Rebirth as a Demonic Cultivator: Starting with a Zombie Planet

Chapter 7: Look But Don’t Touch, Browse But Don’t Buy

The Haotai Hotel was a mere three kilometers from the Xiaorunfa Mall.

In the old world, it would have been a five-minute drive. But this was the apocalypse. The streets were a graveyard of rusted-out husks and shattered billboards. Navigating the urban ruins was less about driving and more about off-road survival.

It took their battered Wuling van two grueling hours to cover the distance.

*Screech.* The doors slid open. Zhao Hong vaulted out.

Three massive hounds bounded after him: Dahei, Dahuang, and Erhuang. These weren’t ordinary strays; they were his smartest, most vicious mutated trackers.

Zhao Hong swept his gaze across the plaza, his enhanced senses immediately picking up on the eerie atmosphere. It was too quiet. The familiar, guttural moans of Zombies were entirely absent. The only sound was the faint scratching of rats in the debris.

He had ventured into the hunting grounds of high-tier Zombies before, but he had never encountered a territory this desolate. This utterly dead.

“Sweep the perimeter,” Zhao Hong ordered, pointing at the mall’s entrance.

The three hounds let out low rumbles and darted inside through different access points. Minutes later, three distinct barks echoed from the cavernous interior.

Zhao Hong frowned. He had bred and butchered dogs long before the world ended; he knew every inflection of their barks. That specific pitch meant the area was completely clear. No threats.

“One of you stays with the van. You, with me,” Zhao Hong commanded casually.

A burly subordinate scrambled out, swallowing hard as he took point.

Their ascent to the fifth floor was completely unimpeded. But when Zhao Hong finally took in the scene, his heart hammered against his ribs.

Five years into the apocalypse, he thought he had seen every conceivable horror. He was wrong.

From the ground floor to the fifth, the mall was an abattoir. Dismembered chunks of Zombie flesh were scattered everywhere. It was the height of summer—the stench should have been unbearable, the air thick with blowflies. Yet, not a single insect dared to cross the threshold of the building.

The fifth floor was even worse. Several large bathtubs had been dragged into the open, their porcelain stained with a thick, coagulated layer of blackish-red sludge.

In a nearby corner slumped two withered, mummified Zombies. Their bodies were riddled with gaping, excavated holes. Bizarre, crimson vines had sprouted from the wounds, though the plants were now shriveled and dead.

It looked exactly as if the flora had parasitized the Zombies, draining every last drop of their essence.

Zhao Hong’s throat went dry.

“Boss… what do we do?” the burly man stammered, his legs visibly shaking.

“Are you cold?” Zhao Hong asked abruptly.

The subordinate shivered. “F-freezing. The temperature dropped the second we came up here.”

A primal dread coiled in Zhao Hong’s gut. It was over thirty degrees Celsius outside. To feel a bone-deep chill inside this concrete box… it defied all logic.

And in the apocalypse, defying logic meant death.

“We’re leaving,” he snapped, spinning on his heel.

He didn’t let out a breath until the van’s doors slammed shut behind him.

“You bring the gas?” Zhao Hong asked, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands and blowing a ragged smoke ring.

“Yeah, boss. Just say the word,” the two men nodded.

“Burn it down. The whole damn place. It’s cursed,” Zhao Hong said, his voice flat.

“Yes, boss!”

Moments later, thick, oily black smoke billowed into the sky above the Xiaorunfa Mall. As the flames roared, that unnatural, piercing cold finally seemed to recede.

Zhao Hong’s racing heart began to settle. He flicked his half-smoked cigarette out the window and leaned back. “Drive.”

The Wuling van roared to life, disappearing into the ruined streets.

…

Meanwhile, across the dimensional veil.

Cangxuan Continent, Yu Country. Outside Qinghe City.

Deep within a lush, ancient forest, the air suddenly rippled like water. In the blink of an eye, a figure materialized from the void, sending a flock of birds scattering into the canopy and startling the squirrels from the branches.

“I’m back.”

Chu Xuan took a deep breath, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. The air here was thick with Spiritual Qi—infinitely sweeter than the smog and rot of that dying planet.

His mind immediately shifted to a clinical checklist.

*First: Establish the time dilation ratio between the two worlds.*

*Second: Procure corpse refinement materials and a massive stockpile of spirit plant seeds.*

*Third: Locate the black markets run by the Wuji Sect, the Corpse Puppet Sect, or other Demonic Cultivators to purchase the blueprints for a Blood Transformation Great Array.*

Objectives set, Chu Xuan retrieved a pliable human skin mask from his robes. With a few practiced adjustments, the cold, calculating youth vanished, replaced by the rugged, scarred visage of a bald mercenary.

Disguise techniques might be mocked as parlor tricks by orthodox purists, but Chu Xuan had used them to slip the noose more times than he could count. Slipping into a new skin was as natural as breathing.

“If memory serves, there’s a canyon rich in Spiritual Qi about three hundred li south of Qinghe City. A local market operates there.”

He summoned a flying sword, stepping onto the blade as it shot southward.

It was a shoddy, Low Grade flying Magical Artifact. It maxed out at three hundred li an hour and burned through one small Spirit Stone every thousand li. He had bought it second-hand back in the Wuji Sect. It was painfully average in both speed and efficiency.

*Once I have the capital, replacing this piece of junk is a priority,* he mused.

An hour later, the canyon came into view.

“Taiping Market.”

Chu Xuan strode through the bustling entrance.

A thousand li further south lay the mountain gates of the Shengang Sect, one of the five great righteous Sects of Yu Country. Naturally, a behemoth like them didn’t stoop to managing a backwater market directly. Instead, it was run by their vassal families—clans founded by Shengang Sect disciples who had reached the Foundation Establishment stage but exhausted their potential.

These families acted as breeding grounds. Any child born with a spiritual root was immediately shipped off to the Shengang Sect, cementing the clan’s status and power.

Taiping Market was the territory of the Wu Family, overseen by a two-hundred-year-old Foundation Establishment patriarch. The clientele here were mostly bottom-feeders—early to mid-stage Qi Condensation cultivators. Late-stage cultivators rarely bothered showing up.

Chu Xuan had memorized this intelligence long before setting foot in the canyon. As a Demonic Cultivator—a walking target for every self-righteous hypocrite with a sword—wandering blindly into unknown territory was a fantastic way to end up as fertilizer.

Despite his shopping list, Chu Xuan didn’t immediately rush to the stalls.

Cultivators lived long lives, which gave them plenty of time to perfect the art of scamming. If a fresh face walked in and started buying up bulk supplies, they would bleed him dry.

He needed to blend in. For the first few days, his strategy was simple: window shopping. Look but don’t touch, browse but don’t buy.

He found a modest teahouse catering to cultivators, ordered a pot of cheap spirit tea, and settled into a corner booth. He sipped slowly, letting the ambient chatter wash over him.

Cultivators weren’t like loud, gossiping mortals. They spoke in hushed tones, and the paranoid ones even wrapped their conversations in sound-dampening Spiritual Qi. For an ordinary Qi Condensation cultivator, eavesdropping in a place like this was nearly impossible.

Fortunately, Chu Xuan wasn’t ordinary. Nestled deep within each of his ear canals was a Truth-Listening Bug.

These microscopic parasites fed on his Qi to drastically amplify his auditory senses. Through their subtle vibrations, the muffled, shielded whispers of the teahouse became crystal clear.

He leaned back, a faint, predatory smile hidden behind his teacup as he listened to seventy percent of the market’s secrets.