Dao of Money

Anji felt her arm shake as the recoil pushed back into her shoulder, a familiar jolt of force echoing through her bones. The bullet tore through the air and carved cleanly into the wooden target ahead.

One. Two. Three. Four. She emptied the entire cartridge (that was what they called it) with a calmness she found in her, each shot finding its mark without deviation. Every trigger pull was certain, her breathing steady, body aligned perfectly.

She’d been doing this for a week now—helping Feiyu and Qing He test the new bullet molds and gun modifications—but for her, it was never just help.

Firing bullets was therapy.

There was something satisfying about the thunderous crack, the sense of raw force controlled by her hands. A mortal woman wielding something that could pierce through a bear’s skull… it made her feel powerful. Important.

But today? There was no satisfaction. No thrill. No smile. No goosebumps.

Only questions. A weight she couldn’t shake. A rising storm in her thoughts that had nothing to do with targets and everything to do with the man behind the design of these weapons.

As the final bullet snapped free and smoke curled from the barrel, she lowered the gun and turned. Feiyu stood at the edge of the range, notebook in hand, scribbling something before giving her a nod.

“That was good,” he said. “I think we can end it for today. I’m going to work on more gun diagrams—based on the notes Sect Leader Chen gave me.” He glanced up again. “When we finally start training mortals with these… I think you’d make a good instructor.”

Feiyu smiled lightly, satisfied. “Then I’ll leave it at that. Good session.”

He turned, heading for the workshop—but before he could round the corner, Anji felt something tighten in her chest. Her throat moved, the words clawing their way out before she could think twice.

“Wait. Can I ask you something?”

Feiyu paused mid-step and looked over his shoulder. “About guns? Ask away.”

“No…” she said, and cleared her throat, unable to fathom what she was about to ask. “About Sect Leader Chen.”

He turned fully this time, brows arching faintly. “What about him?”

“Do you trust him?” she asked plainly.

There was a pause. Not long, but enough for her to catch the flicker of change in his expression. His posture didn’t shift, but his eyes… they sharpened.

“He’s my benefactor,” Feiyu said. “He severed my bloodline from slavery—something my ancestors suffered through for generations.”

Anji didn’t move. “That… doesn’t answer my question.”

Feiyu's lips twitched—not quite a smile. “Then yes. I trust him.”

He stepped closer, speaking slowly now, not for her understanding but for his own recollection.

“I’ll admit, when I first met him, a lot of what he said sounded… ridiculous. Risky. Honestly? A little insane. He spoke of weapons, systems, markets, and mortals holding power like cultivators. I thought he was deluded.”

His gaze drifted briefly, before locking with hers again.

“But every promise, every risk—he held to it. Even when things went bad, and it looked like we'd all die… he never wavered. And because he didn’t, I’m here today. So yes. I trust him.”

A quiet fell over the training ground.

“Does that answer your question?” he asked.

Anji nodded.

Feiyu looked like he wanted to ask why—but then, true to his nature, he simply said, “Goodbye,” and turned, already more focused on blueprints and designs than whatever battle was playing out in her head.

Anji remained where she stood.

The gun was still warm in her hand. Her ears still rang faintly from the last shot. And yet her thoughts were somehow louder.

She hadn’t expected Feiyu to say so much. He rarely did. He never spoke about himself. In fact, the few things she knew came from overhearing Xiulan in the main courtyard over tea.

But now, just for a moment, she had seen something else in him. Faith. She had her answer—or so it seemed.

But the words gnawed at her. Not the ones he said, but the why behind them. She knew Feiyu had once been a slave, saved by Chen Ren. How? She didn’t know. But it made her wonder—was that trust born from gratitude alone? Or from something deeper? Something real?

She needed more than one perspective.

Without wasting a moment, Anji set off through the sect buildings, her eyes sharp and her mind buzzing. There were others who had stories tied to the sect leader, people who had seen different sides of him.

She just had to find them. And It didn’t take long.

In the training yard near the outer hall, she spotted Zi Wen, his hands moving, fingers twitching as he guided his bonded wolf—through drills. The wolf pounced, rolled, and retreated on command, eyes always on its master.

“Zi Wen,” Anji called out.

He glanced at her, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Something wrong?”

“I wanted to ask you something. About Sect Leader Chen.”

He tilted his head.

“Do you trust him?”

Zi Wen’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. The wolf padded to his side, tail still wagging as it sat obediently.

“Trust?” he repeated, then nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He said it so casually, like it wasn’t even a question worth doubting.

“I’ve always been wary of cultivators,” he admitted, wiping sweat off his brow and walking closer. “But what I’ve seen of him… he has a good head on his shoulders. More than that, he’s not arrogant. Doesn’t act like the world owes him something just because he’s powerful.” He gave a faint smile. “He helped me find my path. I was just some middle aged man with a pet wolf, barely hanging on and having given up on cultivation. Now, I’ve got a bond, I’ve got a direction—and that’s thanks to him. So yeah. I’d trust him with my life.”

With that, he turned back to his training, the wolf immediately springing back into action.

Anji lingered for a moment, her brows furrowed.

Is it still just gratitude? Was that what tied everyone to him?

She needed more.

Leaving the training yard, she made her way toward the farmlands. The scent of tilled soil and spiritual herbs filled the air, and the sun beat down steadily on the plots of land where crops glimmered with faint qi.

Luo Feng was crouched over one of the rows, mud up to his knees, sleeves rolled, his hands gently adjusting a set of spirit roots that glowed faint green. When he noticed her, he smiled, a streak of dirt across his cheek.

“Need something?” he asked.

“I have a question,” she said, getting right to it. “Do you trust Sect Leader Chen?”

Luo Feng didn’t even blink.

“I trust him,” he said simply.

“Why?”

He returned to adjusting the roots before answering. “Because he seems like someone worth trusting.”

She blinked. “That’s it?”

“Yeah.” He gave her a wry smile. “I’ve been lost before. My parents died when I was still figuring out who I was. I drifted for a while… felt like a seed with no soil.”

He straightened slowly, looking across the rows of shimmering crops.

“But now, I’ve got a purpose. I want to make the best spirit farm this world has ever seen. That goal… that anchor? It came from Sect Leader Chen. If not for him, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be a cultivator. At least not the kind that could ascend to immortality one day.”

Anji gave Luo Feng a short nod, ignoring his attempt at humor. She thanked him politely and walked off, her mind already drifting elsewhere.

Luo Feng, for his part, was more than happy to be left alone. His trust in Sect Leader Chen Ren came from instinct and gratitude, not deep shared experiences. Their interactions had been few, but Chen Ren had given him a field and a future, and for a man who once had neither, that was more than enough.

But Anji needed more.

She needed something firmer than kind gestures and vague admiration. Her next steps led her to the outskirts of the main building, to the slightly scorched, metal-laden workshop where Hong Yi lived among blueprints and half-built wooden nightmares. Today, he was hunched over a new creation, a tall puppet with eight mechanical arms, each ending in a different wicked tool. Its wooden face was twisted in a manic grin, and its limbs clicked and whirred as he adjusted joints with movements.

“Why so many arms?” she asked, more to break the tension than out of curiosity.

“For fear factor,” he answered immediately, not even looking up. “Imagine this thing crawling out in the middle of a battle, painted pale like a ghost, eyes glowing, that smile staring you down. Fear alone will slow a man's blade.”

Anji said nothing. Just waited.

Hong Yi tinkered for a moment longer, then finally glanced her way. “You're not here to critique my puppet aesthetics, are you?”

She shook her head. “Do you trust Sect Leader Chen?”

That made him pause.

The puppet’s head gave a final click as it settled into place. “Trust?” he echoed, then gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah… I guess I do.”

He leaned back and tapped one of the puppet’s arms absently.

“He’s my benefactor. Helped solve a… problem of mine. One most would’ve stayed far away from. I still think he was insane for doing it, but he did it anyway. And more importantly—he’s never once asked me for my knowledge.”

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Anji tilted her head. “You mean the puppet techniques?”

Hong Yi nodded. “Most sect leaders would've tried to make me hand it over, or at least demand I teach it. But he hasn’t. Not even once. He said he’d give me a workshop, and he did. He said I could work on my craft, and I can. So yeah. I trust him. But I’d call it a professional trust. He lets me do what I’m good at, and I help the sect grow.”

That was enough for her. Before he could spiral into another tangent about why the puppet needed blood-red eyes, she slipped away.

They trusted him because he had done what he promised. Because he treated them like people, not tools. Because he didn’t just talk about ideals. He acted on them. And she couldn’t deny it. Even for her, their first meeting hadn’t been one of orders or expectations. He had found her half-starved and offered food without asking anything in return. It had been a small gesture, but one that stuck.

Still… This question wasn’t about kindness or leadership. This was about duty. The secret she carried. The truth of who she was and what might come of it. And she wasn’t sure if Chen Ren was someone she could entrust that to.

Not yet.

Her feet, lost in thought, brought her to the sect kitchen. The scent of fresh noodles wafted out like an invisible hand tugging her back to reality.

Inside, Tang Xiulan stood surrounded by children, sleeves rolled up, hair tied in a loose bun as she deftly sliced vegetables. She was clearly trying to teach the kids how to make noodles—but judging by the way the kids looked at the food around them, the lesson was leaning heavily toward “eat everything when Miss Xiulan turns her back.”

Anji stepped into the room, ignoring the chaos and heading straight to the counter.

“Do you trust Sect Leader Chen?”

Xiulan turned around, knife in hand, a brow raised.

“Obviously,” she said without hesitation. “Why are you asking?”

Anji blinked.

The tone in her voice was different from the others. Not soft or uncertain. Not professional or grateful. It was final. Like she’d already placed a stake in the ground and dared the world to move her.

There was conviction.

“Why?”

Xiulan returned to slicing vegetables, her movements fluid and steady, voice calm.

“I hated him at first.”

That made Anji pause.

“Thought he was a lecherous, arrogant hedonist who thought way too much of himself. Always scheming, always smiling like he knew something no one else did.”

She chuckled, just a little.

“But one loss… one real defeat was all it took for him to change. Completely. Like he’d been broken down and built back up into someone new.”

Her hands didn’t stop moving, but her voice softened.

“And that’s when I saw the truth. If he wants to… he puts in effort. He takes care of people. He holds to his word, no matter what. And deep down, he has a good heart. Even if sometimes, he doesn’t show it that well.”

Tang Xiulan stirred the pot with practiced grace, her hands moving almost without thought as she added the chopped vegetables to the simmering soup. The scent of broth thickened in the air, wrapping around them like a comforting blanket.

“Before,” she said slowly, “I felt like the good in him was shrouded. Covered up by all the worst things—arrogance, indulgence, carelessness.”

Her voice didn’t hold bitterness, just memory.

“But once the good side took over… he felt like the kind of man I’d want to support.”

She gave the soup a stir and smiled faintly.

“And also, let’s be real—it’s good for me. I mean, come on. From a maid to the manager of a sect? That’s a promotion even cultivators would envy. He’s generous, and I have a feeling he’s just getting started. If there are more steps up, I will be climbing them.”

Anji watched her in silence, absorbing every word. There was something deeper under Xiulan’s practical tone, something not fully voiced… but this was enough.

It always was, wasn’t it? Just enough.

Still, it was the first part of her answer that clung to Anji's thoughts.

She leaned against the doorframe, eyes fixed on the boiling soup. “His bad side,” she said quietly. “Do you think it’s still there?”

Xiulan stopped stirring.

She didn’t look up at first. Just stood, spoon in hand, the steam curling past her face.

Then she said, “It should be. We all have bad sides. Yin and yang go together. That’s just how it is. Greed, anger, lust—they’re all part of us. What matters is what we choose when those parts whisper to us.”

Anji hadn’t expected something so philosophical, but it made her… oddly comforted. She nodded slowly, then asked the real question that had been clawing at her from the inside.

“But what if the opportunity comes? Something big. Something he could only get through deceit. Do you think… that would bring it out?”

This time, Xiulan’s gaze met hers. No smile. No evasiveness. Just clear, sharp attention.

Anji braced herself for a question in return, but it never came.

“I don’t think so,” Xiulan said. “Not anymore.”

She turned down the fire beneath the pot and crossed her arms, watching Anji like she could see more than just the question.

“If something like that was going to bring the old him back, it would’ve already happened. Like with Hong Yi. The man had puppet knowledge—something sects would kill for. And young master Chen Ren? He never even asked how it worked. Never tried to claim it. Just gave him a workshop and let him be.”

She paused, then added more gently, “That’s not the choice someone makes if they’re still driven by greed or lust for power.”

Then, for the first time, she asked the question.

“Why are you asking this, Anji?”

The air shifted.

The kids were laughing in the background, arguing over whose bowl of noodles looked

the best, oblivious to the quiet weight pressing between the two women. And Anji… Anji didn’t answer.

Because she still didn’t know what the answer was.

“I had questions.” It was the only explanation.

Xiulan didn’t press. She didn’t tilt her head or narrow her eyes the way others did when they sensed a secret. She simply watched her for a beat longer before nodding and returning to her soup.

“I think,” she said, “you’re trying to figure out if you trust him. But my trust won’t give you any reason to. That’s not how it works. Trust is a bridge built between two people—not borrowed, not passed around.

“Whatever made you ask, I don’t want to know. I’ve got enough of my own secrets to keep me busy. You need to think about it yourself.”

With that, Tang Xiulan returned to her task, her hands already reaching for the ladle, her attention shifting back to the children and their noisy, flour-covered excitement.

Anji didn’t stay. There was nothing more she could learn here. The questions had ended. Now came the answer.

Did she trust him? If she was being honest with herself, she didn’t know. Trust wasn’t a switch to flip—it was something fragile. Something once shattered that never quite returned to its original shape. And Anji had seen it break before. Felt it. Lived it.

But the truth was undeniable—she needed him now. And not in some vague, “sect leader helps people” way.

And if she was going to go through with what was in her mind—if she was going to hand over the truth of who she was and what she carried—then she would have to trust him with it.

Not with her tasks. Not with her job. With her secrets.

That was a much heavier ask.

Her mind kept turning, looping back through everything she'd seen, everything she'd heard. The words of Feiyu, Zi Wen, Luo Feng, Hong Yi, and finally Xiulan—each like a thread wrapping around the core of her doubt.

And in the center of it all, something her father had once said came to the surface.

The old man had a habit of talking too much, borrowing lines from ancient texts just to sound wiser than he actually was. But every so often, a line slipped through the noise—sharp and lasting.

“Sometimes, you must force yourself to trust someone when you’re desperate. Not because they’ve earned it, but because the alternative is worse. And it doesn’t mean you’ll be betrayed. Human civilization is built on risk. And the greatest of those is the willingness to be vulnerable.”

Anji could still see him, puffing on his pipe, waving his hand like he was narrating the fall of an empire—only to end the lecture by asking her to brew his tea.

But she remembered that line. And now it felt heavier than when she first heard it. Was the risk worth it? She didn’t know. And yet her feet were already moving, thoughts tangled in uncertainty, her heart hammering despite the calm of the sect grounds.

She didn’t even realize where she was heading until her boots tapped against the stone threshold of the alchemical workshop. Chen Ren was inside. She hadn’t asked anyone. Someone had mentioned it, maybe in passing—but the face didn’t matter. The knowledge stuck, and her legs had obeyed.

Now, here she was.

All it would take was one step forward. One decision.

Because if she went in… If she spoke… Then she wasn’t just testing trust. She was offering it.

The question didn’t wait anymore.

Did she take the risk?

***

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