Chapter Seventy-Nine: The Valley of Mines

After arranging for everyone on the sea vessel, Ye Mo disembarked early the next morning and entered Donglai Immortal Village.

In the southwest corner of Donglai Immortal Village, two heavy beast-drawn carts laden with ore rolled in from outside the village, their wheels rumbling as they entered a fenced area spanning several dozen acres.

Ye Mo’s spirits lifted instantly—this was likely the Four Seas Trading Company’s ore depot, where the village’s ore was sold and stored.

Many companies in Donglai Immortal Village specialized in mining and selling ore, obtaining mining rights from Lord Zou and extracting spiritual ore from the island.

Ye Mo followed the two beast carts directly into the enclosure. Inside was a spacious yard with a building at its center, in front of which a dozen or so robust martial artists had gathered. When the beast carts arrived, they all stood to attention.

A middle-aged cultivator, hearing the sound of the wheels, emerged from a nearby house and began calling out orders, organizing the martial artists to unload the ore and transport it to the various smithies in the village that had placed orders.

Ye Mo observed the middle-aged cultivator from a distance and confirmed that he was the warehouse supervisor—the person in charge of this ore depot. Ore trading was a major source of income for Donglai Immortal Village. That the middle-aged cultivator could be entrusted with overseeing the warehouse attested to his high standing within the Four Seas Trading Company.

Once the middle-aged cultivator had finished giving instructions, Ye Mo approached and stated his purpose.

“You want to go mining? The mines are filthy and chaotic, not a pleasant place. Few cultivators are willing to dig in the mines… Are you short on spirit stones?” the man asked, surprised, giving Ye Mo a once-over. Ye Mo looked rather destitute; it was likely desperation for spirit stones that brought him to such work.

“Yes! I heard from the owner of a smithy in the village that I could come here and see if you needed extra hands for mining,” Ye Mo replied.

As soon as he approached the middle-aged cultivator, Ye Mo felt an invisible pressure emanating from him—he was likely at least at the mid-stage of Qi Refinement.

“All right, the mines are always short-staffed. Wait here and take one of these two carts straight to the mines. When you arrive, just say you’re a cultivator, so those fools in the mines don’t trouble you,” the man said with a nod, gesturing to the carts.

Many smithies in the village bought raw black iron ore from his company, so it was common for cultivators to be referred here for mining work.

Ye Mo nodded and watched as the martial artists unloaded the ore. Although the carts didn’t look especially large, each carried nearly ten thousand catties of raw ore.

The group of martial artists toiled for quite a while before finally unloading both carts.

Ye Mo climbed onto the front cart and sat beside the driver, a sturdy man in his forties.

“Immortal Master, hold on tight! Hyah!” The driver, having received his instructions and recognizing Ye Mo as a cultivator, offered a respectful, simple smile. With a shout and a flick of his whip, the beast cart lurched into motion.

Leaving the village, the two carts sped along a flagstone road toward the island’s southwest.

Several dozen miles to the southwest of the spiritual island stood a black iron mine, where several companies with mining rights operated ore valleys.

On both sides of the flagstone road stretched vast spiritual fields of lush green grain. Cultivators were at work nearby, casting spells to summon patches of spiritual rain to irrigate the fields.

Ye Mo watched with curiosity, but being utterly ignorant about agriculture, he couldn’t make sense of the details.

The beasts pulling the carts were two wild rhinoceroses, massive and robust, their powerful limbs sending faint tremors through the ground with every step. Their tempers were fierce and intimidating, but the village’s formidable cultivators could easily keep them in check. Their strength far exceeded that of ordinary cattle or horses—by comparison, the latter weren’t even a fifth as strong.

The villagers were long accustomed to such sights.

Half an hour later, as the cart rolled on, the spiritual fields on either side became sparse, replaced by rolling hills thick with verdant woods, both ordinary and spiritual trees.

As Ye Mo was gazing about, the cart rounded a bend and headed into a small mountain valley.

The valley was only a few miles across, with several solid stone houses and rows of crude, dilapidated wooden huts. At the entrance stood two spiritwood arrow towers, each three zhang high. Only two martial artists, armed with bows, lounged atop the towers, looking bored and listless.

Donglai Spiritual Island was quite safe, governed by Lord Zou; even disputes were rare and no one would be foolish enough to try robbing the heavy raw ore from this valley.

The reason was simple: even if someone stole the ore, they couldn’t possibly use a sea vessel to transport such heavy cargo off the island. There was nowhere to hide, and the village guards would easily apprehend any thief.

Petty theft existed in the village, but ore had never been stolen. The island’s wild beasts had long since been wiped out, and while sea beast tides occasionally occurred, they rarely affected the valley.

The main purpose of the guards and arrow towers was to prevent slave uprisings.

Ye Mo arrived in the valley at noon, just as the miners—burdened with baskets—emerged from the dark mine shafts for their meal break.

They weighed their ore on a giant scale. Each miner would dump his load into a hanging basket tied to a thick rope, suspended from a huge scale mounted on a crossbeam of spiritwood.

Two burly, fat overseers watched the weighing.

“Twenty-seven catties—collect two meat cakes!” one overseer announced carelessly.

The miner went to another martial artist, received two small, blackened meat cakes, then took a wooden bowl from his belt and ladled a scoop of hot broth from a large pot nearby.

The broth looked thin and bland, with only a few yellowed vegetable leaves floating on top and a hint of salt.

Clutching his cakes and soup, the miner found a spot in the valley, squatted down, and joined a silent group of others eating in the same manner.

Ragged and disheveled, the miners formed small clusters outside the wooden huts, each squatting with a bowl of soup in one hand and a blackened cake in the other, eating in silence.

Many miners lined up at the mine entrance, the queue stretching deep into the shaft.

Hundreds of martial artist-miners had wooden, expressionless faces as they ate—only the faint sounds of chewing could be heard. Only a few strong, alert miners ate distractedly, their eyes flashing with cold light as they watched the overseers and the two arrow towers at the mouth of the valley.

An invisible pressure seemed to hang over the entire mining valley, weighing heavily on these numb miners.

Ye Mo surveyed the valley with a frown—these were likely miners sold here by slave traders from various countries. They received no wages for their labor, only meager rations.

Ye Mo recalled his time among the “captives” on the pirate ship—those who had lost all hope wore the same vacant expressions, completely numb to their fate.

“Immortal Master, this is the mining valley! Just go find the foreman outside the stone house. I need to load more ore—there are several more trips to make today,” the driver said, pointing toward the stone house.

“Thank you!” Ye Mo replied, jumping from the cart and striding toward the stone house.

Outside, two well-dressed cultivators were drinking and laughing loudly, toasting each other. Around them, a dozen burly overseers with long whips at their waists crowded around two tables, feasting on meat and wine. While their fare was not as fine as that of the cultivators, it was infinitely better than what the miners received.

As Ye Mo approached the two cultivators, an overseer eating nearby immediately blocked his path and barked, “Who dares approach the Four Seas Trading Company’s mining valley?”

“I’m a freelance cultivator from the village, here to report to the foreman and apply for mining work,” Ye Mo replied in a loud voice.

The overseer’s gaze sharpened—Ye Mo was dressed as a martial artist, but it turned out he was a cultivator. Had he realized this earlier, he wouldn’t have dared to shout so rudely.

“Wait here! I’ll inform the foreman!” The overseer eyed Ye Mo warily, put down his bowl and chopsticks, and hurried to report to the two cultivators at the wine table. Those two, both at the initial stage of Qi Refinement, held real power in the valley.

“Foreman Wang! A cultivator wants to mine for spirit stones!”

“A cultivator wants to mine?” The foreman, a fat, square-faced man with broad ears, burped as he listened, eyeing Ye Mo with suspicion.

The other, a young man in his twenties, glanced over and swept Ye Mo with his spiritual sense. Having taken one look, his interest faded instantly—a newly advanced, impoverished freelance cultivator, nothing special.

“Foreman, should we let him into the mine?” the young cultivator asked, glancing questioningly at the fat man.

“Lately, the ore’s been especially hard to extract—yields are way down. Cultivators are strong and do a better job than those wretches. If he’s willing to suffer, let him work in the mine,” the fat cultivator said casually.

“Come with me.” The young cultivator finally stood, beckoning Ye Mo and leading him to the mine entrance.

“Let’s go over the rules: you may only bring a mining shovel into the shaft—storage pouches are strictly forbidden. Theft is a capital offense; if you’re caught, you’ll be executed on the spot. That’s the city lord’s law—cultivator or not, it makes no difference. Judging by your appearance, you’re probably too poor to own a storage pouch anyway. That spirit sword at your side is allowed—no problem there.”

The young cultivator smiled at Ye Mo as he explained, his spiritual sense having confirmed Ye Mo carried no storage pouch, a hint of self-mockery in his tone.

So long as a mining cultivator didn’t carry a storage pouch, nothing else was off-limits.

“What’s your name and status? I need to register you,” the young cultivator said, sitting at a wooden table by the mine entrance and pulling out a small ledger, glancing at Ye Mo askance.

“Ye Mo, freelance cultivator,” Ye Mo replied simply. That was the usual status for such work; no one cared about one’s mundane background on the Nine Provinces Continent.

The young man quickly jotted it down, then fetched a black iron mining shovel from a stack of tools and tossed it to Ye Mo.

“When you’re done, return the shovel to me. Go get a carrying basket over there. For every three thousand catties of first-grade black iron ore you mine, you’ll earn one spirit stone; one catty of second-grade counts as two of first, third-grade as three, and so on. Report to me for record-keeping every time you exit. Don’t worry, I won’t cheat you. Any amount less than three thousand catties when you leave the mine will be wiped from your tally—just so you know. If you want to maximize your earnings, keep careful count. Food is provided free—same as the overseers get, you won’t go hungry. Any questions?”

The young cultivator, more interested in his meal, gave the rules in a perfunctory manner.

“That’s fine,” Ye Mo said, shaking his head. He picked up the mining shovel and found a carrying basket outside the mine. He understood the rules well enough—he planned to stay only a few months, earn a few dozen spirit stones, and endure it for a while.

The basket wasn’t large, but could hold two to three hundred catties of raw black iron ore.

Hoisting the basket onto his back, Ye Mo entered the mine. Only a few dozen miners remained in line for weighing.