"Buy it!" Jiu Zui roared, throwing a handful of the Sect Leader’s high-grade spirit stones at the bewildered vendor. "Buy two! We’ll use one as a planter!"

They moved to a stall selling highly illegal, venomous spirit-plants.

"Are those Ghost-Thread Chilies?!" Ji’an gasped, practically vibrating with excitement. "They say a single drop of oil from those chilies can paralyze a cultivator’s tongue for a week! If I dilute it by a factor of ten thousand, it’ll provide the perfect, numbing málà sensation for a Szechuan hot pot!"

"Take the whole bushel!" Jiu Zui cheered, paying triple the asking price just because he liked the color of the vendor’s hat.

Ji’an was in paradise. She was acquiring tools and ingredients that would have taken her decades of grinding sect missions to afford.

She got a set of self-sharpening knives forged from Wind-Rune Steel, a cutting board made from the petrified wood of a World Tree, which was naturally antibacterial and absorbed excess spiritual energy, and a bizarre, enchanted spice-grinder that automatically separated impurities from herbs.

"I am going to cook a meal that makes the Heavens weep," Ji’an declared, hugging her spatial ring tightly as they walked away from a stall selling pickled kraken tentacles.

"You better," Jiu Zui chuckled, taking a long drink from his gourd. "Because when the Sect Leader sees the accounting ledger for today, he’s going to weep blood. I’m pretty sure we just spent the equivalent of the Inner Sect’s annual defense budget on kitchen supplies."

"It’s an investment in your health, Master," Ji’an grinned, completely shameless. "You want that hangover soup every morning, right? Quality ingredients yield quality results."

As they walked, however, the atmosphere of the cavern began to shift.

The chaotic, bustling energy of the artifact vendors and the ingredient stalls began to thin out.

The lighting grew dimmer, the sickly green witch-fire lanterns replaced by harsh, magical spotlights that illuminated a massive, sunken fighting pit in the very center of the subterranean city.

The smell of rare herbs and ozone was abruptly overwhelmed by the thick, undeniable stench of sweat, despair, and unwashed bodies.

The heavy, rhythmic pounding of iron drums echoed through the cavern, drawing the attention of the surrounding crowds.

Rogue cultivators, masked mercenaries, and figures radiating dark, demonic Qi began to push forward, forming a massive, eager ring around the sunken pit.

Ji’an frowned, her cheerful demeanor evaporating. "Master, what’s going on? Is there a gladiatorial match?"

Jiu Zui’s playful, drunken smile vanished. His jaw tightened, and he instinctively stepped slightly in front of Ji’an, shielding her.

"We’re leaving, kid," Jiu Zui said, his voice unusually harsh. "The item auctions are over. The livestock market is opening."

Ji’an stopped. The blood drained from her face as the implication of the words hit her. "Livestock? You mean... beasts?"

"I mean people, Ji’an," Jiu Zui stated grimly, turning her away from the pit. "Slaves, war captives, mortals with rare constitutions are abducted from the lower realms. Demi-humans. It’s the ugliest part of the Black Market. The Celestial Sword Sect pretends it doesn’t exist because the trade routes are too lucrative to shut down. It’s not something you need to see."

Ji’an felt a sudden, visceral wave of nausea.

She had read the novel. She knew "The Saint’s Harem" was set in a brutal, unforgiving Xianxia world where strength dictated morality.

She had known slave trading existed in the lore; Xiao Yichen himself owned several high-level mortal slaves in the original text.

But reading about it in a web novel while eating takeout in her apartment was vastly different from smelling the fear of the captives just fifty yards away.

’This world is disgusting,’ Ji’an thought, her modern sensibilities violently clashing with the grim reality of her transmigration.

She turned to follow her Master, eager to escape the suffocating despair radiating from the pit. She didn’t want to be a hero. She was a chef.

She was just trying to survive the plot, avoid the yandere Love Interests, and cook good food. She couldn’t save everyone in a broken world.

But as she took her first step away, a voice boomed from the center of the pit, amplified by a magical array.

"Welcome, esteemed masters of the dark arts!" a sleazy, corpulent auctioneer bellowed, standing on a raised stone platform. "Today, we have a truly exquisite selection of cultivation vessels, blood-slaves, and furnace candidates! Let us begin with our first premium lot!"

There was the loud, metallic clank of heavy iron chains.

"A rare specimen from the Mortal Empires!" the auctioneer announced, pacing the stage as heavily armored guards dragged a figure up from the subterranean holding cells. "A young boy, barely thirteen! But do not let his age fool you! He possesses the Iron-Marrow Physique, perfect for those of you practicing blood-refinement arts! His vitality will sustain your arrays for months!"

Ji’an squeezed her eyes shut, pulling her hood down lower. ’Don’t look. Keep walking. You can’t fix the world, Lin Ji’an.’

"Furthermore," the auctioneer laughed, yanking the heavy iron collar attached to the boy’s neck, forcing him to his knees under the harsh magical spotlights. "He comes with a pedigree! A runaway noble! The legitimate, youngest heir to the Lin General’s Estate of the Azure Mortal Empire!" 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

Ji’an froze.

Her heart stopped beating for a full three seconds. The ambient noise of the cavern, the drums, the cheering crowd, the auctioneer’s voice, faded into a high-pitched, ringing static in her ears.

’The Lin General’s Estate...’

Wait, what?

That was her estate. That was the home of the original host. The original Lin Ji’an had disguised herself as a boy and run to the Celestial Sword Sect, leaving behind her entire mortal life.

Ji’an slowly, mechanically turned her head. She pushed past Jiu Zui, ignoring his warning hiss, and stepped up to the very edge of the stone railing overlooking the sunken pit.

She looked down at the stage.

Kneeling on the cold stone, fighting furiously against the heavy iron chains binding his wrists, was a young boy.