Dao of Money

Chen Eain looked down on the massive sinkhole, breath held without meaning to. Cold air rose from the dark like a living thing. It slid under his robes and pricked his skin. A shiver ran down his back and the hair on his arms stood. He did not see anyone, and yet the feeling of eyes on him would not leave. Many eyes. Hungry eyes.

From where? He had no idea.

Even with the improved sight he had worked so hard to temper, he couldn’t see everything. It didn’t let him see what was beyond, or what was lurking the sinkhole. He only noticed the wind that whistled along broken rock ribs and the loose pebbles that fell and kept falling.

At the rim, beasts crawled over one another. Slasher maws, lizard monsters, low tier one. The kind that lived only on the edges of the sinkhole, cold-blooded with pale bellies stained the color of dust. Their tongues flicked. Their eyes were small, dull, and always moving. They were snacks, nothing more, the first to die when something bigger climbed up for a look at the world above.

He curled his fingers until his knuckles ached. The ache steadied him. He rolled his shoulders, shook off the bite of the wind and the whisper of unseen things, and reminded himself of his name.

Chen Eain.

He said it inside his skull. Chen Eain, young master of the Chen clan. Chen Eain, the future. The sinkhole was not a mouth to swallow him; it was a gate. Below lay an artifact or a cultivation method as old as the sinkhole itself. He could feel it. The sensation sat under his bone like a hot coal. Once he had it, Red Peak City would not be able to cage him. Not only Red Peak City, but also the empire would be a road, and he would walk it.

If it were up to him alone, this would already be over. He was already close to finding whatever lay buried under the sinkhole. But the clans chose to hold peace talks.

His father had laughed without smiling. “A show,” he’d said. “They want time to gather grain, buy pills, call in debts. Let them posture and we’ll do the same.” Then his father’s hand had found his shoulder and squeezed until Chen Eain winced. “Don’t be reckless.”

He had not been reckless. He had wanted to run to the sinkhole anyway, run until his lungs burned and his legs shook and then keep running, but he was not an idiot. The hole was thick with beasts. More than he could count. Even from the rim, the stink of them climbed up—wet scale, old blood, something like iron and old leaves. He would not last alone under that weight. He needed bodies to take on the stronger beast, to hold them back while he went for the kill.

His cousins and mercenaries. Fodder as his father called it. He did not like the word. He did not flinch from it either. Those who followed him would be paid in coin and favor. Those who fell would have their names spoken in the clan hall. The rest was fate.

He had waited. He had sharpened his blade. He had trained until moonlight turned to dawn and the world outside the courtyard wall began to wake. He had nodded through the council talks. He had smiled the way a son should. Now the waiting has ended. The clan elders had sent their messages. The temporary peace had broken like a clay plate on stone.

He stood at the edge and let the cold air work on him until the shake left his legs. He shifted his weight and stones slid off under his boot. The sound was like tiny bells falling. A few slasher maws turned their heads up at him, tongues tasting, then turned away.

He would go down. He would kill whoever stood in his way. If he found the bastards from the Yu clan or the Huang clan, he would take their lives and everything they carried—their maps, their weapons, the talismans they hid under their robes and the pills on their belts. Anything. Everything—he’d take it all. He imagined the looks on their faces when his blade found the seam in their defenses. He breathed out slowly, and the image faded. No need to rush that joy. There would be time. But the imagination was a sweet taste.

If they sent a lot of girls, maybe he could even strike up a good deal in exchange for their lives. That thought brought a faint smirk to his lips. In cultivation, everything was a transaction. Power, favors, blood—all of it measured and traded. He had been taught that since childhood, and he hadn’t forgotten. Mercy had no value unless it bought something in return.

Once he had seen enough of the hole’s darkness, he turned away. His group waited a short distance behind. His cousins looked back, and his eyes went to their clan armor—then toward the mercenaries who wore worse gear, but held far more pouches around their belts.

He didn’t waste time on speeches or plans. He didn’t care. They wouldn’t understand his methods anyway. He simply pointed toward the sinkhole.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We head down to the newer tunnels. Deep enough to find what the others missed.”

A few of them nodded, uncertain but obedient. Others exchanged quick looks. One of his cousins opened his mouth—perhaps to question, perhaps to complain—but Chen Eain didn’t care to hear. The world didn’t wait for the hesitant.

He stepped forward, and the next moment lightning crackled around his legs. The air snapped sharp and blue-white. Before anyone could say a word, he leapt from the edge.

Wind screamed past his ears as he dropped. The sinkhole swallowed him whole.

Qi gathered around him, wrapping his body. He felt it everywhere, even inside his bones. The lightning around his limbs turned brighter, sharper, as if alive. He breathed in deeply, and the air burned rich with spiritual energy—thicker here than anywhere above. It rolled through him, heavy and sweet, until his chest felt full.

He fell for a long time. As he descended, the faint glow of his lightning threw light on the walls, revealing shapes that moved—the twisted bodies of beasts clinging to the rock, scales glistening, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Some watched him fall, their heads tilting, tongues flicking. None dared leap toward him. They knew what lightning meant.

He kept going deeper.

The sinkhole widened, narrowing again in places like a throat.

The air grew denser with qi, so strong that his skin prickled and his thoughts grew sharp. Finally, he spotted a jagged protrusion of rock jutting from the wall. He twisted his body mid-fall, lightning flaring around him. The energy surged down his arm and shaped itself—a solid hand of light extending outward, reaching far below him. It caught the rock with a loud crack and pulled him in.

He landed hard on the protrusion.

The lightning dimmed to a faint vibration around him as he straightened. The air down here was alive. It seeped into his bones with every breath.

He sat cross-legged on the uneven stone and closed his eyes. The scent of damp rock and raw qi filled his lungs. Slowly, his breathing steadied, matching the pulse of the energy around him.

He remembered the first time he’d come here—he was trembling, foolish, barely more than a boy. He hadn’t even dared to look down for long. Yet even then, a few breaths in this place had been enough to push him through the barrier and into the qi refinement realm. That memory stirred something fierce inside him—hunger, pride, and the certainty that he was meant for more.

He pressed his palm against the stone beneath him and drew in another breath, deep and slow. The qi flowed freely here. And he tried to relish in it. This place had made him once, and it would make him again.

Thus, time flew.

Ten minutes later the sound of boots and ragged breath told him they were coming. He had been sitting still so long that the knots in his shoulder had gone numb. Down here, ten minutes could be an hour. He opened his eyes.

His party moved awkwardly through the gloom. Unlike him they had to stop and assimilate themselves to the qi concentration in the sinkhole. They hadn’t been here often enough for their body to be naturally molded to it. A few even wore shoes that pushed a thin cloud of qi under their soles, helping them traverse. The cloud bubbled and hissed as they stepped, soft light underfoot. Chen Eain snorted. If a man needed tricks to walk, he had no business in the sinkhole. Still, his cousins were useful. Useful, and replaceable.

They formed up slowly at the rim of the chamber. Faces were pale in the mosslight. The mercenaries shifted their weight; the cousins checked armour and blades. He counted without thinking—this was muscle memory etched into him to be a leader. When the last pair of boots whispered into place, he pointed to a dark throat carved in the far wall.

“There,” he said. “The big hole at the back. That leads to the newer veins. I went in before the truce. Lots of paths we haven’t taken.” His voice was flat. He did not need to sell it; the men already knew what he wanted.

“Keep your qi in your dantian,” he added. “Don’t leak. If you let it out they’ll smell you. These beasts see in the dark and sense qi, better than you do. We fight only when we have to. Stay tight. Back up, no heroics.”

Heads bobbed. A few mouths formed questions that died when he looked at them. He could feel their fear like a draft. He liked it. Fear made things orderly.

He drew in breath. The cave air tasted of wet stone and something sweet and old—the glowing growth on the walls. It looked like moss, but it pulsed faintly, as if every cell had a heartbeat. Alchemists valued it. It fed on stray qi and cast it back like a lightbulb. Some of the mercenaries’ hands itched toward it already. He watched the movement and let the shadow of a threat pass across his face.

He tucked his qi down. The warm hum in his bones dimmed and folded into the place behind his navel. The lightning that had followed him here thinned to threads and vanished. He felt naked and full at once.

They moved into the cylinder of the cave. The place swallowed sound. Stalactites hung like the teeth of giants. Every step raised a fine rain of dust. Once in a while a spike loosened and smashed to the floor. The crash was a hard slap that set teeth chattering. When that happened a dozen heads would snap up, eyes hunting for movement. The beasts answered with small sounds like the rustling of dry leaves. Sometimes a shadow slid along a wall but was gone before they could do anything.

The moss painted everything in green-gold. It lit false corners and made deep places look shallow. Its smell clung to fingers—iron and honey. But due to it, he was able to traverse easily—no beast could ambush from the front. One of the mercenaries knelt and scraped at a patch with a fingernail, pocketing the crumb. Chen Eain watched him, but ultimately put it to the back of his mind and moved.

The tunnel opened to the hidden path he’d found before—the one under the giant boulder. In his last expedition, he had explored a little, but after a beast fight, they had little strength to move forward—therefore, the party he’d come with chose to leave.

Although the entire sinkhole was full of concentrated qi, he could feel a stronger current of it coming from this path. If they kept following it, he was certain that they would reach the artifact.

“Do you know what we’ll meet down there?” one cousin asked, voice barely a whisper.

Chen Eain looked at him and gave a bored look. “Not the name,” he told him. “A lizard that hangs from the ceiling. Its tongue carries a fireball. Don’t stand under it. Use qi projectiles to pull it down so we can cut it open. It moves alone, so it shouldn’t be hard to kill.”

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The cousin’s frown split into complaint. “You should say that before—”

“A cultivator should always be ready,” Chen Eain cut him off. “Besides, they flash before they strike—”

The words died in his throat.

Above them, the ceiling flared like a lantern. Light poured down in a single, bright bloom that stole their sight for a heart-beat. Chen Eain’s skin prickled and every hair on his arms stood. He looked up.

The lizard hung like a dark scar against the glow. Its body clung to the stone with hooked claws. Black scales shone in the flare. Its mouth worked and a tongue uncoiled from between teeth. On the tip of the tongue a small ball of living fire burned. The creature rolled the ball like a gambler rolling dice, then shot it forward.

“Get away from it!” Chen Eain shouted.

The warning came too late for one mercenary. The lizard’s tongue whipped out like a rope, the fireball on its tip hissing as it struck. The man screamed. The tongue slammed him into the wall with a sick wet crack. He slid down, dazed, arm smoking where the heat had seared leather and flesh.

Chen Eain muttered, “Useless.” and lightning unfolded in his palm and he hurled it. The bolt struck the wall with a sound like snapping bamboo. The beast hissed and skittered, claws scraping stone as it ran across the ceiling and wall, jerking its tongue to fire again. It moved too fast for any one blow. It was only one creature, but it used the roof like armor.

Another cousin finally hit it. A clean bolt struck the tongue as it shot out, and the fireball went dead in a spray of sparks. The lizard convulsed in midair, slamming onto the floor with a thud that shook dust down from the stalactites.

Chen Eain’s lips thinned. He charged.

Lightning wrapped his forearm like a glove. He slammed his palm into the beast’s belly. The shock tore the scales open. The creature went still then gave one long, ragged shudder. Blood exploded from the wound, hot and dark, spraying across stone. The smell hit Chen Eain—iron and singed flesh. He stepped back fast, boots sliding on wet rock, careful not to let the blood touch his enchanted armor. He had been taught not to mingle his fortune with filth.

He let himself smile. “Peak tier one. Nothing special,” he said aloud. “I’ll take it. We can use the materials.”

The cousin who’d landed the bolt leaned on his staff and grinned through the grime. “Half,” he said bluntly. “You killed it, but I struck the blow to get it on the ground. I want half.”

Chen Eain cold-eyed him. “I killed it,” he said. His voice had the weight of a decree. “You’ll have the limbs. That’s enough for your work.”

The cousin opened his mouth, something sharp on his tongue, but Chen Eain moved first. He slipped his hand into his robe and drew the small ring his father had given him. The spatial ring hummed faintly when he brushed it. He pressed the beast’s body to the opening and the lizard folded inward like water poured into a jar. The ring sealed with a clean click.

He held the ring for a second longer, feeling the hum against his palm. The ring was more than an inventory. It was a promise—a promise from his father that the things Chen Eain found in the sinkhole would always be his. He had wanted one of these since he was a boy.

He slipped the ring back into his robes and let his eyes move over the men. The mercenary with the burned arm was sitting up, face white but breathing. The others were steadying themselves, hands on weapons, eyes on him.

beast

“Let’s head inside,” Chen Rong said flatly. “It’s not good to stand in one place for too long.”

A few nodded. No one dared to argue. He could tell that they were still shaken by the memory of the fire-tongued lizard. Regardless, they gathered their packs and followed him deeper into the sinkhole.

Chen Eain noticed the change. The way their necks craned upward, the way their weapons twitched at every drip or rustle. It was good—fear made them sharper and more guarded. He did the same, eyes scanning the jagged ceiling.

Maybe it was because of that vigilance, but the next few battles went better. The next lizard that appeared barely had time to drop before a spear of qi pierced its chest. The second tried to ambush them from behind, only to be crushed against the rock when Chen Eain sent a bolt of lightning snapping through its skull. The third and fourth were slower, older perhaps, but both died without leaving a single scratch on his party.

Four kills. Four beasts. No injuries this time.

Chen Rong didn’t let the faint thrill show on his face, but inside, his blood buzzed. Efficiency was its own form of pleasure. He absorbed each corpse into his spatial ring, the shimmer of the storage spell flickering for a moment before sealing again. The weight of his growing collection was a quiet satisfaction in his chest.

After another hour of winding paths and uneven stone, they came across something new. A tunnel—one he hadn’t seen before. It curved downward, dark and narrow, air thick with qi. The moss-light grew faint, and only the glow from their torches gave the tunnel a shape. He didn’t hesitate. “Inside,” he said, and stepped in first.

They walked in silence. The air felt heavier the deeper they went, like something pressing against their lungs. Halfway through, Chen Eain slowed. Something wasn’t right.

He lifted his hand for silence, then moved closer to one of the tunnel walls. The surface was cracked, blackened at the edges. A few steps ahead, the ground was gouged—there were sword marks. Beside them, a cluster of vines lay torn and scattered, some still pulsing faintly with leftover energy.

He crouched and ran his fingers over one of the cuts in the rock. The qi residue stung faintly at his skin. Not beasts. No, these were definitely cultivators.

“Someone fought here,” one of his cousins said quietly.

Chen Eain didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed, tracing the pattern of destruction; the direction of the strikes, the broken stone, the faint scent of burned qi still lingering in the air. It hadn’t been long. Whoever had fought here, they weren’t far.

He straightened slowly. “We’re not alone,” he said. “One of the other clans is surely here.”

The thought made something sharp twist inside him. His lips curved in a small, dangerous smile. The idea of another clan finding something before him—that was unacceptable. But catching them here, deep in the sinkhole, cut off from their support? That was an opportunity.

“Move faster,” he ordered.

Some of the mercenaries hesitated, exchanging uneasy looks. “Young master,” one of them said, “if there was a strong cultivator among the clan members, then—”

“I said move!” Chen Eain interrupted. His eyes flicked toward the man, and the mercenary’s words died in his throat.

A strong leader did not change his mind. Chen Eain’s orders were not for arguing. The men and cousins behind him moved without question. That saved him a show. It saved time.

They followed him down the tunnel. Marks of battles cut the walls. Broken vines lay like ropes. Each new scrape told him they were close and finally they reached an opening. He pressed himself into the shadow at the bend and peered.

The chamber opened and his breath stopped.

A huge lizard lay in the middle of the room. It was like the others they had killed, only far bigger. Molten skin dripped from its flank in dark beads. The smell of hot iron and cooked meat hung heavy.

Around the corpse stood a dozen cultivators. Their robes were scarred with soot. Their armor caught the mosslight and glinted. Chen Eain recognised the faces in seconds. Yu clan.

He had even beaten two of them in duels a year back right outside the sinkhole. They were very weak then. How they had killed such a thing he could not tell. Maybe it had been weaker than it looked. Maybe they had been lucky. That did not matter.

He turned to his group and said, “We attack.”

A dozen faces went pale. One of his female cousins stepped forward, eyes wide. “They just killed that beast,” she whispered. “What if one of them is an expert?”

Chen Eain looked at her like the question was stupid. He did not raise his voice. He only said, “I know them. They are not experts. They probably burned their qi in the fight. They are tired. This is our best chance. They have spatial rings, I see them. We take them.”

He did not wait for answers. He faced the chamber one more time. “Wait for my mark,” he told everyone. “When I launch, you fire projectiles. Surprise them and kill as many as you could.”

They nodded. They did not ask. They had learned that arguing got nothing and obedience kept them breathing.

Chen Eain bent his knees and drew breath. He gathered qi at his dantian. It slid up through his veins like cold water. He shaped it with his hands until a thick bolt of lightning stood in his palm, blue and humming. He felt it weighty and sharp, the kind that could shatter bone or break a ring.

The Yu clan members were talking in low voices, still distracted by the corpse. Chen Eain could hear the scrape of a boot. He could hear one of them laugh quietly. The chance sat in his mouth like a ripe fruit.

He raised his arm. The bolt pointed toward the chamber. He let his fingers curl, ready to throw.

Then something pricked his skin. His hair lifted. Instinct flared inside him like an alarm bell.

Before he could name the warning, a black tide rolled over them.

Smoke hit. It came fast, thick and bitter. It stole the light and choked the air. Chen Eain’s bolt in his hand sizzled and died. For one small instant the world went grey and hot, and he couldn’t breathe normally anymore.

***

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