Can’t win.

Can’t run.

The only option is to obediently pay the ransom.

The only thing they could be thankful for was keeping their lives. As long as they paid the ransom, these Demon Cultivators would indeed let them go. Yet, many became more defiant with each setback. Every time they were released, they’d think they could finally win. They would secretly seek revenge on the Demon Cultivators, only to get ganged up on, beaten senseless, and thrown back into the mines.

This happened time and time again, and the ransom would multiply.

For example, the first time, you could leave by paying 1,000 low-grade spirit stones. The second time, it would cost 2,000 low-grade spirit stones, the third time 4,000, the fourth 8,000, and so on. The amount could also be paid using Mid-grade or top-grade spirit stones as an equivalent.

As for the Spirit Stones on the Cultivators at the time of their capture? Those were long gone. The moment a Cultivator fell into the hands of a Demon Cultivator, they were stripped of everything.

If the Demon Cultivators were in a good mood, they might leave you with a shirt. If they weren’t, you’d be stripped down to your underwear. They’d pluck a passing goose clean; in short, not a single thing would be left.

Therefore, the ransom had to be paid separately. You could notify your Sect, family, or friends. If no one came to ransom you, you’d be stuck mining for the next 800 years. Of course, the Bloodfiend Den was very "principled" in its business. You also had another option: death.

The Immortal and Demonic Paths had always been enemies, so violent conflict was unavoidable.

This shameless behavior from the Bloodfiend Den was scorned by those from the Immortal Sects, who felt they were utterly shameless and would stoop to any level just to make a profit. But the Demon Cultivators didn’t care. How could face be more important than Cultivation Resources? The Cultivators who fell into their hands during the conflicts had all been developed into long-term customers, providing an extra source of income that left them rolling in wealth.

In the South Mountain Mines.

Every day, some people left, and naturally, newcomers arrived to take their place.

Inside the mines that night.

Two Bloodfiend Den disciples dressed in black walked in from outside. They threw two Cultivators, who had been stripped down to their underwear, onto the ground. The two were only at the Foundation Establishment Stage and looked to be in their forties or fifties.

One look told you the two had been given a harsh lesson. Their faces were bruised and swollen, and they let out a pained groan as they hit the ground.

They looked furious.

"How dare you treat us like this! Our Sect will not let you get away with this."

"That’s right! You Demons are so brazen! You’ll get what’s coming to you sooner or later."

The moment the words left their mouths, someone stepped forward and kicked them into the opposite wall, from which they tumbled to the ground.

"Shut up! You’re already here, so stop your damn squawking."

The Bloodfiend Den disciple in charge of the mine pointed at them and sneered, "Now that you’re here, I don’t give a damn which Sect or Cultivator Noble House you’re from. If you want to live, get your asses to work until someone pays to get you out. Until then, you have only one identity: miner. If anyone dares cause trouble or refuses to cooperate, I can obliterate your Divine Soul right here and now. To this mining camp, two more or two less of you makes no difference at all."

As for human rights...

Sorry, they held the sole right of interpretation.

The other miners fell silent.

The thoughts of the other miners were all the same: ’Are there any miners in the world as pathetic as us? We don’t get paid, and we get beaten at a moment’s notice. How is this any different from being a slave? Good heavens... but when you’re under someone else’s roof, you have to bow your head. If they say we’re miners, then miners we are.’

The Demon Cultivator pointed at them. "You two, go get yourselves a Magic Artifact and get to digging. If either of you dares to slack off, don’t blame me for breaking your legs."

At that moment, one of the two Bloodfiend Den disciples who had brought the newcomers pointed at the two men on the floor.

"Zhang, make a note of this. These two are from some Immortal Noble House, sent down by the brothers from up above. Word is, they’ve been using the pretense of taking on disciples to trick underage girls in the Mortal Realm into practicing the Replenishing Skill with them. A couple of sanctimonious scumbags. I hate their kind more than anything. Make sure you ’welcome’ them properly."

Someone nearby spat on the ground.

"Right, and that ’third leg’ of theirs is useless, so go ahead and cut it off. They’ll mine here for the next eight hundred years until they die. No ransom allowed. And when they finally die, remember to wipe out their Primordial Spirits so they can’t even reincarnate. The bastards... trying to be more evil than us? Hmph. Did they ask for our permission first?"

The two men were terrified.

Before, they thought they could just pay the ransom and go home.

Hearing this, the two men’s eyes widened in horror.

"What? I thought we could leave if we paid the ransom!"

"Leave? In your dreams. Just stay here and wait to die."

’No, no, we can’t die here.’

Just hearing the words "mining for 800 years" was terrifying enough.

One of them spoke up, "My family is rich! How many Spirit Stones do you want? We can have someone send them over."

Hearing this, the foreman stepped forward and cracked his whip, sending the two men flying.

"Do we look like the kind of people who would abandon our principles for a few measly Spirit Stones?"

The other miners wanted to cry. ’Then let us go first!’

A moment later, the two newcomers were on the ground, screaming in agony as blood soaked through their underwear.

Their third legs were gone.

Jocelyn Grant saw this scene as she came over to hand in her half-basket of Spirit Stones.

She clenched her fists, her heart burning with rage.

’This is just how members of The Demonic Sects operate,’ she thought. ’These Bloodfiend Den Cultivators are so unbelievably cruel.’

"Foreman, these are the Spirit Stones I dug up tonight."

A disciple quickly took the basket from her.

Jocelyn Grant looked unwell.

She had been mining nonstop, day and night, for three straight months. She had no time to meditate or rest, and her body was starting to give out.

"I haven’t had a chance to meditate or rest in three months. Foreman, could you please let me rest for just one night?"

Hearing this, the foreman gave a sinister smile and glanced at her. "Rest? The higher-ups said you don’t get any rest. Don’t think I don’t know you want to break through your restraints, restore your Cultivation, and escape. Don’t even think about it. We’re always watching you. Now get back to work."

"Don’t even think about slacking off."

As he spoke, the foreman struck Jocelyn Grant with his whip.

Falling to the ground, her eyes burned with hatred.

’I’ve had enough.’

’I’ve really had enough.’

’Why?’

’Why do I have to suffer through all of this?’

And in that very instant...

She heard someone calling her name.

"Jocelyn."

"Jocelyn."

"My child, you have suffered."

At the same time, Jocelyn Grant’s form appeared in a strange space.

The space was wreathed in mist and brimming with celestial energy. The surrounding buildings were blurry, as if she could see them but not touch them.

"Who’s speaking? Where is this place?"

"Child, come here."

A voice was calling to her.

It was very gentle.

And the voice was somewhat familiar.

A possibility occurred to her.

Tears welled up in Jocelyn Grant’s eyes.

She had already guessed that the person might be her birth mother.