Dao of Money

It turned out Young master Yu was far more stupid than even his expectations, the man only needed a little bit of alcohol in his system and feeling like he was heard before babbling about a lot of stuff. From his name which was Yu Murong to even about his clan.

The tavern’s lamps burned low, smoke from incense coiling into the beams above. The tables near them were filled with merchants and travelers as the day moved, the clatter of dice and laughter rising like waves.

Yet at Chen Ren’s table, only one voice mattered. Yu Murong’s voice.

His face was red already, eyes half-lidded, lips loose. He wasn’t drunk enough to fall asleep, but drunk enough that all his pride and guardedness had melted away. A cultivator should have been able to hold his liquor better, but from the way the man swayed after a single jar, Chen Ren was certain he had only just stepped into the peak of the body forging realm, if at all. That explained everything—the way his qi felt shallow, the way his body gave in to wine like a weak reed in water.

Chen Ren did not need much effort to guess the truth. Yu Murong wasn’t listened to in his clan. Nobody important gave him a voice. When he had companions, they were nothing more than lackeys chasing free food and prostitutes. Lackeys didn’t last long, and once his novelty faded, he was left to sulk in his silks, resenting everyone. So now, finding someone important, someone rich, and—more importantly—someone who nodded at his words, Yu Murong forgot to build any walls at all.

The alcohol did the rest.

Chen Ren sat quiet, barely sipping from his own cup, while Murong filled the silence with the entire history of his shallow life. From his preference in silk colors to his obsession with embroidery styles, from his collection of boots made from imported leather to his endless dream of owning a spirit beast.

“I almost got one, Brother Renjie,” he said, his voice thick as he slapped the table with a wet palm. “A wyvern egg! Do you know how rare that is? It was right there at the auction, mine for the taking! But no—my clan elders pulled me back, said it was too expensive. Too expensive! When have they ever cared for me? I should have had that egg, do you hear me? It was fate!”

He scowled into his cup, shoulders slumping, before pouring again.

Chen Ren only smiled faintly, tilting his head as if he truly cared.

Yu Murong’s resentment didn’t stop at missed eggs. His voice grew louder with each jar, circling back to the same wound—his cousins.

“They’re not even as talented as me. Fewer spirit roots, weaker bones. Yet every time I turn around, one of them has broken through, and what do I get? Mockery. The elders say, ‘Murong, you must put your heart into cultivation.’ My heart? My heart wants wine and freedom, not meditation in some cave!” He stabbed a finger in the air, nearly spilling the jar. “And when I tell them that, they look at me like I’m worthless. Worthless!”

Chen Ren let the man rage, let him pour out all the poison. He had no reason to remember most of it. He only sifted, like a miner washing sand away to glimpse specks of gold beneath.

He guided gently. “Your clan seems harsh. Do they treat everyone the same?”

“Of course not,” he snorted. “The main family shines while the rest of us polish their boots. I’m expected to obey, to nod when they give orders, to take the scraps of glory when battles end. Do you know what I did last season in a beast hunt? I counted arrows. Arrows! While my cousins rode to the front.”

“Arrows are important,” Chen Ren said mildly.

“Not when you are me.” Yu Murong leaned across the table, breath thick with wine and oyster brine. “I was born for more that that…”

On and on it went. Childhood embarrassments, tutors he hated, servants who had betrayed his trust, friends who vanished after using him. Yu Murong spoke of jade pillars in his clan manor, hidden granaries, small gates in garden walls. He even bragged of the sneaky routes he used to escape curfew.

Chen Ren stored only what mattered. The rest washed past him like rain on stone.

The hours crept by. Five jars were emptied, the dregs dripping sticky across the table. A mountain of meat bun crumbs and oyster shells piled between them. Yu Murong’s eyes shone with the pride of a man who thought himself understood for the first time in years.

Chen Ren finally nudged the conversation to the main topic, voice smooth and calm. “I’m also hearing things about a war that’s going on. Your clan must be a part of it. What’s that about?”

Yu Murong froze for a heartbeat, then puffed his chest, pleased at the chance to speak of grand matters. His words slurred.

“Yes… yes, the war. You see, Brother Renjie, the three clans are tearing each other apart.”

He suddenly stomped the table. The plates jumped, shells rattled, and an oyster flew into the air.

To Chen Ren’s amusement, the man actually leaned forward and snapped it out of the air with his mouth. He chewed triumphantly, wine dripping down his chin.

“Can you believe it, Renjie?” Yu Murong said, voice muffled with oyster flesh. “My own father is ignoring me these days all because of some artifact the clans are fighting over in the sinkhole. I tried talking to him, but he waved me away like I was air. How is that fair?”

Chen Ren set down his cup and clicked his tongue. “It’s horrible. Those types of people shouldn’t be parents.”

Yu Murong froze, then nodded quickly, pleased to be agreed with. He gulped his wine, swallowed the oyster whole, and banged his chest.

“But what is this war that’s going on? I haven’t seen anything. I’ve been in the city for two days, and it’s calm. I’ve only heard things.”

Yu Murong gave a snort, waving his greasy hand. “That’s because the city lord forbade us from destroying public property. Otherwise half these streets would already be rubble. No, the real fighting is at the sinkhole and outside the city walls. It’s a mess, Renjie. A big mess. No one’s figured out the way to the artifact yet, so the three clans—Huang, Chen, and my Yu clan—just fight each other more than the beasts inside. Hah! Do you know? Some of my cousins are already dead! And still it goes on.”

“If it’s so dangerous, why doesn’t your patriarch or the stronger clan members step in? Surely they could end it.”

Yu Murong barked out a humorless laugh. “Because they are fucking cowards. That’s why. They hide behind excuses. They say if any elder goes, it will make it look like the clan’s younger generation is weak. They say if a strong man dies, the whole clan will suffer. Bah! So they send us instead—the young ones, the cousins, the ones who can be replaced. They hide their fear behind words about ‘face.’ Face!”

He sneered, poured another cup with unsteady hands, and downed it in a single swallow. The jar clinked hard against the table.

Then he grabbed another meat bun, tore it open, and stuffed it into his mouth. Grease smeared across his lips as he chewed, still muttering. “Cowards, all of them.”

Chen Ren chewed slowly on Yu Murong’s words, his mind turning them over one by one. They were the same reasons he had already guessed. If a higher-up in any clan moved, then the others would be forced to move as well. In the Kalian Empire, the old monsters rarely stirred. They only acted when the matter was truly grave—like when the Blazing Ember Sect Leader had personally struck down Shen Linao.

He reached for a meat bun, tore it in half, and let the steam roll out before taking a bite. He chewed, swallowed, then looked across the table at the young master.

“So,” he said quietly, “the younger generations are just killing themselves.”

“Precisely! You see why I’m here drinking in the afternoon? If I stay in my clan, they’ll send me to die too. Hah! And for what? They aren’t even winning.”

Chen Ren tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Who is then?” The words left his mouth faster than he intended.

Yu Murong paused mid-chew, oyster juice dripping from his lip. His eyes blinked slowly, as if the thought needed time to move through his fogged mind. Chen Ren held himself still, wondering if he had pushed too quickly.

But then he swallowed hard and said, voice low and grudging, “Not the Yu clan. Not right now.” He shoved the bun into his mouth, speaking around it. “Both my clan and the Huang clan are doing badly. They charged in early, rushing to claim the artifact, but the Chen clan was already there. They ambushed them. My clan’s top fighters are still bleeding in their beds. Wounds like that, even if you drown them in pills, they don’t vanish overnight. If the injury’s deep, it takes months. So the Chen clan… they’ve already got the lead.”

Chen Ren’s gaze flicked toward Yalan, who had been quietly watching from the side. Their eyes met, a silent current running between them. Then Chen Ren turned back, his voice calm and even.

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“Why do they think they’re close? The artifact hasn’t even been found yet.”

“Because recently the Chen clan went deeper into the sinkhole and found gold coins. Old ones. Relics. They think the artifact’s right under their feet. I won’t tell you how I know this, but it’s true.”

Chen Ren didn’t even need to ask him. He could already guess the truth. It would be strange if the clans hadn’t put spies in each other’s camps. Even if not spies, there were always loose tongues willing to trade information for coin, pills, or favors. That was simply how the world worked.

Still, what Yu Murong said about the coins and the Chen clan’s lead made something tighten inside him. The balance of power around the artifact—whatever it truly was—was shifting fast. If the Chen clan really was close to uncovering it, then he didn’t have much time. His plan wouldn’t work if the Chen clan gained the artifact first. He needed them off-balance, pushed back, scrambling. Only then could he move.

He took another slow sip of wine, watching Yu Murong. “It seems like a pretty bad predicament for your clan, Young Master Yu.”

He sighed, his head sinking low, eyes glassy. “It is. And what can I do? Nothing. Some of my clan even whisper that it’s my fault we’re losing—me! As if me doing anything would change a war. They talk about ‘responsibility of the younger generation,’ just because I’m a few years older than them. Hah. They don’t understand that I don’t want to die an early death. They can have their glory. I’ll keep my life.”

Chen Ren gave a slow nod, the same polite mask as before.

Yu Murong slammed another bun onto his plate, tearing at it as his rant spilled out. He cursed his clan’s hypocrisy, the way they used him as a scapegoat, the way his father ignored him, the elders’ cold eyes. The words tumbled over themselves, bitter and slurred.

Chen Ren didn’t interrupt. He didn’t even change his expression. He simply let the man vent, let him drain himself like an opened wineskin. Every so often he asked a careful question—about the war, about which groups were stationed where, about how his clan and the others planned to even the odds.

But Yu Murong only shrugged, his voice dull. “I don’t know. I’m not in the inner circle. They don’t tell me anything real. I’ve only been in the sinkhole once, and that was enough. You go down there, you don’t know what will swallow you. Beasts. Falling rocks. Darkness. Not for me. Not worth dying over.”

He stuffed the rest of his bun into his mouth, glaring at the table as if it were an enemy.

That was probably the only time Chen Ren related to the man. For a brief moment—when Yu Murong ranted about not wanting to die young, about being forced into battles he had no interest in—Chen Ren understood him. That sliver of honesty was the closest he had come to being more than just a spoiled young master.

Hours bled away in the smoky tavern. At one point, Yalan whisked her tail and padded off, muttering through their bond that she was too bored to sit through such useless chatter. She only returned an hour later, eyes half-lidded, as if confirming the ordeal was still ongoing.

Fortunately, Yu Murong finally decided he had ranted enough for one day. By then the food and alcohol were gone, reduced to greasy crumbs and empty jars. Chen Ren didn’t feel like ordering more.

Yu Murong leaned back, his robe askew, face flushed but smiling faintly.

“Thank you, Renjie. You don’t know how much I’ve enjoyed talking to you today. Truly. If you’re staying in the city for long, I’d love to show you around. Maybe even bring you to my clan. Hah, they’re all stuck-ups, but they’d appreciate meeting someone like you.”

“I would love that, Young Master Yu. I’m staying in Heishu Inn. If you want to visit, you can always find me there. But for now,” he rose to his feet, brushing his sleeves, “I have some work in the city. Private matters.”

His lips curved into a smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I understand completely.”

Chen Ren didn’t bother correcting the misunderstanding. He simply lifted his hand and gestured for the waiter. The man hurried over, wiping his hands on his apron, and Chen Ren handed him a bag of silver wen.

“This should cover everything and more.”

The waiter pulled the drawstring open, peered inside, and his eyes widened. He felt the weight quickly and bowed with vigor. “Yes, honored guest! Of course!”

As Chen Ren turned, he caught Yu Murong’s eyes lingering on the bag, following it until it disappeared into the waiter’s hands. Then those eyes trailed back to him, watching with a mixture of envy and calculation. But he said nothing. He only slouched deeper into his chair, lips pressed tight.

Chen Ren preferred it that way. He had done everything right. There was no need to say anything more.

He pushed open the tavern doors and disappeared into the street.

Yalan’s voice slid into his head the moment the tavern door shut. “Looks like you made quite an impression on the man,” she purred.

Chen Ren kept his steps even. “Certainly seems so,” he replied.

“But what did you achieve by it? A fool’s favour won’t help with a war.”

Chen Ren folded his hands behind his back and looked up at the moonlit street.

“No,” he said. “It won’t win the war by itself. But it gives me what I need — access. Young Master Yu is small, useless maybe, but his rank in the clan lets him hear things. People trust him enough to talk. If I go straight to the Yu clan now, they won’t open the door. If I go with him, they will at least listen.”

Yalan clicked her tongue in his mind. “And once you are inside? What then?”

He smiled faintly. “Simple. Let the Chen clan think they are about to win. They press forward. If I help another clan push back, not by winning the whole war, just by making Chen stumble — the Chen clan will grow desperate. When clans are desperate, they start bargaining. Pride falls away. They will trust anyone who offers a way out. That’s when I ask for the thing I need. The medallion. They won’t think twice if it saves them.”

Yalan padded close, tail whipping. “Chen Ren, your plan sounds tidy on paper. But it has many variables. I guess that’s how every plan is. Anyway, are you going to be selling them pills?” she asked.

Chen Ren nodded. “Yes. I would have liked to sell them talismans too, but it takes time to make a good prototype for the printer. For now, pills will do. I know Hun Tianzhi had made progress on some pill recipes in the last report from Anji. We will use that.”

Yalan’s eyes blinked slowly in his mind, then she hummed once.

“How do you plan to move all these pills from Broken Ridge? It’s on the border.”

Chen Ren’s smile faltered a little. He looked away from the streetlamps. “Actually, that’s why I wanted to ask for your help,” he said. “Can you—”

Before the sentence finished, Yalan snorted in his head, a low, sharp sound. “I’m no mule.”

He chuckled to hide the sting and tried a lighter tone. “Not a mule. I was thinking more… glorious spirit-beast transporter. It sounds better.”

The joke landed flat. Yalan’s tail flicked in irritation. “Glorious?” she sent back, claws unsheathed in thought. “You want me to carry bottles of various pills because it sounds glorious?”

Chen Ren met the glare in her eyes and held up both hands and understood one thing.More than selling the pills to Yu clan, the hardest part might be to convince Yalan.

***

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