Immortality Starts From Making Money. Chapter 377: While They Sleep

While news of football spread rapidly among the upper echelons of Mingze City, each faction quietly devised its own selfish plan to profit from what they viewed as a golden opportunity.

They failed to notice another, far subtler move unfolding in the shadows.

As dusk settled and the sun dipped below the horizon, the city gradually shifted into its nocturnal rhythm.

Lanterns flickered to life along the streets.

Gambling dens and brothels welcod their regular clientele with eager smiles.

Tea houses filled with weary rcenaries recounting the day’s adventures over steaming cups.

rchants pulled down windows, closing their shops after long hours of trade.

In one modest bookstore near the western district, an old man with a long white beard prepared to close for the evening.

His shop was small but tidy, filled with scrolls and bound volus stacked neatly upon wooden shelves.

He had just extinguished one of the oil lamps when the faint creak of the front door interrupted him.

Looking up, the old shopkeeper saw a figure standing in the doorway.

The newcor wore a long black robe. A hood cast a shadow over his face, concealing his features entirely.

"Esteed custor," the old man said politely, offering a courteous smile, "we are closed for today. If you wish to purchase a book, please return tomorrow."

"I’m not here to buy a book," the figure replied calmly.

"I’m here for you."

The old man’s brows rose slightly.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the hooded figure continued before he could respond.

"Let us speak inside."

For a brief mont, the shopkeeper remained still, his gaze fixed on the stranger. His expression gradually hardened into a faint frown.

He could not see through the man’s cultivation.

Nor could he sense any spiritual fluctuation.

And yet, from decades of experience dealing with all manner of custors, he knew instinctively that this individual was far from ordinary.

"Very well," the old man said after a pause. "Please follow ."

He gestured toward the rear of the shop and walked down a narrow corridor that led to the small backyard.

Though he was rely an Interdiate Golden Core Stage Five cultivator, he felt no imdiate sense of danger. His store contained nothing of extraordinary value.

The backyard was modest but well maintained. Several common spiritual plants grew neatly in clay pots, their leaves shimring faintly in the lantern light.

The two n sat opposite each other on a simple wooden bench.

The shopkeeper folded his hands in his sleeves and asked calmly, "May I know why you seek this old bookseller?"

The hooded figure did not answer imdiately. Instead, he reached into his spatial storage and retrieved a stack of papers.

He placed them on the table.

"What do you think of this?" he asked, sliding the papers toward the old man.

Curiosity flickered in the shopkeeper’s eyes as he picked them up.

The mont his gaze fell upon the surface, his pupils contracted sharply.

The first thing that struck him was the image printed across the top of the page.

It was not hand-drawn.

It was precise.

Lifelike.

Detailed beyond anything a brush could easily produce.

"How is this possible?" he exclaid inwardly.

As he continued reading, he noticed sothing even more astonishing.

The characters were not uniform.

So were bold and large, commanding attention.

Others were smaller, slanted, or delicately spaced.

Each variation in size and style conveyed emphasis, hierarchy, and structure.

Combined with the vivid imagery, the result was breathtaking.

For several long monts, the old shopkeeper forgot to breathe.

The hooded figure remained silent, allowing him ti to absorb what he was seeing.

Finally, the shopkeeper looked up, his hands trembling faintly.

"W-Where did you obtain this?" he asked, his voice unsteady. "Is this... an ancient scripture?"

"You do not need to know its origin," the figure replied evenly. "What you need to know is this... if we reach an agreent, your store will sell this every day."

"Sell?" The old man’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Sell such a masterpiece?

To him, these pages resembled sothing sacred, like a heavenly scripture descended from the ancient ti.

The craftsmanship alone was extraordinary. The images and layout surpassed anything he had encountered in his long career.

"Yes," the figure confird. "Sell."

He leaned back slightly.

"What you hold is called The Tis Newspaper."

"The Tis... Newspaper?" the shopkeeper repeated uncertainly.

"It records both major and minor events within the city," the figure explained patiently. "Every morning, citizens can read about what occurred the previous day."

"You may consider it a news booklet, though far superior."

As the explanation continued, realization dawned upon the old man.

These were not lost relics from the ancient tis.

They were not rare scriptures.

They were news.

For a fleeting mont, disappointnt flickered across his face.

"So," he thought, suppressing a sigh, "it is rely a news pamphlet."

He cleared his throat, straightening his posture to conceal his brief disappointnt.

"There have been similar attempts in the past," he said cautiously. "Several rchants tried publishing news sheets. All failed. I fear this may not fare any better."

Though disappointed it was not an ancient treasure, he still respected the craftsmanship. It would be a waste if such high-quality work were reduced to fleeting gossip.

A soft chuckle escaped from beneath the hood.

"You need not concern yourself with whether it succeeds," the figure replied calmly. "Simply open your store each morning and sell it. That is all I ask."

The old man studied him carefully.

The stranger’s tone was neither desperate nor boastful.

It was steady.

Confident.

After a long pause, the shopkeeper nodded.

"Very well," he said at last. "I will sell this... The Tis Newspaper."

They discussed distribution details for several more minutes, delivery tis, pricing, and supply quantities.

Throughout the conversation, the old man found himself increasingly curious.

How were such lifelike images produced?

What thod allowed the variation in text styles?

What kind of artifact could replicate ink so perfectly?

The questions burned at the tip of his tongue.

Yet he restrained himself.

So things were better left unasked.

When their discussion concluded, the hooded figure rose smoothly and departed without another word.

The old shopkeeper watched him disappear into the dimly lit street, unease and intrigue burn within his heart.

What he did not know was this?

He was not the only bookseller to receive such a visitor that evening.

Across Mingze City, major book outlets, both in the inner and outer districts, were approached by similarly cloaked figures.

Even smaller vendors in the slum encountered mysterious guests bearing identical stacks of pristine papers.

Arrangents finalized discreetly.

While most citizens prepared for a restful night’s sleep, unaware of the silent movents around them, the foundations of Mingze City were shifting.

Not through blades.

Not through cultivation techniques.

But through information.