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Dao of money Chapter 120
🕑 Added 2025-06-03 15:22:16 +0000 UTCChapter 120
Every season brought its own kind of business, and Chen Ren had come to understand that truth more intimately than most. He had learned, slowly and sometimes painfully, that the world moved in cycles—not just of cultivation and qi, but of need, opportunity, and coin. Summer demanded ice cream and light robes; winter demanded warmth and protection. Monsoon rains? That was a time to sell umbrellas by the dozen.
He had seized the summer with cold treats that children and adults clamored for. Now, with frost crawling into the bones of the mornings, there had to be something, some niche he could carve out to survive the lean months ahead.
His first thoughts had not been small ones.
He had envisioned a kind of rune heater—something small, portable, and self-sustaining, drawing ambient qi from the air and gently releasing heat into a room.
But the complexity of such a device far exceeded his current capabilities. The few prototype inscriptions he etched sputtered and smoked, the qi diffusing too quickly to maintain warmth for more than a few breaths. Worse, he lacked the time and manpower to refine the design. And even if he was able to, he had no men for large scale production. The skilled hands at the brewery were already stretched thin, bottling up the autumn’s batch of moonshine.
Then came the more practical idea—simple heat arrays. Basic warming formations etched onto stone, installed in each home for a fee. But even that had its issues. The villagers could barely afford spirit salt, let alone luxury comforts like warmth-on-command. Besides, he wasn’t about to exhaust himself trudging door to door, casting the same formation over and over. The sheer energy it would take wasn’t worth the handful of silver coins he’d earn back.
Qing He could probably anchor a large-scale warming array over the entire village if she wanted to. But she had refused, saying it was beneath her to do so and cold was something mortals should get used to. And Chen Ren had no interest in playing the knight when there was a coin to be made.
That was when the idea finally arrived, nudged by Chief Muyang. It came in the form of a corpse.
The wolves black and red fur glistened even in death. He’d felt a pang of regret for the pups—their lives snuffed out before they could even grow—but he was no fool. In this world, you either used the opportunity, or someone else did.
Fur. That was it.
But ideas were only as strong as the knowledge behind them. Before he could build a business on beast pelts, he needed to know which creatures had the most valuable furs, if he could expect them in the rising, how dangerous they were, and—most importantly—how many could be hunted without tipping the balance of the local ecology.
Only one man could help him with that.
Zi Wen.
Once a hunter, now a member of his sect who patrolled the area often, Zi Wen knew the surrounding forests better than the back of his own hand. He had walked its every trail, tracked every pawprint and claw mark. If there was a beast to be found, Zi Wen knew.
Lately, Chen Ren had heard whispers—Zi Wen poring over the bestiary he’d borrowed, and then asking for more. That alone was enough for him to consult him.
So, after the cleanup from the wolf attack was over and the air smelled less of blood and smoke, Chen Ren made his way toward the sect grounds. The wolf corpses had been brought there, stacked near the old shed where sect members stored unused weapons and half-broken training dummies. Some of the villagers worked under the watch of mortal members, dragging bodies with hooked spears or tying them down with ropes soaked in cleansing salt.
Zi Wen was there, sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening along his brow despite the chill. He was crouched beside one of the bloodbacks, examining its hind legs, murmuring something to himself.
Chen Ren didn’t call out immediately. Instead, he watched.
The way his fingers pressed into muscle, noting the density. The way he examined the fur from root to tip, comparing length and softness. He wasn’t just looking. He was cataloging.
Good.
Chen Ren finally stepped closer. His boots crunched lightly on the frosted grass, and Zi Wen glanced up, eyes alert before softening with recognition.
He immediately gestured toward the three largest bodies in the pile.
“We can feed the sect for a month or so with good meat from these,” he said matter-of-factly. “I believe Secteader Chen, you should create an ice chamber. Etch some frost arrays on the walls and line them with crystal salts—keep the meat from rotting. We can distribute the wolf pups’ meat to the villagers. It won’t taste as rich as the adults, but they’re spiritual beasts in the end. Might help the old ones with their joints... and the children grow up a little sturdier.”
Chen Ren folded his arms, letting him speak without interruption. Zi Wen always thought of the village.
“I actually didn’t come here to talk about the meat,” Chen Ren said after a beat. “Other than maybe getting a decent meal out of it, I’m not all that interested.”
Zi Wen finally looked at him, brushing his hands on his pants. “Then what?” he asked, brows furrowed. “The furs? Thinking about Chief Muyang’s offer?”
“Something similar,” Chen Ren replied. He stepped closer, his eyes drifting over the glinting pelts. “Bloodback wolf furs are too luxurious for this village. Even the nearby towns won’t be able to pay what they’re worth. At best, they'll barter small items or offer a couple gold. But I know what these are truly worth in the cities.”
He tapped his knuckle lightly against the beast’s stiff shoulder. “And winter’s going to be around for a while. So I’m thinking something different.”
Zi Wen tilted his head. “What kind of different?”
“By the end of the rising—how many furs do you think we can get our hands on?”
Zi Wen scratched his chin, then glanced upwards towards the hill that hemmed the village like a slumbering beast of its own. “Hard to say exactly. But hundreds, definitely. Lots of furred beasts emerge or migrate in winter. Some rare ones come out from underground too, hunting or looking for mates.”
A smile crept to Chen Ren’s face.
“Are you planning to collect them all?” Zi Wen asked.
“Yes,” Chen Ren said simply. “And I’m going to start an interior heat insulation business with them.”
Zi Wen blinked. “A what?”
Chen Ren chuckled. “I figured that would throw you off. Let me explain. We take the furs, stretch them over wooden wall panels. Stuff the insides with straw, dried moss, even coarse linen—whatever insulates well. Then we hang those against the inside of walls in houses. Simple. Effective.”
“That’s...” Zi Wen paused, brow tightening. “I have heard some tribes in harsher regions do that?”
“Yes. Nomadic clans up north use that method all the time to keep the cold from seeping into their buildings. But here’s the kicker—our version will use spiritual beast fur. That means it won’t just insulate better, it’ll be able to use the qi in the air to heat the insides. Beast bodies have unique properties that don't end with the beast’s death. It only lessens with time. And do you know who will give us good money for it?”
Zi Wen waited for an answer and Chen Ren soon gave it to him.
“Rich households,” he answered. “Clans. Emerging sects with wide halls and open-air sleeping quarters. Imagine what a spiritual-fur-padded wall would do for a meditation chamber during winter? Or for a bedroom? We’ll tailor the size and thickness, maybe even add minor enchantments to enhance warmth. If we keep the rarer fur for them, they would lap it up.”
A slow nod came from Zi Wen. “You could make quite a bit of money.”
“I know,” Chen Ren said.
“But what about Meadow Village?” Zi Wen asked after a pause. “I’m pretty sure most of them won’t be able to afford that kind of luxury. Even a handful of fur would cost more than a season’s worth of grain.”
Chen Ren turned his eyes down, then gestured silently to one of the wolf pup corpses, smaller and curled almost peacefully under the morning frost.
“I’m getting to that,” he said but his eyes lingered on the small wolf pup’s body. Its form was curled as if still seeking warmth in death.
That tugged his chest. He still felt bad seeing it like that. But only for a moment.
This was the world they lived in. Either you used what you had or you let it rot. He reminded himself of that again and again.
Drawing in a slow breath, Chen Ren stepped forward and crouched beside the pup, brushing some frost from its pelt. “We can turn these into blankets,” he said. “Stitch two or three together at the center, reinforce the edges with cheaper cloth—cotton, linen, even patched hemp. That way, each piece becomes something that can warm a whole family.”
He looked up at Zi Wen. “Kids won’t be going out much in this weather, especially not with beasts prowling around. Blankets like these could help families sleep through the cold nights.”
Zi Wen folded his arms again, thoughtful.
“If we get enough of them,” Chen Ren continued, rising to his feet, “we can start moving them toward the cities—Jingxi, Cloud Mist. Li Xuan already promised to help on the business side, and with his connections, we won’t just be selling blankets. We’ll offer full insulation services. That, and we can still hold back some of the best-quality fur for cloaks and armor. There’s enough material here to support three ventures if we plan it right. And we would be killing more beasts everyday.”
Zi Wen nodded slowly, but his expression was still clouded with logistics. “You're not wrong. But where are we going to find the people to get this moving?”
He gestured around at the piles of wolves. “We need men to strip the fur without ruining it. Then stitchers to join and reinforce it. That’s not something anyone can do—you need hands that have worked with fur before and won't hesitate with beast fur. A group, even a small one, with the right touch.”
Chen Ren looked to the distant rooftops of Meadow Village, smoke rising from a few houses windows.
“Do you know anyone like that here?” he asked.
Zi Wen scratched at the side of his head, brows drawn together. “Should be one or two,” he murmured. “Old wives of hunters mostly. They’re used to tanning and patching up hides for their husbands’ cloaks and boots. They might not be professionals, but they’ve got the hands for it.”
Chen Ren’s smile returned. “And with the population expanding recently, I’m sure there are more who know the basics. Maybe some who worked in trades before coming here. Tailors, leatherworkers... we just have to find them.”
Zi Wen took a moment longer, then gave a decisive nod. “Alright. I’ll start asking around.”
He turned back to the wolves but paused, then let out a short chuckle, not hiding his grin. “You’re always thinking of new businesses, Sect Leader Chen. Very peculiar for a cultivator even with such a dao.”
Chen Ren’s smile didn’t falter. He couldn’t tell Zi Wen that it wasn’t just about the coin. That everything he did was one more step toward cultivation. One more pulse of qi, one more tether to this world’s power. Without it, he would’ve long taken the easy path—and frankly, he didn’t want to now.
But instead, he just smiled and said, “Somebody has to.”
Chen Ren tilted his head upward, his eyes tracing the drifting clouds scattered across the pale winter sky. The chill in the air didn’t seem to touch him at all. If anything, he looked... invigorated.
He exhaled slowly, and with a small, almost amused smile, said, “We’ll have a lot of new businesses soon.”
“Really now?
Chen Ren nodded without breaking his gaze from the clouds. “I’m already working on one. Once everything is in place, we’ll be stepping into an entirely different market.”
Zi Wen squinted at him. “Let me guess… pills?”
That brought Chen Ren’s gaze back to him—and for a moment, he was shocked. He quickly recovered and masked his surprise. “You know about that?”
Zi Wen gave a slight shrug. “Heard it from Xiulan.” He paused, lips twitching with restrained amusement. “And Luo Feng mentioned something too. Asked if I could keep an eye out for certain herbs growing in the deeper forest. Said he wanted to see if they could be cultivated—they were herbs used in alchemy.
“Besides… it just feels like the natural next step for the sect. First food and perfume, then defending the village. I was wondering if you are satisfied with just this much. Though, I’ll admit I don’t know how you plan to do that without more alchemists.”
Chen Ren gave a small hum in response, neither denying nor confirming. But inside, he felt that pressure again. The same one that always returned when he thought about the future of the sect.
Zi Wen was right.
Alchemy was the logical next step. If the sect wanted to rise above mere survival, if it truly wanted to grow, it needed more than mortal businesses and wen. It needed immortal currency and cultivation resources.
The problem was, there weren’t many alchemists. In fact, the only two within the sect were Qing He—and himself. Maybe Anji knew a thing or two.
That had been a constant frustration these past weeks. He had been in quiet talks with the head, and even with Qing He herself, about something revolutionary—training mortals to craft pills. At least, the basic ones. It was slow work. The idea alone had been met with skepticism.
Qing He had practically scoffed when he mentioned it. “Standardize pill crafting?” she’d said, laughing. “You want to turn the Path of Flame and Herb into a bakery?”
But Chen Ren had seen the flaw in this world’s system. If only cultivators could make pills, and they only taught those who joined specific paths, then those without affinity or luck would always be left behind. His idea wasn’t to replace alchemy but to widen its doors.
Still, it was far from complete. He had some notes. A few working theories. Even drafted a system. But each time he tested it, something went wrong. He needed better tools, more time… and more smarter minds around him.
Zi Wen’s voice broke the thought spiral.
“You’re the only one who knows alchemy here, right? Besides Senior Qing He?”
Chen Ren opened his mouth. “Yes, but there’s Anji—”
BOOM!
A tremor rolled beneath their feet as a shockwave of sound cracked through the winter air. Chen Ren felt the noise in his chest.
Chen Ren’s head whipped toward the sound, eyes narrowing. A plume of smoke had begun to rise—faint, but black against the grey sky.
Zi Wen had already turned to run, boots kicking up frost. “That came from the sect building!”
Chen Ren felt lightning run through his legs and up towards his hands. If it was an attack, he didn't know how the sect was going to defend against it, especially with the beast on the ramparts.
But as he took another look at the smoke and where it was rising from, he froze.
Chen Ren’s eyes narrowed sharply, his pace faltering for a second.
The smoke was coming from his alchemy workshop.
***
Hun Tianzhi looked at the young man seated before him and took a slow sip of his herbal tea, letting the warmth settle on his tongue as a way to keep his expression neutral. The bitterness grounded him, masking the faint tightness in his chest. He felt it go through his throat to his stomach, ever so slowly.
He still remembered the day this man had passed the entrance trials—how he had stood before him, face flushed with pride, eyes bright with admiration. He had spoken of honor and belonging, of how glad he was to become part of the sect.
But now… now, that same man wouldn’t even meet his gaze.
The young cultivator sat with his shoulders stiff, fists resting on his knees, and after a breath too long, he finally spoke. “As you know, Sect Leader Hun, with how things are currently… I don’t think I can remain part of the sect any longer. It’s been five years… I’ve hit a bottleneck, and I believe the only way to break through it is to see the wider world. I want to leave the sect.”
The words were insanely practised. He could tell. Hun Tianzhi translated what was truly being said. The sect is too poor to help me break through. I want to try my luck with one that has more resources.
He set the cup down softly, letting silence hang in the air before asking, “Do you plan to return?”
The man hesitated. Just for a moment—but it was enough.
“We don’t know if I’ll even be alive out there,” he said at last. “The world’s dangerous. The beasts are agitated. If the heavens will it… I’ll come back.”
Hun Tianzhi translated that just as easily.
I don’t plan to return. You may as well consider me dead already.
A part of him wanted to say something—to warn him, to scold him, to remind him of the sect that raised him, fed him, sheltered him in his weakest years.
But there was no point. The man’s decision had already been made long before this conversation. He wasn’t here to ask permission—he was here to inform.
So Hun Tianzhi gave a small, simple nod. “Very well, then. I hope the heavens are kind to you in this next phase of your life.”
The man stood, bowed formally, and placed his sect token on the table between them with quiet finality. Then he turned and walked away. No hesitation. No glance back.
The room fell still as his footsteps faded down the corridor. Hun Tianzhi sat where he was, finishing the last of his tea, now lukewarm and bitter in a way that clung to the tongue.
He remained alone for several minutes, the scent of sandalwood curling softly through the air from the incense burner.
But when the cup emptied, and the quiet returned to its natural hum…The calm faded.
His fingers clenched tightly around the edge of the tea cup as the door clicked shut behind the departing disciple.
A moment passed. Then the cup shattered.
“That imbecile!” He shot up from his seat, fury flashing in his eyes as he slammed his palm down on the table, rattling the remaining teacups and sending the incense burner askew. “I wasted a Celestial Core Pill on that brat—that—that ungrateful coward—just to push him into the qi refinement realm! And now, the moment things get hard, the moment the sect’s footing gets weak—he runs.”
He paced once, twice, muttering between gritted teeth. “It’s not the pill you need. It’s talent you lack. You’re just a waste with a steady hand. If you weren’t half-decent at alchemy, I would’ve thrown you out myself.”
But the storm inside him began to fade almost as quickly as it had flared. All the righteous anger melted into a deep exhaustion.
He slumped down into the floor, shoulders sagging, elbows resting on the cold surface of the table. His voice dropped to a dry murmur. “How many is that now…?”
His fingers rubbed at his temples.
“…Seven. Seven in a month.”
He laughed—but there was no humor in it. He laughed a little louder.
“At this rate, I’ll be the only one left in this sect in another month or two. Just me… and ghosts in the corridors.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling, voice cracking. “Why are the heavens punishing me so much?”
The room fell silent again, but this time it felt heavy. Suffocating. Like it was trying to kill him right then and there.
His mind drifted to memories he didn’t want to remember, the day he founded the sect, how full of hope he had been, how every win had felt like a sign from fate. The silver cauldron gifted to him after winning the Eastern Alchemy Trials. That had been the turning point—his name whispered with respect, invitations from major clans, disciples waiting in long lines for a spot beneath his tutelage.
And now?
He was grasping at smoke, watching the walls crumble around him, one back turned disciple at a time. But memory changed nothing. Misery changed nothing.
So, like always, Hun Tianzhi stood.
Nothing would change unless I change.
He walked through the quiet corridors of his sect. Where once dozens of voices would have filled the air—laughter, sparring, footsteps—now only silence greeted him. Rooms that once held bright-eyed cultivators now lay dark and gathering dust.
He ignored it. He had learned to.
His destination was the one place where time still felt like it had meaning—his personal alchemy chamber.
The door slid open without a sound, and there it was. The silver cauldron. Smooth. Grand. Reflecting the faint flicker of light crystals embedded into the walls. It had once been the pride of his sect—the proof of his rise.
Now, even looking at it brought no satisfaction.
He stepped forward and activated the flame array with a flick of his finger. Heat flared to life beneath the cauldron, and with the motions worn into his bones, he began to push down herbs. He pushed down the dried ones, the crispy ones, and the ones he’d carefully, carefully chosen.
A low hum filled the room as the array engaged.
But even as the fire flared and the scent of ginseng and fireflower root thickened the air, Hun Tianzhi’s mind wandered once more.
Is this really the end?
With so few left… with all the promising disciples gone…
Should I really keep holding on? Or should I leave, just like them?
The flame crackled. And Hun Tianzhi stood still, staring into the rising mist, unsure for the first time in a long while… whether it was still worth the fight.
He stared into the shimmering mist rising from the cauldron, its silvery body humming faintly under the strain of the heat. He smelt the familiar scent of boiling spiritual herbs—earthy, bitter, tinged with sweetness—filled the air like incense, but it no longer stirred pride in him.
He could find a place, if he wished to. He knew that. Even now, with a sect barely standing behind him, his name still held some weight. His achievements hadn’t vanished. The Established sects would take him in. A Guardian Sect might even give him a respectable position—a seat among the lesser alchemy halls, or a post managing disciples in herb refinement. He would have housing, safety, resources. More than enough to live out the rest of his years in comfort.
But…
Did he want to be that again?
A cog.
A number.
One more alchemist sitting behind a row of cauldrons, churning out mid-grade pills for other people’s battles. Teaching recipes from old scrolls, not discovering his own. Watching others rise while he remained stagnant. He had lived that life once—back when he was younger, hungrier, and still unknown. It had taken him years to climb out of it. To earn enough respect to build his own sect from the ground up.
To be the master, not just a part of the machinery.
Did he really want to go back to that?
His hands moved automatically, feeding herbs into the swirling mix, controlling the temperature through his qi—refining root essence, layering spiritual fragments. His mind should have been focused. Alchemy demanded precision. Yet the weight in his chest refused to lift.
He didn’t want that life. He never had.
But what choice did he have now?
Without a miracle, this sect wouldn’t survive the winter. He could feel it—like rot creeping under the foundation.
The disciples were leaving. Resources were scarce. And no one—no one—was looking toward them for hope or strength.
He cursed under his breath. Only a miracle from the heavens could save them now. As he pushed the last set of powdered lotus seed into the cauldron and channeled his qi, he felt it settle inside him.
Only a miracle. Only a miracle would save him.
