Chapter 33: The Great Contribution of the Denominator, a Bit of a Mishap

I drew a tube of blood before bed.

After a night’s sleep, Feng Mu had no way of knowing if his hematopoietic stem cells had worked themselves to the bone, but to be safe, he drew another tube. He did this to ensure that his morning consumption rate would not drop due to the body’s recovery process.

He ate breakfast and headed out.

He didn't spot anyone tailing him. Feng Mu didn't think much of it, though he felt a tinge of regret; he had actually wanted to use a tail to test out his [Crane Claw Technique]. His mind was filled with ten years of training memories, but since they were merely audio-visual, lacking the tactile reality of actual combat, it left him feeling restless—he had a burning urge to get his hands on a living person to test it out. It felt like someone who had spent ten years repeatedly practicing for the "three-year mock exams and five-year college entrance exams," writing until their pens were worn down, only to be waiting for the real exam to prove their score.

Passing by the 47th Middle School, the number of thugs questioning people at the school gate had plummeted. Feng Mu thought, "The list has been narrowed down to fifty people; there is certainly no need to cast a wide net anymore. They’ve upgraded to a one-on-one tracking package."

The morning passed without incident. He cremated three Disaster Corpses. His luck was average; no black cores dropped.

During lunch, Wang Jian told Feng Mu with great enthusiasm that he had gotten in touch with Luo Ji. As expected, Luo Ji had joined an advance team a few days ago to go down into a dungeon—or rather, to enter a Hidden Gate for reclamation. The expedition had not gone well. The world behind that Hidden Gate was shrouded in fog, causing all technological devices to fail. Most terrifyingly, the fog hid invisible dangers. In just one day, half the advance team was dead or injured.

Luo Ji was lucky enough to survive and retreat with the team. Although he hadn't made any discoveries or performed any heroic deeds, the rules of the advance team dictated that as long as one made it out of a Hidden Gate alive, they would receive a minimum merit point. The team called this a "Survivor Merit Point," or a "floor merit point"—it was worth one point.

Wang Jian said excitedly, "Luo Ji has a merit point now! I’m so jealous."

As "Blank Citizens"—waste generated by the human circulatory system as determined by the city’s operating system—Feng Mu and Wang Jian naturally only possessed one merit point. It was one, not zero, which symbolized the "humanity" of the city’s system. The birth of a genius required a massive population base; this was a merit point gifted to everyone at the moment of their birth. Blank citizens praised this as the "Great Denominator Merit." For 99% of blank citizens, it was the only merit point they would ever possess in their lives; after that, the merit account remained as motionless as if it were dead. Unless, like Luo Ji, one was willing to gamble with their life.

Wang Jian was happy for Luo Ji and full of envy: "As long as he goes down nine more times—no, wait, eight more times—Luo Ji will have enough to total ten merit points and be registered as an F-grade citizen."

Feng Mu finished his four bowls of organic synthetic meals and said coolly, "Half of the people die each time. The survival probability is 50%. The probability of surviving nine consecutive times is about two in a thousand."

Two in a thousand—only one-tenth the pass rate of the college entrance exam. If Luo Ji had that kind of luck, why bother risking his life in a Hidden Gate? He might as well just slit his throat and try to reincarnate into the Upper City.

Wang Jian’s expression collapsed instantly.

Feng Mu set down his chopsticks and added strictly, "Of course, this probability isn't absolute. If someone encounters a miracle inside the Hidden Gate, then two in a thousand is no longer two in a thousand for them."

No matter how naive Wang Jian was, he didn't believe Luo Ji could encounter a miracle. He sighed in frustration.

Feng Mu picked up his tray and left. He hadn't said the rest: if one truly encountered a miracle and managed to survive repeatedly, it might not necessarily be a good thing. After all, gaining a miracle often meant concealing it, and the people in the advance team weren't all fools.

In the afternoon, he cremated two more Disaster Corpses. His luck exploded; both yielded black cores. They went to Feng Mu, and Wang Jian pocketed 200 yuan. Feng Mu sometimes wondered why there were Disaster Corpses sent to be burned every single day—just how many people lived in District Nine anyway? A few a day didn't seem like much, but they came almost daily. Over time, that added up to at least a thousand Disaster Corpses a year. Compared to a population of several million, it didn't seem like much, but one had to realize that not just anyone could turn into a Disaster Corpse. The threshold for that was rumored to be quite high—at the very least, one had to be a martial artist of the third rank or above.

Thinking about it that way, the ratio was a bit horrifying.

"It feels like the water behind these Disaster Corpses runs deep, but for me, the more there are, the better." Feng Mu didn't care about the danger they posed to human survival; he only needed to be full. "Perhaps the black market merchants who collect black cores know something, but the less you know, the longer you live. I just want to know how many black cores they’ve hoarded, and if they can sell them to me in bulk."

Another day of work ended. Feng Mu stole some time to practice his forging exercises for four hours. [Consumption Rate] rose to 67.7%. If he pulled an all-nighter, he was confident he could push it to 75%. At this rate, the progress bar for a First-Tier Iron Eater would be filled in less than two days. He had to be proactive and plan for the next step.

He would likely reach [Second-Tier Iron Eater]. Regardless of whether there were new changes, he would at least gain a new consumption slot. When the time came, what kind of iron should he choose? Continue with pig iron, or move on to ten-fold forged iron, hundred-fold forged iron, or perhaps... fragments of the Yin-Evil Nine-Nether Disaster-Karma Resentment Iron?!!

In the end, it was the [Pig Iron: Embryo Shaping] trait that had stimulated Feng Mu. He had originally been willing to accumulate black cores slowly and wait, but now he was impatient. He felt that accumulating them day by day was too slow and wanted to find a more convenient method.

It was like before he absorbed the pig iron, Feng Mu had been a virgin, ignorant of the taste of women; he had had desires, but could hold them back. Absorbing the pig iron was like getting his first taste of the real world—the "first blood." Can someone who has tasted the fruit ever be the same as someone who hasn't? His desire had increased exponentially. It wasn't just about the simple things anymore; he yearned for his long-desired "white moonlight." And those fragments of the Yin-Evil Nine-Nether Disaster-Karma Resentment Iron were his white moonlight.

After clocking out and entering the apartment complex, he caught a glimpse of two suspicious figures not far from his building. One had yellow hair, the other red. When they saw Feng Mu glance over, they didn't hide, but instead glared back with fierce expressions, cigarettes dangling from their lips. Feng Mu averted his gaze, and the two thugs let out harsh, mocking laughs.

He locked his bike and went upstairs. Standing by his bedroom window, he pulled back the curtain to peek outside. The two thugs were squatting near a street vendor’s cart, not far from the entrance of his building. They were eating without paying while spitting on the ground and cursing.

"They aren't hiding; they’re squatting in plain sight. What is this supposed to uncover? No, it’s not to investigate a culprit. They’re using this method to exert psychological pressure on me and the others on the list?" Feng Mu pondered for a moment; he couldn't think of any other explanation.

He closed the curtains and swapped his SIM card. During the day, he usually used his own, only switching to the one used to contact Ma Wei after returning home at night.

*—Boss, Bin-ge has sent some capable lackeys to tail the people on the list.*

He had indeed received such a text message. Feng Mu deleted it without replying. He didn't feel any psychological pressure, but he did find it distasteful; it was affecting his appetite. And since the digestive tract was the organ most affected by emotions, the result was that his digestive rate slowed down slightly that night.

It wasn't until his scheduled bedtime that his [Consumption Rate] reached 73%. With a dark expression, Feng Mu pushed through for another two hours. When he went to bed at 06:00, the [Consumption Rate] finally reached 75%.

"Damn it all!"

Feng Mu closed his eyes to sleep. He didn't know how the others on the list would handle this situation, but he already had a clear answer in his heart.

Kill them all.