Dao of Money

Chen Ren moved through the sect building with quick, near-silent steps.

He had left Zi Wen behind after seeing the smoke coming from the alchemy workshop, telling him that it must be something there exploding and not an attack, but panic still plagued his insides. What if one of the mortals had sneaked into the workshop? The thought clenched his jaw. Had they activated one of the defensive arrays he had planted by accident? That would be troublesome—but even worse, what if the arrays had damaged the herbs Zi Wen had been painstakingly gathering? Some were rare that couldn’t be easily replaced.

He took the final turn that led straight to the workshop. The thick scent of smoke greeted him before he even opened the door.

When he opened it, he froze on the spot.

Inside, smoke curled out from the lip of his alchemy cauldron, lazily drifting through the open window. And he looked around, taking the nervous stances of unexpected people inside.

Anji stood to the side of the cauldron, her long robes speckled with soot. Her arm was raised, fingers wrapped around something he couldn’t quite make out at first. Then he saw it—the head, Wang Jun. She held it by the chin like a strange relic, her eyes narrowed, trying to look through the smoke.

On the opposite end of the room stood Qing He. Wisps of qi flickered around her fingers like threads tugged from her core, but they dimmed as she glanced toward him. Her eyes wide with surprise.

For a moment, all Chen Ren could do was stand there, one hand still on the doorframe, trying to make sense of the scene. Of the people in it.

Anji and the head were supposed to be in seclusion, working on their soul cultivation. Qing He? She should’ve been drinking bitter tea somewhere in the outer courtyard or working with Feiyu on gunpowder, not standing in his alchemy room like a child caught mid-theft.

Their gathering felt wrong, in every way and form. His voice, when it came, rumbled from his throat like a rolling stone.“What is going on here?” he snapped. “Are you trying to destroy the only cauldron I have?”

Qing He lifted her chin, brushing a stray lock behind her ear. “I remember giving you that one.”

Chen Ren narrowed his eyes. “And I remember you gifting it to me. That usually means the item belongs to the receiver.”

Qing He gave a slow shake of her head, lips twitching into a familiar smirk—the kind she used when trying to be both infuriating and evasive. Chen Ren exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting to Anji, then to the old man in her hands.

The head licked his lips in desperation. “We were… trying to make a Stormbite pill.”

Chen Ren stared at him in silence. Then at the cauldron. Then back at the trio.

It wasn’t rage he felt—it was something worse. That slow, creeping certainty that he should have put more arrays around the workshop. Though, he doubted whether any amount of arrays would be enough to hold back Qing He.

The head let out a dry chuckle and gestured at the cauldron, where the smoke had begun to fade but the smell lingered.

“As you can see,” he said, “it didn’t go well.”

Chen Ren crossed his arms, one brow arching upward with slow, pointed disbelief. “Stormbite pill?”

“Yes,” Wang Jun replied. “You might not know about it. It’s actually a pill composed entirely of qi—no herbs, no earthly ingredients. Just the fusion of multiple aspected energies, shaped and sealed by the alchemist’s control alone. It was quite common back in my day… though it seems most modern alchemists have forgotten the art.”

Chen Ren blinked, slowly processing that. He could believe that part; the man often spoke of techniques long buried by time or discarded for easier, more cost-effective methods.

“What does it do?” he asked.

The old head’s lips curved into a grin. “It tastes good.”

It… tastes good? Is he serious? Chen Ren couldn’t help but stare at Wang Jun. “That’s it? You nearly blew up my only cauldron… for flavoured qi?”

The head scoffed, as if the insult wounded him more than an actual strike. “Do you think that’s nothing? I… I can’t consume food anymore. I survive on qi alone—but the qi in the air, the qi in the earth, even the qi that escapes your body from time to time, it’s fucking bland. It’s not condensed enough here. Do you know what it’s like to never experience flavor again?”

Chen Ren opened his mouth, but Wang Jun continued.

“All I wanted was a little taste. But this woman—” he jabbed his tongue out in Qing He’s direction “—couldn’t even control the arrays properly.”

Qing He’s arms were already folded, but now her eyes narrowed, the flicker of qi that still lingered on her fingertips dimming with irritation.

“You should have explained it better,” she snapped. “How was I supposed to know a wind-aspected gathering array would go unstable the moment it mixed with my qi? You said to channel it—you didn’t say to filter it. And if I hadn’t contained most of the backlash, you’d be nothing but ash next to your disciple.”

That last part made Chen Ren’s brow twitch.

Wang Jun didn’t respond immediately. The light behind his eyes seemed to withdraw. Chen Ren recognized that look. It was the same expression he wore whenever he was reminded that this form was a cage more than a vessel. He couldn’t answer because deep down, he knew she was right—and he hated it.

Qing He noticed the silence too. Her expression softened slightly, and she looked away with a faint huff, as if her own words had left a bitter taste behind.

When they had first met, she treated the head like an artifact—an animated relic she could poke and prod for forgotten knowledge. But the more they had spoken, the more she had listened, the more that had changed. Now, they spoke as peers. Friends, even.

At least sort of friends, Chen Ren thought, watching the two in silence.

Qing He and the head didn’t continue their argument—not fully. The sharp retorts faded, and though they were clearly irritated with each other, they didn’t let it erupt into something worse. That, in itself, said more about their relationship than any apology might’ve.

Thankfully, the silence stretched a bit more, giving Chen Ren space to step further in. His eyes finally landed on his cauldron.

Due to the heat that curled around it, he had to move cautiously. The thick bronze surface had blackened in places, scorched at the rim. And to his surprise, there were no cracks or structural damage. Everything was still intact.

It would hold—at least for now.

But what caught his eye wasn’t the damage. It was the inside. They’d drawn faint lines across the inner belly of the cauldron. He traced one with a finger. He didn’t touch, but hovered near enough to feel it. He felt the wind qi moving alongside the symbols.

These were [Wind qi gathering arrays]. He could see how they’d spiraled inward, concentrating the ambient qi into a focal point… and how it had likely spiraled out of control when touched by another’s will.

Chen Ren frowned. Alchemy cauldrons usually had arrays—yes—but heating arrays. Ones that controlled the smokeless flames beneath the metal, or helped circulate qi to properly mix with herbs.

Gathering arrays for cauldrons were rare, at least at low levels.

He’d heard of more advanced cauldrons used by Established and Guardian sects and wealthy clans. Cauldrons that didn’t just assist but amplified the qi infusion process. Some even refined the desired effect during the process. But those were luxuries. Things bought by master alchemists who could afford to spend enough. But now, he found himself staring at the possibility.

Could this kind of structure be incorporated? Could arrays like these stabilize the pill-making process? Maybe not this chaotic wind one, but something simple. For a moment, he fell into deep thought. Unconsciously he rubbed his chin.

Then his eyes flicked to Wang Jun.

“How exactly is the Stormbite pill made?”

Wang Jun looked at him, almost pleased by the question, like a teacher being glad that the student was finally curious.

“Good question… You gather different aspected qis—fire, wind, water, earth, whatever blend you’re craving,” he said. “Then, using your own qi as the core binding force, you swirl them together—slowly. Tightly. Think of it like spinning threads into a tight knot while keeping them from unraveling.”

He looked at the cauldron for a moment.

“Arrays help gather the qi from the air. Simple ones, if you’re lazy. Complex ones, if you care about flavor. But really, it’s just a ball of condensed qi with too many elements in one space. Unstable as hell. One mistake—boom.”

“And you got Qing He to make something like this in my workshop.”

“Oh yes.” The head’s grin turned nostalgic, completely ignoring his words. “In combat, some cultivators used to toss them like spirit grenades. But most lost their heads—literally—before they could make a proper throw. Too volatile.” He sighed, wistful. “But someone with control, like me…? I could hold it steady. Sip it. Taste the essence in layers. Fire first. Then the crackle of lightning. The sweetness of water qi right after. It feels a bit stingy on the tongue, but that flavour is just what I need right now. A proper spiritual drink for the living. Or in my case half-living.”

Chen Ren didn’t respond immediately. He just stared at the man. He was serious. All of that… for flavor.

Wang Jun paused and his eyes flicked to Qing He.

“Of course, someone isn’t nearly as skilled as she thinks she is.”

Qing He huffed and continued to mutter something under her breath.

He ignored both their jabs and the tail-end of Wang Jun’s ridiculous explanation about flavor. His mind had already moved far past that. He kept staring at the inside of the cauldron, especially the arrays. And the way they had drawn in qi.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The method had failed, sure, but not because the principle was wrong. No—if anything, it was because the components weren’t durable enough, or the synchronization was off. But the idea… that stuck with him.

The pill wasn’t made by crushing herbs or mixing powders or infusing with the alchemist’s qi alone. It was made almost entirely by the arrays. They didn’t assist—they did the core work.

Chen Ren’s heart beat once, hard.

Then came the question.

“Can we make different kinds of arrays on the cauldron?”

Both Qing He and Wang Jun looked at him.

Qing He nodded. “Yes. Some cauldrons are built by blacksmiths and array masters working in tandem. You’ll see it more often in older sects and accomplished alchemy halls. But you need stronger materials. A lot stronger. This one,” she gestured toward the half-burnt cauldron, “nearly cracked with just a [Wind qi gathering array]. You’d need spirit-grade alloys for proper load-bearing.”

Chen Ren walked to the side of the cauldron, fingers trailing along the scorched rim.

“What about simpler arrays?” he asked, almost to himself. “Ones that don’t gather, but radiate qi. Or ones that hold it in place. Like a qi-pressuring seal to stabilize the herbs mid-process. Or a qi-holding net that keeps the medicinal essence from leaking out during breakdown…”

His question earned another round of silence. Before he could follow up, an audible breath from Wang Jun came.

“You want… to use arrays to make a pill. Without an alchemist.”

“Yes. That’s the idea.” Chen Ren nodded, not hiding his intentions. “Isn’t it better than finding a way for mortals to handle everything? Sounds easier.”

Qing He shook her head. “You’re replacing alchemists with arrays. And maybe, if you can figure out the finer mechanisms. The exact output of qi, the exact pressure the arrays need to exert during every phase… then yes, the process might become smooth enough to automate. But even then, you’d still need a cultivator to fuel the arrays. Not to mention regulate them if something goes wrong.” She crossed her arms, a frown appeared on her face. “Also, wasn’t the whole point of standardization to let mortals take over alchemy? If they can’t even activate the arrays, doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”

Chen Ren’s shoulders dipped, and his arms slowly uncrossed. His gaze fell back to the cauldron.

She was right.

Even if arrays could act like machines, they still required energy. And unless he designed a whole system where energy was self-fed or controlled by someone without a core, a cultivator would always be part of the equation. That wasn’t what he’d wanted. Not fully.

And worse still, even if he could get that to work… What then? He had always known what he was up against.

If he wanted to challenge the pill market, he had two choices. Either increase his rate of production enough to offer pills at prices so low even sects couldn’t compete—or create something so superior that price wouldn’t matter. And so far, he’d been chasing the former.

A faster, cheaper, repeatable method. But this? This wasn’t that.

Maybe arrays weren’t the answer after all.

His shoulders sagged further, and he exhaled slowly. But even as doubt seeped into his mind, something inside him pushed back.

He knew this path had potential. There was something here, just beyond reach. Like he’d opened the right book—but some crucial pages were still missing. If he could find those pages—figure out how to bridge the gap between cultivator-run arrays and mortal operability—then maybe there was a way.

A hybrid system. Arrays doing the work. One or two cultivators maintaining the framework. Mortals handling the preparation, storage, collection. Not operators—but attendants to a greater process. A factory.

He clenched his jaw, staring at the cauldron’s blackened rim again. He knew that he wasn’t on the wrong path.

He just hadn’t reached its end.

The more Chen Ren turned the thought over in his mind, the more solid it began to feel. He glanced between Qing He and Wang Jun.

“I still think it has potential,” he said. “I just haven’t figured out the right way to use the arrays yet.”

Wang Jun sighed and looked like he had just heard someone declare they would build a flying ship out of paper. “I really don’t know why you’re even bothering with this. If it’s success in the pill market you want, then use the recipes I gave you. Half of them aren’t even in circulation anymore. You’d corner the market in months.”

Chen Ren gave him a tired look. “The recipes you told me about require ingredients that only sect leaders and imperial alchemists have access to. One of them—” his hand gestured vaguely, “—needed a herb that grows in the middle of the ocean. How exactly do you expect me to get that?”

Wang Jun clicked his tongue like an annoyed teacher. “You can, if you try hard enough. The way you talk, you’d think gathering herbs was harder than refining pills. For now, you’re just going to be stuck chasing this array alchemy dream of yours. Maybe for hundreds of years.”

That stung—but before Chen Ren could reply, another voice cut in.

“I think it’s an interesting idea.”

He turned.

Anji had been silent this whole time, standing off to the side like a statue, her hands still faintly dusted with ash from the earlier explosion.

“You think so?” Chen Ren asked.

Wang Jun scoffed. “What would she know? She hasn’t even learned to perceive her soul yet.”

Anji flushed. Her cheeks turned a faint pink, and her lips parted in protest—but no sharp words came out. Just a quiet, “I’m trying.” Her hands curled slightly at her sides, but she didn’t back away. Instead, she turned fully toward Chen Ren, stepping slightly closer.

“Yes,” she said. “I do think it’s interesting. If you can really make the arrays function on their own—with just a cultivator to activate them—then it changes everything. The time it takes between pills, the consistency, the output… everything would increase. Arrays don’t rest. They don’t lose focus. And if mortals help with preparation and collection while the system keeps running—then you’d finally be able to enter the pill market.”

Chen Ren studied her for a moment, then nodded. “That’s the plan.”

And hearing it aloud again—spoken with belief, even if only from one person—felt like the first real step toward making it happen.

Qing He’s eyes lingered on him for a long breath before she spoke again. He could hear the suspicion in her voice.

“Have you even made progress on where you’d be selling pills?” she asked. “The Empire is vast, and if you’re thinking of heading toward Cloud Mist City because of that brat Li Xuan, then you’re just asking to get crushed by the Soaring Sword Sect.”

Chen Ren gave her a sideways glance, lips twitching. “Obviously, I’m not going to take on a Guardian Sect.”

His tone was dry, but he had considered it once—if only for a second—before discarding it as foolishness. He turned slightly, resting a hand on the still-warm cauldron.

“I’m still figuring out the logistics,” he continued. “But I’ve already sent word to Tang Yuqiu. Asked her to compile everything she can find—cities with a high number of cultivators, especially ones where rogue cultivators pass through regularly. Places with pill markets not locked down by Guardian sects. I’ve got a few shortlisted already.”

“Will it be Ashen City?” Anji asked.

“No. I did think about it,” he admitted. “It has cultivators, sure. And we managed to build a foothold there because of our work with the Zhu clan. But that’s the problem. I had to work with a clan to even get started. And with pills?” He glanced at her. “I’m not doing that again. Not unless I want to get dragged into clan politics every time I sell a bottle of healing pills.”

He straightened, rubbing his neck lightly.

“Ashen City’s just too tangled. Too many undercurrents. Too many people who’ll want a piece of anything new. I’ve already invested in my relationships there—I’m not about to ruin that by stepping on a few toes with a new venture.”

“So?”

“I’m looking toward the border cities,” he replied. “Lots of travelling cultivators pass through. Fewer established powers to contest me, and a more open market. I’m just waiting for the information before narrowing it down to one.”

As soon as he said it, a knock echoed against the door.

They all turned.

Without a word, Anji moved. She leaned down and yanked open the crate at the far side of the room. The head let out a low, ghostly grumble as she stuffed him inside, muffled complaints already bubbling.

“You treat me like furniture,” he muttered as the lid shut over him.

Anji ignored him and opened the door.

A young mortal stood there, his chest lightly heaving, as if he’d run through the compound.

“Sect Leader Chen,” he said, bowing quickly. “Tang Boming from the Tang Clan is here to meet you.”

Chen Ren smiled. Finally, it seemed like the information he had been waiting for had arrived.

***

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