Eternal Life: I Can Sell Everything

Year 725 of the Great Zhou Immortal Calendar.

A sudden autumn squall washed the streets and alleyways of Su Yang City clean.

Song Ciwan realized she had transmigrated.

The moment she confirmed it, she was standing on the flagstones of a long street, utterly lost, holding a bag of a Pork Demon’s large intestines.

Pedestrians scrambled for cover from the rain, but she remained motionless. Her eyes were fixed on the ancient pavilions and towers lining the street, looking like a stunned, drenched chicken.

’What kind of world is this?’

The Great Zhou Immortal Dynasty. It had Humans, demons, Immortals, ghosts, and even Demons rampaging through the Mortal World!

Martial Artists sundered mountains and parted seas, the words of Great Scholars manifested into reality, Immortals could Call Wind and Rain, and the Golden Bodies of Buddhas were indestructible.

But for all the Strong who existed, they were far too distant. Natural disasters and demonic calamities were unending, and the common people suffered for it.

Her predecessor had taken a minor post at the Demon Refining Platform, an institution under the Su Yang City Prefecture Magistrate’s Office—

But don’t be mistaken; it wasn’t some grand post for slaying demons. Her actual workplace was the Washing Room of the Demon Refining Platform. And she didn’t wash ordinary things—she washed the corpses of Demon Fiends, cleansing them of their filth and Malice!

The bodies of dead Demon Fiends were covered in treasures, useful for everything from Alchemy and Artifact Refining to Drawing Talismans and performing rituals.

However, even after a Demon Fiend dies, its Malice lingers. If the materials are used directly for Alchemy, Artifact Refining, or Drawing Talismans, mishaps are inevitable. The resulting creations are often tainted and rendered useless.

This was where the Washing Room came in, a logical necessity.

After all, how could the precious time and energy of Pill Masters, Talisman Masters, and Artifact Refiners be wasted on a trifle like Washing Demons?

By setting up a Washing Room and hiring mortals for the task, they could even provide a livelihood for many of the destitute. Wasn’t it a benevolent act, worthy of praise from all who saw it?

The only catch was that the mortals working in the Washing Room were constantly exposed to the erosion of Malice, which polluted and damaged their bodies and Divine Souls. They rarely lived more than three to five years and tended to die unnaturally. Aside from that, there were no other drawbacks.

In this world, mortals who couldn’t make a living were like chives after a spring rain: cut one crop down, and another sprouts right up. There were always desperate souls who would harden their hearts, kneel outside the Demon Refining Platform, and beg to sign a contract as a Demon-Washing Servant.

That’s right, you had to beg for a job as a Demon-Washing Servant. You had to wait for a Steward to take pity on you and offer you the post. Otherwise, it wouldn’t even be your turn.

After all, while Demon-Washing Servants didn’t live long, the pay was "high."

The original Song Ciwan’s situation, however, was slightly different.

She actually had some family property, though not much: a private two-room courtyard in Jishan Square, in the southern part of the city. She didn’t have ownership, but she had the right to live there.

The house had been passed down from her late father, Song Youde. Ownership belonged to the Court; it was public housing, specifically for the junior officials of the Prefecture Magistrate’s Office.

Song Youde had been a black clerk in the Prefecture Magistrate’s Office. During an expedition to hunt a demon with the masters of the Lantern Hanging Department’s Demon Slayer Guard, he was unfortunately killed. His death was considered to be in the line of duty.

When handling his affairs, the Government Office didn’t reclaim the house assigned to him, instead allowing Song Youde’s wife and daughter to continue living there.

Furthermore, they received a death benefit: fifty taels of silver!

With that level of compensation, one would think that Song Youde’s wife and daughter could have managed to get by after his death.

Unfortunately, Song’s wife had always been frail. The moment Song Youde’s body was brought home, she collapsed from illness.

She never recovered from that illness. In the effort to cure her, what little money the Song Family had, including the death benefit, was spent like water in a short period. Eventually, they even had to take on significant debt.

But even so, her life couldn’t be saved. She soon followed her husband, Song Youde, to the Yellow Springs.

Within a few short months, the original Song Ciwan lost both her parents, was saddled with a mountain of debt, and had to face the rumors slowly spreading through the neighborhood: that she was born under a cursed star, doomed to bring misfortune to all her loved ones. That her own parents had been killed by her curse! Her fiancé’s family hastily broke off the engagement. The young woman suffered one blow after another until she was completely overwhelmed, her heart turning to dead ashes.

’No matter what,’ she thought, ’I have to stay alive, save up some money, and at least pay off all the debts. Then I can die with a clean conscience, right?’

...

On the long street, Song Ciwan finished sorting through her predecessor’s memories. Unconsciously, tears had welled up in her eyes.

She tilted her head back, letting the rain wash over her face, unable to tell if the streaks running down her cheeks were salty or bitter. Her mind was a chaotic mess. Her predecessor’s sorrow was her sorrow; her predecessor’s pain was her pain. She felt it all with such intense empathy, it was as if they were one and the same.

’This world, this cursed world...’

BOOM!

Suddenly, a flash of white light split the sky.

A deafening crack of thunder, a bolt of immense power.

"Thunder! Quick, take cover!" people shrieked from the sides of the street.

The quick-footed had already found shelter, but some ragged figures tried to duck into a nearby shop, only to be shooed away by the owner. "Get out, get out! We don’t want your filth and stench in here! Is this a place you can just trample all over? Scram!"

The ragged were driven out; the respectable were welcomed in.

The hustle and bustle of the street displayed all of humanity’s varied faces.

A man in a gray servant’s uniform, its cuffs trimmed with a wide red border, was shoved out of a teahouse. His ankle twisted, and he collapsed onto the street.

Rain battered his body as he struggled to lift his head. The next moment, the lightning in the sky twisted like a frantic serpent. The slender white bolt swerved and slammed down directly on top of him.

"AHHH—" the crowd shrieked. "Someone’s been struck by lightning!"

"That man is one of the servants from the Washing Room!"

A servant from the Washing Room, eroded by Demon Fiend Malice, a harbinger of misfortune... they often die unnaturally!

"That thing is Bad Luck! Go die somewhere else...!"

"AHHH!"

Amid the crowd’s panicked and angry shouts, Song Ciwan quickly shrugged off her own gray outer-robe—which bore the same signature red trim—balled it up in her arms, and, still clutching the Pork Demon intestines, ran toward a sundry shop in a corner of the street.

Underneath the gray robe, she wore linen mourning clothes, which didn’t look particularly auspicious either.

The shop clerk shouted impatiently, "What do you think you’re doing? You’re dripping water everywhere! You can’t come in here!"

Song Ciwan pulled five copper coins from the pouch at her waist, held them out on her palm, and pushed right past the clerk’s attempt to block her, dashing into the shop.

"I need to buy some flint and steel. Do you have any?"

The clerk’s expression changed in an instant, his face breaking into a wide grin as he snatched the five copper coins. "Well, why didn’t you say so, little lady! We’ve got plenty of flint and steel!"

It no longer mattered that Song Ciwan was dripping rainwater everywhere. The clerk grabbed a rag from the corner and diligently started wiping the floor.

The rain outside fell in a solid curtain. Song Ciwan tactfully moved to a corner, but her vision suddenly swam.

’Strange. I’m standing in a sundry shop, right? Why has my vision suddenly gone strange?’

What was she seeing?

The sundry shop was still there, but it was like the base layer of a two-tiered world, a mere backdrop. Above it, a nebula gathered like a tempest.

WHOOSH, WHOOSH—

The clouds gathered with a roar, and a river of stars rippled into existence.

Just then, a slender white rod shot out from the abyssal clouds, like a Divine Dragon shaking its head.

RIP!

The nebula was torn asunder. Heaven and earth separated, clear light ascending and turbid air sinking.

The white rod twisted, its full form finally revealed.

It was a scale—a weighing scale!

The beam was white, while the weight and the Balance Plate were black.

A scale suspended between heaven and earth. And resting on its Balance Plate was a cloud of grayish-white gas.

As Song Ciwan focused on it, a line of text seemed to flash through her mind: [Malice. Three taels and four mace. Can be traded.]

’What?’

Song Ciwan blinked. The sundry shop was still there, and so was the black-and-white scale. But the scale was half-transparent, as if existing in a crack in the void, blurry and indistinct, making it impossible to tell if it was real or an illusion.

’What... what in the world is this?’