Immortality Starts From Making Money.
Chapter 160: Arrival of Elder Bai Delan and the Dust Valley Sect Disciples

Chapter 160: Arrival of Elder Bai Delan and the Dust Valley Sect Disciples

"How is the project?" Mo Jian asked, his voice calm but commanding, as his gaze settled on Miss Yang.

His eyes, sharp as deep blue sea, held no hint of emotion, only the quiet weight of expectations.

Miss Yang bowed slightly, her hands clasped behind her back with the precision of military grace.

"Young Master, the project is progressing according to schedule. If all goes well, it should be completed even before the planned date..." She paused, a flicker of hesitation in her voice, a ripple in the stream.

Mo Jian caught it instantly. His brow lifted, cold and curious.

"What happened?"

Her lips tightened.

"Y-Young Master... it’s the formation masters. They’re struggling with the core array. It seems even they find the design beyond their current understanding."

A tense silence followed.

The wind outside whispered against the windows like a warning.

Mo Jian’s eyes narrowed, his tone turning steel.

"Whatever issue they face, have them bring it to me immediately. If any of them dare delay this project, they will be fined without mercy. This city moves on my schedule—not theirs."

"Ah... Y-Yes, Young Master. I will remind them," Miss Yang replied quickly, bowing once more.

"Good." He turned slightly. "Have the people arrived?"

"Yes, Young Master. They await you in the eastern quarter."

He gave a curt nod and, without another word, stepped out of his chamber.

His steps were light but deliberate, each one echoing down the polished marble hallway like a silent drumbeat of authority.

Elsewhere, in one of the Thousand Wealth Chamber’s many courtyards, a gathering of young men and women stood beneath the shade of a crimson maple tree, their gazes wandering in all directions, filled with awe and curiosity.

Some whispered in excitement, others stood in quiet contemplation.

They were newcomers—visitors from the Western Region.

Among them were elders with ordinary silk robes and weathered faces, but one figure stood out like a mountain in mist.

A middle-aged man, serene and composed, sat alone beneath a stone pavilion.

He wore a loose daoist robe that billowed slightly in the breeze, and his expression was that of a sage—calm, unreadable, and detached.

While the others looked around, marveling at the grand towers and strange beasts that hummed softly in the distance, he sat unmoved, as though the world held no surprises for him.

"Ah! The Young Master has truly risen," a girl whispered with shining eyes.

Her voice trembled with admiration.

"He’s achieved so much in so little time."

"Can you believe it?" another boy added, shaking his head in disbelief. "The son of a weak sect master now commands this kind of power?"

"I heard his Chamber branches stretch across the entire Southern Region," a second girl chimed in, her eyes glittering.

"That’s... that’s insane!"

"It’s true," another boy muttered, sighing heavily. "Compared to this, we were just frogs at the bottom of a well."

They had come thinking the Western Region was finally catching up—that the rising power of the Dust Valley Sect and the relative prosperity they had begun to enjoy might rival the southern lands.

But here, faced with towering spires, powerful cultivators, and a workforce so vast it seemed to rival that of an army, they realized how wrong they were.

The city was enormous, breathtaking in both size and sophistication.

The streets were broad and lined with marble, the buildings etched with light stones that glowed faintly even under the daylight.

Array towers hummed softly from a distance.

The people too were different.

The sheer number of inhabitants overwhelmed the senses.

And unlike their region, where mortal rank warriors were rare and guarded by clans or sects, here they walked freely on the streets—merchants, guards, even peddlers.

Power moved among the common folk like air. It was a land of wealth and strength, discipline and ambition.

For the visitors, it was humbling.

Confusing.

Even painful.

Because now they knew.

The Southern Region was not merely stronger—it was a different world entirely.

While the group of visiting disciples chatted excitedly about the grandeur of the Southern Region—their voices rising and falling in awe at the towering buildings.

The humming runic arrays, and the sheer scale of the Thousand Wealth Chamber—the quiet creak of a door opening silenced them instantly.

All heads turned at once.

And there he stood—Mo Jian.

The courtyard fell into stillness.

Not a word was spoken.

Their breaths caught in their throats, their bodies frozen like statues beneath the weight of uncertainty.

He was not only the sect master’s son, but now a figure cloaked in influence and mystery—a storm of rising power none of them dared to approach lightly.

How were they supposed to greet him?

With reverence?

With familiarity?

Or with fear?

Mo Jian paused at the threshold, eyes sweeping across their conflicted expressions.

Then, to their surprise, he chuckled—a warm, relaxed sound that scattered the tension like morning sun upon frost.

"What are those expressions?" he asked with a smile tugging at his lips.

"Y-Young Master..." a girl stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You all need to relax," he said lightly, walking toward them. "I’m still your young master. I don’t bite."

Laughter bubbled up like a dam had burst.

The atmosphere softened, the tightness in their chests releasing. One of the boys, flushed with excitement, blurted out,

"Young Master, you’re amazing! I can’t wait to brag to everyone back at the sect!"

"Hahaha!" Mo Jian laughed heartily. "Brag as much as you like!"

With that, the wall between them crumbled.

One by one, the disciples began to speak, their words overlapping in excitement and admiration.

They talked and laughed freely, some shy, others bold, but all basking in the presence of the young man who had once been one of their own—now standing like a giant among men.

Amid the harmony, the instructors approached him.

Unlike the disciples, their expressions were reserved, their emotions tempered by age and discipline.

They bowed respectfully, greeting Mo Jian with politeness due to both power and familiarity.

He responded with equal respect before his gaze shifted to a figure who had yet to rise.

A middle-aged man stood at the far edge of the courtyard, his daoist robe fluttering slightly in the wind.

He had been seated quietly, distant and unmoved, but now he stood—his detached expression softening into something rare: a genuine smile.

"Sage..." Elder Bai greeted with a light bow.

"Elder Bai, you don’t need to act like this," he said, shaking his head with a warm grin.

The man was none other than Elder Bai Delan, the Rune Master of their sect—the man who had forged his golden core not through brute force, but through the mysteries of runes.

"Young Master," Elder Bai said with a rare solemnity, "you may not yet understand the full weight of what you’ve done, but how could this old man not?"

He straightened and looked Mo Jian in the eyes. "Elder Luo Zhen wished to come, but he stayed behind to oversee the hall. But know this: the Mystic Mechanic branch has grown... far beyond your imagination."

Mo Jian blinked. "Really? No one told me anything about it."

"Haha! We ordered them not to. We wanted to see the look on your face ourselves," Elder Bai laughed, a youthful sparkle flashing in his eyes.

The two of them took their seats under the maple tree at the center of the courtyard, and their conversation flowed like a river rediscovering its course.

They spoke of mechanics and cultivation, of theory and practice, of potential and power.

Three hours passed like a breath.

"Ah! Young Master," Elder Bai exclaimed joyfully, "I missed talking to you. This short conversation has given me more insight than two months of my own research! Those problems I’d been wrestling with—they’re all solved now!"

Mo Jian smiled, though his gaze remained thoughtful.

"That’s the power of collaboration."

Elder Bai leaned forward, excitement still burning in his eyes.

"Now then, enough Mystic Mechanics for a moment." He reached into his spatial pouch and pulled out a compact silver pouch.

"Zhao Tian asked me to give you this. It’s the first batch."

Mo Jian received the storage pouch with curiosity and immediately sent his spiritual sense inside.

Instantly, a 4 x 4 meter space unfolded in his mind’s eye.

It was solid, stable, and clean—far more refined than the crude spatial pouches commonly used.

The average pouch barely had a 2 x 2 meter space, often unstable and clunky. But this... this was different.

Built with spirit-lock runes, this pouch recognized only its owner. Even in death, the contents would remain sealed to the unworthy.

And that was only the basic grade.

Elder Bai wasn’t finished. He produced two more storage pouches from his own bag and handed them to Mo Jian with a sly smile.

Mo Jian examined them. One had a 6 x 6 meter space, the other a staggering 8 x 8. His brows lifted in visible surprise.

"This... this will shake the continent," he murmured.

Elder Bai nodded, pleased.

"The Thousand Wealth Chamber has done what even the top clans never dared to imagine. The 8 x 8 pouch... it will send waves across the world."

Then, he grew quiet for a moment before saying with a chuckle, "Young Master, you know this means war, right?"

"I know," Mo Jian replied calmly, his voice filled with quiet certainty. "And I’m prepared."

"Hahaha! I expected no less." Elder Bai’s eyes gleamed. "Ah, I can’t wait to teach those old bones a lesson or two."

Mo Jian laughed, then leaned forward with a glint in his eyes.

"Before you do that, Elder Bai, let’s talk about the Mystic Paper Printer... and the Mystic Water Pump."