Dao of Money

The golden dragon had once implied that Chen Ren would walk both paths—soul cultivation and body cultivation.

Of the first, he already knew a little, and Wang Jun’s endless bragging had only added to that. But the second… he hadn’t thought much about it until he had begun combing through the spoils of the Void Blade Sect’s library. That was when he found it.

It had been a worn, nameless volume, even the cover was half-faded. On the first page, the title was written in bold, almost mocking brushstrokes—“How to Be Indestructible.” The author was left unnamed, though the words inside burned with the kind of clarity that only comes from someone who had bled for every line.

According to the book, body cultivation had been forged by a man born with poor spirit roots—too shallow to reach the higher realms through qi alone, yet too stubborn to kneel before fate. He had carved out a new path, hammering flesh and bone into weapons, teaching himself how to stand against cultivators far above his station.

Qing He had nodded when Chen Ren asked her about it. She knew some of the early methods—enough to guide him through the first three steps. Nine in total, just like soul cultivation. Nine gates of flesh and marrow to grind through.

At first, Chen Ren had wondered why such a path wasn’t more popular. Surely, there were countless cultivators cursed by heaven with weak roots, desperate for a chance to defy it. Why wouldn’t they leap at this chance?

But the further he read, the clearer it became.

It wasn’t enough to push the body beyond its limits, again and again, until pain became breath and torn flesh became normal. The body had to be broken and reforged like steel in a forge. To temper each step forward, one had to bathe in concoctions brewed from the blood and cores of spirit beasts. Not common ones—higher, stronger, rarer with every step climbed.

It wasn’t training alone. It was slaughter, resources, and an endless hunger for beasts that few dared to face.

Chen Ren had closed the book after reading the first set of methods. He understood. Most cultivators would balk at the training before they even finished the first step. Even those who’re mad enough to endure it would eventually hit the wall of cost—cores, blood, beasts no sect would willingly waste resources to hunt.

And yet… something in him stirred. And Chen Ren thought, not without a faint smile, that it suited him rather well.

Chen Ren groaned as another boulder thudded down onto his back, placed there carefully by one of Hong Yi’s puppets. The planks of wood beneath his palms creaked as his arms trembled, his muscles straining. From his lowered angle, all he could see of Hong Yi were his legs, standing idly off to the side as if this were some street performance instead of back-breaking training.

On top of him, three massive boulders were stacked like a cruel monument. By his guess, the weight came to thousands of tons. A mid-star qi refinement cultivator like him could bear such strain, but not like this. He had to stay unmoving for an hour without using his qi.

He had managed thirty minutes so far, and each stone added one after another until his back bowed under the crushing load. Sweat ran down his face in rivers, dripping onto boards, and his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. Already, his arms were screaming to collapse.

“As I was explaining,” Qing He’s voice drifted from his right, calm as always, “body cultivation emerged because ancient cultivators realized that qi alone was not enough. Every cultivator, regardless of realm, had some reinforcement to their body, but only a few thought to refine it further. They built exercises to temper flesh and bone, and paired them with beast blood baths to forge themselves into something more than mortal.”

Her gaze shifted to the boulders pressing him down. “What you are doing now is the first step—Bone Refinement. It seems harsh, but it is merely the entry point. You should be glad you are beginning this in the qi refinement realm. For you, it will be easier.”

“Doesn’t… feel easier,” Chen Ren hissed through clenched teeth.

As if the heavens themselves agreed, the weight shifted slightly, pressing him down further. His arms buckled for an instant before he locked them in place again, veins standing out like cords along his neck. He snapped his mouth shut before another word escaped—every ounce of strength was needed simply to hold.

From his left came the sound of a chuckle, soft but impossible to miss.

Chen Ren’s eyes narrowed, though he didn’t dare turn his head. Hong Yi, you bastard.

The puppet maker was enjoying this far too much.

He had thought soul cultivation was difficult, but body cultivation felt crueler in a different way. No—both were hard, but their pain came in different flavors.

Soul cultivation was abstract, closer to the flow of qi, an inner search that left the mind strained. But body cultivation? It was the path of a lunatic gym bro, except the “weights” were boulders no mortal man could even dream of lifting.

Still, Chen Ren endured. The golden dragon had spoken of harmony, and he knew this was the road toward it. If he wanted to live for centuries, if he wanted his soul and body both sharp enough to carry him forward, he couldn’t slack here. And the thought crept into his mind—if he did live for hundreds of years, who knew how much wealth he could build in that time? The temptation of it made his lips twitch despite the agony.

So he kept up the count of minutes in his head, numbers stumbling into curses, curses turning into prayers for distraction. Damn it, why hadn’t he invented a music player yet in this world? Back on Earth, gyms were bearable because of music pounding in his ears. Here, he had only the sound of his own grunts and Qing He’s voice.

She hadn’t taken the training herself, but she had seen enough to guide him. And after the Blazing Ember Sect, Chen Ren trusted her word. Trusted her enough to keep silent and push himself as the weight pressed his body flat, his breath burning in his lungs.

Minutes crawled past, each one stretched thin. His arms trembled, his legs quivered, his mind screamed that the hour had already ended. More than once, he almost suspected Qing He of trickery—that perhaps she had let the time slip longer, testing him.

Finally, when his bones felt ready to snap and his arms shook as though lightning ran through them, her calm voice broke through.

“It’s over. You can give it up.”

Relief flooded him.

One by one, Hong Yi’s puppets lifted the boulders away, though they had no brain of their own, they were well made enough to lift them carefully.

When the weight peeled off, Chen Ren’s body sagged like a rope cut loose.

He collapsed onto the ground with a dull thud, his limbs immediately refused to answer him as soon as he rolled to his back. Sweat soaked through his clothes, dripping into the floorboards beneath him. For a long moment, he simply lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if his bones were still intact.

Sweat clung to every inch of him, dripping down his back and soaking the floor beneath. His legs trembled faintly, the muscles twitching as if they were still straining beneath the boulders. He hadn’t used even a wisp of qi for that exercise—it had all been raw strength, his body alone bearing the punishment. More than once he’d wanted to collapse, to give up, but he hadn’t.

Chen Ren tilted his head back, catching his breath, and looked to Qing He. A part of him expected, if not praise, then at least a nod of acknowledgment. A good job, perhaps, for not quitting.

What he got instead made him want to curse the heavens.

“You have five minutes,” Qing He said flatly, while her arms were crossed in front of her like a strict trainer. “After that, you’ll drag a cart of boulders around the field. Ten laps.”

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Chen Ren’s head snapped up. His body screamed as he sat upright, clutching his aching ribs. “Wait what? I thought we’d start slow! That was supposed to be for next week!”

Qing He’s expression didn’t shift in the slightest. “You don’t have time to take it slow, kid. You carry too many enemies on your back already. A dragon with its own schemes coils inside you. And you keep making more foes with every step you take. Until you gain the harmony of body and soul, you won’t even break into foundation establishment. Do you really want to ease up now? Tell me if you still think it’s a good idea to take it slow.”

Chen Ren’s throat worked. He swallowed hard, his lips dry, and scratched the side of his head as though that might buy him time. Her words struck deeper than the weight had.

He hated to admit it, but she was right.

Cultivation had come almost too easily for him so far—his strange dao carrying him, opening doors others spent decades battering against. He had grown used to it, the flow of progress without the grind. But this… this was different. This was effort stripped bare, flesh against stone.

And if he couldn’t learn to endure this, if he couldn’t force himself past his own limits, then one day his opponents—monsters far above his realm—would tear him apart.

In the end, both soul cultivation and body cultivation would make him into something far beyond what an ordinary cultivator could ever hope to be. He couldn’t afford to falter. Especially not now.

So it would be good to scale that difference, even if he felt like he was dying. Chen Ren forced himself to nod.

“Okay. I’m ready. Let’s head to the fields.”

Those words turned out to be the worst mistake he had made in the entire month–no, maybe his entire life here.

The cart was massive, iron-rimmed wheels etched with glowing runes, the flatbed stacked high with boulders that weighed hundreds of tons each. At first, he had even wondered how the cart itself didn’t collapse under such weight until he realized Qing He had already prepared an array carved into its frame, strengthening every joint and axle.

It didn’t make dragging it any easier.

The moment the ropes dug into his shoulders and he heaved forward, he thought his spine might snap, or his shoulders might dislocate. His legs strained, each step a battle as the cart groaned behind him. The runes ensured the cart could hold the weight—it didn’t make pulling it any less brutal.

Lap after lap, through the wide fields outside the village, he dragged that mountain on wheels. Sweat soaked his clothes until they clung to him like a second skin, his muscles burning as if fire itself lived beneath his flesh.

By the third lap, he realized half the village was watching. Men, women, even children, whispering as they trailed along the edges of the field.

“What is he doing?”

“Is that… training?”

“Cultivators don’t do that, do they?”

Their hushed voices reached his ears, and though part of him hated it, it was a distraction. Something to break the endless rhythm of his steps.

By the fifth lap, Chief Muyang himself had appeared, speaking quietly with Qing He. As Chen Ren trudged past them, he caught fragments of their words.

“…too much for a single person…”

“…Cultivation isn’t like this, is it? He looks as though he’s killing himself. Losing his mind.”

At least the old chief’s tone held concern, not mockery. But the words stung all the same. Losing my mind, huh? Maybe I have.

By the seventh lap, Chen Ren stopped hearing them. Not because the villagers had gone silent, but because his body no longer had the strength to care. Every step was fire. Each jolt of the cart’s weight sent pain lancing through his arms, his back, his legs. His breath tore out ragged, his vision swam, and for a heartbeat he swore he could hear the heavens laughing at him.

This was pain he had long forgotten—the pain of being mortal, of bones strained past their limit, of flesh breaking under pressure. Cultivation had lifted that weight from him long ago. Now it returned tenfold, grinding him into the dirt.

And still, he dragged the cart forward.

By the eighth lap, the world blurred. His breaths came ragged, each one scraping his throat raw. His legs begged to stop, his back screamed, but so close to the finish line he couldn’t give in. If he collapsed now, he knew he would regret it for days, maybe longer, and not to mention, Qing He would make sure of it.

So he kept going.

He stopped counting steps, stopped thinking about laps. The world narrowed until all he saw were fields passing by, a blur of green and brown, the cart’s weight dragging behind him like chains of iron.

At last, a voice broke through the haze. Calm, steady, cutting through the pounding of his heart.

“It’s over,” Qing He said. “You can stop.”

Chen Ren’s knees buckled. He plummeted to the ground, the dirt rushing up to meet him. Sweat poured from him like a river, his body slick, his eyes stinging as salty drops trickled in. His vision swam, but through it he realized one thing.

He had done it. He had survived the first day of body cultivation.

“Good job, kid,” Qing He said with a tight smirk on her lips. “I almost thought you wouldn’t make it back there.”

Chen Ren let out a ragged laugh. “I thought so too. But I did it. Please, tell me there’s nothing else for today.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You can rest. You did well. But come back tomorrow. The same training. Over and over until your body bends to it.”

He nodded, though the movement made his skull ache. Pain lanced through every muscle, his body creaking as if his very bones wanted to splinter. It felt like his flesh was breaking apart, but he knew this was the way it strengthened.

Pain wasn’t new to him. But the pain he chose for himself—that was something he was still learning to accept.

Slowly, he pushed himself upright, gasping as if the air itself resisted entering his lungs. Hong Yi appeared at his side, wordlessly offering him a flask of water chilled with qi. Chen Ren took a long sip, then poured the rest over his head. The shock of cold struck him like lightning, clearing his mind for a heartbeat.

He staggered to his feet, dripping and unsteady.

“You’re going to rest, right?” Hong Yi asked, brow raised.

Chen Ren grimaced, forcing his legs to move toward the sect buildings. “Do you really think I’m free enough to rest? The businesses are running well, but that doesn’t mean we can get comfortable. Now that I’m back, there’s too much to handle.”

Each step jarred his battered muscles, almost falling every time he took a step forward, and each one made him want to curse his fate—over and over. But still, he walked forward.

***

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