling him an idiot.
But the boy did it anyway, resolutely.
“One rice feeds a hundred types of people. The elders’ sayings still hold true,” Xiao Peng muttered bitterly, realizing that even after Black Brother’s hints about the conflict, he’d never considered nationalistic angles or sacrificing his own interests for the city. The only thing that could drive him to such lengths was Cloud Peak.
Ye Zhongming patted the boy’s head, then looked ahead. “Are those… redheads truly so vicious and strong?”
The boy snorted. “Some redheads are good, and some of ours are bad. But this situation’s escalated—both sides are acting for their own kind, so it’s beyond that. As for strength, I don’t know much, but they say they have many experts.”
The boy spoke with surprising maturity—a necessity in the apocalypse; immaturity meant death.
Soon, he led them to the commercial street, where the crowd was denser, and the evolved’ levels and gear far surpassed those on ordinary streets.
“That way leads to Jiang Dabao’s Shop, and the other to Essence Pavilion and Morning Light Pavilion,” the boy said, awaiting their choice.
After a moment’s thought, Ye Zhongming chose Essence Pavilion. He wanted to see what was for sale and was particularly intrigued by Old An, the proprietor of Morning Light Pavilion. Anyone capable of crafting the terrifying Four Dragon Heads must be a skilled artisan.
The boy’s eyes sparkled as he agreed.
The group stepped into Essence Pavilion, its structure built from treated, unmelting ice.
“Processed to stay hard and never melt,” Xiaopeng murmured, examining the ice. Ye Zhongming nodded.
Inside, they entered a spacious hall—less opulent than some Five Ring Money shops, but ruggedly styled. The semi-circular hall had three floors: twenty small rooms on the first, ten larger ones on the second, and three grand ones on the third. The upper floors’ rooms had ice doors.
A massive torch-shaped metal structure burned in the center, flanked by smaller torches near each room, warming the hall like spring. Thick animal pelts—not pure white or red, but patterned—covered the floor, each pelt intact, their origins recognizable to familiar hunters. The display exuded a fierce pride.
The pelts were all from level seven or higher lifeforms, with the centerpiece being a level eight mutated bear king’s pelt, still bearing the holes and scorch marks from its kill. No one found it ugly—it elevated Essence Pavilion’s prestige.
“Can you… Wait a moment?” The boy, Xiao Xuan, suddenly spoke.
“Hm?” Ye Zhongming’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“I have a friend who knows these shops well. I can call him to help. If you see something you like, he’ll tell you its fair price so you won’t get cheated. Don’t worry—no extra pay. I’ll split my share with him.”
Seeing the boy’s nervousness, Ye Zhongming smiled and agreed, offering his friend the same pay. Xiao Xuan dashed off excitedly.
Watching him leave, Ye Zhongming suddenly asked, “How many children like him do you think are in Black Dragon City?”
Xia Bai and Hong Fa tilted their heads in thought but didn’t speak. Xiaopeng ventured, “Probably quite a few.”
He didn’t understand why Ye Zhongming asked.
The four browsed the shops one by one, starting from the left. The first three had better goods than outside, but nothing useful to Ye Zhongming. The next few had decent items, but the prices were exorbitant—even half would exceed their value. Ye Zhongming wasn’t about to be swindled.
They moved quickly until the nineteenth shop, where Ye Zhongming spotted something valuable: a white lotus in a jade box, its lid closed, with a drawing and description beside it.
It was a mutated plant called Ice Mountain Snow Lotus (borrowing its pre-apocalypse name), capable of healing mental trauma—not mental illness, but persistent negative effects from attacks by psychic evolved, or mutated lifeforms.
No medicine or healing ability could treat such trauma effectively, making it a stubborn affliction.
Red Hair, a psychic herself, knew her mental strikes left targets dizzy, headache-ridden, hallucinating, or hearing voices long after the battle.
Finding a cure for this, Ye Zhongming wasn’t about to pass it up.
The price on the paper: twenty level six magic crystals.
Just as Ye Zhongming was about to inquire, he sensed someone approaching from behind. He didn’t react, recognizing Xiao Xuan’s presence—meaning the stranger beside him was likely his friend.
The newcomer studied Ye Zhongming, then discreetly wrote a number on his palm: 7.