Chapter 3: The Essence of Immortal Power

Mr. Yan Ning and his companions, handsome, elegant, and refined gentlemen, were forced to flee in panic like lost dogs under the furious anger of the fishermen. They got into the luxury car they had arrived in and left Wang’ao Village.

“Team leader, since we all have supernatural abilities, why don’t we use them against these ordinary fishermen?” The driver, the only other person in Yan Ning’s car, asked, puzzled.

“We’re here on orders to find someone, not to cause trouble,” Yan Ning said, lighting a cigarette and rolling down the window to blow out the smoke as he watched Wang’ao Fishing Village recede behind them. “If we get driven away, we can come back tomorrow and talk to the village head—that still has a chance. But if we resort to force, escalate the conflict, then no matter if we bring in the township officials or even the mayor of Fuling City, nothing will get done.”

He touched his cheek, which was still flushed, and let out a groan like a toothache.

“Getting hit by the strength of ordinary fishermen still hurts this much… who the hell can we reason with…”

…

Carrying a fishing gear bag and two large tackle boxes, Shuisheng entered Wang’ao Fishing Village like a praying mantis, winding through alleys before finally reaching his home.

Calling it a home was a stretch; it was more like two wooden sheds set up in a patch of open ground. The larger shed in front was where he lived; the smaller one was a toilet. The recent typhoon had battered the already fragile structure, leaving it dilapidated and on the verge of collapse.

Between the two sheds was an open space with two drying racks—one hung with a few tattered clothes, the other with a shredded fishing net. Beside the door of the larger shed hung several strings of dried fish, their briny scent drifting through the air.

Near the slanting entrance, a stove built from bricks stood covered by a makeshift canopy of wooden frames and oil paper that flapped noisily in the evening wind.

He placed the tackle boxes outside the larger shed, lifted the thick reed curtain, and stepped inside. The shed was about twenty square meters, its frame built from driftwood or broken ship planks, layered with reeds. The wood was sturdy enough to have withstood years of wind and rain.

He flipped on the light switch, and the dim interior brightened instantly.

From within, it resembled a Moglia-style yurt.

Inside were a grass bed, a table, and a chair. Above the table, what served as a wall held a fluorescent light that flickered faintly, occasionally swaying with the shed’s movement.

…

On the table sat a desk lamp, some stationery, and, overwhelmingly, books. The half of the shed surrounding the table was lined with old shelves filled to the brim with volumes of all kinds.

He set the fishing gear bag aside, took off his damp clothes, and grabbed a towel from the clothesline to dry his hair and body. He changed into a faded but clean and fresh set of old clothes.

Taking a small knife, he stepped outside and retrieved three or four of the smallest yellow sea bream, each weighing about three to four taels, from one of the tackle boxes. Skillfully, he gutted and cleaned the fish over the trash bin, removing scales and gills. After washing his hands, he placed the fish on a steaming rack inside a black aluminum pot, added seasoning along with ginger, scallions, and garlic, and steamed it together with some leftover dry rice from lunch.

Soon, the fire under the stove, fueled by old driftwood collected from the coast, blazed fiercely. Steam curled from the edge of the pot’s lid, and the air filled with the fresh aroma of fish.

He found his old keypad phone inside the shed and made a call.

“Brother Zhang? It’s Shuisheng…”

“There’s a big cloud-patterned grouper, about twenty jin, and thirteen or fourteen yellow sea bream, black sea bream, and bass, ranging from two to ten jin.”

“Alright, I’ll wait for you… same as usual.”

After the call, he picked up a book from the shelf and sat by the fire, reading by its light. The book was titled “Origins of Blue Star Psychics.”

About ten minutes later, using an old cloth as a pad, Shuisheng lifted the pot’s lid. The fragrant scent of fresh fish wafted out. He tasted the broth with a small spoon, nodded in satisfaction, and replaced the lid. He then used a stick to extinguish the fire.

The fish was steamed through; a few more minutes to let it rest would make it even better.

Outside, the sound of a motorcycle engine approached from afar. Soon, a middle-aged man with a black beard, round face, and bulging eyes pulled up on a motorcycle rigged with two large blue plastic barrels, each about half a person tall, hanging on either side of the rear seat.

“Kid, from what you said on the phone, the catch today looks decent?” The man, Zhang Gu, was a fish vendor from Ting’ao Town.

“You judge for yourself,” Shuisheng replied.

Zhang Gu got off and, familiar with the routine, went straight to the two large tackle boxes. He opened them, pinching fish mouths and lifting each to inspect them, nodding repeatedly. Many fish were still alive, thrashing their tails vigorously.

“I like buying your fish. They're high-quality, fresh, and consistently large—worth good money at the market,” Zhang Gu said approvingly. “Unlike others’, where sizes vary and quality is average, freshness limited. What do you want for today’s catch?”

“I don’t have a scale, just give me what you think’s fair,” Shuisheng said casually. “We’ve been dealing this way for years. Brother Zhang, you wouldn’t cheat me.”

Zhang Gu took a large scale from one of the barrels and weighed each fish species in turn. After a moment’s calculation and jotting notes in his book, he said, “This 22-jin cloud-patterned grouper, I’ll give you 1,800 yuan; the rest add up to 600, total 2,400 yuan. Does that work?”

“Sure, that works,” Shuisheng replied.

Zhang Gu put the scale away and pulled a waterproof oil paper bag from the barrel, filled with a stack of about fourteen or fifteen books.

“These are the ones I gathered for you these days, all about psychics and supernatural abilities,” he said, rifling through them until he found one. “The rest are yours as a gift. But this one, I bought from someone else, so I’ll need to charge you cost price.”

Shuisheng took the book and saw its pages yellowed and worn from countless readings. The title read “Essentials of Immortal Power.” His whole body trembled upon seeing the words.

From other psychic-related books, he had learned about this text. It was said to be the most basic cultivation manual for Immortals on the Wuxian Continent of another world. But on Blue Star, possession and distribution of such books—whether paper or electronic—were strictly controlled by all nations. Officially, they were forbidden from appearing or circulating. Of course, underground and black markets still had some copies.

Shuisheng had become a psychic a year ago after a diving accident picking sea urchins. Now a Level 1 water psychic, he was among the weakest in this era where psychics were common as stray dogs. The lowest Level 1 psychics like him had only slightly better physical abilities than ordinary people and some minor, nearly useless powers—offering little practical advantage in daily life.

In Donghua Country, the basic psychic training manual was called “Introduction to Psychic Abilities,” available in any psychic bookstore or shop. Shuisheng had bought a copy and practiced its methods, but results were mediocre.

“Brother Zhang, how much for this book…?” he asked excitedly.

“Negative three thousand five hundred,” Zhang Gu replied.

“Negative? Three thousand five hundred? What does that mean?” Shuisheng was puzzled.

“It means I bought this book through a contact on the Fuling City black market for 5,900 yuan. After deducting the 2,400 yuan you just paid me for the fish, you still owe me 3,500 yuan,” Zhang Gu said earnestly.