Immortal World : MILF Dual Cultivation

The Special Supervisor’s office sat silent, thick with the scent of old sandalwood incense.

Lin Tian stood by the jade-lattice window, looking down over the sect’s pavilions. His dark robes shifted faintly in the ambient spiritual draft.

"A lawless abyss where murder and theft are routine." He said it quietly, almost to himself. "Where sect law doesn’t reach. Exactly where I need to go."

Madam Shen knelt on the carpet behind him, composed but visibly tense. Her years running the Resource Hall meant she understood the dangers of the underground market better than most.

"Master." Her voice carried real concern. "The Ghost Market is full of mercenaries, rogue cultivators, worse. They don’t care about sect badges. If they sense you’re carrying anything valuable — especially something like a Yang-Fire Crystal — they’ll come for you without warning."

He turned. "I know, Shen. That’s exactly why I won’t walk in as the Special Supervisor. And I won’t walk in looking like an eighteen-year-old disciple either."

He crossed to the cedar desk and swept the ledgers off it, clearing space. Paperwork could wait. He needed a workbench.

"Go to the Artifact Pavilion’s deepest vault." His voice dropped, firm. "Not finished weapons. High-grade scrap metal. Unmarked alloy plates. Shadow Wolf tendon, or something with similar tensile strength. Volatile alchemical powders. Bring it all here."

She bowed low, forehead nearly touching the floor. "Understood, Master." She rose, straightened her robes back into her usual severe composure, and slipped out through the soundproofed door.

Alone, he rolled up his sleeves.

Cultivators here ran everything on Qi — flying swords, defensive arrays, explosive talismans. Powerful, but predictable. A seasoned opponent could sense a spiritual fluctuation coming before it even fired.

Walk into the Ghost Market carrying standard sect gear, and every fluctuation would announce him to anyone paying attention.

He needed something that ran on nothing but physics. Silent. Untraceable by any spiritual sense.

Half an hour later, Madam Shen returned through a side passage, setting a heavy pouch on the desk. She emptied it — dark silver alloy shards, coiled beast tendon, vials of corrosive powder, a handful of tiny gears salvaged from broken clockwork.

"Perfect."

System. Scan the materials.

[Ding! (Insight Eye) activated. Analyzing material composition...]

The overlay bloomed into view, highlighting stress points and optimal cutting angles across the pile.

He picked up a carving knife and lit a small, controlled flame of Yang Qi at his fingertip — a makeshift torch. No massive sword. Instead, careful, small cuts, shaping the alloy into interlocking mechanisms.

His first build: a compact wrist-crossbow.

The Graveyard had taught him that survival meant weapons that deployed in a fraction of a second, hidden until they weren’t. He took the old wrist-blade concept and rebuilt it from scratch with better materials and a body that could finally handle the strain.

A flat housing strapped to his forearm, hidden under a long sleeve. Inside, a tight arrangement of gears and pulleys, the beast tendon strung across a custom cam.

The real trick was the firing mechanism. No spiritual array — that would flash light and give him away. Pure mechanical tension instead. The gears locked the tendon at maximum draw.

He built a five-bolt magazine. Each bolt no longer than a sewing needle, forged from dense ore, coated in paralytic toxin from the alchemical powders.

Click. Clack.

His hands moved fast, precise. Madam Shen knelt nearby, dabbing sweat from his forehead with a silk cloth, watching him work with quiet fascination.

"Hold still." He strapped the finished mechanism to his forearm and aimed it at a solid oak pillar across the room.

No Qi channeled. Just a specific twist of his wrist, triggering the mechanical release.

Thwip-thwip-thwip.

Three near-silent strikes. Three bolts buried to the fletching in the same spot on the pillar. No flash. No fluctuation.

"Incredible." Her breath caught. "No spiritual footprint at all. A Foundation Establishment cultivator wouldn’t sense this until the bolt was already through their throat."

"That’s the point." He crossed the room and pried the bolts free from the pillar, checking the tips for damage before setting them aside to reload. "Every artifact in this sect announces itself before it fires. Mine doesn’t announce anything."

"In that market, whoever strikes first and silently walks out alive." He reloaded the magazine.

Second project: smoke and toxin pellets.

Standard escape talismans needed a Qi trigger to activate — another signal he couldn’t afford. He emptied a batch of low-grade pill bottles and packed them with phosphorus dust, ground flash-stone, and Demon-Bat venom powder.

Again, no spiritual trigger. A small spring-loaded hammer inside each sphere, set to strike a flint primer on impact. Twist the cap, throw it hard, and the collision did the rest.

Crude. Effective.

He built six of them and slotted them into pouches sewn along a leather belt.

On impact, each one would burst into blinding white light, then a thick black smoke that scrambled spiritual tracking. Cornered by a mercenary or an auction guard, this bought him an exit every time.

"Hardware’s done." He wiped grease off his hands.

He looked down at himself. The body carried real muscle now, built out under [Primordial Yang-Tyrant Body]. But the face was still unmistakably his — young, and exactly the kind of face a black market would target on sight, assuming easy prey.

"Shen. The item I asked for."

"Yes, Master." She pulled a flat jade box from her robes, opening it to reveal a thin, rune-covered mask.

"A Pattern Mask Glyph. Higher grade than anything sold on the street. It reshapes your features, alters your voice, and masks your age signature for up to twenty-four hours."

He picked it up. Cold. Almost gelatinous against his fingers.

He walked to the mirror and pressed it against his face.

Tshh... tshh...

The runes flared, faint and ghostly, then dissolved into his skin. His bone structure shifted under his own hands — nose broadening, jaw squaring off, fine lines deepening around his eyes.

He watched the transformation finish in the glass.

Gone was the young scavenger from the Graveyard. In his place stood a scarred man somewhere in his late thirties, rough-skinned, thick-browed. The mask hadn’t touched his eyes, though — and that turned out to be the detail that sold the whole illusion. His actual stare, flat and predatory from three days of nonstop survival, fit the disguise perfectly.

He looked like a man who’d killed for a living and stopped counting a long time ago.

He shed the silk robes and pulled on scuffed leather armor, dark and stained with old blood. A tattered cloak went over his shoulders, hiding both the crossbow and the pellet belt underneath.

He rolled his shoulders once, settling into the weight of it.

The Vulture was back. Sharper this time.

He turned to Madam Shen. She looked up at the disguised, hardened stranger standing where her Master had been a minute ago, something between awe and unease crossing her face.

"I’m heading down to District 59." His voice came out rough now, courtesy of the mask. "Could be gone a day, maybe two, while I secure the Yang-Fire Crystal. You keep the Hall running exactly like always. Don’t let Wang or anyone else notice anything’s off."

"And if Wang asks where you are?" Her voice stayed steady, but the question carried real weight — she’d already learned how quickly his stepson’s suspicion could turn into a problem for both of them.

"Tell him I’m handling supply logistics for the sect. He won’t check. He never does."

"I’ll hold your domain, Master." She bowed low, forehead brushing the floor near his boots. "Please come back safely."

He didn’t offer reassurance. He pulled the hood up, letting shadow swallow the scarred face underneath, and slipped out into the cold night — heading down into whatever the Ghost Market had waiting for him.

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