And then a notification popped up from his System.

The transmigrator’s eyes widened in shock as he read the message.

“What?” The transmigrator murmured, swiping the notification aside. It was probably some new feature of his System - the next step in his endless progression into godhood. He’d deal with it later. “Now, as I was saying-”

The transmigrator angrily swiped it aside - now was not the time for this - but another two messages popped up on the System.

The transmigrator swiped both of them aside, but then another came, and another, and another.

Eventually they stopped coming one or two at a time and came en masse, dozens of them appearing simultaneously. They crowded his field of view, blocked out his System functions, beeping incessantly as they clamoured for his attention. 

The transmigrator shrank back and then fell onto the floor, the blue boxes covering everything he could see, or hear, or even feel as the boxes began pressing against his skin.

Hong had watched impassively the entire time, unmoving, as the transmigrator began to sweat, waving his hands about madly before toppling over with a single scream. Now he began to walk forwards slowly, his pose as still as a statue and his face blank, until he was standing over top of the transmigrator.

The tranmsigrator couldn’t see Hong - there was nothing before him but blue boxes, endless blue boxes, a maddening host from beyond the bounds of Hell - but he could hear Hong approaching, and quailed as he lay there helplessly.

The transmigrator tried to say something, but every sound he made was interpreted by the boxes as a response, and they beeped insistently or switched pages when he made so much as a ‘wha’ sound. He wanted to ask why, exactly, such a powerful transmigrator had decided to descend from the high places to battle against the Flaming Bloody Organs Sect, but even one wheezed out ‘are’ from his mouth was picked up by the endless notifications.

Hong leaned down into a squat. “If you must know, it’s the Nigerian Prince Secret Scam Arts. The ultimate defence against Devourer transmigrators.”

Hong gave the transmigrator an opportunity to speak, but he couldn’t. He could barely wheeze, as the scam alerts eyed him hungrily.

“It masquerades in the cultivator as a technique which is superior to all other techniques - the Thunderous Heavens Annihilation Art, in this case - acting as a lure to convince the transmigrator to steal it. Then it downloads itself into the transmigrator’s body, and uploads a ‘computer virus,’ I believe you call it, which overrides the System. Even if I let you live, you would never be able to use Cheat Skills again.”

The transmigrator’s wheezing reached a critical pitch, and the scams picked up on it. Interpreting it as a command they auto-accepted themselves, transmitting his personal information and beginning to ‘transfer his money.’

“Then, of course, the viruses take action, causing a critical systems failure. But you already know that.”

The transmigrator had stopped wheezing.

Xian coughed politely, drawing Hong’s attention. “Begging your attention, great one, but speaking of the Nigerian Prince Secret Scam Arts - is there any chance I could convince you to make me a copy? You would be doing the Mystic Lima Bean Sect a wonderful service - we’ve been looking for it for years now, and I’m certain that the sect elders would pay you handsomely.”

“There’s no need to pay,” Hong grunted, “it would be a service to mankind to give you a copy - and Yuan, too. The more who have it the better.”
The transmigrator finally expired. A bag of money squeezed itself out of his jacket, flying into the air. It vanished with a flash.

“The technique always ends that way,” Hong muttered, “never quite understood why.”

***

A sack of money fell from the sky, landing with a clink on the money pile. It rolled slowly down the slope of coins, stopping with a thud at the base of the hill. One of the State Money Counters grabbed the bag and took it to his station, where it would be counted, tagged, recorded, and taken to the state coffers.

Olu, Crown Prince of New Nigeria, watched this happen as he took a long, loud sip of his cocktail. He smiled and adjusted his sunglasses, leaning back in his lounge chair. Life was good.

His ministers had been astounded when he’d told them that not only could he scam the entire cultivation world, he could convince them to scam themselves and make money in the process - enough money to sustain their entire country.

They hadn’t believed him. They’d politely called him mad, and indicated that the idea was the stupidest they’d ever heard. They’d laughed and laughed.

They were still laughing.

Laughing as they swam through their massive piles of money.

In a mere thirty years, they’d turned New Nigeria from a rural backwater to one of the wealthiest nations on the southern continent. Prince Olu had used his millions to invest in cultivation technology, building up the infrastructure of the country until much of the nation’s farming was automated, everyone had access to public baths, and his people could attend the finest schools (learning the language and basic maths, and then going to do more useful things with their time like cultivate or bake cookies).

Moreover, he’d done it all without angering a single nation. Quite to the contrary, he was feted across the globe and his cultivators were considered the paragon of good conduct. They could go where they willed and reliably expect to be greeted with respect and shown the highest in hospitality.

Sure, they’d had complaints. A massive league of Devourers had invaded the country some years back, vowing to end the Nigerian Prince Technique. The battle had been fierce, and his country had nearly fallen. He grimaced as he recalled the disaster. 

If it hadn’t been for the timely intervention of his allies in the Air Duct Cleaning Sect and the Phishing Scam Sect they would likely have been defeated outright. Even then it had been a close call.

Plenty of other transmigrators had filed written complaints, but Olu had no mercy. So far as he was concerned, it was a betrayal of the purpose for which God had placed them on this beautiful planet, were they to abuse the locals. God had placed them here for others, not for themselves.

Olu, Crown Prince of New Nigeria and transverser, motioned to his serving lady to bring him another cocktail.

***

“Well, that’s the end of that,” Hong declared in a monotonous drawl, “we should go find Mu. I felt the essence of the other four transmigrators snuff out, so he’s probably fine, but knowing him he’s gotten himself lost in a hole somewhere. Then we can take stock of our situation and see if we can’t find the creators of this formation, and convince them to disable it.”

(‘And give me the secret to indestructible noodle shops,’ Hong didn’t add.)

Tucking his arms back into his sleeves he continued on, gingerly stepping over the corpses. Xian skipped merrily after him, with Yuan in hot pursuit. The strange golden formation appeared over Hong’s eyes again, as he gazed through the rock in search of his erstwhile apprentice.

The tunnels ahead continued to branch off, curving gently upwards. Strands of loose mist occasionally poured down, and in the far distance could be heard the familiar and strangely comfortable sounds of the apparitions.

After a while Yuan coughed, drawing Hong and Xian’s attention. He’d been thinking of what to say for a while now, and while he was sure he would mess up no matter what he said he had decided to take the plunge. “Excuse me, master, but if I could bother you… you used a lot of strange words just now, about devourers and flesh wearers and whatnot. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with these terms - could you please explain them?”

Hong stroked his wisp of a beard, a weird look in his eyes. “Tell you what devourers and flesh wearers are? Interesting choice of question. Normally, everyone knows what those are.”