On the way home, Father suddenly asked Mu Yanxin, “Kid, what was that spell you used just now to get the repair kit from the trunk? I’ve never seen you use it before. Where did you learn it?”
Mu Yanxin hadn’t expected him to ask this question. He answered reflexively, without even thinking, “Invisible Hand. Isn’t that just a basic technique? Everyone can do it.”
His parents’ somewhat tense expressions relaxed a little. Father continued, “Everyone can do it? Are you saying your teacher taught you that back in the Initiate Sect?”
Only now did Mu Yanxin notice that her parents looked a bit off. This spell from her previous life might cause trouble in this world, but she had no choice but to bite the bullet and reply, “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Then there’s no problem.” Father let out a breath.
“I was worried you picked up some unlicensed black magic from the Dao Web again. If someone saw you using it outside, there’d be all sorts of trouble. But if it’s something taught in school, there’s no copyright issue.”
Mu Yanxin quickly identified two key points: first, that spells could be learned from the Dao Web; second, that this world had something called copyright. She asked, puzzled, “What kind of trouble?”
“If a sect or company discovers you using a technique they’ve registered for copyright, they’ll report you to the Inspector. If it’s proven, our family will have to pay a hefty fine.” Father explained.
Mu Yanxin was stunned by this. She roughly understood what copyright was now. The immortal brain was also showing him related information in real time.
In short, it meant a sect could register a technique with the Celestial Court to own the rights.
In her previous world, there was no such thing as copyright. Every sect hoarded their techniques, tightly restricting access.
Big sects would even plant prohibitions in their disciples’ minds to prevent their skills from being soul-searched by enemies. If anyone forcibly attempted a soul search, the disciple’s primordial spirit might self-destruct.
And if someone stole a sect’s technique, the sect would hunt the thief to the ends of the earth to prevent their secrets from leaking—lest disaster follow.
On the flip side, if a sect couldn’t reclaim their stolen technique, no one would stand up for them. The skill would simply become the property of whoever snatched it.
Afterward, whether that person practiced it, taught it to disciples, or even founded their own sect with it, no one would blame them—it was theirs by right of ability.
In reality, aside from core inheritance techniques, most of the methods passed down to ordinary disciples in many sects were collected from elsewhere.
The smaller sects, with little heritage of their own, would piece together a curriculum from whatever external techniques they could gather, calling it “comprehensive and all-encompassing.”
In short, among the five essentials for cultivating immortality—wealth, companions, techniques, land, and treasures—techniques ranked third, and were especially critical.
But this world was eye-opening. Once a technique was patented, its ownership was protected by the Celestial Court. Other sects or organizations were not allowed to privately teach it to their disciples.
Otherwise, the copyright-holding sect could sue the infringer in the Celestial Court, with damages often reaching hundreds of billions or even trillions of spirit stone. The numbers made Mu Yanxin gape in astonishment.
For ordinary cultivators, if they wanted to learn these techniques, they had to buy usage rights from the copyright-holding sect.
Practicing without purchasing rights, once discovered, would result in a fine—though not as severe as for sects or companies, usually ranging from tens of thousands to millions of spirit stone.
Upon seeing this, Mu Yanxin’s first reaction was: That’s it? Just a fine? Her second reaction: So in this world, anyone can buy the rights to practice a technique?
In her previous life, one could buy certain skills in shops or at auctions, but those were mostly techniques that cultivators had stumbled upon, practiced, or couldn’t use and then sold. Never had she heard of any sect openly selling its own techniques.
But when the immortal brain opened the Dao Web’s technique marketplace, Mu Yanxin fell silent as she scrolled through page after page of dazzling options—far more than in her past life, each one clearly priced.
Basic techniques, main cultivation methods, divine abilities, inner arts, body-refining techniques, sword forms, puppet arts—every type imaginable was on offer.
Even sinister demonic arts were openly sold, with detailed descriptions of cultivation requirements, such as consuming fresh human blood, dual cultivation, or practicing with living souls.
This meant that even an Itinerant Cultivator, as long as they had enough spirit stone, could buy a suitable technique on the Dao Web—there was no absolute need to join a sect.
So why had she gone through surgery to become a girl just to join the Spiritual Moon High Sect? Mu Yanxin couldn’t help thinking this way.
But after seeing that those techniques all cost tens or even hundreds of thousands of spirit stone, she understood. It was all about not having money.
Father went on, “I’m just reminding you. It’s not a big deal to learn some pirated techniques from the Dao Web, but don’t use them openly where people can see. If you get caught on camera, you’ll have to pay a fine. Best to find some techniques without copyright to practice.”
What were pirated techniques? And what were uncopyrighted techniques? Mu Yanxin was confused again.
She didn’t ask aloud, but continued searching the Dao Web via the immortal brain, and soon had her answer.
So-called pirated techniques were those not disseminated through official channels, practiced without paying a usage fee, often freely downloaded on many smaller sites.
If you weren’t discovered, nothing would happen, but if you were reported, you’d have to pay up.
According to the Dao Web, most sects, to prevent piracy, would use special encryption or build backdoors into their techniques.
For instance, without a sect master’s instruction, you couldn’t begin to learn, or would easily go astray and become possessed. Some techniques allowed the sect to sense when they were being used or even control those who practiced them.
There were also cultivators known as Crackers, who specialized in breaking these encryptions and backdoors, selling “cracked” or “study edition” techniques cheaply for profit. These were the most typical pirated techniques.
Uncopyrighted techniques were easier to understand: either their creators—be it a sect or individual—had perished long ago, or no one even knew who invented them, making them ownerless from the start.
There was another rule from the Celestial Court: if the copyright holder of a technique didn’t update it for over ten thousand years, the copyright would automatically expire, and anyone could practice it.
So, all in all, Itinerant Cultivators in this world could still find plenty of techniques to practice on the Dao Web without spending much spirit stone.
The only problem was the lack of a master for personal instruction, and the lingering risks from any unbroken backdoors or residual hazards.
But these risks of cultivating unknown techniques existed in Mu Yanxin’s previous life as well—some skills truly hid deadly traps within.