Dao of Money

Yalan flicked her tail lazily, a low purr rumbling in her throat as the creamy, freezing chunk of what Chen Ren called ice cream melted against her tongue. It was cold—shockingly so—but not unpleasant. No, it was delightful. Smooth, sweet, and strange in all the best ways. The flavor lingered, teasing her senses long after she swallowed, and for once, she didn’t mind the unnatural cold that came with it.

Chen Ren had introduced it as a “summer delicacy”, though Yalan privately thought it made just as much sense in winter. Snowflakes drifted lazily beyond the windowpane, but what did the weather matter to her? Mortals would probably end up sniffling under thick blankets after trying this in such weather, but her kind was made of sterner stuff.

Across the room, Qing He cradled a steaming cup of green tea—another one of Chen Ren’s odd but surprisingly pleasant recipes. Her eyes were closed as she sipped, clearly savoring the warmth.

On the low table between them, the severed head of Wang Jun sat upright, his eyes locked on the ice cream with a look of sheer envy. Yalan’s ears twitched. She sometimes pitied him—one who reached the so-called peaks of immortality, reduced to a talking head who could neither eat nor drink. But what could be done? There was no known art, spiritual or culinary, that could give him the pleasures of the flesh.

She dipped her head to lap at another bite, whiskers twitching with satisfaction. She was glad Chen Ren had chosen food as his first business. Her appetite had only grown sharper with each of his creations, and a part of her hoped he would invent more. Preferably something sweet.

Still... Yalan’s eyes flicked towards a window, the face of Chen Ren appearing in her mind. She couldn’t help the small prickle of concern beneath her fur. With all that had happened lately, she wasn’t entirely sure Chen Ren would come out of his workshop the same man, or if he’d come out at all.

As if sensing her thoughts, Qing He spoke, “Do you think he’ll come out of there sane? Or will he be like those old monsters—cultivators who seal themselves away for centuries, chasing madness in the name of breakthroughs?”

Yalan shrugged with her paw. At this point, she truly couldn’t tell.

“It’s only been a couple of days.”

“A couple of days in one room for him is weird enough. You know how he is. Never still. One thing after another. He even dragged Feiyu in there and locked the door. Stopped all gun production too. I’ve been so bored because of it.”Yalan gave a noncommittal chuff of agreement. Qing He wasn’t wrong. Chen Ren wasn’t the type to sit in one place. And the idea that both he and Feiyu hadn’t come out for food… It was troubling. She hadn’t smelled anything cooked in days when she had passed by the workshop—only the faint buzz of qi and bitter smells of herbs and potions. They were likely sustaining themselves entirely on spiritual energy now.

At least there hadn’t been any more explosions. That was something. But the occasional scream of frustration had more than made up for the silence in between.

“Whatever he’s trying to do,” Yalan muttered, curling her tail around her paws. “He’s going to come out of it after he fails.”

“You sure he’s going to fail?”

Yalan finished the last of her ice cream with a satisfied lick and sat back. “He’s very capable. But what he’s trying to do… even seasoned alchemists would fail at it. Still, I don’t think he’ll give up. He’s just going to fail and keep going once he gets another inspiration. He’s far too stubborn to let the pill market go.”

“That’s true. I think he’ll end up hiring alchemists. Reshape how they work. You know how he is—if the sects won’t play fair, he’ll just try to change the rules. And it might actually work,” Qing He offered a smile. “But the real question is—when will he realise that? At this rate, he’s going to spend the next few weeks buried in cauldrons and scrolls, chasing the impossible idea of standardisation like a dog with a bone.”

A gruff voice broke into the conversation, dry and echoing slightly.

“In my time,” came Wang Jun’s scoff from the table, his severed head wobbling slightly. “Any disciple wasting weeks on innovation and contraptions instead of breaking through would have been disciplined on the spot. What a waste of precious cultivation time.”

Yalan’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she turned to look at him.

“And in your time,” she said with a slight edge. “You ended up as a talking head. If it’s Chen Ren, then him trying to innovate to sell a new product will probably bring him closer to a breakthrough. He’s not like any other cultivator.”

Wang Jun’s head turned stiffly toward her, his lips tight, as if he wanted to argue. But after a long pause, his mouth simply twisted into a reluctant frown and he let out a dry grumble.

“That’s… true. Even in my lifetime, the strangest Dao I ever encountered was the Dao of Gambling. Lost more spirit stones and resources to that bastard than I’d care to admit.” He clicked his tongue, lips curling in a grimace. “And even then, that man only reached the meridian expansion realm in two hundred years. From what I’m hearing now… Chen Ren’s already close to foundation establishment?”

His tone shifted to something like awe, if begrudgingly. Then a bit too casually, he added, “I would’ve loved to dissect his body one day—”

Yalan’s ears flattened and she hissed softly, her glare sharp as a blade.

Wang Jun backtracked immediately. “Only if he allows me, of course! Of course. Purely academic curiosity. Such rapid advancement... it must come with side effects. The heavens aren’t generous with anyone, not truly.”

“I don’t think the heavens are being generous.” Qing He broke into his line of conversation. “With the Gate of Immortals you told me about… I think that kid’s already tangled in threads he can’t even see yet. And I’m sure the heavens will come down on him when they think it’s time.”

Yalan’s expression darkened as she slowly nodded, reluctant but unable to deny the truth. She had seen too many rise fast only to burn faster—cultivators who shot through realms like falling stars, only to be snuffed out before they could shine. The heavens did not like imbalance. They rarely tolerated those who grew outside the pace of fate and treated them as bugs.

And Chen Ren… Chen Ren was no ordinary bug. He was a bug chewing divine grass, soaking in rare light, and growing far too fast for the world’s liking.

What kind of tribulation would come for him? Even Yalan couldn’t say. But she knew one thing for certain, when it came, she would be there. Just how she was protected once several centuries back.

She supposed the tribulation had already begun—Wang Fu of the Blazing Ember Sect had been a part of it. A monster in crimson robes with a thirst for cruelty. She had torn him apart with her own claws, but if the rest of that sect came looking… Yalan’s gaze drifted toward the workshop again. No matter what came next, she would protect him. Just like she had promised.

The heavens wouldn’t let her. Yalan could feel it—like a pressure in her bones, a tension in the qi around her. As much as she wanted to protect him, she knew the heavens themselves would interfere when the time came.

“When that happens... What is your plan?” Qing He asked suddenly and sipped her tea.

Before Yalan could reply, Wang Jun scoffed from the table. “I doubt she could do much. She’s pretty weak.”

Qing He didn’t even blink. “That’s rich coming from a head who can’t even walk.”

Wang Jun’s jaw twitched. “You can mock my current state all you like, but I was feared in my time. Even I wouldn’t be confident stepping near that Gate of Immortals. From what I know, it sounds more like a grave than a gate.”

Yalan narrowed her eyes. “Then what? What are we going to do?”

Qing He frowned and shook her head. “When the time comes... I have some thoughts. I’ve already sent letters to people I know. I’m inquiring more about this gate.”

Yalan tilted her head, her ears twitching. “Who are they? I still don’t know which sect you belong to.”

That made Qing He laugh. It was a quiet and bitter laugh when it came out. “I belong to no one. I’m retired from my sect.”

Wang Jun sneered. “No cultivator ever truly leaves a sect. It can only be destroyed. The identity always stays with you.”

Qing He’s smile faded as she shot him a sharp glare, and Yalan felt the shift in air around them. An argument was brewing. Yalan’s fur bristled. But before any of them could say more, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed outside.

They all froze. The footsteps were uneven, rushed—someone running, maybe in excitement, maybe in fear.

Yalan’s ears swiveled. One thing she liked about this crude little mortal building was how few arrays there were. It meant she could hear things. Really hear. She exchanged glances with Qing He and the head. All of them waited, breath held.

Then the door creaked open.

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Chen Ren stood there, the winter light casting sharp angles across his disheveled frame. His hair had grown longer, wild and uncombed, and a thin beard dusted his jaw. Dark circles ringed his eyes—but there was no exhaustion in them. Only light. Bright, unfiltered, dangerous light.

He looked at them all—Yalan, the head, the tea-sipping Qing He—and grinned. Yalan became sure he had gone mad or at least closer to it.

“You all seem to be getting along well. Or have you just gathered here to gossip about me?”

Yalan didn’t respond to his teasing. Instead, she rose gracefully to all fours and stretched her body out along the windowsill, tail flicking once before curling neatly beside her. Her amber eyes fixed on him.

“You gave up on trying to standardize pill making faster than I expected,” she said, tone neutral and bored.

Chen Ren’s grin didn’t fade. If anything, it grew more amused. “You thought I’d fail.”

“It’s just… not something you should ideally succeed in. What you were trying to do is a fool’s errand. Pill refinement is like calligraphy—different hands, different results. Even sects with centuries of legacy haven’t managed true consistency.”

And yet, for some reason, Chen Ren’s idiotic smile only widened at their disbelief. The dark circles under his eyes, the faint scent of burnt herbs still clinging to his clothes—none of it seemed to matter to him.

“Then I guess I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he said lightly, raising his arms as if welcoming their shock. “I actually did manage to succeed. I’ve found a way to standardize pill making.”

Yalan’s tail froze mid-flick. Her head turned sharply, eyes narrowing as she searched his face for the smallest sign of a joke. A twitch at the corner of his lips, a gleam of mischief in his eye—anything to suggest he was messing with them.

But no. All she found was that same maddening, victorious smile. Had he really done it?

Her mind ran through every impossible variable. The qi variations, the unstable cauldron temps, the subtle timing and feel every alchemist had to learn for each recipe…

No. She didn’t believe it. But she knew one thing for certain. She was about to get the proof.

***

Chen Ren walked with light steps. The cold wind tugged at his robes and he glanced at Yalan walking next to him and Wang Jun wrapped discreetly in cloth in Qing He’s hands with only his eyes peeking through.

All three wore expressions of disbelief. And that just made Chen Ren grin harder.

He wanted them to doubt. He wanted to see the way their faces changed when they saw what he had created. He could practically taste the satisfaction already.

“If this is a joke,” Qing He said dryly, “or it doesn’t work… I’ll hold it against you, kid.”

“Yes,” Wang Jun muttered from inside his muffled cloth cradle. “If this is some elaborate prank, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

Chen Ren only smirked. “It’s not a prank. Just keep walking. You’ll see soon enough.”

Truth be told, he couldn’t blame them for their suspicions. What he had accomplished wasn’t what he had set out to do—but it was still revolutionary. A breakthrough, just not in the conventional sense.

But he had found a way to bypass the problem entirely.

It was enough. More than enough to kickstart large-scale production. To bring pills to cultivators at cheap prices and make a large profit.

They walked in silence. With every step, he felt their expectations thick around him, until finally they reached the alchemy workshop. It looked like a battlefield.

Herbs were scattered in open crates and jars, some ground into powder, others left half-sorted. Mechanical parts—springs, cogs, tubing—lay half-assembled on nearby tables. Strange runes glowed faintly on a series of copper molds arranged in rows. Smoke hung faintly in the air, and the sharp tang of refined qi lingered like incense.

In the center of it all stood Feiyu, sleeves rolled up and short hair that had grown a bit messy was put back, holding a set of tongs and a half-finished pill mold. He turned as they entered and gave a small smile.

Chen Ren placed Wang Jun on a safe table and looked at Feiyu.

“Oh, you’re finally here. I was just preparing the next batch for production,” Feiyu said, gesturing at the pill mold.

Qing He stepped forward, brow furrowed. “What’s going on, Feiyu?”

Feiyu dusted his hands and gestured toward the room. “Sect Leader Chen needed help designing some equipment. I ended up assisting him through most of it. You’ll understand when you see what we’ve devised.”

She only nodded, though her gaze remained wary.

Chen Ren stepped forward and turned to face them all.

“What you’re about to see,” he cleared his voice. “will create history. I don’t know if I’m the first to do it—but I am sure it’s not a popular method. And it will make pill production ten times faster.”

Yalan padded forward, sniffing curiously, and extended a paw to tap the side of the newly designed cauldron they had created. A thick lid sealed the top, and from its center ran a long metal pipe that curved downward and fed into a second smaller cauldron nearby.

Her tail twitched as she examined it. “Isn’t this the same thing you did while making that alcohol? Distillation, you called it?”

Chen Ren grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. It uses that principle, sort of. But adapted. Either way—” He clapped his hands once, loud in the silence of the workshop. “—I believe we should begin.”

He turned to one of the cluttered tables and picked up a small tray where three sets of herbs had already been weighed and sorted.

“These,” he said, lifting them for the others to see, “are Jadeveil root, Starpetal leaf, and Blackscale bark. The standard mix for a qi replenishment pill.”

Feiyu nodded and moved, stepping beside the cauldron. He lifted the lid and reached for a ceramic jug sitting nearby. With both hands, he carefully poured the contents into the cauldron—a clear, slightly glowing liquid that steamed faintly as it made contact with the metal.

Qing He raised a brow. “What’s that?”

“Spirit water,” Feiyu replied. “Very easy to make. We’ve been refining it with our qi for the past twelve hours. Should be enough for this batch.”

Chen Ren stepped up with the herbs, now carefully adding each ingredient into the spirit water. The moment the last handful went in, he placed the lid back down and activated the heating array beneath the cauldron with a pulse of qi.

The workshop filled with a faint hum as the heat began to build, swirling the herbs and water together inside the sealed chamber. Steam began to rise, hissing softly through the pipe above.

Yalan narrowed her eyes. “I have no idea what you’re trying to do here.”

Chen Ren grinned, crouching beside the setup and pointing toward the pipe. “It’s easy. Qi disperses well in water. I’m heating the herbs with spirit water to pull out their essences into the liquid. Then—”

“Then they’ll try to escape,” Wang Jun interrupted flatly.

“Exactly,” Chen Ren replied, nodding. “That’s why I’m distilling them.”

He gestured toward the end of the pipe, where droplets had begun to fall into a clean, silver-lined vessel. Each drop made a soft tap, shimmering faintly with condensed essence. The air around it already felt a little warmer, a little denser with qi.

The liquid wasn’t thick like a pill paste. It was clear, refined, and almost glowing.

Chen Ren didn’t speak further. He just waited silently, arms folded, watching the vessel slowly fill, and wondering what kind of expressions the three ancient beings behind him would wear when they finally saw what he had made.

***

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