1912, the first day of the seventh month in the lunar calendar, Linhe County.
Dawn had barely broken, and a gray-white mist shrouded the county town.
Funeral Street, which catered exclusively to the dead, was even quieter. No sign of life appeared on this street until the sun stood high in the sky.
Inside Deliverance Studio, the oil lamp had long since burned out, leaving only a wisp of smoke from its wick.
Chen Mo sat cross-legged on the simple bed in the inner room and slowly opened his eyes.
His face was somewhat pale, but his eyes shone with startling brightness.
He had gone all night without sleep, yet felt no drowsiness. Instead, his mind seemed to have broken free of some invisible restraint, leaving him unusually clear-headed.
"A spark of spiritual insight, seeing the subtle and discerning the significant; spirit and qi in harmony, paper dolls infused with life."
He silently recited the description of the third layer from the handwritten manual. Only then did his tightly furrowed brows relax slightly.
The transformation in his mind was unmistakable. His five senses felt as if they had been washed by invisible water, becoming exceptionally sharp.
Just last night, he had finally cultivated his family's Nether Paper-Crafting Art to the third layer.
"At least I have some means of protecting myself now."
Chen Mo looked at the half-meter-tall paper doll standing in the corner of the room and stirred his thoughts.
A faint thread of awareness extended from between his brows, like an invisible string gently settling on the paper doll.
"Rise," he silently commanded.
The paper doll in the corner trembled slightly, then clumsily shuffled one small step forward.
One step, then another.
It slowly made its way to the small table on the other side of the room.
A coarse pottery jug and a cup sat on the table.
The paper doll extended its flat palm, grasped the jug's handle, and slowly lifted it. Clear water poured into the cup—not too much, not too little, filling it exactly four-fifths of the way.
Then, holding the cup in both hands, it turned and walked back to the bed one step at a time, offering it to Chen Mo.
The entire process was silent save for the faintest scrape of paper feet against the floor.
Chen Mo took the cup, which was still faintly warm. The warm water slid down his throat, dispelling some of his chill and fatigue.
"The third layer, Paper Dolls Infused with Life, really is something else. I can drive them with my spirit sense and give them simple instructions. They're beginning to show a spark of life."
Chen Mo mused, "The strain on my mental strength is significant, though. At my current level, if I control a paper doll like this to perform delicate movements, I can probably last no more than half an hour. And this is only the most basic white-paper servant, with virtually no combat ability."
"The manual says that after reaching the third layer, I can try using special materials and a blood-contract secret art to craft paper dolls with different qualities, and even give them a measure of intelligence."
But all of that required special materials—and, more importantly, money.
After his father, Chen Dachuan, disappeared, the shop's meager savings had quickly run dry.
For the past three months, Chen Mo had barely scraped by doing the simplest paper-crafting jobs, while secretly exploring his cultivation and daring not to draw any attention.
"Being a workhorse in my previous life was bad enough. I never imagined things would be even harder after transmigrating."
"I need to find a way to make money, or even putting food on the table will become a problem."
He looked at the exposed yellow-mud walls around the room and silently sighed.
Chen Mo had actually been an emergency room doctor from the twenty-first century.
After working a thirty-six-hour shift at the hospital, he had collapsed. When he opened his eyes again, he had become this nineteen-year-old paper craftsman.
As luck would have it, his predecessor had also been named Chen Mo.
His mother had died young. His father had disappeared without a trace.
When Chen Mo transmigrated, his predecessor had just breathed his last.
He'd been beaten to death for failing to pay the gang's so-called protection fees...
Chen Mo slowly exhaled, suppressing the complex emotions surging in his heart.
"Grr..." His stomach rumbled.
He rubbed his belly. He hadn't eaten all night, and now he was truly hungry.
He pushed open the door and left the room.
The morning air carried the distinctive fishy smell of Blackwater Shore, and a thin mist still lingered in the courtyard.
Chen Mo went to the kitchen—or rather, to the makeshift stove in the southeast corner, covered with a few wooden planks and oiled paper to keep off the rain.
He lifted the board weighing down the rice jar.
Only a layer of dull, coarse rice remained at the bottom, with a few rice weevils mixed among the bran.
Chen Mo lowered his eyes and stared for a moment. He scraped the bottom of the jar with a gourd scoop, and the rice he gathered barely covered its base.
He lit the fire and washed the rice.
The firewood was damp, and smoke billowed up before the flames, making him turn his head and cough a few times.
At last, the fire licked the bottom of the pot, its flickering light illuminating his bloodless face.
There were no vegetables, only half a block of hard, coarse salt in the corner.
The porridge began to bubble in the pot. The thin rice water foamed, and he could nearly count the grains floating up and down in it.
He filled a bowl with steaming rice water and squatted in the kitchen doorway.
The steam fogged his face, carrying a faint, pitiful hint of rice fragrance, though the musty smell of old rice was stronger.
Chen Mo blew on it and carefully sipped.
The scalding liquid slid down his throat into his stomach, bringing a brief warmth, but his limbs still felt weak.
The bowl was empty in no time, with only a few grains of rice clinging to its sides.
With a little something in his stomach, his thoughts seemed clearer too.
But something else weighed heavily on his mind—something far more urgent.
"Show me my physical stats."
As Chen Mo called out inwardly, a gray, unassuming mirror hidden in his sea of consciousness appeared.
Ripples spread across its surface, and several clear lines of text slowly emerged:
[Moonlight Treasure Mirror · Holder Status] [Name: Chen Mo] [Bone Age: Nineteen years and four months] [Remaining Lifespan: Approximately 362 days] [Root Bone: Grade C, Lower Tier (Faint Yin Meridian Affinity)] [Soul: Grade B, Middle Tier] [Qi and Blood: Deficient (Origin Damaged, Baleful Intent Entered the Body)] [Cultivation Art: Nether Paper-Crafting Art—Incomplete, Third Layer] (Can be deduced and completed; requires Moonlight Spiritual Charm > 1) [Moonlight Spiritual Charm: 0]
Seeing the pitiful 362 days listed as his remaining lifespan, Chen Mo's fingers tightened unconsciously around the empty bowl.
Three hundred and sixty-two days.
One year.
Or perhaps less than a year if things took a turn for the worse.
"So advancing in the Nether Paper-Crafting Art doesn't increase my lifespan."
Chen Mo was somewhat disappointed. The mental clarity brought by reaching the third layer had also sharpened his awareness of his body.
Before, he had only felt vaguely unwell. Now, when he focused and looked within, the state of baleful intent in his body became startlingly clear.
A cold, alien energy clung like a maggot to his heart meridian and the area around his dantian, eroding his vitality and draining the essence, energy, and spirit he already had so little of.
That beating from the Black Tiger Gang might only have been the trigger.
The true cause of his predecessor's death was likely the baleful energy.
But after transmigrating, Chen Mo had found many of his memories badly fragmented. He was still completely in the dark and couldn't tell whether it had been caused by a person or by fate.
"Alas..."
With a long sigh, Chen Mo licked the bowl clean, then rinsed it and the pot with fresh water.
Only after finishing did he cross the courtyard and enter the storefront facing the street.
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