I Arrived At Wizard World While Cultivating Immortality Chapter 638: The Young Man in the Old District

Eric’s alarm clock shrieked to life at five in the morning.

He stirred, instinctively reaching to silence the old mechanical contraption on his bedside table. After a brief pause of two minutes, the second alarm finally compelled him to reluctantly rise from his slumber.

Outside the window, the sky was a dull, hazy gray. It was impossible to discern if the murk was morning mist or the acrid smoke billowing from distant factory chimneys.

Mornings in Mist Capital invariably presented this obscured view—the sun was a rare, almost unseen visitor.

His residence was a compact room, less than ten square meters, situated on the third floor of a dilapidated apartment building.

A simple bed, a worn table, and a meager wardrobe constituted his entire worldly possessions.

The window overlooked a narrow, stone-paved street below, perpetually slick. Whether from recent rain or industrial wastewater runoff, its origins remained a mystery. Eric dedicated ten minutes to his ablutions and donning his clothes, then retrieved two paper bills from a tin can on his table, tucking them securely into his pocket.

Downstairs, the bakery offered its day-old bread at half price each morning. The loaves were hard enough to potentially injure someone, but after soaking them in hot water, they provided just enough sustenance to stave off hunger.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

The street scene, which had remained so stubbornly consistent for years—so much so that he had assumed it would never alter—had finally undergone a transformation.

Directly across the street, three doors down, stood a derelict house that had lain vacant for at least seventeen or eighteen years.

Large sections of plaster had eroded from its exterior walls, revealing the blackened brickwork beneath. Two windows on the second floor were shattered and crudely boarded up with planks. The paint adorning the main entrance was so weathered and discolored it resembled a severe skin ailment.

Eric had known this house since his childhood; it had never been occupied. Local whispers insisted the place was haunted.

Naturally, in this world, the term “haunted” was not employed metaphorically.

Consequently, ever since the previous resident met a violent end, no one had dared to rent the property again.

Yet, at this moment, the door to that very house stood ajar.

This was not an opening caused by forced entry or a gust of wind. Given that anything of remotely significant value within the neglected structure had long since been pilfered, the door had been opened with deliberate neatness and precision.

A wooden placard was affixed to the doorframe, bearing several characters meticulously carved into its surface. Though legible, the calligraphy lacked any particular elegance.

Eric squinted, his slightly myopic vision struggling to decipher the inscription:

“Used Bookstore.”

Eric’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

A used bookstore.

In Mist Capital, specifically within its most neglected and impoverished old district, someone had established a used bookstore?

While not directly involved in the city's underbelly, growing up in such an environment had familiarized him with the unspoken necessities of survival.

In this particular locale, the designation “used bookstore” was akin to a “general store,” a “pawnshop,” or a “repair shop”—a facade for illicit activities in nine out of ten cases.

The true commodities offered by this establishment were likely not literary works but rather other, more clandestine goods.

Items such as illicit gene-altering drugs, exotic materials sourced from the black market, or perhaps even brokering services for underground Spirit Mediums.

However, when contrasted with those more overtly dangerous establishments, the most prevalent cover often involved illicit medical clinics.

Unlicensed practitioners, or individuals claiming the title of doctor, utilized such storefronts as a guise to treat individuals who feared or were unable to seek care at legitimate hospitals. The clientele typically consisted of petty criminals operating on the fringes of the black market, fugitive Spirit Mediums, or simply impoverished residents unable to afford standard hospital charges. The quality of care received was a matter of sheer chance; fatalities were frequent, and the deceased were often disposed of in the city’s subterranean sewer systems, their remains vanishing without a trace.

But having overslept this particular morning, Eric cast only a cursory glance before hastening to his factory shift. It wasn't until the evening, upon his return from the factory, his body weary from exertion, that Eric looked up at the sky and couldn't refrain from silently cursing his corpulent supervisor numerous times.

Factory operations were becoming increasingly demanding, yet wages remained stagnant. The end of the workday was perpetually pushed later and later.

Were it not for the existence of the Night, that portly overseer would undoubtedly compel everyone to toil until the stroke of midnight.

His mind a torrent of resentful thoughts, Eric ascended the stairs, his gaze once more drawn subconsciously towards the used bookstore.

In stark contrast to its appearance that morning, the shop now exuded an air of unexpected tidiness. The damaged windows had been repaired, the peeling walls plastered over, and the main door freshly repainted.

Eric paused at the entryway to the stairwell, a flicker of indecision crossing his features.

Ultimately, his burgeoning curiosity proved irresistible. He descended the stairs, traversed the damp, stone-paved road, and halted before the establishment.

Stepping inside, he entered a modest room spanning approximately twenty square meters.

Several rows of wooden bookshelves lined the walls, sparsely populated with ancient tomes. Their spines, severely worn with age, bore testament to their prolonged existence. In the room's center stood a table, illuminated by an oil lamp, with a pile of newspapers resting beside it.

Behind the table, a rocking chair was positioned.

An individual was reclined in the rocking chair.

A young man, likely around twenty-five or twenty-six years old, Eric's approximate age, was present.

His appearance was unremarkable, with dark hair, light gray eyes, and a worn, dark coat. Old, mud-splattered leather boots adorned his feet. In his hands, he casually held a book, turning its pages at a leisurely pace.

Upon noticing Eric at the entrance, he lifted his head, his expression calm, devoid of any strong warmth or coldness.

“Please, come in. Feel free to look around,” he stated.

His voice was soft and carried an air of casual indifference.

Eric entered the establishment, feigning interest as he browsed the shelves.

The presence of actual books was somewhat surprising to him.

These old volumes had yellowed, fragile pages, and the text was printed rather than handwritten.

The subjects seemed to be literature, history, and geography – not the “code books” or “cipher manuals” he had anticipated. However, this only solidified Eric’s suspicion that it was a clandestine clinic.

A legitimate used bookstore would not typically operate in such a location.

This desolate street and its alleyways were frequented by factory workers, dock laborers, and idle individuals without consistent employment.

Who would possess the disposable income to purchase books?

Who would even bother reading?

The sole reason Eric himself could read was due to his late mother, who had worked as a clerk in a textile factory and imparted some basic literacy to him.

In reality, a substantial eighty percent of those around him were unable to even properly sign their names.

Establishing a used bookstore in this particular area was akin to setting up a fishing supply shop in the middle of a desert.

Consequently, it had to be a front for a black clinic, with the bookshelves and antique books serving merely as a disguise.

Eric held this conviction with absolute certainty.

Nevertheless, he considered it a potentially advantageous discovery. Should he ever sustain an injury in the future, he could receive treatment nearby, which was preferable to seeking out a black clinic in a different district.

His eyes discreetly scanned the room's entirety, searching for any hidden doorway.

He then spotted an unassuming wooden door situated behind the bookshelves, through which a faint light seeped from the gap.

“What’s behind there?” Eric inquired, gesturing towards the door while attempting to sound nonchalant.

The young man in the rocking chair observed him, a slight curve forming at the corners of his lips.

The smile was subtle, offering no clear indication of his thoughts.

“A storage room,” he replied. “For old books. It's a bit damp and not really suitable for guests.”

Eric nodded, choosing not to press the matter further.

Whether it was a storage area or a clinic held no relevance to him.

He wasn't seeking medical attention, nor was he looking for trouble. His presence was driven purely by curiosity.

“Do you live here alone?” Eric inquired.

“Mhm.”

“This place has been vacant for years. Did the landlord finally agree to rent it out?”

The young man set down the book he was holding and reached for a teacup on the table, taking a sip.

His movements were unhurried, suggesting a profound lack of urgency in his demeanor.

Such a disposition seemed incongruous within this aged neighborhood.

“The landlord is a good person,” he said. “The rent is reasonable.”

Eric nodded once more, unsure of what else to contribute to the conversation.

He stood before a bookshelf, randomly selecting a volume and flipping through a couple of pages, yet comprehending none of the content.

He returned the book to its place and turned away, realizing he had no further reason to remain.

“Well… I should be going now,” he announced.

“Take care,” the young man offered no attempt to detain him. He didn't even rise from his seat, merely lifting a hand slightly in a gesture of farewell.

Eric exited the shop and stood on the damp, stone-paved road. He glanced back at the wooden sign that proclaimed “Used Bookstore.”

For reasons he couldn't pinpoint, a peculiar sensation washed over him.

The young man appeared entirely ordinary; his speech and attire were unremarkable, yet there existed an indefinable sense of incongruity.

It was akin to a piece of black stone being mixed within a heap of coal—similar in color and shape, but upon picking it up and feeling its weight, it felt decidedly off.

Shaking his head, Eric dismissed the feeling.

It was likely just his imagination at play.

Having resided in the old district for an extended period, one learned to curb excessive curiosity.

He ambled back along the stone-paved road towards his apartment building, ascended to the third floor, pushed open the door, and settled onto the edge of his bed.

The room was enveloped in profound silence.

The fog outside the window remained as dense as ever. In the distance, several thick black columns ascended from factory chimneys into the gray-white sky.

The bakery owner’s wife could be heard shouting from downstairs. Next door, a child’s sharp, piercing cries persisted.

Eric sat on his bed, his thoughts inexplicably drawn back to the image of the young man.

That individual, who was roughly his own age, had already established a business.

Despite it being a “used bookstore,” which was clearly a façade for something else, it was, nonetheless, a business establishment.

His own business and income were established; the rigorous schedule of a 5:30 AM factory start, twelve-hour shifts amidst roaring machinery, and returning home too fatigued to eat before collapsing into sleep, was no longer his reality.

And what of himself now?

Eric’s gaze fell to his own hands.

They were stubby and thick, his palms calloused, and the ingrained grime beneath his fingernails resisted all attempts at cleaning.

Twenty-six years he had lived, and eight of those years had been spent in the maintenance workshop of this very textile factory.

Machines had claimed his hands three times, breaking two fingers. Though surgically reattached, a persistent ache would surface on damp, rainy days.

He remembered his mother’s words from his youth.

“Eric, you must study. Only through study can you escape this place.”

At that time, his mother was still alive, employed as a factory clerk.

Her literacy and accounting skills afforded her a certain standing within the factory.

Each night, she’d dedicate herself to teaching him, meticulously tracing characters on scrap paper. Their shadows danced on the uneven wall, illuminated by the dim light of a kerosene lamp.

Then, she passed away.

A mechanical failure at the factory had ensnared her arm in the rollers. By the time she reached the hospital, it was tragically too late.

Eric was merely thirteen then.

His education ceased then and there.

Now, at twenty-six, he had amassed a modest sum from his eight years at the factory. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was something.

What if he pursued further learning… perhaps in medicine?

The very idea startled Eric.

Medicine? Him? A factory mechanic?

Yet, the young proprietor of the secondhand bookstore didn’t exactly project an image of a university graduate.

Furthermore, how many of the “doctors” operating illicit clinics in the older districts actually possessed valid licenses?

The majority were individuals who, after a brief apprenticeship with an established practitioner, acquired a smattering of superficial knowledge and then proceeded to treat patients.

Success saw their reputations grow; failure meant a discreet relocation and a new identity to start anew.

Could he, too, establish a similar practice if he acquired basic medical knowledge?

Leaning back against his headboard, Eric’s eyes traced a crack in the ceiling, running from the corner towards the window, as he seriously weighed this possibility.

He couldn’t ascertain if the young man at the bookstore was a legitimate doctor or a charlatan.

However, he was certain that no sort of clinic had ever existed on that particular street before.

The nearest proper hospital lay at the outskirts of the old district, a fifty-minute bus ride away, and its registration fees were prohibitively steep. A regular worker’s monthly earnings might barely cover a single consultation.

Establishing an affordable clinic within the old district, even an unlicensed one, would undoubtedly attract a substantial clientele.

Eric turned onto his side, burying his face in the pillow and drawing a deep breath.

The fabric held a faint, indelible scent of machine oil.

Save money first, he resolved.

Once sufficient funds were accumulated, he would seek out an experienced doctor willing to take an apprentice, dedicate two years to study, and then…

He would decide then.

Beyond the window, the sky over Mist Capital remained perpetually overcast, obscuring both the sun and any glimpse of the future.

Yet, at the very least, he now possessed a sense of purpose.

Within the confines of the secondhand bookstore, Jie Ming observed the retreating figure of the young man, a subtle curve gracing the corners of his lips.

An ordinary young man, indeed.

His physique was unremarkable, yet free from significant ailments. His gaze wasn't particularly sharp, but neither was it dull.

He appeared as nothing more than a typical individual striving for survival at the city’s lower echelons.

However, in Jie Ming’s perception, the young man’s soul blazed with an extraordinary brilliance compared to those around him.

“Born with high perception… In this world, such a gift is a double-edged sword.”

Jie Ming shifted his attention, retrieved the newspaper from the table, and settled back into the rocking chair.

His new identity had been meticulously arranged.

Four days prior, utilizing information gleaned from the minds of those four bandits, he had located several underground brokerages within the old district.

These brokers specialized in fraudulent identities, forged documents, and illicit transactions.

With sufficient capital, any arrangement was possible.

Truth be told, Jie Ming’s proficiency in soul-manipulating spells was not his strongest suit; when it came to souls, he excelled at direct alteration.

Nevertheless, the task hadn't proven overly taxing.

Jie Ming had merely initiated a “cooperative engagement.” Faced with an insurmountable disparity in power, the intelligent invariably opt for accord. He secured a complete set of authentic identity documents from one such broker.

Identification, age, residence, official birth records, financial statements… all details were integrated flawlessly, capable of passing any official scrutiny. He had acquired a substantial amount of currency from another dealer.

The "voluntary contributions" from those four individuals, alongside the "proactive backing" from the intermediaries, provided him with sufficient funds to establish himself in this city for an extended period.

Subsequently, he secured this residence.

Its location was undeniably advantageous.

Situated on the periphery of the older section, characterized by narrow lanes, densely packed dwellings, and a high turnover of residents.

The majority of the inhabitants were factory workers and dock laborers, departing early and returning late, generally disinterested in the affairs of their neighbors.

Furthermore, the dwelling had remained vacant for many years. The property owner was primarily interested in leasing it and did not demand a significant security deposit.

He established this "second-hand bookstore" on the ground floor.

His living quarters occupied the second story.

As for the subterranean level…

Jie Ming rose from his seat, opened the wooden door concealed behind the bookshelves, and descended a narrow flight of stairs.

The basement was not expansive but served its purpose adequately.

The foremost section had been converted into a modest infirmary.

It contained an examination table, a medical cabinet, and a set of basic surgical implements.

The cabinet stocked common pharmaceuticals of this realm: antibiotics, pain relievers, anesthetics…

A significant portion was sourced from the illicit market; a smaller fraction had been personally prepared by Jie Ming.

His medical expertise dwarfed the capabilities of the "physicians" of this world.

The knowledge of anatomy, biology, and pharmacology from the wizarding world, augmented by the cultivation world's arts of pill refinement, meridian theory, and the integration of essence, Qi, and spirit.

Combined, these elements rendered his medical proficiency utterly superior to any specialist in a conventional hospital.

Operating as a clandestine physician was more than sufficient.

Further within the infirmary lay what appeared to be an ordinary brick partition.

Jie Ming advanced directly towards it. The brick wall, seemingly solid and unbroken, shimmered like disturbed water.

Beyond it lay a separately enclosed space—his ad-hoc research facility.

It remained quite basic at this juncture.

A broad stone counter served as a workspace, complemented by a few fundamental analytical instruments retrieved from his internal dimension: an elemental microscope, an energy sensor, and tools for inscribing runes.

In a corner, materials acquired from the local marketplace were stacked—glassware, chemical compounds, and several peculiar "samples." These "specimens" were casually gathered during his journey to Mist Capital.

Several fragments from Hazard Grade Aberrations—insufficient to reconstruct entire beings, yet adequate for initial analyses of their inherent structural laws.

Jie Ming approached the workbench, selected an Aberration fragment encased in resin, and scrutinized it intently under the illumination.

The dark, grayish fragment gleamed with an oily sheen.