Pay-to-Win Cultivation: I Get 10,000x Returns

Chapter 218: Beautiful Women Probably Wouldn’t Lie

When Zhiyin made the introductions, she naturally omitted Zhang Xian and Xia Chengyan.

Very perceptive.

Wang Meng assessed the situation and understood the power dynamic instantly. The group before him possessed unfathomable strength—especially the woman in white, whose ethereal, fairy-like aura made his heart palpitate with instinctual fear.

With the Mustard Seed Sumeru Grand Array exposed, resistance was meaningless. He had no choice but to trust them.

He nodded gravely. “Everyone, please follow me.”

Wang Meng led them into the glowing circle at the bottom of the lake.

The scenery shifted instantly. They emerged into a pocket dimension barely three hundred meters wide. The edges of reality here were blurred and distorted, rippling like heat haze—a clear sign that the space was dangerously unstable. Inside, a cluster of crude shacks built from rough stone and timber huddled together.

Seeing Wang Meng return with strangers, figures began to emerge from the shadows.

There were about a dozen people in total. Most looked gaunt and sallow, their faces etched with the deep lines of long-term starvation and terror. Yet, beneath the exhaustion, their eyes held a flicker of curiosity.

Zhang Xian swept his gaze over them.

Their cultivation was pitifully low. Only two were at the early Golden Core stage; the rest were a mix of Foundation Establishment and Qi Refining weaklings. The majority were half-demons, with a scattering of human cultivators.

Based on Wang Meng’s earlier story, Zhang Xian knew the stronger ones were already dead—either killed scavenging for supplies or consumed by the [Hatred] until they turned on their own. Of the original hundred survivors, less than 30 remained.

His gaze quickly locked onto a figure hiding at the back of the crowd.

She was a half-demon girl who looked almost entirely human. The system interface hovered invisibly over her head: [Daughter of Destiny – Luck Score: 10].

Wang Meng gathered the survivors and explained the visitors’ origins.

“The vanguard from the Central Continent?”

A wave of gasps rippled through the crowd. Murmurs of disbelief turned into excited chatter, and eyes that had been dead for months suddenly kindled with the light of hope.

Zhiyin took the lead, explaining the origins of the Seven Emotions Evil Thoughts and the grim state of the war in the Western Region. Only then did Wang Meng and his people grasp the apocalyptic scale of the disaster they were facing.

“So…” Wang Meng hesitated. “Why did you come here?”

“We heard the legends of ‘The Drifting King’,” Zhiyin replied smoothly. “We know the Animal Crossing Association was founded by him. We came seeking clues—anything that might help us resolve the [Hatred] calamity.”

Wang Meng sighed. “To be precise, our sect’s founding matriarch was The Drifting King’s second wife. Unfortunately, by the time I joined, the Matriarch had long since passed away. Perhaps Supreme Elder Jiu knew some secrets, but he…”

He shook his head, his face darkening with grief.

Zhang Xian stepped forward. “Did your Matriarch, or The Drifting King himself, leave behind any artifacts? Ancient texts, maps of ruins, strange heirlooms? Anything at all.”

Wang Meng frowned, racking his brain, but came up empty.

Meanwhile, Lin Xiaozhu had been analyzing the environment since they arrived. She leaned in close to Zhang Xian, her voice low and serious.

“This pocket dimension is collapsing,” she whispered. “The internal laws are unraveling. It will completely implode within two months.”

Zhang Xian looked at her furrowed brow, then turned to the survivors. They looked at him with a heartbreaking mix of hope and terror.

He smiled.

“Tiger Master,” Zhang Xian said, his voice projecting calm authority. “Take your time thinking. There’s no rush. How about we get everyone out of this dump first? I have a better place for you to settle down.”

Wang Meng froze. “Leave? Settle where? The outside world is choked with evil energy. Besides myself, these people wouldn’t last an hour out there.”

Zhang Xian laughed. “Don’t worry. Just follow me.”

He turned and strode out of the light circle without waiting for an answer.

Lin Xiaozhu saw that familiar, confident smirk—the one that usually preceded a display of obscene wealth. She smiled at the hesitant tiger demon.

“Trust us, Master Tiger. He always has a way.”

Wang Meng didn’t trust Zhang Xian. But looking at Lin Xiaozhu… well, she was beautiful. And beautiful women probably wouldn’t lie.

Wang Meng and the survivors stepped out of the pocket dimension with trembling hearts, bracing themselves for the suffocating gloom of the ruins.

Instead, they froze.

Their jaws dropped. their eyes bulged. They stood petrified, utterly dumbstruck by the impossibility before them.

Above the ruins of their sect, a colossal green light screen had materialized, sealing off the entire area. The stench of blood and sulfur was gone, replaced by fresh, filtered air.

From the belly of the massive flying boat hovering above, a pillar of golden light beamed down like a celestial spotlight, illuminating a cleared plaza in the center of the wreckage.

And in that plaza, a scene was unfolding that made them question their sanity.

Dozens of fluid, high-grade puppets were moving with clockwork precision.

Some were manning cooking stations—frying, roasting, and searing spirit beasts. The rich, savory aroma of meat and spices drifted through the air, hitting the starving survivors like a physical blow.

Others were slicing rare spirit fruits, pressing them into crystal pitchers of glowing juice.

A third group was rolling out thick, luxurious carpets over the cracked earth, arranging carved mahogany tables, cushioned chairs, and silverware that gleamed under the magical lights.

There was even a troupe of puppet musicians playing a soothing, melodious tune, while others arranged vases of fresh flowers and lit sticks of expensive Spirit-Calming Incense.

The golden light pillar acted as a majestic elevator, with puppet waiters floating up and down, ferrying endless supplies from the ship’s vault.

This wasn’t an apocalyptic wasteland. This was a Michelin-star banquet thrown by a celestial emperor. The contrast with the surrounding death and decay was so absurd it felt like a hallucination.

Wang Meng and the survivors stood there, brains completely short-circuited.

Who am I? Where am I?

Zhang Xian stood by a table, elegantly pulling out a chair. He gestured to the stunned crowd with the casual grace of a host in his own backyard.

“I’ve prepared some simple wine and humble food,” he said with a smile. “I hope you won’t mind the meager spread.”

Wang Meng walked forward like a zombie, his legs moving on their own. He collapsed into a chair, his eyes glued to a massive steak of Spirit Beast meat sizzling on a nearby grill.

Sizzle.

Grease dripped onto the coals.

His Adam’s apple bobbed violently. He looked up at Zhang Xian, and for the first time, his eyes were devoid of suspicion. They were clear, focused, and filled with reverence.

“I want that,” Wang Meng rasped. “Ten pieces. Now.”

An hour later.

The survivors lay back in their chairs, faces glowing with the long-lost sensation of safety and satiety. The atmosphere had transformed from terrified tension to sleepy contentment.

Zhang Xian looked at Wang Meng, who was slumped in the seat of honor. “Master Tiger, care for another round?”

Wang Meng rubbed his distended belly. The meal hadn’t just filled his stomach; the rare medicinal herbs in the dishes had flooded his meridians, repairing the damage to his body and spirit.

“Brother Zhang,” Wang Meng said, his tone now completely respectful. “Your hospitality is unmatched. But I truly cannot eat another bite.”

He paused, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “Regarding the clues about The Drifting King… sigh. As you can see, he didn’t leave much behind. He didn’t stay with the Second Matriarch for very long.”

Suddenly, a human cultivator—a former Outer Sect Elder—stood up from a nearby table.

“Esteemed Immortals,” he said, bowing respectfully. “This disciple might know something.”

He led the group to a pile of salvaged items and rummaged through them before presenting a few relics.

First, a crude wooden board and two bowls of black and white stones.

Zhang Xian recognized it instantly: Go.

It confirmed his suspicion that The Drifting King was a fellow transmigrator.

Next was a carefully mounted piece of paper. The calligraphy was ugly, bordering on offensive, but the words were legible:

“East wind blows a thousand trees of flowers.”

Zhang Xian couldn’t help but smirk. He had plagiarized this exact poem back in the Great Liang Dynasty. It had been devastatingly effective, charming a pair of twin courtesans into a state of utter devotion.

Finally, the disciple held up a few pieces of fabric with strange textures and bold designs.

They looked suspiciously like silk stockings and a bikini.

Zhang Xian’s mouth twitched. It seems Senior Drifting King and the Second Matriarch had quite the adventurous private life.