Tianjin, starting with unorthodox methods to achieve immortality

July 1, 1912, Linhe County.

As dawn broke, a thin, grayish-white mist enveloped the county town.

The funeral street, which specializes in dealing with the dead, is even more deserted. There is hardly any sign of life on this street until the sun is high in the sky.

Inside the Du'e Zhai (a place for people to escape poverty), the oil lamp had long since burned out, leaving only a wisp of smoke from the wick.

Chen Mo sat cross-legged on the simple bed in the inner room and slowly opened his eyes.

His face was slightly pale, but his eyes were surprisingly bright.

He hadn't slept all night, but he felt no sleepiness at all; instead, his mind was clear as if he had broken free from invisible constraints.

"With a single spark of inspiration, one can see the big picture from the smallest details; when spirit and energy unite, even paper puppets become sentient."

He silently recited the description of the third floor from the journal, and only then did his tightly furrowed brows relax slightly.

The spiritual renewal is clearly perceptible; the five senses seem to have been cleansed by invisible water, becoming exceptionally sharp.

Just last night, he finally mastered the third level of his family's "Netherworld Paper Making Technique".

"At least we have some means to protect ourselves."

Chen Mo looked at the half-meter-tall paper figure standing in the corner of the room, and a thought flickered in his mind.

A faint, almost imperceptible sensation emanated from between the eyebrows, like an invisible thread gently resting on the paper figure.

"Rise," he murmured to himself.

The paper figure in the corner trembled slightly and awkwardly took a small step forward.

One step, two steps.

It slowly walked to the small table at the other end of the room.

There is a rough earthenware kettle and a cup on the table.

The paper figure stretched out its flat palm, grasped the handle of the kettle, and slowly lifted the kettle. Clear water flowed into the cup, filling it exactly eight-tenths full.

Then, it picked up the cup with both hands, turned around and walked back to the bedside, handing the cup to Chen Mo.

The whole process was completely silent, except for the very slight friction sound of the paper feet against the ground.

Chen Mo took the still-warm cup, and the warm water dispelled some of the chill and fatigue as it went down his throat.

"The third-level paper puppet is indeed quite different. Not only can it be driven by divine thought, but it can also execute some simple commands, showing the beginnings of its spirituality."

Chen Mo pondered, "However, the mental energy depletion is obvious. At my current level, I can probably only maintain the ability to control such a paper figure to perform fine movements for half an hour at most. Moreover, this is just the most basic white paper servant, with almost no combat power."

"The notes mention that after the third level, one can try to use special materials in conjunction with the blood pact technique to make paper dolls with different characteristics, and even endow them with a certain degree of intelligence."

But those all require special materials, and even more money.

After the original owner's father, Chen Dachuan, disappeared, the shop's already meager savings quickly ran out.

For the past three months, Chen Mo could only make a living by taking on the simplest paper doll making jobs, while secretly exploring cultivation techniques, not daring to show off in the slightest.

"Being a beast of burden in my past life was bad enough, but I never expected my situation to be even more difficult after transmigrating."

"We need to find a way to make money, otherwise we won't even be able to eat."

He looked at the exposed yellow mud walls around the room and sighed silently.

Chen Mo is actually an emergency room doctor from the 21st century.

He collapsed after working a continuous 36-hour shift at the hospital. When he opened his eyes again, he had become a 19-year-old paper-making boy.

Coincidentally, the original owner's name was also Chen Mo.

My mother died early, and my father disappeared without a trace.

When he transmigrated, the original owner of this body had just passed away.

He was beaten to death because he couldn't pay the so-called management fees charged by those gangs...

Chen Mo slowly exhaled a breath of stale air, suppressing the complex emotions surging in his heart.

"Gurgle..." A rumbling sound came from my stomach.

He touched his stomach; he hadn't eaten all night and was indeed hungry.

He pushed open the door and walked out of the room.

The morning air carried the distinctive fishy smell of the Blackwater Beach, and a light mist lingered in the courtyard.

Chen Mo walked into the kitchen, which was really just a simple stove in the southeast corner, covered with a few wooden boards and oil paper to keep out the rain.

He lifted the wooden board that was pressing down on the rice jar.

At the bottom of the jar, there was only a layer of grayish-brown rice, with a few rice weevils mixed in with the bran.

Chen Mo glanced down at it for a moment, then used a gourd ladle to scrape around the bottom of the jar, scooping up just enough rice to cover the bottom of the ladle.

Light the fire and wash the rice.

The firewood was a bit damp, and the smoke rose up before the fire, choking him and causing him to turn his head and cough a few times.

The fire finally licked the bottom of the pot, and the flickering light illuminated his pale face.

There were no vegetables, only half a hardened piece of coarse salt in the corner.

The porridge simmered in the pot, the thin rice water foaming, and you could almost count the floating rice grains inside.

He filled a bowl to the brim with piping hot rice porridge and squatted at the kitchen doorway.

The steam pressed against my face, carrying a faint, pitiful aroma of rice, but mostly the stale smell of old rice.

Chen Mo blew on it and carefully took a puff.

The scalding liquid slid down my throat and into my stomach, bringing a brief moment of warmth, but my limbs still felt weak.

The bowl was quickly emptied, with only a few grains of rice clinging to the sides.

With something in my stomach, my thoughts seemed to clear up a bit.

What weighed even heavier on his mind was another matter that was truly life-threatening.

"Display body data."

As Chen Mo called out in his mind, a dusty gray mirror appeared hidden in his sea of ​​consciousness.

The mirror surface rippled like water, and several lines of clear writing slowly emerged:

[Moonlight Treasure Mirror - Holder Status]

Name: Chen Mo

Bone age: 19 years and 4 months

[Remaining lifespan: Approximately 362 days]

[Root and Bone Structure: Grade C, Lowest Level (Slightly Affinity to Yin Veins)]

[Soul: Mid-grade B]

[Qi and Blood: Deficiency (Damage to the source, Yin energy entering the body)]

[Technique: Netherworld Paper Making Technique - Incomplete, Level 3] (Can be deduced and completed, requires Moon Essence Spirit Rhyme > 1)

【Moonlight Enchantment: 0】

Looking at the pitiful 362 in the longevity column, Chen Mo's fingers unconsciously tightened as he held the empty bowl.

362 days.

One year.

Or, if the situation worsens, it may not even be a year.

"It seems that breaking through the level of the Netherworld Paper Making Technique does not increase one's lifespan."

Chen Mo was a little disappointed. The mental clarity brought about by breaking through to the third level of the paper-making technique had also raised his perception of his body's internal organs to a new level.

Previously, I only felt a vague discomfort, but now, when I calmly look inward, the state of the Yin energy entering my body becomes exceptionally clear in my perception.

A cold, alien energy, like a maggot clinging to his bones, was coiling around his heart and dantian, eroding his vitality and consuming his already dwindling essence and spirit.

The beating from the Black Tiger Gang might just have been a trigger.

What truly caused the original body's death was the power of those Yin and evil forces.

However, after he transmigrated, some of his memories were severely fragmented, leaving Chen Mo completely confused and unable to determine whether it was man-made or a natural disaster.

"Why...."

With a long sigh, Chen Mo carefully licked the bowl clean and then rinsed the pot with water.

After doing all that, he crossed the courtyard and entered the shop facing the street.