Dao of Money

Yalan had been right.

The Blazing Ember Sect had indeed pitched their camp around the gorge. From the mouth of the cave where Chen Ren crouched, he counted two tents with crimson banners fluttering in the cold wind. At least fifteen cultivators lingered in sight—some standing watch with blades across their laps, others pacing the perimeter, and a few more crouched around a fire pit, turning the carcass of a beast as fat crackles rose into the air.

Every one of them was solidly mid to peak qi refinement realm. They were dangerous but nothing more than the vanguard. Yalan had already pointed out half a dozen foundation establishment cultivators concealed deeper within the gorge in different positions, waiting for instructions. And in the largest tent, Shen Linao sat, a meridian expansion realm master.

Chen Ren’s jaw tightened. He had half-hoped the man would dismiss them as trivial and send fodder, but it seemed Shen Linao’s wariness of Yalan kept him sharp. If Yalan chose to unleash herself, she could slaughter nearly every cultivator in sight—save Shen Linao—but at the cost of grievous wounds. Wounds they could not afford.

He didn’t want her vulnerable or injured in any way.

He simply kept staring at the camp from the position they were resting at. Shen Linao had truly prepared for them, there was no carelessness or indulgence.

The cave around them was narrow, barely more than a hollow in the cliff face on the gorge’s upper ridge. Snow dusted the ledge outside, and the drop beyond fell sheer into shadow. They had chosen it for concealment, but the waiting gnawed at him more than the cold ever could. The appointed time for the meeting crawled closer with each passing breath, and there was still no sign of Qing He.

He considered leaning into his backup plans, to move the board while he still had the chance. Yet his instincts resisted. He had placed his trust in her, and though trust was a brittle thing, his gut told him to hold it a little longer.

Beside him, Hong Yi sat cross-legged with his puppets arrayed like silent guards, gnawing on dried jerky they had brought for the journey. Zi Wen idly spoke in low tones to his Sori, the azure-feathered creature fluffing its wings as if pleased with the attention. Little Yuze was stationed around the valley to drop in stealthily if it came to a fight. And Yalan rested on his shoulder.

Finally, as the snow-bright gorge lay beneath them in silence, the sun climbed higher, its light slanting toward the gorge’s heart. Soon it would reach its zenith. Soon, their appointed hour would strike.

And Chen Ren knew—the waiting was nearly over. His frown deepened as his gaze slid to Yalan.

“It’s time.”

Her eyes opened. “Don’t want to delay it more.”

“We’re too close already. If we aren’t there soon, they’ll start sweeping the gorge. And even if you cleared the cultivators from around the village before leaving, they’ll send replacements sooner or later.” His eyes narrowed toward the campfires below. “I think I can keep Shen Linao busy with words until Qing He arrives.”

Yalan studied him for a long moment, then gave the faintest of nods. “Okay.”

Chen Ren turned, his gaze falling on Zi Wen and Hong Yi. “Let’s go.”

Zi Wen rose smoothly, dusting snow from his robes. Sori screeched faintly overhead, circling, her sharp eyes sweeping the camp from above. Hong Yi, by contrast, swallowed hard, glancing down toward the banners below. His knuckles whitened around his puppet’s frame as though it were a lifeline.

Step by step, they began the descent through the way they had climbed up. The path narrowed into a fork. The gorge’s chill wrapped them in silence as they wound downward, toward the waiting enemy.

Chen Ren could feel eyes on them the moment their figures broke from the cliffside. Recognition was immediate—he had no doubt Shen Linao’s disciples marked their arrival the instant they left cover. Yet none moved until the group drew closer to the camp, the crimson banners looming taller with every step.

Finally, two disciples strode out from the cluster near the fire. Their faces were twisted into cruel smiles, blades loose in their hands. One took the lead.

“I’m pretty sure the orders were for you all to arrive in a box,” the man sneered. “With only your head left inside it.”

Chen Ren almost rolled his eyes. “Call upon your master. We’re here to speak with him.”

The disciple barked a laugh. “Why not save him the trouble? I’ll just bring him your head myself.”

Chen Ren’s fist clenched, his body already leaning forward. He was a heartbeat away from striking when the air itself shifted.

Yalan’s qi flared. She did not hold back.

In an instant the two disciples were hurled down, their bodies slamming into the earth. The ground cracked beneath them with sharp reports, fissures spiderwebbing outward. Blood gushed from their nostrils, staining the snow a harsh red. Their limbs twitched, pinned by the sheer weight of her presence.

Around the camp, other disciples lurched upright, eyes wide, the easy arrogance of moments ago wiped clean. Their hands scrambled for weapons, the air ringing with sudden tension.

Chen Ren exhaled slowly, letting the silence hang over the scene. His gaze slid toward the largest tent, where he knew Shen Linao sat.

Several of the disciples around the fire bristled, their qi flaring as if to surge forward. Yet Yalan’s voice cut across the camp.

“They’re alive,” she said flatly. “Only punished for letting their mouths run. Now, where is Shen Linao? We came to speak with him, not to waste time on weaklings.”

The air shifted at once. The flap of the largest tent stirred, its edges dancing in the cold wind. From within, an old man stepped out, his presence making the very banners ripple as if bowing to him.

Shen Linao.

He looked the very part of an ancient cultivator to perfection. His beard and hair were pure white, long strands swaying like silk threads in the mountain breeze. Wrinkles etched faint lines into his face. His back was straight, his shoulders broad, and his robes of crimson-black flickered in the wind, embroidered with flame patterns that seemed to shimmer faintly with qi.

His eyes, dark as smoldering coals, scanned each of them with an expression that was extremely measured, dissecting without hurry. When they locked with Chen Ren’s, it was as though a mountain had settled before him.

“The disciples of Blazing Ember Sect,” Shen Linao’s voice rumbled, neither loud nor soft, but carrying easily through the gorge, “do not know how to measure their words. But I do not disagree with what they said.”

He paused, the faintest curl of disdain tugging at his lips.

“You were ordered to send me your heads. Alongside the enslaved beast. Yet you walk here whole and breathing. Have you decided to defy my command?”

As his words fell, a flare of qi erupted from him, scorching the air, pressing against their bodies like a blazing tide. Snow hissed, melted to steam where it touched his aura.

Chen Ren stood straight and proudly, not wanting to give an ounce of reaction. He looked at the other cultivators who were enjoying the show, before returning calmly to Shen Linao.

“I know those were your orders,” he said evenly. “But considering how many cultivators you’ve brought here, I doubt you ever believed we’d actually obey.”

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then Shen Linao scoffed, the sound sharp as stone grating against steel.

“No,” he said, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t. I thought if you were bold enough to seize what is mine, you would spit in death’s face until the last moment. That, I respect. A cultivator should not cower.”

His thick eyebrow raised.

“But respect does not mean mercy. Bold or not, defiance only earns you a slower, harsher death. You could have cut your throats in your sleep and passed painlessly. Instead…”

His aura pulsed, firelight blazing in his eyes.

“…you will writh before me.”

Chen Ren let Shen Linao’s words hang in the frosted air for a moment before answering. His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “You are very quick to speak of death,” he said mildly. “Don’t you think introductions should come first?”

“Introductions are useless when the dead will not remember them.”

Chen Ren inclined his head slightly, as though conceding. “Perhaps. But don’t you wish to know what truly happened. How my sect and I chanced upon the vault in the first place?”

The elder’s eyes narrowed. His qi pulsed faintly, but he did not strike. “You had help,” he said at last, voice certain. “From someone of the Void Blade Sect. They knew the way, and you followed, never expecting us there.”

Chen Ren’s face betrayed no flicker of surprise. “That’s right,” he said evenly. Then he paused, taking his time, keeping the man curious. “But I should add this, I was unaware Blazing Ember Sect claimed ownership over it. According to the one who led me, the vault was simply abandoned, lying there in silence. And when we encountered your disciples… we believed them to be demonic cultivators. Surely you can understand why I suspected as such.”

At that, Shen Linao’s brows drew together. A rare crack in the mask. “Wang Fu was led astray,” he said slowly. “Whether the others followed him into that filth, I cannot say. But his ties to demonic arts were hidden from me. For that—” his teeth clicked, the word sharp “—I should thank you for killing him. If you hadn’t robbed the vault.”

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Chen Ren scoffed in his mind, though outwardly he maintained his composure. So. He admits Wang Fu was tainted. Yet he disowns him at the first chance, painting ignorance. A convenient distance.

As Chen Ren had expected, old cultivators delighted in verbal sparring. To them, battles of words were as much a stage for dominance as the battlefield. And why not? If Shen Linao wished to move, he believed the fight would end in seconds. For Chen Ren, though, this verbal duel bought the only coin that mattered—time.

“You’re claiming ignorance,” Shen Linao said. “Yet did the robes of my sect not give it away? Do you mean to tell me you could not tell Blazing Ember Sect disciples from common rabble?”

Chen Ren lowered his gaze a fraction. “I must apologise, Master Shen. There are countless sects in these lands. And red—” his lips quirked faintly “—is also favored by demonic cultivators. Until we searched their bodies, we were uncertain. You understand why we might hesitate.”

“That sounds like a flimsy excuse.”

“It is what happened,” Chen Ren replied with a light shrug. “And when we discovered who they truly were, we decided it was best not to touch what we had taken. Nothing from the vault has been used. Everything is preserved, waiting for you.”

With that, Chen Ren raised his hands, fingers spreading. The gleam of several spatial rings flashed in the light, each one glinting like a lure cast into a lake of hungry fish.

Shen Linao’s eyes flickered with unmistakable greed. Around them, several disciples unconsciously took a step forward, their gazes fixed on the rings. None dared circulate qi, though—not under the invisible weight of Yalan’s killing intent.

At last Shen Linao spoke again. “You should surrender them now. Place every ring in my hand. If you do so without struggle, I will grant you mercy. A clean end. Everyone desires a painless death. Don’t you?”

“Yes. Everyone desires a painless death. But you do realize, Master Shen, that if I yield them here and now… it would mean none of your disciples will leave this gorge alive. Not a single one outside of yourself.”

His eyes swept the gathered cultivators, unhurried, sharp.

“You’ve cultivated them for years, haven’t you? Poured resources into raising them to these realms. To throw them all away in one meaningless slaughter…” He shook his head, voice dropping into a blade’s whisper. “It would all be wasted.”

A hush rippled through the camp. Some disciples stiffened, others swallowed hard.

For the first time, Shen Linao’s mask cracked.

A snarl tugged at his lips as qi burst from his body in waves, the force of it rolling through the gorge like molten fire. The ground quivered, snow hissing to steam where the heat of his presence touched.

Chen Ren braced, but the crushing weight never reached him. A cool, suffocating pressure met it—Yalan’s qi, blooming around him like an unyielding barrier. Her aura wrapped him, Zi Wen, and Hong Yi alike, a silent declaration that none would touch them while she was there.

Chen Ren inclined his head slightly toward her, then stepped into the storm with words sharp as any blade. “Don’t mistake me. I don’t have the strength to slaughter your disciples. But surely, your intentions in calling us here went beyond wanting our heads.” His eyes slid toward Yalan. “You wanted my spirit beast.”

The words hung like a hammer blow.

“A fine choice. She’s obedient enough. Loyal. A good pet.”

Yalan did not move, though her glare cut toward Shen Linao. Her claws were out, and so was her fur—all straightened, hostile toward the man.

Shen Linao licked his lips, his eyes gleaming with naked greed. “It’s true,” he admitted at last. “That beast… yes. She would serve me well enough. She’s strong, proud, yet leashed. A pity she doesn’t favor me now. I can see that. But after your death, that will change.”

Chen Ren cleared his voice loudly. “But that will cost you dearly. Yalan doesn’t bow easily. If not for my ancestors’ bindings, she would have torn me apart long ago, forget about you. She only respects strength. Try to enslave her, and the price will be blood, and not just yours. Every cultivator here would likely die before she breaks.”

No one dared to speak after that. He swept his gaze through the camp and saw it. All the men looked extremely uncomfortable. Several disciples had even gone pale, their hands twitching at their sides. His words had struck exactly where he intended.

It’s working, Chen Ren thought. Qing He had told him that divination of this scale would have demanded sacrifices. If Shen Linao had already bled some of his sect for knowledge, then the last thing he would want was to waste more lives here.

A sect lived and died not only on its peak experts but on the broad shoulders of its foundation—its early and middle realm cultivators, its disciplined ranks. And Shen Linao, no matter his arrogance, had shown his hand. The sheer number of cultivators he had gathered here was proof enough that he feared what Yalan might unleash.

Chen Ren’s eyes lingered on Shen Linao. Come then, old monster. Every word you give me is another breath of time. Every glare, another chance Qing He draws closer.

Shen Linao’s scowl deepened, lines creasing his weathered face. “What are you getting at?”

“That there’s a way to prevent needless destruction. A way to avoid all this damage.”

The old cultivator let out a sharp laugh, low and mocking. “You expect me to let you walk away? To bargain your life for the spirit beast?”

“Don’t you think it’s a fair offer?” Chen Ren asked softly.

Shen Linao pulled the ends of his white beard. “It’s something to consider… but your beast barely managed to kill Wang Fu. Hardly the strength you claim.”

“She’s grown since then. And you forget, she was taken back because he was a demonic cultivator. You don’t think she could do much damage now? I’m pretty sure she can do a lot of damage to you all”

Every word that followed that was another question, every sentence pulled Shen Linao into an answer. Back and forth they spoke, the elder’s disdain never faded, not even once. Yet Chen Ren felt it. The old man’s patience was fraying, his qi pressing heavier. The storm of his killing intent edged toward eruption.

Chen Ren hid his satisfaction behind steady eyes.

Sadly, there was still no sign of Qing He.

Then, as Shen Linao’s lip curled in disgust, Yalan’s voice brushed across Chen Ren’s mind. “He’s about to move. Be ready.”

Chen Ren almost nodded. But before he could, Shen Linao’s roar shook the gorge.

“Enough!”

His qi surged, erupting outward in a tidal wave of blazing heat. “I am not here to debate with insects. I asked for something, and I will fucking take it!”

The ground split beneath the weight of his aura, stones cracking and snow hissing into steam. All at once, his disciples moved, weapons drawn, qi blazing, rushing toward Chen Ren’s group like a crimson tide.

Shen Linao’s own presence slammed forward, a crushing force that sought to pulp Chen Ren where he stood.

However, Yalan’s qi burst and stretched like an eruption of blades before it could reach him. Her frigid aura locked with Shen Linao’s fire in a collision that shook the gorge as the shield she had constructed illuminated against the blazing wave.

Disciples closed in, their shouts rising—

—and then it came.

A shrill sound cut through the battlefield.

In the next heartbeat, cultivators around Shen Linao faltered completely. Some fell, clutching their heads. Others collapsed outright, bodies jerking before blood sprayed from their nostrils, staining the snow in bright rivulets.

Shen Linao’s eyes snapped wide, his fury momentarily pierced by shock. His gaze swept the battlefield, searching for where the attack had come from.

Using the distraction, Yalan pressed against him, her qi straining to overpower him.

Then, above them all, out of nowhere, a voice rang out.

“Enough.”

The word echoed through the sky, and for an instant the world froze.

***

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