Spending a Fortune

Chuanren Airport.

At the end of the passenger corridor, the heating was pleasantly warm.

December in the Republic of Korea—its latitude similar to Beijing's, its temperature barely higher than Tianjin’s.

But the airport blasted heat like it cost nothing.

Lin Mo led the group, a backpack slung over his shoulders and a bag in his hand filled with unfinished snacks from the plane.

Visas had been handled in advance; customs barely glanced at their passports before stamping and waving them through. The whole process took less than thirty seconds.

Once out of the corridor, a crowd had already gathered around the baggage carousel.

National teams from various countries had arrived one after another, making the airport quite lively.

Lin Mo leaned against a pillar, eyes half-lidded, scanning the people around him.

A few members of the British team wore matching blue T-shirts, and an Asian-looking guy was reading a book, trailing behind the group.

One team was eerily quiet, standing in a neat line as they waited for their luggage, like they were heading to an execution ground.

“See that banner over there?”

Teacher Bai patted Lin Mo’s shoulder and tilted his chin to the right.

A massive red banner with white characters hung directly above the exit, featuring welcome slogans in English and Korean, with the inscription “International Mathematical Olympiad Organizing Committee” at the bottom drawn from the original Olympic context for adaptation.

Eight or nine staff members in gray uniforms stood beneath it, holding guide signs for each country.

Whoever hosts the competition is responsible for all reception, accommodation, and transportation—that’s the rule.

The Chinese team had a state-assigned interpreter, so they barely needed to deal with the Korean staff.

As the group left the passenger corridor, they all waited for their luggage at the carousel.

The interpreter was a woman in her early thirties, surname Zhou, with a pair of black-rimmed glasses. She was efficient, quickly coordinating with the liaison staff before signaling everyone to follow.

After grabbing their luggage, they exited the airport, boarded a shuttle, and headed straight for the station.

The train was a direct high-speed line to Seoul. The Koreans had put on a good show, reserving an entire car for them.

The car was spotless, and small bottles of water and snacks had been placed on the seats.

“Not bad service,” Wang Jie said, unscrewing a bottle of water and taking a sip. “The Koreans have their act together sometimes. ”

Several Korean staff members stood at the junction of the train cars, professional smiles fixed on their faces, answering questions readily with courteous attitudes.

At least on the surface, there was nothing to fault.

Lin Mo sat by the window, watching the scenery blur past.

The moment he stepped out of China’s borders, he felt it.

The blessing of the Ancestral Dragon was gone—the vast perception that blanketed an entire city vanished entirely, his divine sense pulling back sharply, shrinking to a mere hundred-kilometer radius.

The drop was jarring, like someone switching from a gigabit fiber connection to a rusty pipe.

But it was still sufficient.

After a forty-minute ride, the train pulled into Seoul Station.

The station was smaller than expected, but crowded.

Three minibuses were parked at the entrance, their sides plastered with the organizing committee’s logos. Staff guided each team aboard, everything orderly.

Twenty minutes later, the buses stopped in front of a hotel.

Four-star—the exterior wasn’t new, but it was decently maintained.

As Lin Mo stepped off the bus, he glanced at the hotel sign and then at the surrounding streets.

One hundred sixteen countries, six hundred fifteen contestants, plus the team leaders, coaches, interpreters, and support staff—the lodging costs alone were no small sum.

A four-star hotel meant the organizers were being thrifty.

The lobby buzzed with people and a cacophony of languages, like a United Nations meeting.

While Lin Mo waited at the front desk to check in, his gaze swept across a corner of the lobby.

Five people sat there on the sofas—three men, two women.

Their hairstyles were distinctive: the men favored shaggy mid-parts or textured perms; the women went for the air-bangs-and-wavy-locks combo.

Standard Korean aesthetic.

The five held coffee cups, pretending to chat, but their eyes kept drifting toward Lin Mo.

It wasn’t furtive—it was openly staring.

Lin Mo’s divine sense swept lightly over them.

Their cultivation levels were low, but the way their internal energy moved was unusual—clearly the product of artificial modification.

“Artificial spiritual roots,” Lin Mo concluded inwardly.

Completely different from natural spiritual roots. This was closer to plug-in hardware—limited performance and undoubtedly heavy side effects.

But turning out mass-produced superhumans? For Korea, the cost-benefit ratio wasn’t bad.

Dongfang Shuye— “Eastern Leaf” as known among the group—had quietly moved beside Lin Mo and lowered his voice. “Those are the Super Power Youth Group members. ”

“Mm. ”

“They’re probably here to keep an eye on you. Don’t worry about handling it—I’ll deal with the confrontation.”

Lin Mo took the room key card from the front desk, turned his head, and glanced at Dongfang Shuye.

“Fine. You handle the talking. But pass along one message for me. ”

“Which one?”

“Don’t mess with me. If you do, you die. ”

Dongfang Shuye paused, then ran those words through his mind, and nodded.

If it had been any other staff member from Yanhuang Awakening, they would've had a headache hearing something like that, thinking this kid was way too arrogant—was this really the right way to speak at a diplomatic event?

But Dongfang Shuye didn't see it that way.

Because he knew all too well how broken Lin Mo was.

No one could stop Lin Mo from doing anything. Even Director Long himself wasn't sure he could handle Lin Mo.

So this wasn't arrogance. It was a statement of fact.

Lin Mo picked up his luggage and stepped into the elevator.

The hotel had limited conditions: the accompanying teachers and staff stayed in double rooms, while the competitors got single rooms with a king-sized bed.

Eighth floor, Room 812.

The door swung open to a room of about twenty square meters. It had all the necessities, just a bit worn out.

Lin Mo set his luggage by the door, then stood in the center of the room, spreading his spiritual sense in every direction.

Twenty-six cameras.

Two above the bed, four in the ceiling, one hidden in the air-conditioning vent, two on top of the TV, three embedded in the curtain tracks, one in the desk lamp base, two modified smoke detectors, and the rest scattered in corners, behind picture frames, and inside outlet panels.

The bathroom was even worse.

Seven.

One above the toilet, one inside the shower head, two behind the vanity mirror, one in the exhaust fan, and the remaining two at both ends of the shower curtain rod.

The entire room was covered without a single blind spot.

Lin Mo also scanned the rooms of the other Chinese team members upstairs and downstairs. Same setup, not a single difference.

"They really went all out," Lin Mo muttered with a sneer.

The cameras were the latest models, expertly installed—definitely not part of the hotel's original security equipment. They had clearly been set up in advance by the South Korean side.

On the hotel's top floor, a room not open to guests had been converted into a temporary monitoring center.

Over a dozen screens were pieced together, three technicians sitting inside on duty, watching all the feeds in real time.

It was aimed only at the Chinese team, or rather, at Lin Mo alone.

He snapped his fingers.

The sound was soft.

But the moment that snap fell, every single camera in all the Chinese team's rooms, no matter where it was hidden, burned out completely.