Dao of Money

Apparently, even after trying for hours, Chen Ren could not convince Yalan to move the pills out of Jadefire Hall. She had listened, argued, and then shut the matter down entirely. No tricks or persuasion worked on her. Still, Chen Ren did not feel pressed. According to Yu Murong the very next day, the clans had fallen into a strange stalemate. None of them wanted to lose more members or resources, so the clan heads had decided to “talk things out.”

Chen Ren did not believe much would come of those talks. The clans had never been able to work together in the past. At best, this would be a pause, a chance for each side to catch their breath and prepare for the next round of attacks. But even a pause had its uses. It gave him time.

He was thankful that fortune had led him to Yu Murong. Meeting him had been chance at first, but now they crossed paths nearly every day. Of course, keeping the young master company cost Chen Ren a fair bit of coin, yet his businesses were growing so quickly that the spending hardly mattered. By mortal standards, he was already wealthy, and he could afford the indulgence. More importantly, the information Murong let slip was worth far more than the wine or food that bought it.

From what Chen Ren gathered, the Yu clan was showing signs of nervousness. They had started teaching certain techniques to their ordinary clan members—techniques that were usually reserved for the most promising members. At the same time, they were quietly seeking to hire alchemists and talisman makers to strengthen their position. If the Yu clan was doing this, Chen Ren reasoned, then the other clans must be following the same path.

Yu Murong had complained about it one evening, slurring his words over a cup of strong liquor. His father, apparently, was furious at having to deal with low-life rogue alchemists, but even anger could not hide the clan’s desperation. To Chen Ren, it sounded less like a problem and more like the chance he had been waiting for.

So, that night, once he had plied Murong with enough wine to cloud his pride and loosen his tongue, Chen Ren leaned in with a smile and steered the conversation toward the young master’s own background.

Chen Ren had no wish to tie himself to the Divine Coin Sect here in Red Peak City. His stay was meant to be temporary, a stop along the road, not a place to lay down roots. So instead, when the wine had loosened Yu Murong’s tongue enough, he wove a story of his own.

He spoke of a master—a great alchemist who had once worked for the Guardian Sects before leaving the lofty peaks behind. A master who had chosen to wander the mortal world, to test himself outside the polished walls of sects and halls, taking only one core disciple with him. Chen Ren himself.

It was a thin story, patched together with plenty of lies. Still, with the firelight warm on his face and Murong’s cup constantly refilled, it sounded real enough. Chen Ren even went into detail, talking at length about his master developing a lot of unique and cheap pills that were suited for combat until anyone with half a mind would understand what he was really offering.

But Yu Murong was either too drunk or too dim. He laughed, nodded, and clapped Chen Ren on the back, yet somehow missed every hint. Chen Ren’s patience thinned. In the end, he had to spell it out.

“Young Master Yu,” he said, leaning closer. “If your clan is looking to buy more pills, I might be able to help. And if the deal goes through… your standing in the clan would surely rise.”

Those words broke through his thick skull. Murong’s eyes widened, and he shot upright as if struck by lightning. “That’s a great idea!” he shouted, nearly tipping his cup. He stumbled toward the door, already shouting that he would speak to his father at once. Then, without another word, he ran off into the night.

Chen Ren sat back, watching the doorway with calm eyes. He had not expected Murong’s hunger for his father’s approval to be quite so sharp, though in hindsight, all his complaints and bitterness had pointed in that direction. Still, enthusiasm was one thing—results were another.

For the next two days, there was silence. There was no sign of Yu Murong at the bar. No message. Nothing.

Chen Ren didn’t think too much about it and simply waited patiently. If this path was blocked, then he would find another way to reach the clans. Red Peak City was not short on desperate people looking for advantages, and desperation always opened doors.

In the meantime, he turned his focus inward. He trained his soul and body with steady discipline, refining both step by step in the morning. At night, he went over the list of spirit plants Luo Feng had circled out in the markets.

Not all of the spirit plants Luo Feng had wanted would survive the climate around Meadow Village. The winds there were harsh, and the soil was too stubborn for delicate roots. But some of them—Chen Ren had noticed—were hardy, their leaves were rich with energy that could strengthen even a mortal’s body. If he could secure a batch of those, he could turn them into fields, whole stretches of medicine growing under Luo Feng’s careful hand.

With such crops, Jadefire Hall’s foundations would only grow firmer. And if any of it could be tied into Wang Jun’s unique pill recipes, then the sect’s growth might take another giant leap.

That kept Chen Ren steady through the two days of silence. But by the third morning, a little bit of impatience had set in. He had nearly made up his mind to march to the Yu estate himself and look for the man to at least get an answer.

As fate would have it, he didn’t need to.

When Chen Ren came down from his room at the inn, the innkeeper at the counter looked up and said, “A young master’s waiting for you.”

Chen Ren’s gaze followed, and there stood Yu Murong—robes wrinkled, face flushed, eyes bright with excitement. The way he was practically bouncing on his heels told Chen Ren everything before a word was spoken. The plan had taken root.

“My father has agreed to meet you!” he announced, almost too loudly for the quiet inn. His smile was so wide it seemed to split his face.

Chen Ren inclined his head, keeping his expression calm even as his chest lightened. “Then we should not delay.”

And so, without a pause for rest or food, Chen Ren followed Murong northward.

The Yu estate sat on a wide expanse of land, the walls of it were tall and polished, its gates bristling with guards in neat formation. Surrounding streets were lined with shops—goldsmiths, tea houses, cloth sellers—all thriving under the Yu clan’s banner. Chen Ren’s predecessor had walked these streets many times, and he knew well enough that even the stalls selling roasted chestnuts answered to the Yu coffers.

The Yu clan might not match the other two great powers in martial strength, but in wealth, they reigned supreme. And in Chen Ren’s eyes, that made them the best partners of all.

Murong strode ahead proudly, not even slowing for the guards’ inspections. “He’s with me,” he said offhandedly, and the guards only bowed and stepped aside. Chen Ren noted their discipline—and how carelessly Murong took it for granted—but said nothing.

Inside, the estate opened into a vast hallway paved with polished stone, its walls lined with lacquered screens and painted lanterns that cast a warm, golden glow. Murong marched through without hesitation, and Chen Ren followed silently, yet keeping a sharp eye on everything.

Every detail mattered when walking into a lion’s den, even one padded with gold.

As they walked deeper into the Yu estate, Yu Murong kept his voice loud and cheerful, pointing at one thing after another as if he were a guide in some grand museum.

“See that?” He jabbed a finger at a massive drake skull mounted high on the wall, its jaws open in a permanent snarl. “That one was taken down by my third uncle in the lower reaches of the Sinkhole. Cost him half a leg, but he got it. And that painting—our ancestors slaying three drakes in a single battle. The blood ran like rivers!”

Chen Ren smiled politely, nodding as though impressed, but inside he dismissed the tales. He knew better. It was an open rumor in Red Peak City that the Yu clan had purchased many of these skulls from traders and passing hunters, dressing up their halls with them to mask their lack of true achievements. But Chen Ren did not care. If anything, it only proved they had silver to spare. Money, after all, was the only measure that mattered in the deal he was here to strike.

For nearly half an hour, they moved through long corridors, the scent of polished wood and faint incense lingering in the air. At last, Murong stopped before a pair of towering sliding doors carved with curling patterns of cloud and flame. His steps slowed, and his usual chatter vanished.

He swallowed hard. So hard that he almost lost all breath.

“My father should be inside,” he whispered, glancing at Chen Ren. “I’ve… talked you up to him. But he won’t give us much time. Make sure you don’t mess this up… Please.”

Chen Ren gave a small, steady smile. “I won’t let you down.”

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Murong nodded once, bracing himself, then pressed his palms against the doors and slid them open.

The room beyond was a world of wealth. Paintings hung in ordered rows along the walls, their frames gilded and polished until they gleamed. A tall bookshelf stood against one side, its shelves heavy with scrolls, ledgers, and thick-bound tomes that gave off the faint musty perfume of age. The floor was layered with the pelt of some great beast, its fur thick and dark, serving as a carpet underfoot. Lantern light glowed warm, reflecting off bronze fittings and lacquered wood.

In the center, seated behind a broad low desk, was a bald, bearded man well into his middle years. His face was lined but firm, his eyes sharp despite their weariness, and in his hands rested a half-open book he had been reading.

As the doors opened, he lifted his head slowly, gaze falling on Murong first.

“You are finally here,” he said, his voice gravelly with age and authority. “I told you I don’t have much time, yet you make me wait.”

Murong stiffened, his bravado melting into hurried defense. “I wasn’t dallying, Father. It took some effort to find Renjie here, but once I did, I came straight to you.”

At that, the older man’s eyes shifted, settling on Chen Ren with the weight of a hammer.

Chen Ren stepped forward, bowed slightly with practiced grace, and spoke in a calm, respectful voice. “It is an honor to meet one of the pillars of the Yu clan.”

The bald man did not move, did not smile, did not even tilt his head at him. His voice came steady and unbothered, like stone rolling down a slope.

“My name is Yu Daoxing,” he said. “You don’t need to know more than that. You can ask around if you wish. My son claims you might be able to sell us batches of cheap and unique pills. So, I am giving you five minutes. Explain your offer. I will extend the time if I find you worth it. Otherwise, you may leave. Is that clear?”

Chen Ren bowed once more, unhurried. “It is clear. Thank you for your time, Master Yu.”

He noted immediately that no gesture had been made to offer him a seat. He would stand. And he also knew the five minutes had already begun to tick away. Yet he didn’t rush into words. He let the silence hang, as if weighing its worth.

Yu Daoxing raised a single eyebrow. “You do know your time has started?”

“I do know,” Chen Ren answered evenly. “But I am thinking of how best to speak my next words. I do not wish to offend your clan.”

“You won’t do that,” Yu Daoxing said flatly. “Just speak your mind.” His beady eyes looked at him pointedly and waited.

At that, Yu Murong’s face tightened with worry. He looked as though he wanted to tug Chen Ren’s sleeve and beg him to tread carefully.

Chen Ren, however, inclined his head once and said, “Then allow me. What I am offering is not the pills and potions you purchase from other alchemists. What I intend to place before the Yu clan are resources that could let you win the war being fought in the Sinkhole.”

For the first time, Yu Daoxing’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing faintly. “You know of it?”

Chen Ren met his gaze without flinching. “It is an open secret in Red Peak City. Everyone with ears knows of it. And, to speak plainly, it is also clear that the Yu clan, unfortunately, will not be the one to come out on top.”

Beside him, Yu Murong went pale, his hands curling into fists, his whole body tense as though he might drag Chen Ren from the room to stop his tongue.

But Yu Daoxing only leaned back slightly in his chair, his sharp eyes fixed on Chen Ren with a look that weighed more than any words. He did not shout, nor strike the table. He simply listened.

Chen Ren took Yu Daoxing’s silence as a small victory and went on.

“It’s not that the Yu clan is weak,” he said. “You have power and gold—more than most. But the Chen clan has something you don’t: expendable fighters. They throw men away like dice. Against that kind of number, strength alone will wear anyone thin. When the scale tips that way, brute force loses. You must be smart.”

“And that is where pills and potions matter,” Chen Ren continued. “Not just to heal or to restore qi, but to change how a battle is fought. My master’s recipes are not the usual tonic or elixir you buy from alley alchemists. They are made to work with a cultivator’s body—sharpen reflexes, harden tendons, wake latent channels and do much more to control a battle. Used right, they let a qi refinement cultivator hit like someone far above him. They make a handful of fighters into a blade that can split ranks.”

Yu Daoxing’s eyes narrowed. “No war is won by pills alone, child. We seek more healing and qi pills so our fighters last longer. You promise miracles. Yet I’m afraid you won’t be able to deliver them. ”

Chen Ren let a small, easy smile cross his face. He had expected the doubt. “That’s where you’re looking at this the wrong way,” he said. “Most alchemists in Red Peak City only think as healers. They patch wounds and refill qi. They do not think of pills as tools of strategy. It’s not incompetence alone—it’s tradition. What I offer is not better bandages. It’s a different art. If used properly, the pills I can supply will let your qi refinement men strike as if they were foundation establishment cultivators. They can wound, cripple, and even kill the enemy’s stronger cultivators.”

At that bold claim, Yu Murong’s eyes widened. From his peripheral vision, he could see that Murong’s thoughts were plastered on his face. The man was probably thinking that it was too much boasting.

Yu Daoxing, meanwhile, sat without changing much—only his head tilted a fraction, as if measuring whether Chen Ren was bluffing or exaggerating. The skepticism in his gaze was blunt and final. He regarded Chen Ren like a young, reckless alchemist who had drunk too deep of his own pride.

Silence fell hard enough to be felt. The carved clock on the shelf kept its slow, steady ticking. Chen Ren felt the time slip by like water through his fingers. For a moment a tight wash of panic ran through him — the five minutes were still counting — but he kept his face calm. He had to.

Finally the man spoke, voicing the question Chen Ren had been dreading.

“Who is your master?”

Chen Ren’s mouth stayed soft and controlled. “I can’t name him,” he said. “He forbade it. He used to belong to a Guardian Sect before he came down to the mortal world to change how pills are made. If I give you his name, you’ll know him, and his wish is to remain anonymous.”

Yu Daoxing made a sound like a dry branch breaking — a scoff meant to cut. Chen Ren did not flinch. He read something else in the man’s face: a sliver of doubt, it was hard to see, but it was there. His nose scrunched ever so slightly. Yu Daoxing looked ready to order him out, but his hand stalled. And Chen Ren knew why. Tales of great cultivators leaving their peaks and walking among mortals, taking new names, hiding their pasts were common and true. Qing He had been one such rumor. If Chen Ren’s claim were true, the Yu clan might be losing a real chance.

“You boast a lot for someone so young,” Yu Daoxing said with a sigh. “Words are cheap. If you speak like this, show me something practical. Otherwise you’re just another blabbermouth.”

“I always carry proof. But before that, you should take a look at this.” Chen Ren reached into the inner fold of his robe and drew out a single roll of parchment. It was sealed with a strip of red wax and smelled faintly of camphor and alchemical herbs. He unrolled it on the desk with care, laying it where both men could see.

The parchment was neat and precise. Columns of ink named each pill, its function, recommended use in battle, and a clear price per batch. In marginal scrawl he had added suggested formations and small tactical uses, the sort of things a strategist might pair with an alchemist’s product.

Yu Daoxing reached for the paper and read, slow and cautious at first. His fingers paused over a line describing a pill meant to quicken tendon response — the sort that might let a qi refining realm cultivator land a crippling strike they could not normally manage. He frowned, then read on. Chen Ren saw the faint change: the skepticism folding some, curiosity pressing in.

“Can you really bring me batches of all these pills?” Yu Daoxing asked at last.

***

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