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Dao of money Chapter 77
🕑 Added 2025-02-27 17:21:53 +0000 UTCChapter 77
When Chen Ren first decided to bring mortals into his sect, it wasn’t just to have them handle merchant activities while the cultivators acted as the sect’s muscle. No, he had bigger plans for them—plans that involved making them stronger.
The problem had been, how?
In a world where even a one-star body forging realm cultivator could slaughter a dozen mortals without breaking a sweat, how was he supposed to bridge that gap?
Worse still, most mortals would rather bow or flee the moment they saw a cultivator, not stand and fight. That fear had been ingrained in them for generations, passed down like an unshakable curse.
So, how was he supposed to make them strong enough to at least stand against a cultivator?
The solution was simple—give them a weapon that could kill one. The idea first struck him when he read a story in Qing He’s shop. It was about a mortal boy who found an artifact with a spirit stone embedded in it. Using that artifact, he killed a cultivator who had slaughtered his family over a petty grudge.
Obviously, that was just a fairy tale. Even if it had been real, the cultivator in question must have been pathetically weak.
But the story had done its job—it had planted a seed.
While Chen Ren couldn’t forge artifacts for every mortal in his sect, he could create something else.
A gun workshop.
Arm every single one of the mortals.
That was one of the main reasons he had sought a sect location far from Cloud Mist City, somewhere secluded. If he had started building guns in the city and word had leaked out, some powerful clan would have taken an interest. Or worse, an accident could have exposed his plans before he was ready.
No, he had to be patient. Careful.
Though, the hardest part of making a gun still remained—finding a blacksmith capable of crafting one.
Chen Ren watched the man in front of him, eyes scanning the parchment with an almost feverish intensity. His fingers traced the diagrams, his brows furrowing and then relaxing as he absorbed every detail.
This was the moment. Was this man truly skilled enough?
Finally, Feiyu spoke. “I think this is… very, very interesting.” His eyes sparkled when he looked up from the parchment. He tapped a finger on one of the diagrams. “I’ve never seen a design like this before. If this really works—if it can launch this metal casing at such speed—it would be a lethal artifact capable of killing even cu—”
He stopped mid-sentence. His face shifted, his eyes now wary as he looked up at Chen Ren with newfound scrutiny. A long pause stretched between them before the man spoke again.
Chen Ren didn’t say anything, he didn’t rush the man to spit out his words, or even show any sort of emotion at his sudden outburst. He simply stood, waiting for Feiyu to grasp the weight of the diagrams.
“Can I ask you some questions, Daoist Chen? I’m very curious about this.”
Chen Ren nodded, retrieving the parchment from his hands. “Go ahead.”
Feiyu wasted no time. “To push out this metal thing that you seem to have called a ‘bullet,’ it would require some kind of explosive force inside the weapon’s body. Is it some sort of alchemical compound?”
Chen Ren shook his head. “No, it’s something different—gunpowder, or black powder. It’s not exactly an alchemical creation, but a chemical mixture. We don’t have it yet, and our sect is missing some parts of the formula, but I know the basics.”
The man nodded, his fingers drumming against his thigh as he processed the information. “I see… Then, how do you prevent the weapon from exploding? I didn’t see any rune inscriptions on this design to reinforce the structure.”
Chen Ren smiled faintly. “That’s because the original design doesn’t use runes.”
Feiyu’s frown deepened. “Then how does it not blow up in the user’s hands?”
“Simple. The design allows some of the explosion to escape, preventing it from building up too much pressure. If we completely sealed it, the weapon would be too dangerous to handle.”
“Uhnn… That means every step of crafting and handling it would need to be precise. One mistake, and the weapon could kill its own user.”
Chen Ren nodded. “That’s true. But then again… isn’t it the same with a sword?”
A slow smile spread across his face. “Heh. I suppose it is.”
“A sword’s sharp edge can cut its wielder too,” Chen Ren said, mirroring Feiyu’s smile. “But in the case of a gun? It’ll just blow you to bits.” He chuckled before adding, “But don’t worry. Once I get my hands on the weapon, whoever we give it to will have to go through extensive training before they’re allowed to use it.”
Feiyu nodded in agreement. “That would be the right way.” He hesitated for a moment before asking, “Though… am I right in assuming even a mortal could use this?”
Chen Ren didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the man, weighing his trustworthiness. If Feiyu babbled to the Zhu Clan, they might get unnecessarily interested. But then again, as a slave, it was unlikely anyone would take his words seriously. And even if they did, Chen Ren could always deny everything.
After a moment, he nodded.
“Yes. Mortals can use it.”
Feiyu’s eyes widened. “I see…” His fingers twitched as he processed the revelation. “Then… if this could be mass-produced and there were enough of them, like common weapons… it might change everything.”
Chen Ren exhaled sharply. “That’s true. But I have no intention of letting it fall into other people’s hands. This is one of my sect’s most precious artifacts.”
“Then… Why did you show it to me?”
“There are a few reasons.”
Feiyu raised an eyebrow, urging Chen Ren to continue.
“First of all, I don’t think you can do much with what you’ve seen. Sure, maybe you could forge a metal case that resembles a gun. But you don’t have the powder to make it work. And you already understand how dangerous it is. If you try to build it without the right knowledge, there’s a good chance you’d get yourself killed.”
Feiyu slowly nodded, his fingers gripping his own arms as he listened.
Chen Ren continued, “Secondly, I showed it to you because… I want your help in making it.”
The man’s head snapped up. His eyes searched Chen Ren’s face, as if trying to determine if he had misheard. “Me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with disbelief.
He met Feiyu’s gaze and nodded. “Yes. You look like a capable blacksmith—and a cultivator too. I’m pretty sure working on this will help your Dao.”
“You know my Dao?” His eyes widened at that. Chen Ren even noticed the subtle twitch in his lips.
Chen Ren smirked. “It wasn’t hard to guess. I’ve heard you’re not good at fighting, and you don’t like to sit and cultivate either. You’re always in the forge, hammering away. And yet, despite that, you’ve reached the qi refinement realm.”
“That’s true. I’m not good at fighting no matter how hard I tried when I was small. I follow the Dao of the Forge. Every time I create a new piece of equipment—something better than anything I’ve made before, or something truly unique—I gain insights. But… it’s not easy to improve while stuck here.”
Chen Ren crossed his arms. “Then you’d be interested in guns?”
The man’s eyes gleamed with intrigue before it dimmed wholly. He shook his head. “I am. But I can’t help you, Daoist Chen.”
Chen Ren raised an eyebrow. “Because you’re a slave.”
Feiyu smiled, but it was a bitter one. “Yes. I’m a slave. Even if I wanted to help, I can’t. Not for the next ninety years.” He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “If you’re still looking for a blacksmith after ninety years, you can always look me up. I’ll help you.”
With that, he turned back to the cart he’d been working on, his hands moving as if the conversation had never happened.
Chen Ren remained standing there for a while, watching Feiyu work. The man hadn’t even hesitated when he said he was a slave. There was no bitterness in his voice, just a quiet acceptance of his fate, as if it had long since settled into his bones.
Yet, despite that, his eyes had gleamed with interest when they talked about the gun. That spark, however fleeting, was enough for Chen Ren to know that Feiyu wasn’t completely resigned. He still had ambition—buried, restrained, but there.
Chen Ren let out a slow breath. The man had grasped the design far better than any other blacksmith he’d spoken to. More than that—he was interested. But his slave status… That was a problem. A big one.
Chen Ren let out a slow breath. If he could free him, he wouldn’t just be getting someone to forge him a gun. He’d be gaining a blacksmith who specialized in the Dao of the Forge—someone whose entire cultivation path revolved around creating superior weapons.
But how was he going to do it?
The more he thought about it, the more he realized—this might be the most complicated problem he had faced so far.
***
The next three days went by in quiet observation.
Chen Ren kept his distance at first, watching how Feiyu interacted with others. Just as he had expected, most of the Zhu Clan members weren’t kind to him. While they didn’t outright beat him, they treated him like a tool—an object to be used when needed and discarded when not. They ordered him around with the same casual disregard one might show to a servant, rarely acknowledging his skill beyond what was necessary to get their work done.
The man spent most of his time doing odd jobs—repairing carts, reinforcing weapons, fixing farming tools—whatever the Zhu Clan needed. Only in the free time he managed to scrape together did he return to the forge, hammering away at whatever project he had been working on.
That was when Chen Ren approached him.
Fortunately, Feiyu wasn’t cold toward him. He would engage in conversation on a large number of topics, from metallurgy to cultivation techniques, from the best way to temper steel to the flaws of certain battle formations. He was knowledgeable, well-spoken, and most importantly—he was rational.
The more they talked, the more certain Chen Ren became that he wanted this man in his sect.
He was skilled, disciplined, and ambitious in his own way. While he didn’t openly declare his desires, Chen Ren could see it in the way he worked—how he strived to improve his craft, how his eyes sharpened when discussing designs, how his hands moved with certainty even when experimenting with something new.
But once again, he confirmed that his ambition was chained. And the man knew it.
More than once, he told Chen Ren outright—there was no way to break a slave pact before the required servitude time ended.
Chen Ren had initially dismissed that. There had to be a way.
But as the days passed, doubt crept in.
It wasn’t as if he wasn’t trying. He had spent the last few days wracking his brain, trying to think of a loophole, a weakness in the system, something—anything—that would let him break the pact. But every possibility he came up with led to a dead end.
And worst of all, Feiyu wasn’t even hoping for it.
He had accepted his fate.
Chen Ren clenched his jaw. He refused to do the same.
He had spent the past few days maneuvering through the Zhu Clan, engaging in casual yet much-needed conversations. Zhu Yuan had been a frequent target, as well as any other influential figures he happened to cross paths with. Each time, he had subtly broached the topic of acquiring the blacksmith. Each time, he had been met with rejection.
It wasn’t hard to see why. A cultivator bound by servitude was a rare commodity, and the Zhu Clan had no intention of letting Feiyu go without bleeding him dry first. They didn’t understand his dao—probably didn’t even realize he had one. If Feiyu had kept it hidden, it was with good reason. The Zhu Clan thrived on the martial dao, fists and blades carving their path forward. To them, forging was merely a means to an end.
Yalan had warned him more than once. You’re wasting your time. It’s a lost cause.
But Chen Ren couldn’t bring himself to agree. Something in his gut told him otherwise. He didn’t need brute force or wealth to get what he wanted—just an opening, a single crack in the foundation that he could slip through.
And on the fourth day, that crack finally appeared.
The sun hung low in the sky. Chen Ren sat cross-legged on the wooden perch near the forge, eyes half-lidded as he slowly guided the immense surge of qi within him, absorbing what he could from his deal with the Zhu Clan. The quiet hum of the forge filled the air, steady and unbroken—until it wasn’t.
Footsteps sounded out. His eyes flicked open.
A group approached the forge.
A young man led them, his confident stride and the smug tilt of his chin making it clear that he was here to enjoy himself. He was Zhu Renjie, someone Chen Ren had a conversation with two days back while trying to get to know more people in the clan. Beside him, a handful of lackeys followed, grinning like they were in on a private joke.
But it was the girl among them who caught Chen Ren’s attention.
She walked stiffly, her gaze darting away from the forge as though she was dragged here. Unlike the others, she carried no amusement in her eyes. Her robes, fine with artistic embroidery, marked her as a Zhu—one of Renjie’s cousins, most likely. But, he knew one thing—she didn’t belong with them, not entirely.
Her expression was tight, her shoulders stiff. She wasn’t eager like the lackeys, nor was she indifferent like Renjie. Instead, she looked… reluctant. Uncomfortable. Her gaze flitted around, never settling too long on anything, and though she walked with them, there was a hesitation in her steps, as if she would rather be anywhere else.
Chen Ren’s eyes narrowed slightly. Interesting.
The group came to a stop before the forge, and Feiyu, who had been hammering away at a piece of metal, slowed his strikes before setting the hammer down. He turned toward them, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Zhu Renjie smirked. “Still toiling away, I see.”
Feiyu straightened. His hands tightened at his sides before he quickly stepped forward, bowing low.
“Young Master Renjie.” He shifted, lowering his head toward the girl beside him. “Young Miss Lingyan, this slave greets you.”
The young woman hesitated before inclining her head in return, her sleeves shifting as she folded her hands together. Her gaze flickered downward, barely meeting Feiyu before shifting away.
A hand clamped down on Feiyu’s shoulder, casual in appearance but pressing with weight. “Feiyu,” Renjie said. “It’s been far too long. I figured you’d be holed up in this forge, hammering away all day. Thought I’d come check on you.”
Feiyu’s jaw tightened. The fingers on his shoulder curled slightly, a not-so-subtle squeeze.
He lowered his head again. “Young Master, I am but a servant. It is my duty to work.”
“Nonsense.” Renjie’s laugh was light, airy—almost friendly, if not for the sharp glint in his eyes. “You’re a cultivator, aren’t you? A man like you should be exchanging pointers, testing your strength. It wouldn’t do for your skills to dull, would it?”
The forge crackled behind them, filling the brief silence.
Feiyu’s shoulders stiffened. Chen Ren, watching from his perch, saw the faintest shift in his stance—the smallest pullback, the subtle hesitation of a man who wanted to refuse but couldn’t.
Feiyu bowed again, deeper this time. “It would be an honor.”
A smirk played on Renjie’s lips as he stepped back, his lackeys chuckling behind him.
Chen Ren exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing the grain of the wooden beam beside him. This wasn’t going to be a simple spar. Everyone knew the outcome of it and were awaiting it.
Except, perhaps, the girl.
Her hands clenched at her sides, knuckles pressing against the fabric of her sleeves. Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to speak, but the words never came.
Renjie, oblivious or uncaring, turned on his heel. “Let’s go.”
Feiyu followed, his footsteps steady but heavy.
Chen Ren watched them go, his mind already turning.
The two cultivators moved to the open ground, stepping into their respective positions, the space between them thick with anticipation. The lackeys whispered among themselves, their grins widening and laughter crackling amidst the blood that was about to spill.
Chen Ren let his gaze flicker past them, something catching his attention—a small detail others had missed.
The girl’s hands were cupped together, fingers tightening against the folds of her sleeve. Her eyes, hesitant and fleeting, darted toward Feiyu, lingering for a heartbeat before shifting away.
Feiyu did the same.
His bow was precise, his stance composed, but his eyes—just for an instant—betrayed something else. They found the girl, searching, before quickly lowering again.
Chen Ren’s fingers tapped lightly against the wooden railing.
“You see it too, don’t you?”
Yalan’s voice came through his mind. She scoffed, getting comfortable near him.
He didn’t flinch at her sudden presence—he was used to it by now—but he exhaled through his nose, eyes still fixed on the two below.
“They know each other,” she continued. “And not just in passing.”
He nodded slightly, his mind already turning over the implications. I haven’t done proper research on Feiyu after all. There was more to him than just being a slave blacksmith. More that Chen Ren hadn’t considered.
“Will their connection help you?”
Chen Ren’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Maybe. If things go right, I might have finally found a way to get our hands on him.”
And as those words left his mouth, the spar began.
