The Quest for Immortality - Chapter 1143 (Patreon)

Chapter 1143: Body Cultivator Mo Hua

The steward in charge of hiring for the shipping company wore two thin mustaches and had a shrewd glint in his eyes as he sized up Mo Hua.

“You… want to be a guard?”

Mo Hua nodded.

“Are you a body cultivator, or a spell cultivator?”

“Spell cultivator,” Mo Hua said.

“Don’t want spell cultivators,” the steward replied at once.

Mo Hua was taken aback. “Why?”

“Hire a body cultivator—thick skin, tough flesh, strong as an ox. They can charge the front, take the beating, eat bitterness and shoulder heavy work. With a deep blood qi, even if they’re badly hurt, they won’t die right away. If it’s only a light injury, they heal fast and the spirit stones we pay out in compensation are less.”

“As for spell cultivators… when they’re seriously hurt, they die fast. They don’t dare rush the front. They hide in the back, spend half a day ‘charging up’ a spell, and still can’t hit a fart…”

“Hire one and it’s like hiring dead weight…”

The steward’s face was full of disgust—he’d clearly suffered for it.

“…”

Mo Hua could only say, tactfully, “My spells are very strong.”

“Every spell cultivator says that to me,” the steward said.

“My spellcasting is very fast.”

“Funny—every one of them says their casting is fast.”

“My movement is good too. I’m not easy to kill.”

The steward nodded. “Last month the spell cultivators who got eaten by sand fiends also told me their movement was good…”

Mo Hua was speechless.

These half-baked spell cultivators had dragged down the overall reputation of “spell cultivators,” so even a true “expert” like him had to suffer the same prejudice.

He sighed. “My cultivation base is very high.”

“How high?” the steward asked.

Mo Hua lowered his voice. “Late-stage Foundation Establishment.”

The steward pointed at his own face, his eyes gleaming with oil.

“Look at me.”

Mo Hua looked.

“Do I look like an idiot to you? Now look at yourself. How old could you be? At most twenty or thirty years on the path, and late-stage Foundation Establishment? Why don’t you ascend to the heavens while you’re at it? If you’re late-stage Foundation Establishment, I’ll twist my head off and let you kick it like a ball…”

And besides, late-stage Foundation Establishment cost more to hire. With that many spirit stones, he’d rather hire several mid-stage Foundation Establishment body cultivators.

The steward waved his hand. “Next…”

Helpless, Mo Hua said, “I’m really very strong. How about you find someone to spar with me?”

“Young sir,” the steward said, “I’m not making things hard for you. It’s just how it is in practice—spell cultivators don’t cut it. The boss already said, for guards we avoid spell cultivators if we can. That’s the rule.”

“If I hire a body cultivator and something happens, no one blames me. A body cultivator at least has brute strength at the end of the day. But if I hire a spell cultivator, you get eaten by a beast before doing anything, and the boss will have my head.”

“Besides…”

The steward’s sharp gaze swept over Mo Hua.

“I’ve seen countless people. One look at you and you’re just an ordinary young master. Your aura is plain, nothing outstanding. Your spiritual power is shallow. Among spell cultivators you’re probably bottom of the barrel. Forget it, don’t make it hard for me…”

He flicked his hand to shoo Mo Hua away.

Mo Hua was helpless. If this man had been more than a common cultivator, he would have planted a Heart-Demon Seed to shift his view of cultivation a little.

But he couldn’t—this was just an ordinary person. Pedantic and snobbish, yes, but not a villain.

Mo Hua couldn’t be bothered to push it.

After leaving that company, he tried a few other family-run shipping firms that ferried sandships across the dunes.

Without exception, he was rejected.

He was young, his background unknown, no roots or connections locally—it was extremely hard to find a “post.”

On top of that, his “major” didn’t match. He was a “squishy” spell cultivator, so of course he hit a wall everywhere.

Even late-stage Foundation Establishment wasn’t enough.

Late-stage meant a higher price to hire; local firms would be all the more cautious.

Mo Hua even tried lowering his price—and still failed.

A late-stage Foundation Establishment cultivator who didn’t dare to name his price—wasn’t that suspicious? Did he know his strength was lacking?

Or a late-stage Foundation Establishment cultivator willing to work cheap as a “guard”—wasn’t that harboring ill intent?

Until now, Mo Hua hadn’t realized it was this hard for an ordinary spell cultivator to find a job and earn a living.

If not as a spell cultivator, then surely working as an array master would do.

He went to another firm and didn’t claim too much—said only that he was a second-grade elementary array master seeking to join a crew for a single trip to Desert City.

At once the steward’s wrinkled face bloomed like a chrysanthemum. He bobbed his head, fawned and fussed, and treated Mo Hua with utmost respect.

But when it came to going aboard, the steward still only hemmed and hawed and didn’t dare agree.

Mo Hua pried a bit and finally understood.

Here at Great Wind Ferry, nearly every trade was “monopolized.” The sandship formations could only be drawn by array masters fostered by the local families.

They didn’t need the formations to be brilliant. What they needed was absolute secrecy, absolute safety, and absolute control in their own hands.

An outsider array master—no matter how skilled—would be worshiped like a Bodhisattva at most, not allowed to touch the core formations of a sandship.

“Monopoly” trumped everything.

In the past, if Mo Hua had revealed his identity as a “second-grade array master,” and merely wanted a ride, these companies would at least have done him a favor and sold him some goodwill.

But now the flames of war had spread, and the situation was chaotic.

Putting out a ship was dangerous, routes were tightened.

The locals weren’t aiming for merit, only trying to avoid mistakes. When “experts” passed through Great Wind Ferry, they tried not to offend or to curry favor, lest they misjudge someone and bring calamity down.

With things as they were, Mo Hua could only take his leave.

Finding a ship guide to cross the Sand Sea to Desert City was even trickier than he’d thought.

He wandered Great Wind Ferry for two more days and saw the same thing everywhere—only body cultivators were hired. Spell cultivators had no way to earn a meal.

Especially now, with the general situation worsening, spell cultivators were even more “discriminated” against.

That meant he couldn’t even get on a ship.

Mo Hua frowned, thought it over carefully, and mused:

“How about… I switch to body cultivation too?”

But he was born with weak blood qi and had never tempered his body a single day. Switch to a body cultivator—how?

If he really switched, what would he use to fight?

Wouldn’t he rush up and get killed by a single punch?

He mulled it over a long time before a plan took shape:

“If body cultivation at Foundation Establishment won’t do, then I’ll ‘switch’ to body cultivation at Qi Refining…”

After all, he was late-stage Foundation Establishment. Even if his physique was weak, that was only relative to Foundation Establishment cultivators.

Compared to Qi Refining cultivators—even ninth-layer body cultivators—his current body was actually still stronger.

So he couldn’t compare physique with Foundation Establishment, but with Qi Refining he could.

At that thought, Mo Hua couldn’t help sighing.

He never imagined that one day, he—dignified disciple of a fifth-grade Great Void Sect, a late-stage Foundation Establishment genius—would have to compare body tempering with Qi Refining cultivators…

But under the eaves, one must bow one’s head.

The situation pressed him; there was no other way.

Mo Hua began “switching” to body cultivation.

Of course, he couldn’t truly switch; he just needed to put on a show—enough to get on a ship, cross the vast Sand Sea, and that was that.

Since he was going to be a body cultivator, he couldn’t keep this fair-skinned, delicate, bookish look.

He found a light brown ink and smeared himself from head to toe, turning his skin a bronze hue. He looked like a youth who’d known long years of hardship, yet remained steadfast, eyes bright.

He still looked a bit thin—but there was no helping that.

Flesh and bulk don’t come from simple training, and there was no need to fake it.

With his appearance changed, he needed a few martial manuals to learn.

Otherwise, even with “force” suitable for a Qi Refining body cultivator, he wouldn’t have the moves to use it.

“What moves should I use?”

Mo Hua thought back and realized that since childhood, apart from aspiring to become an array master, nearly all the arts he’d studied were spells—he hadn’t learned a single shred of martial forms.

The only move that barely counted, if he remembered right, was something his junior martial brother Bai Zisheng had taught him during his travels at the Five Elements Sect:

“Soaring Dragon in the Heavens.”

It was a martial art Bai Zisheng had created—lighten the body, soar into the air, then thrust downward with a spear, the strike like a dragon—very dashing.

But honestly, very foolish.

Leaping into the air to pose might look cool, but it was riddled with openings—nothing but a target.

Even now, the ever-practical Mo Hua, who prized swift, precise, ruthless offense and clean, efficient movement, couldn’t stand it.

He gave up Bai Zisheng’s flashy “Soaring Dragon in the Heavens” and went to the market at Great Wind Ferry to buy a few common martial manuals used by Qi Refining body cultivators.

Things like Wind-and-Sand Fist, Rushing Fire Fist, Earth-Rending Kick, and so on.

Each move was simple and practical—nowhere near profound—but in Mo Hua’s eyes they were far better than that foolish “Soaring Dragon in the Heavens.”

He learned the basics quickly and, once his forms looked decent, put on a plain hemp robe and went to “apply” again.

This time, he couldn’t apply as a “guard.”

Only Foundation Establishment got to be guards.

A Qi Refining body cultivator could only work menial jobs.

Fortunately, with the Heavenly Mystery Veil about him and a strong divine sense, ordinary cultivators couldn’t see through his true cultivation.

He went first to several large firms.

Their hiring was divided—the people who recruited guards weren’t the same as those who recruited menials.

Mo Hua also changed his face—“disguised” himself.

Now, as the bronze-skinned body-cultivator Mo Hua, he looked nothing like the fair spell-cultivator Mo Hua from before, and he wasn’t afraid of being recognized.

The result was exactly the same.

Body-cultivator Mo Hua was rejected again.

Big firms had strict standards even for menials.

What’s more, Mo Hua was too “skinny.” Standing among a crowd of burly body cultivators, he stuck out like a sore thumb and got “filtered” at a glance.

Frustration flared.

He almost used the Heart-Demon Seed right then, but he managed to rein in the wicked impulse.

These were ordinary cultivators; they couldn’t withstand him “playing” with their dao hearts.

If ordinary cultivators were seeded, who could say what their temperaments would twist into, or whether they could still live as normal people?

So he stepped down a notch and tried some mid-sized companies.

They still picked him apart.

He stepped down another notch and went to a tiny outfit that couldn’t even afford a proper plaque—just a pennant for a sign.

The inside was shabby and obviously poor.

A handful of boatmen did odd jobs, each person wearing several hats—they had to do everything.

There wasn’t even a steward. An elderly, stooped boat captain personally handled hiring.

The old captain peered at Mo Hua with a puzzled look. “You, lad—looking for menial work?”

Mo Hua nodded.

“You’re a body cultivator?”

Mo Hua nodded again. “Yes.”

The old captain clicked his tongue and shook his head with a sigh.

“You’re tempering your body—didn’t you eat more meat to put some bulk on?”

Mo Hua could only say, “I’m thin, but I’m strong.”

“Strong?” The old captain looked dubious. He pointed at a stone post nearby. “Go punch that.”

Mo Hua walked over and threw a punch. His fist sank into the stone and left a deep imprint.

The old captain’s expression jolted.

The boatmen erupted.

“This kid… what strength!”

“Looks skinny and weak, but who’d have thought one punch would hit that hard—remarkable…”

“He’s got some talent for tempering the body. If he trains, his future’s not to be underestimated…”

Mo Hua kept a straight face and said nothing.

After a while the old captain asked, “How did you temper your body? You don’t look like you’ve built much foundation—so where’s all that power from?”

Because I’m late-stage Foundation Establishment…

He obviously couldn’t say that.

After a pause, Mo Hua said slowly, “Since I was small… I was born with divine strength. I’ve always been strong…”

“Born with divine strength…”

The old captain was impressed. After a moment he frowned and asked, “Judging by you, you’re not local, are you?”

Mo Hua nodded. “I came from the north, from the border of Gray Wolf Province.”

“Gray Wolf Province…” The old captain frowned. “That’s a ways from Great Wind Ferry. You came alone? Where are your parents?”

Mo Hua shook his head. “My family was poor. We never had enough to eat. To give me a chance to live, my parents sent me out early to feed myself. I’ve traveled and trained, making a living, and came all the way here…”

The old captain glanced at Mo Hua’s sallow skin and thin frame, then at those clear eyes. Sympathy stirred; he nodded.

“Alright. You can stay—as a menial.”

A nearby boatman started to object. “Boss, this—”

The old captain waved him down, then looked at Mo Hua seriously.

“We’re a small outfit. The boat’s small and shabby. It breaks down a lot. Sailing the Sand Sea is deadly—sand fiends attack, and that’s your life on the line. There are sand bandits too—cutthroats who kill without blinking.”

“The Sand Sea is merciless. We boatmen live with our heads hanging from the mast. Once we put out to sea, it’s all wind and sand and hardship. Coming back with all limbs attached is already a blessing.”

“If trouble comes, we might not even save ourselves—let alone keep you safe.”

“If you die out there, we can’t afford compensation…”

“That’s exactly why we’re always short on hands. Many times, I have no one left to pick.”

“If it were another poor soul, someone who’s lived half a life already and has a life not worth a penny, I’d turn a blind eye and say nothing.”

“But you’re too young, and you’ve got born strength—your aptitude is rare. So I’m laying it out for you now.”

“Think it through before you decide to board.”

“Don’t muddle your way aboard and never come back.”

The old captain spoke with the weight of experience.

Mo Hua was a little surprised. He considered briefly, then said solemnly, “I want to board.”

“Thought it through?” the old captain asked again.

Mo Hua nodded. “I’m out of food. I need a job to eat.”

The old captain sighed and inclined his head. “Alright.”

He gave Mo Hua some time to prepare. Three days later, the sandship set out.

Across the boundless Sand Sea, on a crude little sandship.

Mo Hua mixed in with the boatmen like a small Qi Refining body cultivator.

As the old captain had said, it truly was a small boat—one-tenth the size of the big sandships. It carried only fifty or sixty people.

Five guards, fifteen menials.

The rest were passengers.

Besides the passengers, they carried a bit of cargo—but not much, to keep the draft light. If the ship sank into the sands mid-journey and couldn’t break free, everyone aboard could die.

Mo Hua’s job was menial work. Basically he had to do everything—serving tea and water, handling the rudder, ferrying and sailing, keeping watch and sounding the alarm—he even had to cover part of the “guard” duties.

It was hard work and not a respectable post.

Ordinary Foundation Establishment cultivators wouldn’t stoop to it.

Disciples of clans and sects—so long as their family background was even a little decent—would never mingle with “rough” boatmen at the very bottom, much less put down their status to do “menial” labor.

Mo Hua didn’t mind.

Even now, he was a prodigy of a great fifth-grade sect, the junior brother admired by his peers, the leading figure of Qianxue’s array path—his status “noble.”

But he hadn’t forgotten he’d started as a poor rogue cultivator.

Before the Great Dao, all beings are equal; he never kept too many notions of high and low.

He respected those who labored to live by their own hands.

Doing menial work himself didn’t feel like lowering himself at all.

On the contrary, working like a body cultivator—laboring hard, then collapsing onto the bunk to sleep—thinking about nothing, caring about nothing—setting aside his identity for a while, forgetting all troubles, not thinking about his shibo, not thinking about the life-severing curse, not thinking about the Great Wilderness, not thinking about the war, not thinking about all those heavenly mechanisms, karmic entanglements, and scheming… it calmed Mo Hua’s heart in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time.

The fellow laborers were kind to him as well.

Seeing that he was young and far from home, scraping by, they kept the heaviest tasks off his shoulders.

Whenever there was downtime, they let him rest.

If a passenger tried to push him around, they stepped in to speak for him.

At mealtimes they even ladled him an extra scoop of porridge.

Mo Hua’s feelings were complicated.

From these impoverished, bottom-rung cultivators, he could feel a stubborn, plain, and kind humanity.

Vaguely, it was as if his own humanity was being tempered by it—growing a little more “steady.”

Thanks for reading! If you’re enjoying Mo Hua’s gritty detour into the world of boatmen and sand fiends, your support keeps this translation sailing. If you can, please consider tossing a coin to my Patreon—every bit truly helps me keep going. And if you have a moment, dropping a simple rating or review on NovelUpdates means the world; it helps more readers find this story.

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