Chapter 42: Hungry Hell + Reality
In the end, the Spirit Music Guild members left in a hurry, completely losing their earlier arrogance. The flea market soon returned to normal—but the atmosphere had changed. A strange excitement rippled through the crowd as people enthusiastically discussed what had just happened.
For most freelancers, it had been an entirely new experience. Usually, guild members formed their own elite circles, looking down from above. But just now, for a fleeting moment, it felt like their positions had been reversed—and they finally knew how good it felt to stand together, united.
Jing Su’s face flushed from ear to ear as he clenched his fist, hot blood surging in his chest. If his face hadn’t already been seen, he probably would’ve shouted aloud in excitement.
Oh, right—he’d forgotten to thank that big guy from earlier!
He snapped out of it and hurriedly asked around if anyone had seen the freelancer who’d helped him. Someone pointed him in a direction, and Jing Su took off running. Sure enough, he spotted a broad-shouldered figure up ahead and shouted, “Hey! Buddy! Wait for me!”
But the man didn’t stop—he actually walked faster. Jing Su frowned in confusion but, determined to give his thanks, picked up his pace.
Then, the route the man took started to look familiar. Jing Su turned a corner—and saw him step into a familiar safehouse.
“Huh?”
The door wasn’t closed. Jing Su hesitated, then peeked inside—only to see the “righteous” muscleman being helped by Tang Mobai and Set to remove a bulky muscle suit. He lifted off his mask, revealing a face Jing Su had seen once before.
“You—you—you guys…?” Jing Su stood frozen, pointing at them in shock.
Yan Wuzhen shot him a glance. “Why are you just standing there? Get in here. No one followed you, right?”
“Uh… shouldn’t be. My ability would’ve warned me,” Jing Su said automatically, stepping inside and closing the door behind him—then suddenly froze. “Wait a sec—”
“This whole thing—was your doing?!”
Yan Wuzhen smirked and didn’t bother denying it. Tang Mobai rubbed his neck awkwardly. “Well, I wouldn’t say planned… It’s just that freelancers would’ve banded together eventually. We only sped things up a bit.”
Yan Wuzhen nodded. “Yeah. It was me. Otherwise, how do you think we managed to draw every freelancer’s attention so perfectly?”
His left eye’s ability worked just as effectively inside Lost Paradise. With only a few subtle prompts and a touch of conversational manipulation, he’d successfully stoked the anger of every observing freelancer.
It wasn’t coincidence that the guild newbie had answered so obediently—or that the other guild members happened to be away at the time, creating a perfect “us versus them” scene.
Of course, that success was also thanks to timing. The tension between freelancers and guilds had already reached its peak, and the appearance of the Fasting Pill had shattered the existing balance. Even if Yan Wuzhen hadn’t interfered, freelancers would’ve eventually united—but not nearly as quickly or effectively.
Humans were social creatures, even demons too. That’s why guilds existed in the first place. Freelancers were a collective as well—an ignored, exploited one. But once they experienced the power of standing together, everything changed.
This was why Yan Wuzhen had agreed to Tang Mobai’s plan—because he saw potential in the freelancers as a force. The question was how to twist that scattered group into a single rope.
And the scene at the flea market had been a test run—an experiment. One that went quite well.
Jing Su slumped forward in disappointment. “Ah… I thought it was the freelancers finally waking up—realizing the guilds were exploiting them and deciding to fight back.”
Yan Wuzhen gave him a long, penetrating look. “You’re from the Path of Wrath, right?”
“Huh? How did you know?”
Yan Wuzhen turned his head slightly toward Tang Mobai.
Tang Mobai frowned. “What? Are you insulting me again?”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“I don’t care, your eyes are insulting me.”
As the two bickered, Jing Su quietly crept toward the door. He wasn’t stupid—he knew after seeing something like this, there was no way they’d just let him go.
Sure enough, the moment he moved, Yan Wuzhen noticed. He walked toward Jing Su slowly, expression half-hidden in shadow, voice low and dangerous: “Since you know now… we can’t let you leave.”
Jing Su froze. He turned to bolt, but the door he’d closed earlier was now bound shut with steel wire—and Tang Mobai and Set had quietly flanked him from both sides.
Tang Mobai smiled apologetically. “Sorry, cough… Well, you’re one of us anyway…”
Seth was more direct. “We’re short on manpower.”
Yan Wuzhen added, “Your face has already been seen by the guild. There’s no turning back now. That means we’re your only option.”
Though Jing Su and the others had verbally agreed to join Fuguang before, Yan Wuzhen had seen through them—most were only in it for the short-term profit, not loyalty. They’d sell out the guild the moment things got tough.
But they had no choice. They were desperately short on people, and time was running out. Normally, guilds evolved from small teams—groups of veterans who’d fought together long enough to build trust. It was rare to see a guild like Tang Mobai’s, founded by three people who immediately stirred up chaos. If not for the potential of the freelancer network, Yan Wuzhen would never have taken such a reckless gamble.
Still, Jing Su was one of the better ones. Yan Wuzhen could tell he was genuinely moved by Tang Mobai’s ideals. In other words, he was the only “naïve good guy” among all the freelancers who’d come to join—and his ability was interesting, too. They couldn’t afford to lose him.
And so, begrudgingly, Jing Su signed a deeper contract with them—becoming, to his disbelief, one of Tang Mobai’s trusted inner circle.
“Wait, what? I’m part of your inner circle now? How many people are even in this guild?”
The number of members in Fuguang remained a mystery. Even though Jing Su had technically joined with his group, they were still on probation. Judging by how many black-robed sellers there’d been, the guild didn’t seem large—but perhaps all of them were elites.
Tang Mobai looked away. Set kept his mouth shut.
Yan Wuzhen said, “Alright, let’s focus on the next step. I can’t keep being the one on stage. You need to practice your acting skills too.”
“Don’t change the subject! Look at me! How many people are in this guild?!”
“Useless.”
*
At the Spirit Music Guild headquarters, after hearing what had happened, the guild leader immediately sensed something was wrong. He looked at the clueless newbie responsible for the mess and rubbed his temples in pain.
“You—you—why did you have to answer honestly? Are you stupid? Couldn’t you make up any other excuse?”
Ever since the Fasting Pills appeared, any demon with half a brain knew the Merchant Alliance would suppress them. But smarts were rare in Hell—and some people just didn’t get it. Now that the guild member had admitted it openly, even idiots could connect the dots!
Originally, their only enemy was the faction selling the pills. Now, they’d put themselves in direct opposition to all freelancers.
The guild leader immediately realized someone had manipulated the situation—but there was nothing he could do. The other side had moved too fast.
The newbie trembled like a quail. “I—I don’t know why… it just slipped out of my mouth…”
“Enough. It’s too late now,” came a calm voice from the communication link—Chairman Zhan Ye of the Merchant Alliance. “We underestimated those rats. Their goal isn’t just to steal business from the food vendors—they’re targeting the entire freelancer class.”
“A bold bunch,” Zhan Ye continued. “Our actions might’ve even helped them.”
“So what should we do next?” the Spirit Music leader asked, waving off the trembling recruit.
“From the start, there’s only ever been one choice,” Zhan Ye said evenly. “They can hide from us in Hungry Hell—but in the dungeon worlds? They can’t avoid missions there. And there, we’re not bound by any restrictions. Without their leaders, the freelancers are nothing. In short—kill Tang Mobai’s group.”
The people behind the Fasting Pills weren’t hard to trace. Aside from the Jade Society, only Tang Mobai’s faction had alchemists. Add his feud with the Jade Society and the bounty he’d earned at Demon Casino—it all fit perfectly.
Within Lost Paradise, dungeon worlds were unavoidable. And without the limitations of Hungry Hell, guilds could unleash their full power there. Many guild wars had started in those worlds. Tang Mobai had offended too many guilds; next time his livestream went live, the Merchant Alliance would surely target him.
The Spirit Music leader exhaled slowly, regaining his composure. Yes—no matter how rampant they seemed now, they could only live through the next week at most.
“So… we just sit back and do nothing?”
“No,” said Zhan Ye calmly after a moment of thought. “We can’t let them grow. Don’t give them time to develop or rally the freelancers. The bigger their audience, the harder they’ll be to crush.”
“They want to turn this into a class war. We won’t play that game. Tell all guild members to take off their uniforms, keep a low profile, avoid conflict with freelancers. Meanwhile, send people to gather intel—and notify the Jade Society. Have them use that artifact to track anyone possibly connected to Tang Mobai.”
“But what if they buy off the coordinates with points?” the Spirit Music leader asked.
“They don’t have enough points,” Zhan Ye replied coolly. “Tang Mobai’s marketing strategy was clever, but such aggressive tactics burn through points fast. They’re definitely running at a loss. Even if we can’t find them, we can make their deficit worse. Do it.”
“Understood.”
*
After the flea market incident, Yan Wuzhen keenly noticed a change: there were fewer guild members visible on the streets.
No—rather, they had shed their uniforms and blended back into the crowd. Over the next few days, even finding one became difficult. He didn’t need to think hard to know what they were planning: they wanted to move the battlefield into the dungeon worlds.
It was, admittedly, the best strategy for now. In both numbers and strength, their small team—fresh out of the revival match—would be crushed by the guilds.
Against overwhelming force, no amount of clever scheming could save them. That was one of the few things Yan Wuzhen couldn’t outwit.
Which meant… it was time for Tang Mobai’s mysterious sponsor to step in.
Tang Mobai understood this too. With things in Hungry Hell temporarily stable, he decided to return to the real world to discuss the next move.
Meanwhile, only three days remained of their three-week stay.
When Tang Mobai opened his eyes in reality, he went through a quick checkup and stepped out—where he found Gong Wen waiting. He quickly summarized everything that had happened in Hungry Hell, the shifting situation, and the spreading unrest. Gong Wen nodded while recording everything on video.
“We’re aware,” she said. “It’s about what we expected. Don’t worry too much.”
Even knowing she was just trying to comfort him, Tang Mobai still felt some relief. “Then let’s start planning the next dungeon world. Huh? Where are we going?”
He noticed the vehicle they’d boarded was heading in a different direction than usual.
“Don’t worry,” Gong Wen said with a mysterious smile. “The intel you provided is already being analyzed. For now, we’re just making a quick detour. You’ll know when we get there.”
There was even a faint hint of pride in her eyes. Tang Mobai, baffled, could only sit quietly in the back seat.
Tang Mobai didn’t know that while he was busy fighting tooth and nail in the Hungry Hell, the nation back in reality had quietly done something major.
Time rewinds to a week earlier.
For most people on Earth, it was an ordinary day—people went to work, students went to school, trending topics were still dominated by celebrity gossip and entertainment news. Yet on that same day, the Ministry of Science and Technology released two documents, “Recommendations from the Office of the Ministry of Science and Technology on Strengthening Oversight of Academic Misconduct” and “Notice on the Strengthening and Development of Academic Journals.”
As soon as the policy was issued, the Academy of Sciences immediately responded. Under the leadership of several top universities, they established a new academic journal titled Tianshu (Heavenly Pivot).
Up to this point, everything still seemed like a normal academic initiative. But if you looked at the scholars backing this journal, you’d realize it was anything but ordinary.
Let’s put it this way—normally, an academic journal like Photonics Research might be founded by one or two leading experts in a particular field, who then use their academic reputation to attract submissions. Over time, as its impact factor grows, the journal gains influence and prestige. That’s the natural evolution of an academic publication.
But Tianshu showed blatant ambition from the moment it was founded. It gathered almost every prominent domestic scholar under its banner, and the experts at its launch event made no attempt to hide their intentions. They bluntly told reporters:
“This will be the most prestigious academic journal in the country—and possibly in the world.”
Such bold claims naturally caused a stir in the academic community. Yet rather than excitement, most people felt skeptical and doubtful.
Everyone understood what a top-tier academic journal meant for a nation. It wasn’t just prestige—it was power. In scientific research, publishing in leading journals determines visibility, influence, and international standing. After all, no matter how groundbreaking your work is, if you can’t publish it or it gains no traction, it changes nothing.
In today’s world, this problem is even more pronounced. Academic papers are almost exclusively written in foreign languages. Without foreign-language proficiency, one can neither write nor read academic literature. Worse still, when a country lacks high-level journals in a given field, its scientists’ best work often gets rejected by foreign editors—or delayed so long that they lose the right of first publication.
And in competitive research fields, just a few days’ delay can mean losing a patent. Years of hard work could vanish, simply because of negligence—or because someone, acting “within their authority,” made a petty, short-sighted decision.
Everyone knew this. From a scientific standpoint, creating a top-tier domestic journal was both urgent and deeply significant. But that didn’t mean people believed it could actually be done.
After all, even setting aside the well-known issues of academic corruption and misconduct—did the country’s research capacity truly measure up? The reason Western nations hold the reins of academic discourse is simple: their science is still ahead. Top journals exist because of top research, not the other way around.
Given the nation’s current academic foundation, a world-class journal seemed… premature.
Reporters phrased their doubts politely, but some foreign journalists and media outlets had no such restraint.
“Academician Li,” one asked bluntly, “do you believe that, with C-Nation’s current scientific level, you can realistically support the ambitions behind this new journal?”
Academician Li smiled slightly, sidestepped the question, and replied, “Why don’t we let our results speak for themselves?”
Three days after Tianshu was officially established, a nuclear bomb dropped on the academic world.
Its title was, “Biological Engineering of Human Tissue Regeneration and Repair Using Uridine and RA Compounds.”
