Chapter 12
Chapter 12: Did They Hire Shills?
To Song Jiu Lai, it was nothing short of a thunderclap under a clear sky.
Even back on Blue Star, her salary hadn’t been enough to comfortably cover taxes.
Men fell silent; women wept.
“And Myriad Immortals Sect is that rich,” she blurted. “They still want money?”
A Wu looked confused, but his tone was matter-of-fact. “Sect Master, even if you’re new, you should know: the land we stand on belongs to Myriad Immortals Sect. On their territory, rogue cultivators and Devil Cultivators don’t dare approach lightly. Of course there’s tax.”
Song Jiu Lai understood instantly.
Fuck.
It sounded dignified, but it was protection money.
A Wu explained the rule. Taxes were calculated by headcount.
Before, there’d only been him. Now there were fifty more.
And Myriad Immortals Sect didn’t care who those fifty were. They charged based on the highest cultivation level in the sect.
If you had a Foundation Establishment cultivator, it was twenty low-grade spirit stones per person.
If you had a Golden Core cultivator, it jumped to fifty low-grade spirit stones per person.
Higher realms meant higher taxes.
“Because high-level cultivators can earn money,” A Wu added.
Earn money, my ass.
Did they forget that aside from that one Foundation Establishment, everyone else was Qi Refining? And now there wasn’t even a Foundation Establishment left—only her, a Qi Refining Sect Master.
So why were they still charging at the Foundation Establishment rate?
Were they allergic to fairness? Was there any justice in this world?
Song Jiu Lai looked at A Wu sincerely. “If we don’t pay, what happens?”
A Wu’s expression darkened. “Sect Master… when the previous Sect Master founded Longevity Sect, the sect stele was registered with Myriad Immortals Sect. Even if you want to run, you can’t outrun them. You can leave, but if you don’t pay, they’ll at least send Golden Core cultivators to hunt you down…”
Song Jiu Lai: “…”
So… not paying taxes was basically ordering your own execution.
“It’s just taxes,” she muttered. “Why are they this brutal?”
She checked the Mustard Seed Pouch.
Four mid-grade spirit stones left.
And those were supposed to be reserves for the players. A Wu needed money to open more plots for planting spirit herbs. The sect needed a base.
Next month she had to cover living expenses and somehow scrape together ten mid-grade spirit stones for tax.
If that was the case…
Then she could only squeeze the players.
They would find ways to earn. She provided a place to live, a place to cultivate, and the game itself. Early on, the manuals, pills, spirit herbs—she fronted everything.
Once they started earning, she would take thirty percent as tax.
The System clicked its tongue. “You don’t even know how to be a capitalist. You already gave them the most important thing—opened their spiritual roots. Even if you make them hand over all their money, what can they do?”
The System really was born to be a bloodsucker.
Song Jiu Lai scowled. “That kills motivation. Who plays a game just to work for someone else for free? There aren’t even visible stat rewards, and cultivating is their own effort. If I take less, they’ll work harder to earn. If I take more, they’ll stop trying.”
“For now, it’s a temporary rate. Early game is too tight—there’s no choice. Later we’ll set a threshold. I’m copying Blue Star’s system.”
A mature tax system existed. Why wouldn’t she steal it? A whole world’s wisdom beat one exhausted Sect Master.
Besides, for the players, there was no pay-to-win channel. If they didn’t work, they wouldn’t even survive long enough to see the real launch day.
And if they earned money only to hand it all over… who would keep grinding?
She needed them to build Longevity Sect into something real.
Spirit stones were everything. Dense spiritual energy meant faster cultivation. And as the saying went: talent wasn’t everything. Birth was the true trump card.
Song Jiu Lai immediately started drafting a task board so the players could claim missions later.
Right now, Longevity Sect’s main income was simple: plant spirit herbs, sell spirit herbs. Each player would get two small plots—beginner quest style.
She wanted to buy an alchemy furnace and practice too, but even a plain one cost five mid-grade spirit stones. And if she messed up?
Boom. Furnace gone. Money gone. Dignity gone.
She was poor everywhere.
Poor enough that she cultivated with tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.
Blue Star time: 11:00 p.m.
The players chatted in circles until they finally ranked the “talent times.”
The strongest were Jiang Ya and Chen Miao Miao.
Both had three hours.
Chen Miao Miao—the big shot everyone kept calling—was the one who’d discussed spirit-herb improvement and cultivation upgrades with Zhou Xiao. From the way she spoke, she was clearly a top student.
No doubt: first tier.
The surprise was second place. The one A Wu had disliked earlier—the only female player who hadn’t even customized her face—Mu Qiu, at 2 hours 55 minutes.
After those three, the next highest was Han Tian.
Only he and Zhou Nu Zi were over two hours. Everyone else was under.
Han Tian guessed the three-hour crowd were in an entirely different bracket. Since the times ticked in five-minute increments, maybe every five minutes was a small difference in talent. Once you crossed an hour, it became a whole realm of difference.
Comparison was human nature. Realizing he was several “levels” below others left Han Tian with a knot in his chest.
Then he exhaled and forced himself to laugh it off. He’d never been lucky in games. Why would he start now?
Still—he was ahead of forty-plus people.
The one-hour players were cheerful, calling Jiang Ya, Chen Miao Miao, and Mu Qiu “big shots” like it was a title.
Jiang Ya barely spoke. Chen Miao Miao was gentle and answered anyone who asked. Mu Qiu was also quiet.
And because there were several girls in the group, the male players weren’t as feral as they usually were in other games.
Right now, the game itself was all that mattered.
Outside the group chat, they were getting bombarded by private messages—mostly from people who hadn’t gotten in and thought their behavior was bizarre.
What’s the game like? Is it good? Say something.
But all the responses sounded the same:
“The most insane game ever, bro. If you don’t play, you’ll regret it for life.”
Reviewers went even harder:
“I’ll thank my brothers and sisters forever. If they hadn’t pushed me, and I’d ditched this game for lobster, it would’ve been the biggest regret of my life!”
Okay. Fine.
Then where were the screenshots? The recordings? The plot summary?
Nothing. Not a single concrete detail.
The more they refused to explain, the more curious everyone became. People started wondering how much money the company had paid to buy so many shills.
And then, while waiting to log back in, Jing Bao Tian posted publicly.