This world was no longer a chaotic era of war, where corpses littered the land and the air was thick with vengeful spirits. There simply weren't enough wraiths for Liang to consume and refine. Disheartened, he ascended the crumbling rooftop of his decrepit apartment building, pulled down his hood, and breathed in the chill night air.
Now that he had legitimate identification in this city, he needed to secure a secluded, private location—somewhere he could refine artifacts and cultivate his techniques without the constant fear of being discovered.
In America, communities adhered to a system of "neighborhood watch," where residents were encouraged to monitor each other. Even minor incidents like domestic disputes or petty disturbances would prompt neighbors to call the police, who would arrive to restore order with efficiency rivaling China's most vigilant citizens.
Under such circumstances, how could Liang train with peace of mind? Any odd sound or disturbance would have the neighbors dialing 911 in no time. And given the notorious reputation of American police—infamous for their "shoot first, observe later" approach—one wrong move could result in a hail of bullets from behind cover. It was akin to handling a keg of explosives or dealing with an overly sensitive, anxiety-ridden individual.
Moreover, the motel Liang currently resided in was a dismal place. Aside from a vintage television that automatically switched to late-night channels, every appliance in the room was prone to malfunction. And to top it off, the rock music blaring next door was a constant cacophony of chaos.
"I need money... lots of it," Liang muttered.
In ancient China, reclusive alchemists and mystics relied heavily on the resources of feudal emperors. Practices like divination, artifact forging, altar rituals, and summoning spirits demanded an astronomical amount of materials and manpower.
To forge even a basic bronze blade inscribed with runes and spells, the effort required was almost incomprehensible. Molds had to be shaped meticulously, dried in kilns, and carefully engraved with runes using fine needles. A single imperfection the size of a strand of hair would render the weapon useless.
The bronze alloy's copper-to-tin ratio had to be precise, the kiln's temperature monitored at every moment, and the forging process would yield one usable sword for every ten or even a hundred failed attempts. Such extravagance was a luxury only kings and nobles could afford.
Even Emperor Qin Shi Huang, who united China and established its first imperial dynasty, only managed to construct twelve colossal hollow bronze statues, each weighing an estimated 30 to 80 tons. In today's terms, these statues, valued at the modern price of copper (50,000 yuan per ton), would amount to just over 30 million yuan—a sum sufficient to purchase a single luxury apartment in Manhattan.
Sitting on the edge of the rooftop, Liang pulled out his carving knife. Its polished blade gleamed under the moonlight, reflecting his contemplative expression.
Modern industrial society had revolutionized steelmaking. Processes like slag formation, oxidation, refining, and carbon removal were executed seamlessly. State-of-the-art analyzers could measure minute concentrations of elements like carbon, sulfur, manganese, and nickel, outputting precise data that ancient cultivators could only dream of achieving.
Liang had once visited Wayne Enterprises' steel mills and marveled at their towering chimneys and molten furnaces. The sheer scale of modern steel production left him awestruck and deeply aware of its superiority over ancient methods.
He estimated that a ton of steel could be purchased for around 500 to 600 dollars—less if procured directly from suppliers. Once he reached the Foundation Establishment stage, he could forge tons of steel into a massive sword through runes and incantations. Simply wielding such a weapon would be enough to obliterate tanks and tear down skyscrapers.
And yet, all of this hinged on one crucial prerequisite: money.
Liang rummaged through his pockets and found only a few crumpled dollar bills with faded presidential portraits. The sight of them next to the rolling, empty beer bottles on the rooftop railing was nothing short of pitiful.
The rooftop wind was cold.
Liang rubbed his hands together, exhaling into his palms for warmth. Just as he prepared to head downstairs, he recalled that he had yet to collect payment for his last exorcism. However, thinking of the family's destitute condition, he sighed and waved the thought away.
In the distance, a lavish hotel stood illuminated against the night, hosting a grand birthday party for a wealthy family's heir. Guests mingled amidst a sea of extravagance—flowers, fine food, and elegant decor. Meanwhile, in the shadowed alley across the street, a homeless man in tattered clothes and his mangy, skeletal dog scavenged through black garbage bags for scraps.
A sleek black luxury sports car pulled up to the hotel. An obese man, his rotund form squeezing out of the vehicle with difficulty, was flanked by two alluring women.
"Mr. Richard, welcome," the doorman greeted, bowing obsequiously as he took the keys one of the women casually tossed. The valet strode confidently toward the car, as if his name were inscribed on the luxury vehicle itself.
The car's owner, Richard Sappa, was none other than the current head of Gotham's Italian mafia. Coincidentally, Liang had encountered one of Sappa's henchmen—a scar-faced thug—on his first day in Gotham at the harbor.
The valet, sitting behind the wheel, caressed the leather steering wheel with reverence before rolling down the window to yell at the homeless man, "Get lost! Don't bring your stench anywhere near this place!"
The homeless man recoiled, pulling his dog aside as the car sped off, splashing dirty water onto both of them.
"Feasting inside while bones freeze outside," Liang murmured, reciting an ancient Chinese lament about wealth disparity. A faint, sardonic smile curled his lips.
Donning his hood, mask, and sunglasses, he leapt gracefully from rooftop to rooftop under the moonlight, stopping above the bustling hotel. With deft movements, he descended the wall like a gecko, using the cracks between tiles for grip.
The homeless man was still brushing off the dirty water, his dog whimpering softly from hunger. Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
"Hey, old man," Liang said with a smirk, leaning casually against the wall. Adjusting his sunglasses, he added, "Want to make a bet? I bet I can strip that fat pig's suit off his back and give it to you."