Dao of Money

Chen Ren felt the wooden seat graze against his butt as he heard the excitement in the voices of the crowd that was sitting around them.

The benches creaked. Splinters poked through old planks. A boy behind him swung his legs and thumped the board with his heels which he felt in his back. And the rest of the surrounding was equally chaotic.

His eyes caught the movements of vendors shuffling past with baskets of steamed buns, and some other snacks.

And the stands—they looked slapped together. There were ropes knotted in a hurry, posts leaning like drunk men but they held. Men, women, kids, all jammed shoulder to shoulder, craned their necks toward the ground below.

The field was a rectangle of hard earth, the color of old tea. Someone had dumped a circle of pale sand in the middle, not quite round, like a coin that had been chewed on. The grass around it was patchy, tufts sticking up like bad hair. It didn’t look grand. It looked cheap. But the noise said otherwise. The crowd buzzed and bubbled, voices tripping over one another, feet scraping, hands clapping for nothing in particular.

“This looks like it used to be a pasture,” Chen Ren talked to Yalan through his mind. “Now it’s a ring.”

“Pasture or pigsty,” Yalan retorted.

They didn’t get to continue the conversation for long.

An old man tottered into the sand, luxurious looking robe sleeves dragging dust. The robe said cultivator; the body said retired farmer. His hair was thin. His back was thinner. Qi leaked off him like the last wisps from a dying incense stick. One glance and Chen Ren knew: an outer sect disciple from the Soaring Sword Sect could fold this man in half by accident.

Yalan saw it too. She snickered.

The old man raised both palms for the crowd to quieten. The sound dropped by half, then slowly died down, until only coughs and the soft wheeze of the wind moved the air.

“Everyone,” he called, “we thank you all for coming here to watch the Rising Star Cultivator Tournament. Some of you have come from long distances, and others are from Xianglu Town, coming here as a tradition. None of you will be disappointed by the display today of the most talented young cultivators in the whole empire!”

Every single word that came out of the old man sounded false.

Chen Ren felt the gap between what the man said and what the field could hold physically. But the crowd drank it anyway. They drank it like they’d been parched their whole life.

A woman near the aisle dabbed her eyes like the speech had stirred her soul.

“Larpers,” Yalan said again. “All of them.”

Worse than the state of the tournament, the old man seemed to relish the sound of his own voice. His words dragged on like a priest reciting scripture, weighed down with empty grandeur. He spoke of sects that had sponsored the event, naming one after another, some so obscure Chen Ren doubted even their disciples could point them out on a map. He thundered about the “glorious history” of the Rising Star Tournament, as though the very ground they sat on had been blessed by emperors.

He doubted the crowd even understood the difference between an Emerging sect struggling for recognition and a true Established one. But it didn’t matter. Every word that tumbled from the old man’s mouth landed like divine decree in their ears. They nodded, they gasped, they lapped it all up as though the heavens themselves were speaking.

Halfway through the rambling, Yalan tilted her head toward him.

“Can we leave already?”

Chen Ren shook his head.

“No. I want to see the competitors at least. There might be someone worth watching.”

Yalan scoffed. “I’ll eat my paw if that’s the case.”

He didn’t bother answering. He simply kept his gaze fixed on the old man, who at long last seemed to be wrapping things up.

The man spread his arms wide, the sleeves of his robe fluttering weakly. “Now, without further ado, we shall begin! And what better way to open than with the most thrilling of duels? Our first match will be between two rogue Cultivators who have already carved their names into the world. One is Xianglu City’s own shining prodigy, and the other has triumphed in tournaments across the Empire itself!”

The crowd stirred, leaning forward.

“Raise your voices,” the old man bellowed, “for Lu Tianyi and for Biyu!”

A fervent cheer erupted from the crowd. There were simultaneous feet stomping, hands slapping the rails and even voices that rose until the rickety benches seemed ready to splinter apart.

Girls near the front waved their handkerchiefs and blew kisses toward the figure stepping out from the far side.

It was a young man with a spear. His chin lifted high as he looked at the crowd. His smile carried the arrogance of someone who’d been put on pedestal by the crowd. It was probably Lu Tianyi—the hometown star.

But Chen Ren’s attention slid past him, drawn instead to the opposite side.

There, emerging from the gate, was a tall figure with a bow resting easily against his shoulder. His presence was quiet, unadorned. Yet what set him apart was clear even from a distance: his golden hair. In the empire, such a hair colour was rare. And rarer still was his chosen weapon. A bow and an arrow.

Yet Biyu walked with the calm of a man who had no need to prove himself.

The crowd roared for the spear, but Chen Ren found his eyes locked on the bow.

“Interesting,” he thought.

Biyu seemed far more composed than Lu Tianyi, who was still sneaking glances at the girls blowing kisses instead of the opponent standing across from him. Chen Ren could already picture how this might end, and it wasn’t pretty.

Unfortunately, both of them felt weak. Their steps, their breathing, even the faint fluctuations around them—none of it carried the weight of true qi. If Chen Ren had to guess, whatever “brilliance” the crowd expected would come only in footwork and speed. It was a performance, not a true qi battle.

The referee, the same frail old man, raised one arm. His robe sleeve flapped like a dying banner. “You are about to witness a contest between two young cultivators who may one day shape the empire itself!” He raised his voice, but it cracked in the middle. “But remember—” he cleared his throat. “the rules are clear. No killing, and no demonic techniques! You both know what to do.”

With that, he turned and shuffled away, vanishing into a door beneath the stands as though eager to escape before anything actually happened.

The moment his back disappeared, both fighters moved.

Biyu’s bow bent like a crescent moon. Three arrows whistled free in the span of a heartbeat, streaking across the sand toward Lu Tianyi.

The spear wielder grinned, showing too many teeth. He twisted aside, cloak fluttering as the arrows struck the ground in a neat triangle around him. He straightened, ready to jeer—only to freeze as more shafts came flying, one after another.

Chen Ren’s eyebrow lifted. The crowd around him exploded in cheers and gasps, as though the heavens had split open at the sight of a man shooting arrows quickly. But Chen Ren had to admit—Biyu’s hands were fast, smooth and looked well practiced. Each arrow left the bowstring with no wasted motion.

Lu Tianyi darted and spun, spear flashing as he kept his distance from the storm. To the crowd, it looked like dazzling footwork. But to Chen Ren, it was clear: the man was simply waiting. Waiting for the barrage to end. Waiting for Biyu’s quiver to empty.

But then it happened.

Another arrow hissed toward him, its flight no different from the rest. Lu Tianyi leapt, body twisting gracefully to clear it. But the shaft clattered to the ground and burst.

A sharp hiss filled the ground. Smoke curled upward, thick and fast, swallowing the ring in a choking veil.

The crowd gasped as the smoke blossomed outward, curling like a living thing. The girls who had been swooning over Lu Tianyi moments earlier now went pale, clutching at each other’s sleeves.

For common eyes, the ring was gone. The smoke had swallowed everything. But Chen Ren saw through it as easily as parting mist on a mountain path. Within that gray shroud, Biyu had already closed the distance, his bow abandoned at his side. Two curved daggers slid from his robe, steel glinting faintly.

The arrows, the rhythm, the relentless barrage—it had all been a lure. The archer had never intended to stay at range.

Inside the haze, Lu Tianyi hacked and coughed, his spear slashing through empty air. His thrusts were wild, driven more by panic than aim. Biyu slipped around them like a shadow, his movements sharp but economical. Then—swift as a snake—one dagger bit into Tianyi’s shoulder.

A cry rang out. Blood spilled, dark and hot against pale sand.

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Biyu’s other hand shot forward, seizing the shaft of the spear.

To his credit, Lu Tianyi didn’t release it. Even with his shoulder torn, even with blood running freely down his arm, he gritted his teeth and held on. But strength was not with him. Biyu’s arms tightened; his body shifted. A single, brutal kick drove into Tianyi’s chest, hurling him out of the smoke.

The crowd roared in shock as their star champion rolled through the sand, coughing, clutching his weapon.

A moment later, Biyu stepped from the gray curtain. His hands snapped the spear in two as though it were nothing more than kindling. The jagged halves fell to the ground. He drew his bow once more, nocked another arrow, and leveled it at his fallen opponent.

“Surrender.”

The word was flat. His eyes were cold, almost manic when he tilted his head.

But Lu Tianyi’s eyes burned with rage. His voice cracked with fury as he pushed himself upright. “My father gifted me that spear!”

He lunged, blood dripping, fury carrying him forward. Chen Ren shook his head at the sight.

Anger is the end of a cultivator.

The match was already decided then.

Two arrows left Biyu’s bow in the same breath. The first Tianyi evaded, twisting aside with the stubborn instincts of a fighter. But the second hit. Biyu had already read him and mapped his movements. The arrow drove clean into his leg.

Lu Tianyi crashed into the sand, the fight torn from him in an instant.

The crowd screamed again, voices splitting between shock, despair, and awe.

Chen Ren leaned back against the wooden seat, eyes narrowing slightly. For all the smoke and spectacle, one truth was clear: Biyu wasn’t just an archer. He was a predator used to hunting.

Because the next second, without wasting a breath, Biyu closed the gap again.’

Lu Tianyi was still writhing in the sand, blood soaking into the dust, his leg pierced and his pride shattered. He had no chance to rise. Biyu seized him by the throat with one hand, lifting him like a farmer might lift a struggling chicken, and began to strike.

Fist after fist.

There were cracking sounds one after another.

The crowd that had cheered seconds ago now stared with wide, horrified eyes. Mothers covered their children’s faces and some men even shouted for him to stop. But Biyu didn’t hear, or he didn’t want to. He hammered Tianyi again and again until his features swelled and blood streamed freely down his jaw.

Beside Chen Ren, Luo Feng exhaled through his teeth. “He’s ruthless,” he muttered.

But Chen Ren shook his head. “No. He’s doing it for a reason.”

Luo Feng turned, disbelief in his eyes. “What reason could there be for this?”

“Lu Tianyi belongs to a local power. That’s pretty clear going by the support for him. If he lost, he would never let it stand. He would seek revenge, call it regaining honor. But if Tianyi is crushed so thoroughly that his spirit itself breaks, then there will be no will left to seek vengeance. That’s what Biyu is destroying—not the body, but the courage.”

“Won’t the clan still come after him for the humiliation?”

“They won’t,” Chen Ren replied. “Clans weigh profit above pride. They’ll see a youth capable of breaking their own favored son and will think of recruiting him rather than offending him. Especially when there’s a chance some sect will claim him by the end of this tournament. By then, he’ll either be gone from Xianglu or protected by a sect’s banner. To them, it’s not worth the risk.”

Slowly, Luo Feng nodded, though his eyes lingered on the scene with unease.

Down below, Biyu’s fists finally stilled. He released Lu Tianyi’s limp body, letting him crash to the ground like discarded meat. The hometown star didn’t move, his face swollen and unrecognizable.

At that exact moment, the referee shuffled back into the ring. His eyes softened as they fell on the unconscious youth, sympathy written in his lined face. But he quickly turned, raising his voice to the crowd as he gestured toward the archer.

“Victor of this round, in a most… spectacular display—Biyu! He will advance to the next stage of the tournament!”

The announcement was met with a roar, though it was fractured—half awe, half fear. The crowd cheered, but their voices carried a different note now, as if they weren’t sure whether they should be applauding or trembling.

Still, Chen Ren brought his hands together, offering his own measured clap.

It had been a performance far sharper than he’d expected. He doubted the other competitors could match it, much less surpass it.

Below, Lu Tianyi’s limp body was dragged out of the arena while Biyu walked calmly toward the exit, bow once more slung over his back.

He walked extremely calmly for a man who had pulped his opponent to a thin sheet.

He has a presence, Chen Ren thought. That much is clear.

Beside him, Yalan’s voice slipped into his mind.

“I believe we should move now. Unless you truly want to waste time watching more of this backwater tournament.”

“Okay. I’ve seen enough.” His eyes followed the departing figure of the archer. “But give me a while. I want to speak with him first.”

Yalan’s thought curled with amusement.

“Why? Do you want to recruit him to the sect?”

“No. Someone like him would have already been claimed long ago, even with poor spirit roots. If he isn’t, it means he isn’t willing. My interests are different. I just have a business proposal for him.”

“A business proposal? What? Do you plan to create a tournament yourself?”

“Yes. Actually, that’s exactly what I have in mind. I believe it could be a very lucrative endeavor. But it wouldn’t be like this,”—he gestured faintly toward the sand ring—“not a tournament like this as people know it.”

Yalan tilted her head.

“What do you mean? A tournament is a tournament. They’re all like this. Some just have better arrangements and fighters.”

“I agree. But these matches don’t guarantee spectacle. Most are one-sided. Many lack fire, lack drama. If the crowd isn’t stirred, if their hearts don’t race, then it isn’t worth watching. I would change that. Add spice into it.”

“I don’t know how you can put ‘spice’ into a tournament. Spice is for food, not fighting.”

“You will see. From where I come from, entertainment is as important as the fight itself. People crave it. Feed that craving, and you control more than their cheers—you control their eyes, their coin, their time.”

While speaking with Yalan, Chen Ren rose and began threading his way down through the crowded stands. The planks creaked underfoot, and the murmur of the audience still lingered in the air, half shaken from the ruthless display they had just witnessed.

His eyes, however, were fixed on the ground floor. If he moved quickly, he might reach Biyu before the inevitable happened—before recruiters from petty sects or ambitious clans swarmed in with offers, dangling promises of tutelage and advancement.

Chen Ren knew his own idea wasn’t something he could act on immediately. The foundation alone would take time. Marketing, gathering cultivators, influence—such things couldn’t be built in a day. And he already had his hands full: the pill business was steady but growing, talisman production was waiting to begin. His table was full.

But still, this was worth planting the seed.

A tournament. Not this ragged parody of one, not these empty boasts and half-trained fighters. A true spectacle. A new kind of gathering that would draw not only the eyes of commoners, but the attention of rogue cultivators across the empire.

The genius of it was simple. Chen Ren would not make them fight for vague rewards. He would pay them. Spirit stones for every participant, win or lose.

If there was a rogue cultivator in the Empire foolish enough to reject such an offer, Chen Ren would call him an idiot. And if Chen Ren himself failed to turn a profit from such an endeavor, then he would be an even bigger idiot.

But he doubted that.

***

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