Dao of Money

As soon as the first batches of his new pills landed in the hands of the Yu Clan, Chen Ren knew something in the air had changed. The stillness before a storm—he could feel it even without hearing the reports. The balance of war was about to shift.

He didn’t need to wait long for proof. Four days later, the inn doors slammed open with a loud bang, and a familiar voice rolled in before the man himself did.

“Brother Renjie! Are you here?!”

Chen Ren didn’t even have time to put down his teacup before Yu Murong burst through the doorway like a gale, hair unkempt and eyes bright with wild energy. The young master’s grin was wide enough to show every tooth as he threw himself forward and crushed Chen Ren in a hug that made his ribs scream. He felt his body tightening with every second, and he couldn’t breathe.

“Murong, let me breathe—” he tried, but the man only laughed and patted his back hard like he wanted to crack his spine.

When Murong finally dropped into a chair, Chen Ren drew a breath so deep it felt like he hadn’t breathed in days. His lungs burned, but he let it pass. The moment Murong sat across from him, he started talking.

And he didn’t stop.

For the next few hours, the air around their table turned thick with words—boasts, laughter, half-drunken stories, and more boasts. Murong talked about the war, about how the ceasefire had ended, and how every other clan had been stunned by the Yu Clan’s rapid push into the sinkhole. Apparently, no one could believe how fast they were clearing the beasts or how easily they were advancing into the deeper zones.

Half of it was information. The rest? Pure self-praise.

From what Chen Ren gathered between the boasts, Murong had decided to enter the sinkhole again—his second time ever—after his father had showered him with rewards for securing Chen Ren’s pills. The man had wanted more merit, more favor, more glory. Fear had followed him in, but the pills had burned that away.

According to Murong, his party had been unstoppable. The beasts never even reached them. They spotted and killed their prey long before any threat drew near. The whole expedition had gone so smoothly that Murong swore the heavens themselves had been on their side.

Chen Ren only smiled faintly, fingers tracing the rim of his cup as he listened. He already knew which pill had done the most work.

Among all the concoctions he’d sold to the Yu Clan, none wax as valuable as the Infernal Vein Pill—a creation that borrowed the instincts of beasts themselves, granting sight through heat.

In the depths of the sinkhole, qi flowed like wild rivers, chaotic and unrestrained. It drowned every trace of life force, making most techniques for detection useless. But heat remained loyal. The living always burned, no matter how deep the dark or how thick the qi.

With that pill, Murong’s men could sense the warmth of a beast’s body long before it struck. What was once a death trap had turned into a hunting ground.

Murong, of course, had no idea how much theory or danger had gone into creating such a thing. He just drank his wine, laughed too loudly, and talked about how the Yu Clan would soon dominate the sinkhole.

Other than that, Chen Ren had sold them dozens of other pills, each one crafted for a different purpose. There were Sensory Bloom Pills, which sharpened the five senses until a cultivator could feel the shift of wind or the pulse of an approaching beast. There were Elemental Surge Pills, amplifying a person’s elemental affinity so that even a basic fire spell could roar like a dragon’s breath. He had also sold Dantian Sealing Pills, dangerous things meant to block a cultivator’s core for a short time—perfect for capturing enemies alive—and even Thunderburst Pellets, small bombs Hun Tianzhi had made after getting blown up so often that could be thrown, and carried the detective spark of compressed lightning.

He had even drawn out crude strategies for them: smoke bombs mixed with Elemental Surge Pills to mask sight and confuse beasts, allowing the hunters to strike deadly attacks from safety. All of it—every pill, every idea—had turned the expedition into child’s play for Yu Murong.

The man couldn’t stop bragging.

“Brother Renjie, you should’ve seen it! We cleared half the outer tunnels before dawn! The beasts didn’t even know where we were! Hah! The Chen Clan dogs were also so surprised and were weeping when we taught them a lesson!”

That last part made Chen Ren pause.

“The Chen Clan?”

Murong grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Oh yes. We ran into one of their parties down there—small group, looked weak. Captured them all. You know the name Chen Eain?”

Chen Ren’s fingers tightened around his cup. The name hit like a spark in dry tinder. Images surfaced—memories that weren’t entirely his, but ones that pulsed with old pain. A young man sneering down at his predecessor. The sound of laughter. The crack of a kick.

Chen Eain had been one of the worst of them. The one who’d turned his predecessor’s life into a cage—every bruise, every humiliation, every insult rooted back to that smirking face. The man had mocked him for his poor talent, beaten him every time he dared to touch cultivation, and gathered others to do the same.

Murong’s voice dragged him back. “Have expected much more from him, honestly. But he looked more like a servant than a cultivator. Barely put up a fight. I beat him bloody, partly thanks to that Dantian Seal Pill you told me about. Worked perfectly. He couldn’t even summon a spark.”

Chen Ren forced his tone flat. “And after?”

Murong waved a hand lazily, as if it were nothing. “I wanted to kill him, or at least cripple him. But the others thought it’d be better to ransom him and his party instead. We sent a letter to the Chen Clan—sweet words, you know. Said we found their people ‘injured’ in the sinkhole and would kindly return them… for a price.”

He chuckled at his own wit and leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink he had gotten from the inn owner.

Apparently, it was common practice among clans to ransom their enemies rather than kill them outright. It kept the balance—blood for gold, pride for silence. That was what had happened in the sinkhole. Murong, for all his arrogance, wasn’t stupid enough to start a major conflict by killing someone like Chen Eain, who was considered one of the Chen Clan’s strongest younger cultivators, if not the strongest.

Chen Ren imagined the scene—Eain crawling back to the clan, broken and humiliated, wrapped in the Yu Clan’s terms of mercy. It must have burned. The man’s pride had always been larger than his strength. And when that pride was wounded, it would look for someone to blame.

Chen Ren already knew who that would be.

Yu Clan and the one who made the pills.

He didn’t care. Let Chen Eain rage. Fear was something he had long forgotten how to feel, especially against young masters. Even without using his qi, his body alone would be strong enough to take him on, especially with his mastery in cultivation disciplines.

Murong, however, didn’t stop talking. For nearly another hour, he went on—boasting about the beasts he had slain, the rewards he had gotten, and, with a sly grin, the maids who now threw themselves at him.

Chen Ren’s expression didn’t change. He let the man talk, offering a polite hum or nod whenever there was a pause. But when the stories started to grow more vulgar, he raised a hand and said quietly, “Young Master Murong, I still have work to attend to. Can we continue this later?”

Murong blinked, clearly disappointed the audience was ending, then waved a hand dismissively. “Work, eh? Fine, fine. I was actually here to invite you anyway. Father wants to host a family dinner tonight—he’s been singing your praises ever since those pills proved themselves. Come. You’ll be the guest of honor.”

“Oh? Is that so?” Chen Ren nodded. “I’ll be there.”

Murong grinned and finally took his leave, swaggering out of the inn like a man who owned the heavens.

Chen Ren exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair. A family dinner meant that there would be more orders; hence more profit.

But his thoughts weren’t on the spirit stones.

Sooner or later, the Chen Clan, and even the Huang Clan, would begin to question how the Yu Clan had suddenly gained such an advantage. It was only a matter of time before the elders started digging. Once they interrogated the survivors from the sinkhole expedition and learnt about the pills, the trail would point in one direction—toward him, or rather, toward Renjie.

Chen Ren wasn’t naïve. He knew there were spies scattered across every clan. But even if there weren’t, Murong’s mouth alone was enough to ruin any secret. The man’s ego was too big to keep anything quiet for long. Eventually, word would reach the wrong ears, and when it did, the Chen Clan would come knocking.

Chen Ren was waiting for that day.

But for now, there were other matters to handle.

Apparently, Luo Feng had stumbled upon news of a sickle-shaped artifact, something one of the mercenary parties had dragged out of the sinkhole. Rumor had it the thing pulsed faintly with its own qi and carried the name of a forgotten craftsman. Luo Feng wanted it, badly enough to ask Chen Ren along to help negotiate the price.

Chen Ren didn’t mind. He needed to get out more anyway. There were too many things on his list—too many plans running in parallel.

The second step of soul cultivation, for one.

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Every night, Wang Jun had been drilling him on intent and touching one’s soul, pushing him toward that breakthrough. The old man’s scolding had become sharper as Chen Ren drew closer, his irritation barely hiding his surprise. The truth was, Chen Ren could feel it too—he was right on the edge on making contact with his soul.

But before he took that step, he wanted to do something else. Something important.

He wanted to hunt a beast in the sinkhole himself, so he could also make a breakthrough in body cultivation.

He had already mastered the physical drills; his body had hardened, his muscles carried a steadiness of strength. But the moment he would slay a beast and temper his bones in a bath, he’d finally break through the first step of body cultivation and stabilize his star space, at least to a point where he could finally make progress into higher realms.

But before that he needed to select a beast to hunt.

***

Chen Ren sat by the window, the pale morning light sliding across the open book before him. The bestiary of the sinkhole. Yu Murong had sent it to him two days ago as promised, proudly claiming it listed every beast his clan’s scouts had catalogued in the last three years.

Chen Ren had already skimmed through it before, but choosing one beast to hunt was far harder than it sounded. Every creature in the sinkhole was vicious in its own right; the more pages he turned, the crueler the sketch became.

He flipped through another section when Yalan’s voice cut through the quiet.

“How about this one?”

She leaned over his shoulder and tapped against a page. “An ivory slasher. Peak tier two. See? It’s covered in bone—its ribs and spine jut out like blades. Perfect for tempering your skeleton further.”

Chen Ren looked down at the drawing. The artist had done well to capture its monstrous form—a lean, wolf-like beast with white bone spikes bursting from every inch of its body, sharp enough to tear through metal. Its face was half skull, half flesh, the eyes sunken and hungry. Beneath the illustration, notes marked the region it was often found: Near the entrance of the sinkhole. A place named Bone Ridge Cavern.

He studied it for a moment before shaking his head. “Too dangerous,” he said simply. “It can elongate its bones to puncture through enemies. I’d have to use my qi the entire time to not get stabbed, and that’ll shatter my control. I’ll lose an eye before I even land a hit.”

He turned the page.

Yalan exhaled through her nose, clearly unimpressed. “Fine. Then how about this one?”

She pointed again—her little paw hovered over a massive creature that filled half the page. It had the body of a lion, but its mane was dark and metallic, its tail long and sharp like a blade, and two curved horns jutted from its skull.

Chen Ren’s gaze swept over the sketch, then down to the notes scrawled underneath. “A horned sand devourer… fierce, but reckless. Says here that it can shootconcentrated beams of qi from its horns.”

Yalan tilted her head. “And?”

He snorted. “And it could bring down the ceiling with one shot. The sinkhole isn’t exactly forgiving. I’d die buried alive before I even land a hit. Also—” he traced the map beside it “—it lives far too deep. I’d need a full squad to get close, and that defeats the point.”

“Tch. You’re too choosy,” Yalan muttered.

“I need to be picky if I don’t want to die hundreds of feet underground,” he said flatly. The thought alone sent a shiver crawling up his spine. The image of falling into eternal darkness—crushed under earth, lungs filled with dust—wasn’t something he cared to test.

He kept flipping through the pages. Some beasts looked manageable, but were far weaker than what he needed. Others seemed perfect for bone refinement, but were elusive, hidden in depths where light itself barely reached.

One after another, the sketches blurred past his fingers—fangs, claws, scales, wings. All promising death in different forms.

What he needed was one that matched all its criteria.

The sinkhole was a world of its own—vast, layered, and treacherous. Even with the Yu Clan’s bestiary in his hands, Chen Ren knew that knowing a beast’s name and actually finding it were two very different things.

What he needed was precise. The beast had to match his current strength—not too weak, not too powerful. It couldn’t be too deep within the sinkhole, where the air grew thick with qi that could poison you and the ground swallowed footsteps. It had to be traceable, not one of those elusive predators that vanished like ghosts. And above all, it had to be something he was confident he could kill.

Ticking all those boxes was like trying to thread a needle in a storm. Worse, the bestiary might already be outdated. Beasts died, migrated, or mutated all the time. Even the Yu Clan’s records, neat and organized as they were, could be lies written by dead men.

Still, Chen Ren had no other choice.

So he kept reading.

Page after page turned under his fingers. Yalan had left him alone by then, too bored to watch him squint at ink sketches.

By the time he finally leaned back, two hours had passed, and other than the first two beasts Yalan pointed out, three more had caught his eye.

The first was a fire-tongued earth wyvern, a giant creature with rough, metallic scales that glimmered like dull iron. It was fire-attuned and would throw fire with its tongue. Its regeneration was limited compared to other beasts of its tier, making it a realistic target. Fire-attuned flesh would also strengthen his ligaments and lungs—A good fit for body cultivation.

The second was a mist-eyed chimera, a strange hybrid that roamed the outer tunnels, rarely staying in one place. The last recorded sighting was nearly a year ago. The book described it as passive unless provoked, intelligent, and solitary. A beast that preferred evasion over battle. It was harder to find, but far safer to fight once cornered.

The third was the most tempting, and the most dangerous. A Thunderhorn Ram, a four-legged beast that resembled a goat, but was born of both lightning and wind. Sparks ran through its fur in the sketch, the horns crackling like storm clouds. Unlike the others, its nest was marked clearly—a fixed location, with notes of previous cultivators’ attempts to slay it. Most of those attempts had failed, but the book also mentioned that it might have progressed to tier three since it had been close to it for years now.

Out of the five, any would do.

But selecting one was another battle altogether.

Chen Ren sat there, fingers resting on the page, eyes narrowed. The inked drawings stared back at him, beasts frozen in mid-snarl. His thoughts flickered between them.

Choosing wrongly could mean death. Choosing wisely could mean a new stage of strength.

He exhaled slowly, the paper rustling beneath his breath.

Yalan leaned over the book and pointed at the fire-tongued earth wyvern’s sketch. “Why not the lizard?” she said. “Looks easy enough to kill, even with that little regeneration. Its scales aren’t thick.”

Chen Ren hadn’t even noticed when she had come back. His eyes went back to the page, and at the inked teeth, and the long, low body.

“I’m… worried about its speed,” he admitted. “If I can’t match how fast it moves, I’ll never land a proper strike. You know I can barely use my qi right now.”

Yalan snorted. “Still, if you can hold it in one place, blowing its head off won’t be hard.” Her voice was flat, but the grin at the corner of her whiskers said she liked the image.

He imagined the scene: a flash of claws, a spinning head, his hand steady as he set the final blow. It felt good for a second, a clean, honest victory. He tapped the page with a finger. “If I trap it, yes. But that’s the problem, I don’t know how long it will take to even find the thing. The sinkhole is wide. And I need to prepare. I’d rather do it before we leave the city.”

“Are you planning to hunt it while we sit in the market, then?” she asked.

“No.” He shook his head. “I’ll find it and finish it before we go. If I’m right, the medallion talk should come up soon. I want to move before I get too embroiled in this clan war which honestly shouldn’t happen. But I don’t want to take risks.”

“You’re always so sure of yourself,” Yalan said and stretched where she was.

“It usually works out,” he said, and felt a grin creeping to his face before it faded. “But I have to think three steps ahead. Once word gets out—and it will—both the Chen and Huang clans will start asking questions. They have spies. If they don’t already know, they’ll learn soon. I need to be ready for what happens when they come looking and then see if the Chen clan is willing to part with the medallion. That’s the only obstacle in our path right now and with my luck, we might get in a conflict one way or another.”

***

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