Chapter 66: The Spirit-Calibrating Ruler

Chapter 66: The Spirit-Calibrating Ruler

I followed the fat boss out of the casino onto a bustling street outside the gambling district. We stopped before a wine house facing the road.

From a distance, it looked like the bathhouse from Spirited Away—wooden, five stories, irregular and layered. Red lanterns hung from the eaves and corner towers. Against the red-yellow lantern glow and street fluorescence, it radiated eerie atmosphere.

“You built this place like a haunted house on purpose, didn’t you? Ghostdark City’s the perfect setting for people like you.”

“You don’t get it. Most people wandering Ghostdark City have darker minds, heavier tempers. Think about it—what normal person wants to live somewhere this gloomy every day? Only extremists, people with warped thinking. So be careful here. Trash people everywhere, none of them easy. Know what ‘the happy should give way’ means? Here, you step aside for everyone. Especially us business owners—we’re polite to every piece of trash we meet.”

“No wonder that fight hall owner was so courteous. Afraid of provoking someone, getting his place smashed.”

“Exactly. Oh—don’t cause trouble here either. I don’t want to lose money.”

Something occurred to me. “When I settled up, the owner gave me 610 points. The contract said five percent commission. Does that mean one match pulled in 12,200 points? That much? A whole sect with a thousand people doesn’t make that. How?”

“Ghostdark City gamblers are extreme, obsessive maniacs. They come for massive bets. Win and life’s golden. Lose and you’re bankrupt. Sex, gambling, drugs—human vices that hook hardest. That’s why they bet big here. Casino owners? Sure, they make money. Otherwise, what normal person would risk business in a place like this? But most of it goes to the Shadow Pavilion. One match, they actually pocket about what you got.”

“I was startled. Huh? Isn’t that basically working for the Shadow Pavilion?”

“Not quite. They run many matches daily—it adds up. Just high-risk. Plenty of desperate lunatics snap when they lose. Without Shadow Pavilion backing, no business survives. It’s precisely because the Pavilion’s power exists that gamblers don’t dare overstep. Whoever causes trouble dies. Dies on the spot. So no matter how much rage someone carries, here they show the Pavilion nothing but respect. Twisted people are cruel, not stupid.”

Now I understood. The casino owner heard “mind arts” and thought Pu Liuqian. Mention Pu Liuqian, instant deference.

Cause trouble, die on the spot—was the Shadow Pavilion everywhere?

I looked up.

The moment I did, I got another big scare.

In a shabby second-floor window of the bathhouse-style building, a pale woman in red flashed into view.

I pointed. “You—you keep a female ghost in red here?”

The fat boss burst out laughing, called out, and a red-clad woman floated down from the window, nestling into his arms.

One glance told me she wasn’t human. No human scent. Even with penetrating waves, I couldn’t see a human shape.

“Her name’s Xiaoyou. A pet I picked up. Original body was a pure white cat, nearly dead. I nursed her back, had her manifest as an adorable ghost—for heavy-taste customers to pet like a cat. Interested? Come on, pet her a couple of times.”

I pushed her aside. “Stop. Yuan Lingliang pressed against me and I could barely stand it. You turned a cat into human form. If some pervert did that with her… crap, don’t tell me that actually happens.”

He stroked the cat-turned-ghost. “I think your mind’s the abnormal one. Young Miss Yuan Lingliang’s a proper lady from a good family, beautiful and intelligent, threw herself at you and you still rejected her. Are you sick?”

“I have a girlfriend. More than one, actually. Proof enough?”

“Really? Where? What do they look like?”

“None of your business.”

We bantered all the way to a third-floor private room. The fat boss ordered food, then said, “Around here, I’m Fatty Huang. My full name’s meaningless—all fake anyway. Just call me Fatty Huang.”

“So Liu Tanzhuang’s fake too?”

“In the metaverse, except for people from the Shadow Pavilion, everyone uses online names. You’re the same. Song Chenfeng isn’t your real name. Once your soul enters this body, you’re registered. Unless you log out and find another alt shell, wherever you go as Song Chenfeng, whatever you shape-shift into, you’re still Song Chenfeng. That’s your true metaverse name. Already in the system.”

“You mentioned shape-shifting. That’s what I wanted to ask. How? Today with Gao Haipeng, I nearly tripped when he shifted mid-fight. Wasn’t prepared.”

“Shape-shifting’s the most basic virtual-world technique. Gather your full force of consciousness, focus on believing you’re something—you become it. Real shape-shifting. Not just appearance—strength, temper, movements, habits, psychology all change. Of course, someone like you with penetrating waves can still see the human form. But not everyone has penetrating waves. Only twenty percent in this world. Eighty percent don’t. That’s what makes it rich and colorful.”

“That simple? What am I now?”

I gathered my force of consciousness and imagined myself a striped tiger. Instantly I shifted. And I genuinely felt an urge to eat this fat man. Though my temper and psychology felt largely unchanged—perhaps because my consciousness body was different.

“Change back. You reek of tiger musk.”

I reverted. “Boring. Should’ve bitten you. Oh—forgot to ask. Why didn’t the cyan-patterned pill or gold-patterned pill do anything? After I took them, my consciousness body jolted once, then nothing. Like I hadn’t taken them at all.”

Fatty Huang stared. “No reaction? Cyan-patterned had no reaction, and gold-patterned had no reaction either?”

“Right. Cyan-patterned did nothing, so I tried gold-patterned—figured something that expensive should work. Didn’t.”

Fatty Huang looked at me for a long moment without speaking. Then he clapped and told an attendant, “Bring my Spirit-Calibrating Ruler.”

The attendant returned shortly, lugging a ruler over two meters long. Golden, thick, covered in scale marks. I had no idea what Fatty Huang planned.

Fatty Huang gripped the Spirit-Calibrating Ruler and hurled it out the window like a javelin. It flew roughly a hundred meters before stopping, hovering upright in the air.

He pulled me to the window. “Now gather your force of consciousness and project it onto that ruler. Use everything you have. I want to see how strong your force of consciousness is.”

First I’d heard of this. Did it actually work?

I stood by the window, gazed at the distant ruler, and gathered my force of consciousness.

People in the street noticed the ruler. Heads turned. Discussion began.

“The Spirit-Calibrating Ruler. Who’s being measured?”

“That’s the Spirit-Calibrating Ruler? Only heard about it. Never seen one. Accurate?”

“You don’t understand. Only big shots use this. Tests force of consciousness and verifies pill authenticity.”

“How? Can it test cyan-patterned pills?”

“Of course. Project the pill onto it, see the level. Cyan-patterned’s level nine, red-patterned’s fifteen, gold-patterned’s twenty. Fakes show nothing.”

“But I see over fifty marks on that ruler. What’s it measuring?”

Hearing the street chatter, I no longer wanted them seeing my force-of-consciousness level. I looked back at Fatty Huang, about to suggest we skip it.

He seemed to catch the problem. He gathered his own force of consciousness into his finger, pointed at the ruler, flicked—and sent it flying into the rear courtyard.

Then he pulled me away. I thought he’d decided not to test. Instead, he dragged me to a back room overlooking the courtyard, glanced at the hovering ruler, and looked at me with unusual seriousness. All his usual flippancy gone.

He truly valued this test.

Fine. Let’s test. No one else in the courtyard anyway.

The courtyard was piled with trash and junk. I didn’t bother going outside—just stood by the back window and looked at the ruler. I gathered my force of consciousness and projected it.

The golden ruler jolted. The center scale shifted from gold to red. The value shot past fifty, as if wanting to climb higher—but there were no more marks.

Seeing that, I didn’t dare push further. I quickly withdrew.

The attendant who’d brought the ruler happened to witness it. He was so frightened the tea tray crashed from his hands.

Fatty Huang’s reaction was more dramatic. He collapsed, gaze hollow, muttering, “It’s over. Over. I treated you like a friend, told you everything. I never imagined you were from the Shadow Pavilion.”

I was stunned. “What are you talking about? Who the hell is from the Shadow Pavilion?”

Fatty Huang looked at me. “Your force of consciousness is more than double a gold-patterned pill, plus another ten levels. Only people from the Shadow Pavilion can do that. Pu Liuqian was tested—I know she maxed at twenty. Look at yourself. It’s impossible for you not to be from the Shadow Pavilion. Virtual world or real, no one’s that strong.”

Anger sparked. “Maybe your broken ruler’s faulty. Believe what you want. I was born this way.”

Fatty Huang jerked. “Faulty? Let me try.”

He stood, looked at the ruler hovering outside.

I watched the color gradually shift until the level rose to twelve and stopped.

Sweat beaded Fatty Huang’s face. “See? That’s genius scale. Level seven’s normal. Outstanding people generally reach ten. I’ve always been my family’s pride—twelve’s my peak. This ruler came from the Shadow Pavilion. Used for talent selection back then. No way it’s broken.”

Using force of consciousness, I retrieved the ruler. Didn’t want it hanging where people might see. “Nothing I can do. Born lucky, I guess.”

Fatty Huang fell silent for a long while. “True. When you first arrived in the Elite World, you were clueless. I scanned you secretly with instruments several times. Every reading showed you as nothing but a stowaway.”