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Dao of money Chapter 143
🕑 Added 2025-07-22 10:08:02 +0000 UTCChapter 143
Gao Moyue looked over the collection of artifacts he had gathered across the centuries. Once a month, without fail, he devoted time to cleaning them purely out of reverence.
His gaze first landed on the dark, weather-worn armor mounted along the wall. It was made from the hide of a gravemaul beetle king, a monstrous insectoid whose carapace had once resisted fire, blade, and qi alike. Gao Moyue had worn it throughout his foundation establishment years, carving through broods of beasts with such violence that the name Beast Killer had clung to him ever since.
Next came the rings. Twelve spatial rings, each inlaid with different metals, each unique in size and make. Most still held untouched resources—spirit stones, beast cores, rare herbs. But that wasn’t why he kept them. Every single ring had been won in a blood duel. Back when Darkmoon Sect was lawless, and power was justice, Gao Moyue had stood victorious on countless bloodied arenas. The rings were his silent trophies.
Then there was the cauldron.
It was a massive, crimson vessel with deep-set runes attached into its interior walls. They were painstakingly carved to enhance the pill purity, stabilize flames and refine flow. It was a Molten-Heart Cauldron, peak Earth-grade, and the only one of its kind in the entire sect. For two centuries, it had sat in the core of his alchemy room, serving him without fail. Even after stepping back from cultivation and ceasing his alchemical breakthroughs, he had never neglected to wipe it clean each month.
Today, as always, his hand reached for the cauldron first.
He unsummoned its stasis seal and laid it before him. A soft hum pulsed from the runes as they glowed faintly in greeting. He soaked a cloth in a basin of qi-rich solution and began circling the rim carefully.
That was when he heard light footsteps.
He turned his head without needing to ask. One of the servants stood in the doorway. Her eyes widened despite clearly preparing herself before coming. She tugged on the sides of her dress for some forsaken reason.
Gao Moyue straightened and frowned, displeased at being interrupted during an activity he genuinely enjoyed
“Do you have a good reason to disturb me?”
The servant bowed low, her head almost touching her knees. “It wasn’t my wish to do so, Sect Leader Gao Moyue. Elder Tiefang and a disciple have come to meet you on an urgent matter.”
Gao Moyue narrowed his eyes. “Tiefang?” The name didn’t strike immediate recognition. He cleared his throat. “Describe them.”
“The elder wore outer sect robes and had a beard that reached his neck,” she replied. “He looked… stressed. Kept looking around and asked for you repeatedly.”
“And the disciple?”
“He was in outer sect robes too. Short hair. He had his head lowered the whole time, like someone being dragged to an execution. He kept begging the elder to let him go.”
Gao Moyue fell into thought, his annoyance giving way to mild confusion. The description wasn’t much help—at this point, half the elders had started growing their beards like it was a competition. But the urgency was unmistakable. Either the elder was important enough to bypass channels… or the matter at hand was that pressing.
He sighed. Either way, he would have to hear them out.
“If this turns out to be stupid,” he muttered under his breath, “I’m plucking that beard off myself.” Looking at the servant, he straightened. “I’ll go meet them.”
“I will lead the way, Sect Leader,” she said quickly, turning to guide him through the quiet halls.
They made their way through the quiet corridor, footsteps muted against polished stone. When the servant opened the doors to the meeting room, Gao Moyue stepped in and immediately, it clicked.
Elder Tiefang.
He remembered now. The same man who had whined about the outer disciples who’d been killed. Was he here to complain again? And this time, he’d dragged along a sorry-looking disciple who seemed like he’d been slapped around by an inner disciple trying to flex?
A dull throb started at the back of Gao Moyue’s head.
Still, he kept his face composed. He was a sect leader, after all. At least this time he remembered the man's name.
He entered with the air of a mountain, and the moment he did, both Elder Tiefang and the disciple dropped to their knees, bowing low.
He gestured toward them with a flick of his fingers. “Raise your heads.”
They obeyed. The disciple’s face was pale and drawn. Elder Tiefang’s beard was a little more frazzled than last time.
“Why are you here?” Gao Moyue asked. “I believe I made myself clear before. Cultivation is a test of the heavens. If someone dies, it is because their strength was insufficient. No one else is to blame.”
But the elder quickly shook his head. “We’re not here for that, Sect Leader. This is something else. A much bigger problem. One that could ruin Darkmoon Sect for years to come if we don’t act fast.”
Gao Moyue stilled, his brows lowering. Ruin? He hadn’t heard of any such crisis. If the insectoids were rallying again, there would’ve been signs. His scouts would’ve sent word. And if it were an invasion, he would’ve been the first to know.
So what could it be?
“Explain,” he said curtly.
Elder Tiefang reached into his robe and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper, his fingers trembling slightly as he held it forward.
“Please take a look at this, Sect Leader,” he said.
Gao Moyue took the folded paper, noting how both the elder and the disciple tensed. Elder Tiefang’s shoulders rose slightly, held stiff like a man bracing for a strike. The disciple—barely keeping still—glanced at the door, foot shifting as if calculating the number of steps it would take to run.
The sect leader’s brow arched faintly. What could possibly be written here to warrant that kind of reaction?
He unfolded the paper, the parchment whispering against his fingers.
At first glance, it was nothing alarming. Columns of numbers. Inked rows of names and figures. But then, his eyes lingered. A line dropped. Then another.
His gaze sharpened, flicking back up. The patterns didn’t lie.
The sales had cratered.
The top three pills—ones that brought in almost a third of their monthly income—had suffered a drop so sudden, so steep, it looked like sabotage.
His fingers curled tighter around the parchment.
Side effects? Contamination? A rival’s scheme?
He scanned the rest of the data, lips pressing into a thin line. The numbers screamed, but the reasons didn’t write themselves.
He looked up, eyes locking onto Elder Tiefang.
“You’re in charge of our alchemy shops. Correct?”
Elder Tiefang nodded immediately, his eyes moved up from the floor.
“Then explain,” Gao Moyue said. “Explain to me why I’m looking at the single worst drop in sect revenue since I took leadership.”
Tiefang bowed low. “Yes, Sect Leader. I will.”
And then he began to speak.
For the next hour, Gao Moyue listened. He said nothing without moving an inch. He didn’t even move when a servant knocked gently to ask about lunch. The door remained closed.
As the elder laid out the story—from the rising success of Divine Pill Apothecary to the failed infiltration, the botched ingredients, and the disciples poisoned by their own attempts—Gao Moyue’s silence turned heavy.
By the halfway point, his mind was already spinning.
A new sect, rising within weeks, and now had strong enough products to steal their clients?
It was absurd. Unprecedented. It was unacceptable!
And yet, the records were real. The names, the amounts, the spirit stones lost each day. Falsifying them would be a death sentence. And Tiefang… he may have been a fool, but he wasn’t suicidal.
Even so, one question churned in Gao Moyue’s mind—How had they failed even in infiltration?
He simply stared at the disciple who had failed them all, though his silence wasn’t meant for him alone. His thoughts twisted inward, far deeper than the room they sat in.
How had they known?
That was the only question that mattered.
The spy had been competent, by all accounts. As far as he knew, the spy had been careful, quiet and committed to play his part. That much was obvious by now. Yet, they’d known—they’d known, and they’d played them.
One hand curled under his chin as his gaze slid down to the report again, but the numbers stayed the same, staring up at him like accusations.
Had they used an expert? Perhaps someone skilled in stealth or illusions, someone capable of sensing intrusions?
No... it had to be more than that. No Emerging sect—no unknown sect—should have been able to rise like this without powerful backing. Gao Moyue was many things—apathetic, indulgent, slow to act—but he wasn’t blind. There were always games behind the stage. Shadow hands pulling strings. But this? This felt like a direct slap.
Sending back a disciple alive—with false ingredients—wasn’t just a counterintelligence tactic. It was a mockery.
The air turned brittle.
When Elder Tiefang’s tale ended, Gao Moyue didn’t offer any of the usual phrases—no lazy admonishments, no philosophical quips about hardship building foundation.
He said nothing.
Because he couldn’t.
Tiefang had already done everything. And everything had failed.
He couldn’t just wave it away, couldn’t dismiss the problem with a flick of his sleeve and go back to wiping down old treasures.
Because this was about prestige and money.
And both were bleeding out.
If the numbers kept falling, he could already imagine the chain reaction—inner elders demanding more resources to compensate, then hoarding what little they had left. Disciple morale would slip, outer sect loyalty would crack, and complaints would pour in like floodwaters through a broken dam.
And what if the Divine Coin Sect made more pills? What if they expanded? Created body-strengthening pills? Ascension pills? Rejuvenation elixirs? All flavoured for the taste buds of cultivators.
His temples throbbed.
For a brief, deeply satisfying moment, Gao Moyue thought about going down the mountain himself. About walking into that flashy little shop, ripping the door off its hinges, and planting his boot on whatever smug face led their sect.
And get him to leave or be killed. But he had moved past such tacts. If he was right, the sect had an expert or two. And a battle in the city would be the worst thing possible for him.
His influence only stretched so far, and the City Lord was already irritated with the recent chaos near the southern borders. One fight in the streets and the man would turn on Darkmoon faster than he’d turn his tea cup.
No, this needed tact.
He lifted his gaze toward Elder Tiefang, who stiffened under the weight of it. “Has the reputation of our pills changed since this… Divine Pill Apothecary opened?”
“It has, Sect Leader. I’ve already begun hearing complaints. Not about quality, but…” He hesitated, lips thinning, “...about taste. Prices, too. They say our pills are bitter. Harsh on the tongue. Some even joke that swallowing ours is like chewing bark soaked in vinegar.”
Gao Moyue’s jaw clenched.
“They’ve been taking our pills for a century without complaint.”
“Yes, Sect Leader. But now they want every pill to taste sweet, to melt on the tongue like candy. The cultivators are acting like spoiled nobles.”
“They’re losing trust in us,” Gao Moyue muttered.
“They are. The only way I can see to restore it is to prove—to remind everyone—that our pills and our alchemists are leagues above theirs. That Darkmoon Sect stands at the pinnacle for a reason. Cultivators forget quickly. We must make them remember. But I don't see a way to do it, Sect Leader.”
Gao Moyue leaned back, tapping a finger against his armrest, thinking. Despite all of Tiefang’s earlier blunders, the man’s instincts weren’t wrong. A show of superiority, of undeniable skill and refinement… that might just do it.
Still, a part of him itched to lash out. They had failed. Lost face. But punishment could come later. First, they needed a solution.
He exhaled slowly. “Then we remind them.” But how?
How do you crush an opponent you can’t strike? How do you reclaim pride in a market of smiling shopkeepers and sweet-tasting pills?
He couldn’t get them in an honorary duel. Because brute force wouldn’t prove their point. This was about pills.
There must be something that I could think of… Something…
Gao Moyue’s thoughts spun tighter and tighter in his mind until a distant thread of memory snapped taut. A courtyard roaring with cheers. Flashes of red flags and bright golden letters. The scent of freshly refined pills. The Flames of Merit Trials.
He froze.
A younger version of himself stood at the center of that memory, robes billowing, cauldron blazing. Pills so pure they shimmered. He hadn’t just won that year—he had conquered. That one victory had changed the way the city spoke his name. He had become the pride of the Darkmoon Sect.
He slowly turned back toward Elder Tiefang, a gleam behind his tired eyes.
“What season is it?”
The question threw the elder off. “Season?”
“Yes.” Gao Moyue waved vaguely toward the distant windows. “Last I left my chambers, I recall… chilly winds. Is it winter now?”
“Yes, Sect Leader. The beast risings have started across the empire. Many border provinces are already reporting attacks. It’s a perilous time. Do you wish me to bring you the latest reports?”
Gao Moyue scoffed, waving his hand.
“Why would I want that? Let the other sects deal with it. Our duty is to the insectoids, not stray tigers and wolves. No… I’m asking because winter also means…”
He trailed off, eyes narrowing.
“…the Flames of Merit Trials. The citywide alchemy competition. It happens every three years.”
He raised a single brow, looking at Tiefang.
“It should be this year… if my memory still serves.”
Before the elder could even answer, the disciple beside him—head still lowered—spoke up.
“It is, Sect Leader Gao Moyue. They’ve started putting up the banners already. It’ll be announced formally soon.”
Gao Moyue smiled. And for the first time since they had entered the room, neither Tiefang nor the disciple could meet his eyes.
“Perfect,” the Sect Leader said, his voice deep with satisfaction. “We will not crawl back through the shadows like rats. We will step into the light and shatter their little illusion of superiority.”
He turned toward the wall, where a portrait of the Darkmoon Sect's founders hung.
“They made a fool out of us. They stole from our market, insulted our name, and laughed behind our backs.”
He looked over his shoulder, the smile still on his lips but something colder now in his gaze.
“We’ll see who’s laughing once the flames rise.”
