Chapter 12: Chapter 12: Hired a Water Army?
To Song Jiulai, this was no less than a bolt from the blue.
After all, even back on Blue Star, her salary hadn’t even been high enough to be taxed.
It was a tragedy that would make men fall silent and women shed tears.
Besides, "The Ten Thousand Immortals Sect is so rich, and they still collect money?"
A Wu looked a little puzzled, but replied as if it were common sense, "Sect Master, even though you’re new, you need to understand that the very land we’re standing on belongs to the Ten Thousand Immortals Sect. On their territory, Loose Cultivators and Demon Cultivators of all kinds don’t dare approach lightly. Of course we have to pay taxes."
The moment A Wu said that, Song Jiulai understood.
Fuck!
’They can call it whatever they want, but isn’t this just paying protection money?’
A Wu told Song Jiulai that the tax rules here were based on a head count.
Previously, with only A Wu in the Sect, the tax was low. But now, there were fifty more people.
The Ten Thousand Immortals Sect didn’t care who these fifty people were; the tax was based on the highest cultivation Level in the Sect.
If there was a Foundation Establishment Stage cultivator, the tax was twenty low-grade spirit stones per person.
If there was a Golden Core Stage cultivator, it would be fifty low-grade spirit stones per person.
The higher the realm, the higher the tax.
This was because High Level Cultivators had decent earning potential—’Decent my ass!’
’Aren’t you going to consider the fact that aside from that one Foundation Establishment cultivator, everyone else is in the Qi Refinement Realm?’
’And now there isn’t even a Foundation Establishment cultivator! With only a Qi Refinement Realm Sect Master like her, how could they still tax them at the Foundation Establishment rate?!’
’Is there no law? Is there no justice in this world?!’
Song Jiulai looked at A Wu earnestly. "What do you think will happen to us if we don’t pay the tax?"
A Wu gave Song Jiulai a worried glance. "Sect Master, when the previous Sect Master established the Longevity Sect, our sect tablet was registered with the Ten Thousand Immortals Sect. Even if you wanted to run now, it’s too late. You could leave, but if the tax isn’t paid, they’ll send at least a Golden Core Stage cultivator to hunt you down..."
Song Jiulai was speechless. "..."
’What’s the difference between that and having a missile sent after you?’
’It’s just unpaid taxes, do they have to be so cruel?!’
Staring at the last four Mid-grade Spirit Stones in her Jiezidai, Song Jiulai felt like the sky was falling.
She needed these Spirit Stones as a capital reserve for the players. After all, it would cost money for A Wu to open up several dozen more plots of land to plant Spirit Grass.
Next month, not only did she have to earn enough for living expenses, but she also had to make ten Mid-grade Spirit Stones for taxes.
Since it had come to this... she could only rely on the players!
’The players will definitely find a way to make money. I’ll provide them with housing and the game itself; I’m fronting the costs for the mental methods, inner cores, and Spirit Grass in the early stages.’
’Once they make money, I’ll just take a thirty percent tax.’
The System clicked its tongue. "You don’t even know how to be a capitalist? You’ve already given them the most important thing: you opened their Spirit Roots. So what if you made them hand over all their money?"
From this, it was clear that the System was the genuine Zhou Bapi.
’Even selling someone off to work in a coal mine isn’t this heartless.’
"That would just crush their motivation. Who plays a game just to do free labor for someone else? They don’t even see numerical rewards, and they have to put in the effort to cultivate themselves. If I take a smaller cut, they’ll work harder to earn money, and the more they earn, the more I get. For now, this is just a temporary tax rate. The early stage is too tight on funds, so I have no choice. Later, I’ll definitely implement a tax threshold. I’m just planning to copy the one from Blue Star."
It would be foolish not to copy a well-established system. The wisdom of an entire country was greater than her own.
For the players, there were no microtransaction channels. If they didn’t find ways to work hard and earn money, they wouldn’t even survive until the game’s "official launch."
If all or most of their earnings were taken, who would even bother trying?
No matter how fun a game is, it still has to follow basic principles. Even with the most predatory monetization, some players would hold their noses and keep playing, but there was no need for that.
What she wanted was for the players to help her build the Sect up, to make it bigger and stronger.
Besides, when it came to something like Spirit Stones, the more the Sect had, the better.
Cultivating in a place with dense Spiritual Energy was much faster than elsewhere.
As the saying goes, it doesn’t matter if your talent isn’t high; being born into the right family is the ultimate trump card!
Song Jiulai immediately started writing on a small blackboard so the players could pick up tasks on their own.
The Longevity Sect’s main source of income right now was growing and selling Spirit Grass. Each player would be assigned two plots of land as a starter task.
Song Jiulai also wanted to buy a Pill Furnace to practice, but a regular one cost five Mid-grade Spirit Stones. And if her skills weren’t up to snuff—it was guaranteed to explode.
Poor. She was poor in every sense of the word.
So poor that tears streamed down Song Jiulai’s face as she cultivated.
*
「Blue Star time, 11:00 PM.」
The players chattered amongst themselves for a long time, eventually figuring out that the ones with the best talent were Jiang Ya and Chen Miaomiao.
Their time was the longest, a whopping three hours!
The female pro named Chen Miaomiao was the player who had discussed the possibility of improving and upgrading Spirit Grass cultivation with Zhou Xiao.
Judging by how eloquently she spoke, she was definitely a top student.
Without a doubt, those two were in the top tier.
Unexpectedly, the female player with the ID Mu Qiu—the one A Wu had complained about, the only one who hadn’t customized her avatar—had the second-best talent at two hours and fifty-five minutes.
After those three, the one with the highest talent was Han Tian.
The only others who exceeded two hours were him and Zhou Nvzi; surprisingly, everyone else was under the two-hour mark.
Han Tian figured that Jiang Ya, Chen Miaomiao, and Mu Qiu all belonged to an even higher talent bracket.
’The times are all differentiated by five-minute intervals, which must mean that every five minutes represents a small gap in talent.’
’And crossing the hour mark is a major tier difference.’
It’s human nature to be competitive. Realizing he was several small tiers below others, Han Tian felt a bit conflicted.
But then he thought about it. In games, he’d never been a "lucky king," so it wasn’t strange for there to be this kind of difference.
He was already better than over forty other people in the group chat.
The players with times over an hour were all pretty cheerful, readily calling Jiang Ya, Chen Miaomiao, and the others "pros."
Jiang Ya wasn’t very talkative. Chen Miaomiao was good-natured and would answer anyone who asked her a question.
Mu Qiu was also on the quiet side.
Because there were several girls in the group chat, the male players weren’t as wild in their speech as they usually were in other games.
Right now, everyone’s main focus was the game itself.
Despite the lively discussion in the group chat, they were also being constantly harassed in private messages that night.
It was mainly from those who hadn’t gotten to play, all of whom thought their reactions were too strange.
They were all sending messages, asking what the game was really like. They had to at least say whether it was fun or not.
The answer they got every time was: "The most badass game ever, man. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t play."
Especially the reviewer: "I’ll have to thank my brothers and sisters for the rest of my life. If they hadn’t pushed me, abandoning this game for a lobster dinner would have been the biggest regret of my life!"
And then?
Where were the screenshots? The screen recordings? What was the plot like?
You guys haven’t said a single thing about it!
The more it was like this, the more everyone’s curiosity was piqued. They all wanted to know just how much money this game company, which dared to call its game "virtual reality," had spent to hire so many shills.
It wasn’t until Jing Bao Tian, while waiting to get back in the game, posted a thread.
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