Extra26

Dao of money Volume 3 Epilogue 3

Epilogue 3

The sky of the Kalian Empire held as many wonders as the earth. Giant beasts drifted between the clouds with lazy wingbeats, and higher-realmed cultivators cut through the heavens on flying swords. Up there, the qi thickened with every breath—dense enough to hum against skin—though ordinary mortals, trapped on solid ground, would never know it. They only ever saw hints of the mysteries above.

And if they bothered to look long enough, those hints could keep them staring for days.

Today, one sight in particular dragged countless gazes upward: a massive cloud gliding over villages, towns, and entire stretches of countryside. At a glance, it looked harmless, just another wandering formation of mist. But anyone paying attention quickly realized something was wrong with it.

Clouds didn’t move like that.

This one raced across the sky with purpose, cutting through the air far faster than nature ever intended. A dozen cultivators stood upon it, their robes rippling from the speed. Each robe carried the woven insignia of a thunderous cloud, clearly marking them as part of the same force.

Qi thrummed beneath their feet as they guided the cloud forward. Whenever a flying beast strayed into their path, the lead cultivator simply raised both hands. A curved blade of wind burst from one palm, slicing clean through wings. From the other, a crack of lightning shot forward, locking the creature’s muscles until it tumbled helplessly toward the ground.

Beast after beast fell—crashing into forests, flattening patches of plains, and in a few unlucky cases, landing right at the gates of towns. Mortals scattered in panic, scrambling out of the falling shadows, tripping over each other to avoid being crushed.

The cultivators didn’t slow. They didn’t look down. Not even once.

A few mortals screamed for help when a dying beast skidded across a road. Others simply froze, staring in terror at the collapsing weight barreling toward them.

But atop the cloud, the group moved on without so much as a glance.

Mortals weren’t worth their attention. And if someone died from a falling beast, then in their eyes, that life wasn’t worth much to begin with.

That was simply how the Thunder Blade Sect saw the world. To them, cultivators stood on a level so far above mortals that the gap wasn’t even worth acknowledging. Mortals farmed, carried loads, bowed, and died, useful only as the foundation under the boots of those who truly mattered. The elders called it the natural order. The heavens’ will. Everyone in the sect grew up hearing that line until it settled into bone.

Their arrogance didn’t stop at mortals, either. The Thunder Blade Sect also believed they stood above every other Guardian Sect in the empire. Some members even spoke openly about the empire itself as if it were nothing more than a fragile shell, something they would break through once their strength reached the “true” level they believed they deserved.

And in fairness, their confidence had roots. The Thunder Blade Sect was the strongest among the Guardian Sects. Whenever tournaments were held and sects clashed, their cultivators walked away with the most victories. The only group that ever posed a challenge was the Soaring Sword Sect, and even they rarely lasted long before being overwhelmed.

Out of all the proud disciples of the Thunder Blade Sect, one man embodied this belief more than the rest.

Yun Zhaotian stood at the front of the cloud, the wind whipping his hair backward as he prepared another strike. He was the one responsible for clearing every beast in their way so the Heavenly Gale Cloud could glide without slowing. Each creature that fell was another reminder of his position.

He had climbed every rank of the Thunder Blade Sect himself, step by step, talent sharpening into power. Born to a mortal family, plucked early and raised on the sect’s teachings, he had grown up hearing that their sect was destined for supremacy. He believed it more fiercely than anyone.

He believed he would be the one to make it reality.

One day, even the empire would kneel—before him, and before the Thunder Blade Sect. Their destination today was only the beginning of that future.

As Yun cut down another pair of eagle-like beasts—wings sheared clean by wind blades, bodies twitching as lightning finished the job—Qin Ruyan, one of his junior brothers stepped closer. The younger cultivator kept his balance on the cloud with practiced effort, gaze fixed on the faint line of distant peaks.

“We’ll reach the Corpse Lands in two days, Senior Brother Yun.” Qin Ruyan hesitated, voice dropping. “Should we stop tonight? Everyone has been using their qi to fuel the Heavenly Gale Cloud for days now.”

Yun didn’t even pause. He flicked the last sparks of lightning off his fingers and looked straight ahead.

“No,” he said. “It would be foolish to stop now. We’re close to the Corpse Lands. I want us to be the first to reach it.”

Qin Ruyan blinked, uncertainty crossing across his face. “Is there… a reason to arrive first?”

“Yes.” Yun gave him a flat look. “You’re still young. You don’t understand yet, but in this world, everything is information. If we get there early, we can speak to the locals who saw the pagoda appear. We can study the runes carved into the structure before anyone else touches them. The other Guardian Sects might waste time, but we cannot.”

Qin Ruyan visibly considered this, then bowed slightly. “You are wise, Senior Brother Yun. But… will the locals really know anything about such an ancient structure?”

“No,” Yun said, “but they may have heard stories. Rumors. Anything. The pagoda has always been tied to the Corpse Lands. People who’ve lived near that place their whole lives must have heard something.”

Qin Ruyan nodded again, though his expression tightened. He still wasn’t convinced about pushing on without rest.

Yun noticed, but ignored it.

None of the sects knew what waited inside the pagoda. Not truly. Even his own sect had only one surviving record, and it stated plainly that most cultivators who entered never made it past the first floor.

That alone was reason enough not to waste a single moment.

Yun had no illusions about what waited inside the pagoda. Beasts, traps, enemies—each level would be a battlefield, and he doubted most of his junior brothers would last long. A few might survive the first floors, but after that? They would fall or leave, assuming the pagoda even allowed them to retreat.

He didn’t blame them for their limits. But he wasn’t going to slow down for anyone. Reaching the top was his goal, and for that he needed every scrap of knowledge he could gather, whether it meant exhausting his fellow disciples or not.

After he made his intentions clear, not a single junior brother or sister raised another question. They were tired, drained from days of feeding qi into the Heavenly Gale Cloud, but a handful of spirit stones would refill what they’d lost. Fortunately, the Thunder Blade Sect enforced hierarchy with an iron fist. Challenging decisions from above was as good as writing your own death sentence.

So they stayed silent.

And eventually, the first silhouette of the Corpse Lands rose over the horizon.

The massive wall, the dark forest crawling with undead, the lingering haze that clung to the land—none of the disciples paid any attention to those things. Their eyes snapped to the one structure towering above everything else.

The pagoda.

It pierced the sky so cleanly that for a moment Yun wondered if it was even real. Taller than anything he imagined, far grander than the scraps of description recorded in the sect archives. It stood untouched, as if the world itself didn’t dare come close.

A structure like that shouldn’t have stayed hidden. Yet it had.

The Heavenly Gale Cloud drifted toward the wall, preparing to land amid the noise of startled guards scrambling at their arrival. Even with the commotion below, the disciples’ gazes remained locked on the pagoda the entire way.

His junior brother stepped up beside Yun again, unable to tear his eyes from the distant tower. “That pagoda is going to change our sect’s destiny, Senior Brother Yun.”

Yun allowed himself a rare smile. “Not only the sect,” he said quietly. “It will change mine as well.”

***

Yun Zhaotian had been massively wrong about being the first to arrive in the Corpse Lands, wrong about being the first Guardian Sect as well. Another sect had already been here for a full week. Out of all the sects in the empire, it was the one that has mastered the art of swords—The Soaring Sword Sect

They prided themselves on mastery of the sword, but what the world often forgot was how terrifying their agility was, how much they had trained to be the quickest. Their most talented younger-generation cultivators had slipped into the Corpse Lands the moment the sect had announced the expedition for the pagoda’s inheritance.

They wasted no time.

The first thing they did was investigate the pagoda—circling it, examining the land around it, probing the air for formations. But it didn’t take long for them to learn they wouldn’t be able to enter for at least another two months. The opening simply refused to respond to anyone.

Next, they tried the locals. But the scavengers living on the outskirts were just as clueless, and the Soaring Sword Sect did not shape decisions based on rumors.

So they turned to the one thing their sect took more seriously than anything else.

Training.

Different groups formed out of the expedition force, and all of them moved to test themselves against the dangers of the Corpse Lands. One of these groups was led by Li Xuan who was in charge of disciples the vice sect leader had chosen personally and he made sure that he wouldn't disappear his benefactor. Zombies fell in dozens as sword flashes tore through their warped bodies. Thin limbs fell; heads rolled; the corpses collapsed before they even realized they’d been cut.

His group killed so many undead that the Corpse Lands responded.

Not with ordinary zombies this time. But with those who had gained just enough intelligence to recognize a threat: Zombie warriors.

The disciples of the Soaring Sword Sect halted atop a ridge of broken stone. Dust swirled around their feet. Their blades hummed faintly. And in the distance, the earth trembled.

Dozens… no, hundreds of zombies closed in from every direction. Their hollow eyes glowed with a dim, sickly awareness, focused entirely on the cultivators who had made themselves too dangerous to ignore.

The disciples tightened their grips on their blades as the horde circled them.

The horde was led by three zombie warriors, each gripping rust-eaten swords. Their eyes were clouded, hungry, faintly aware and intensely locked onto the Soaring Sword Sect disciples with murderous intent.

And at the front of the group stood Li Xuan.

He looked at the advancing undead the way people looked at flies. A nuisance. Nothing more.

He swept his gaze over the mass of bodies and spoke calmly, “You have ten seconds. Kill all of them. I’ll handle the zombie warriors myself.”

He had brought only five disciples with him today, but none of them hesitated.

“We won’t disappoint you, Senior Brother Li Xuan!” they shouted in unison.

And then the zombies charged, claws snapping, limbs thrashing, the force of the rush shaking loose stones from the ridge.

Li Xuan moved first.

He pulled his sword out and the next thing he knew was his body blurring through the initial wave. Rotten heads flew as his blade carved through necks with practiced ease. He didn’t slow. He stepped on a collapsing corpse, kicked off, and leapt straight toward the first zombie warrior.

The undead swung a broad arc meant to split him in half. Li Xuan bent low beneath the blade, sliding under the attack. For an instant, he caught a flicker of surprise on the corpse’s face.

Then his sword swept left.

The zombie warrior’s head separated cleanly from its body.

Dark blood sprayed across the ground as the corpse toppled, but Li Xuan didn’t spare it a glance. He was already moving.

The second zombie warrior barreled toward him, raising its sword. Li Xuan’s smile sharpened. In the next heartbeat, his blade pierced the creature’s chest mid-stride, skewering it through the core. It dropped like a broken puppet.

Only one remained.

This one was larger—much larger—towering over the others by several feet. Its muscles bulged under deadened flesh, and its grip on its sword was unnervingly steady.

Li Xuan didn’t care.

He sprinted forward as the monster swung down. Their blades clashed, the impact jolting the air, and Li Xuan pushed. The giant zombie staggered back several steps.

He didn’t pause.

His sword rose, and the zombie warrior barely turned in time to block his next strike. Sparks burst from the collision.

Lightning crackled across his blade.

Without as much of a flinch, he activated the Fourth Technique of the Seven Sword Arts—[Thunderfall Slash].

Power surged through the metal, the sword beginning to howl as arcs of electricity crawled over its length. Bolts split the sky as he brought the blade down.

A rain of thunder crashed onto the Zombie Warrior.

Its body convulsed, charred, and then collapsed onto the ground with a dull thud.

Silence followed, except for the crackle of fading lightning.

Like its brethren, the last zombie warrior crashed to the ground in a lifeless heap.

Li Xuan flicked the blood from his blade and glanced around. His heartbeat became steady as he realised his junior brothers had already finished off the remaining zombies; rotting bodies lay scattered around them in piles. All five disciples were now looking at him, waiting for his assessment.

“Good job,” Li Xuan said. “But these things are barely a threat to us. Slow, predictable, and falling apart at the joints. Tomorrow we head deeper. We need real challenges.”

The disciples nodded immediately.

But before he could say anything more, a shift in the air tugged at his senses. Li Xuan paused, eyes narrowing. He turned toward the horizon.

A massive cloud was drifting down toward the wall. Normally, he would’ve taken it for a usual cloud, but this one… this one was far too controlled, far too steady to be natural. It descended slowly, like some heavenly beast lowering itself into a nest.

He recognized it instantly. So did the others.

“It seems the heavens have brought us a challenge sooner than expected,” Li Xuan said, expression sharpening. “The Thunder Blade Sect has finally arrived.”

Murmurs rippled through his group and he could tell that their tension and anticipation were both rising.

“That means the other Guardian Sects won’t be far behind,” he added.

He slid his sword back into its sheath and stepped off the ridge.

“Come. Let’s go greet them.”

Magus Reborn Chapter 306

Chapter 306

Eldric stared at the man he had detested from the very first day he saw his face. Selwin—his mother’s attendant, her obedient shadow, her loyal adopted son—always carried the stench of his mother’s influence with him. Normally, the sight of the man soured Eldric’s mood.

But today, Selwin had come bearing something that made Eldric smile.

He rested a hand on the edge of one of the crates laid out on the table between them. “Tell me again,” Eldric said, voice calm and almost pleasant, “what exactly is inside these crates, Selwin?”

Selwin straightened, glancing between Eldric and the sealed boxes. “These are alchemical substances, my lord,” he said. “Your mother personally acquired these magical potions for the army. They will greatly increase the soldiers’ prowess. Double it, if I must say.”

Eldric raised an eyebrow. “And these are her words?”

“Yes, my lord,” Selwin replied quickly. “Directly from your mother.”

Eldric didn’t respond. Instead, he reached into one of the crates and withdrew a small vial. It was filled with a dark, viscous substance—though calling it filled was generous. There were only drops inside, perhaps three or four at most. Far less than what he had seen in his mother’s private supply.

He knew it was no proper potion. It was foul, addictive, corrupting. But undeniably effective.

He had taken it in small doses, and even that small taste had made his strength surge beyond reason. He had not expected his mother to distribute something like this to ordinary soldiers, not even in desperation.

He turned the vial in his fingers, the liquid clinging to the glass like tar.

“And what,” Eldric asked quietly, “has she chosen to call this?”

Selwin answered without hesitation. “These are hex drops, my lord. Queen Regina has ordered you to give one to each soldier in the army.”

Eldric narrowed his eyes at the vial. “To even the conscripts?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yes, my lord,” Selwin replied without hesitation. “If there are hex drops left, Her Majesty said to give them out. With the soldiers powered by it, the war against Thalric will be over in weeks—those were her exact words.”

“How many crates has she sent?” he asked.

“Three dozen, my lord. Each crate contains around a hundred vials. It should be sufficient for a large portion of the army, and Her Majesty said more will arrive soon. But—” Selwin paused briefly, “—she wants the first batches distributed to the Mages. With them strengthened, we will be able to launch a counterattack against Thalric’s forces.”

Eldric leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly. “A counterattack is necessary.”

His gaze drifted to the map spread across another table on the left—creased, marked, stained by too many hands and too little progress. He was sick of looking at it. Sick of the heavy ink circles over fallen forts and the red lines marking lost ground. Sick of the endless reports detailing casualties, retreats, and the steady pressure from his brother’s advance.

The western half of the kingdom had become a bleeding wound. Thalric’s rebellion hadn’t been a whim—It had been planned for a long time, perhaps as long as his mother’s own schemes. His brother had moved with a plan in his mind, taking key strongholds and sweeping up every able man as a conscript to add to the numbers in his army.

Eldric had been thrown into this chaos with a single task: assist Duke Renard Kestrelain in holding Eden City and push Thalric’s forces back from attempting a siege.

And till this point, they hadn’t even managed to clear out a quarter of his forces.

Part of it was because Thalric hadn’t sent scraps. He had sent his main force. And worse, they were commanded by Duke Raktor, the man infamous for his ruthlessness.

Raktor had shattered supply lines, harassed their scouts, and battered the wards endlessly using the kraels—flying beasts the Ducal house of Raktor bred and controlled. Their intelligence on the kraels had been completely wrong. They were far more numerous than any report had suggested. Fast, coordinated, and devastating in aerial assaults.

Every day, Eldric felt more and more caged in Renard Kestrelain’s estate, reduced to listening to casualty reports, siege updates, and the suffocating rhythm of a war going nowhere.

And now his mother wanted him to feed hex drops to soldiers like they were bread rations.

He closed his fingers around the vial again.

The war was decaying faster than he expected, and his mother’s answer was addiction disguised as power.

Maybe the hex drops would change things around. Maybe they would turn the tide. Maybe they would give him what he deserved.

But as Eldric looked down at the vials, he felt something far more personal than strategy stirring in his veins.

His own bottle was long empty. He had drained it dry before even reaching Eden City.

And ever since then… the craving had clawed at him.

Being on the walls, seeing commoners fall to their deaths, watching kraels scatter under lightning and fire—none of it had quieted the burning need inside him. If anything, the thrill of battle had only sharpened it. Even now, holding the vial in his hand, he felt his fingers tremble.

He wanted to pull the stopper. He wanted to drink it. He wanted it to flood him again.

But Selwin was here.

Selwin, who ran straight to his mother with every whisper. Selwin, who watched him like a hound trained to report.

Though, did he truly need to care what his mother thought? He was the King now. Right? He was crowned, recognised and held the highest authority in the kingdom.

Did he still need to bow his neck to her leash?

A voice inside him murmured yes—the old voice, the obedient one, the one raised under his mother's gaze.

But another voice—louder, sharper—burned through it.

Why should you? Why should you live as her puppet? You are the King. Fucking act like it.

Heat simmered under his skin—anger, resentment, power all tangled together. The thought of his mother controlling even this part of him made that heat flare brighter.

He was done being managed.

“My lord…?” Selwin’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Are you well? You look… angry.”

Eldric exhaled slowly, drawing a thin smile across his lips. “No,” he said. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Selwin still looked uneasy.

Eldric tapped the crate with one finger. “It’s just one thing, Selwin. I will be taking these three crates of hex drops for myself. For personal use.”

Selwin’s eyes widened, panic rising instantly.

“Your Highness, Queen Regina instructed me explicitly not to let you—”

He didn’t finish. Because Eldric popped open the vial in his hand, and drank it in one sharp swallow.

The effect hit immediately.

He felt the rush, the burn and the raw power exploding through his nerves. It felt like water after days in the desert. Like air after drowning. Like something inside him had finally been fed.

Selwin froze, horrified.

Eldric lowered the empty vial, breathing hard as the familiar heat spread through his limbs, through his chest, through the very center of him.

For the first time in days, he felt alive.

His veins burned. His stomach twisted and growled for more—more of that dark heat, more of that power. The voice inside him, the one whispering rebellion, greed, defiance, grew louder, and almost jubilant.

More. Take more. You are the King. Take what is yours.

Eldric reached for another vial. Then a second. Then a third.

He uncorked each one with shaking fingers, drinking them in quick, hungry gulps while Selwin stood frozen, wide-eyed, like he was watching a nightmare unfold in daylight.

Eldric lifted a fourth vial to his lips—

“Your Highness, please!” Selwin lunged forward suddenly, grabbing Eldric’s shoulders with both hands. “Please stop! Do not drink more of it! This substance is foul for a King like you, please—”

Eldric did not hesitate.

He shoved Selwin back and struck him across the face with an open-handed slap that cracked through the room. Selwin stumbled, hit the floor, and Eldric stepped forward and drove a kick into his ribs, sending him crashing into the wall.

Selwin cried out in pain, voice shaking. “Your Highness, please—this is dangerous! You must stop, please—”

Eldric looked down at him and he was flooded with the voice in his head. It felt like all the rage he had felt over the years about this man was waiting to burst out.

Kill him. He touched you. No one touches the King.

He wanted to. The urge pulsed hot and violent. But another thought pushed through—clean, practical, strategic.

Selwin was important to his mother. Killing him now would make complications, and he already had enough of them with the war.

Eldric inhaled once slowly. Then he shouted. “Knights!”

The doors burst open instantly. A dozen Knights stormed in, armor clattering, eyes snapping from Eldric to Selwin’s crumpled form on the floor.

One stepped forward. “Your Highness,” he said and looked straight into his eyes. “did this man do anything to you?”

Eldric nodded calmly, tucking the last empty vial between his fingers.

“He tried to touch me without permission,” Eldric said and tilted his head. “Don’t you think that deserves punishment?”

The Knight’s jaw tightened. “What do you command, your highness?”

Eldric flicked his gaze toward Selwin, who was trembling, blood on his lip and fear in his eyes.

“Lock him up,” Eldric said. “Force him to write a letter to my mother. He is to tell her to send more of these hex drops. Many more. She should have stocked plenty.”

Selwin’s eyes widened in horror.

Eldric continued, voice growing sharp. “Once you have the crates, distribute them throughout the army. Give it to the Mages first. Then the soldiers.”

The Knight bowed. “As you command, Your Highness.”

Two Knights grabbed Selwin as he tried to scramble backward, but he was no match for armored men. He screamed, begged, pleaded, but they dragged him away like a sack of grain.

And Eldric watched him go.

He watched the fear, the humiliation, and the helplessness he had once felt in front of his mother reflected back at him—now beautifully reversed.

It was intoxicating.

He lifted another vial to his lips, drank deeply, and exhaled as the dark fire spread through him again.

Rebelling felt… exquisite.

***

Selenia hovered high above Eden City, letting the winds hold her in place as she stared down at the chaos below. An interesting little scene was unfolding.

It seemed Regina’s precious spawn had finally grown a spine, and was now attempting to rebel against the queen. The sight nearly dragged a laugh out of her, but she kept her lips pressed shut. No reason to attract the gaze of the tower sentries or some overeager Mage.

So she simply watched.

Below, pairs of Knights dragged that rat Selwin across the castle grounds, hauling him like garbage toward the dungeon stairs. Selenia’s eyes narrowed with faint delight. She had always detested the man—his posture, his clinging loyalty and cunning behind his eyes, his trembling devotion to Regina. Seeing him pleading, screaming, trying to dig his heels into the dirt while his voice cracked from begging… it was almost adorable.

If she could have, she would have whispered a command for the Knights to break a few of his bones. Regina cared about him, enough to keep him alive and functional until her plans reached completion. Seeing that loyalty punished would have been a pleasant bonus. Selenia wondered how Regina would react when the news reached her. Fury? Panic? Something else?

Whatever it was, Selenia wanted to watch.

Her gaze shifted as several Knights moved to seize the crates Eldric had claimed—the crates filled with the hex drops she and the others had crafted from the blood of the great lord.

Pathetic things, really.

Just diluted dead mana, stretched thin and mixed with common reagents. A proper Mage could use the substance for a moderate boost and shrug off the side effects. But ordinary mortal soldiers? Their minds weren’t built for it. Their emotions would dull until only the strongest impulses remained. Rage. Greed. Bloodlust.

They would become simple weapons, blades shaped by anger, driven by instinct, ready to swing at anything their masters pointed them toward. And if they weren’t pointed… well.

Anger always demanded an outlet. On a battlefield, that outlet was predictable.

Kill. Burn. Break.

But ordinary mortals weren’t the only ones who would bend under the effects of the hex drops. There was Eldric—Regina’s son, her puppet, her carefully shaped tool.

Selenia almost snorted. Regina had always been a terrible mother. She wasn’t even competent enough to turn her own child into a proper Mage. Eldric was already fractured inside, a shell filled with insecurities and hunger, and now the hex drops were widening every crack. They were crawling into the broken spaces of his mind, twisting them, turning them outward. His little rebellion today was only the start.

Soon, he would do far more interesting things. Especially now that he had crates of the substance at his disposal.

Regina’s grand plan was predictable: take control of Lancephil, purge the kingdom of her enemies, and then wage a holy war to fulfill the great lord’s prophecy. It sounded impressive in words. In execution… It was painful to watch. She and the others had begun seeing it clearly—Regina wasn’t as competent as she believed herself to be.

Selenia had been sent to “aid” her, but she had never been the type to follow orders well. And these circumstances were far too amusing to straighten out. Why ruin perfectly good chaos? Fate could pull things along however it pleased. Selenia wasn’t here to force the river into a shape—she was here to enjoy the flood.

If Regina’s son destroyed himself… then so be it. She would simply watch and savour it.

The civil war was already entertaining enough. One brother was gone—had she arrived earlier, perhaps she would have nudged him toward victory, but she doubted he would have accepted help from someone like her. Another brother pushed forward confidently, but Selenia could see the cracks in that one too. His victory would be nothing more than a temporary illusion. He didn’t have what it took to be king.

She had spoken to countless men like Thalric through the years—ambitious, frightened, desperate tyrants shaped by their greed. And she had watched every one of them rot under the weight of their own flaws. Thalric was no different. He had already left a trail of problems behind him. There was always a blade waiting for a tyrant, always a rebellion brewing behind a crown.

Mortals in Lancephil were already whispering their dissatisfaction. Their homes burned, their livelihoods uprooted, all because a frightened wannabe king wanted to sit on a throne. He would fall soon. Selenia didn’t doubt it.

But out of all the pieces on the board, only one truly interested her.

Her lips curled into a slow smile as she thought about him.

Maleficia had taken note of him long ago, ever since he killed Shakran. Even before that, when the treant they planted mysteriously fell, they had suspected he was the cause. But how did he manage it? That remained a mystery. And Selenia hated unsolved things.

Regina’s failure to kill him only made it better. The mess with Veridia… even better still.

Selenia hadn’t witnessed that duel firsthand, but she had heard enough from the shadows. Enough to know that the boy—Arzan—was far more dangerous than he appeared.

She wanted to see how he would confront the two remaining princes. How he would corner Regina. What tricks he still hadn’t revealed.

And once he climbed high enough—once he stood on the edge of victory, tired and exposed—that was when she planned to sweep in.

A man like him couldn’t be allowed to live.

She would have preferred to turn him into a puppet, truly, but the reports were clear: he despised dead mana. Vehemently. That alone made him an inconvenience Maleficia could never tolerate. No, she couldn’t let him walk away from this war alive.

But until then?

She wanted to see what chaos he could create. She wanted entertainment.

There were so many pieces, so many paths the fate of Lancephil could take. So many potential outcomes. But in the end, Selenia knew only one person would stand above all of it.

Her.

Her smile widened as she swept her gaze over the castle grounds one last time before shooting upward into the open sky.

Her time in Lancephil was going to be memorable. Very memorable.

Dao of money Volume 3 Epilogue 2

Epilogue 2

In the different corners of the empire, there were a lot of places that were both dangerous as well as filled with thick, potent qi. So much qi that sects had historically tried to wipe out the dangers in order to build their sect grounds there—to bask in the qi and let their disciples grow stronger by cultivating in such dense energy. Most of these places were either on top of a qi vein, deep in the ground where qi leaked from the center of the earth, or at the tallest peaks in the empire.

Frostpeak Sect, one of the four Guardian sects, had chosen the latter. They stood on top of Mount Tianhan, the tallest mountain in the empire, where snow covered everything and even simple travel from one place to another could cost lives. Because of this, they were known as the sect that would survive even if the entire empire fell. Something that every member of the sect firmly believed.

But they were special in a different way too. They were the only sect that hadn’t moved to kill off all the dangers around their peak. Instead, they used every dangerous element around them to forge their disciples, pushing them to become stronger, faster, tougher, and far more resolute than anyone else in the empire.

Even now, in the cold morning air, dozens of disciples ran around an open ground within the sect, chains looping in their hands as they rolled, dodged, and jumped while balls of flame and ice crashed into the floor around them, trying to kill them. Up in the sky, flying beasts circled and screeched, their shadows sweeping across the snow as they eyed the disciples below.

They were snow wyverns, the original rulers of Mount Tianhan. For the last few centuries, they had been in constant battle with the Frostpeak Sect and its disciples. Their original nesting grounds had been taken over by the sect long ago, forcing them to retreat to distant peaks, but they always returned, intent on killing humans and taking revenge. And the sect used them as training targets.

Centuries of living in the cold had given these fire-aspected beasts the ability to wield freezing ice, making them far more dangerous than any other wyverns in the empire. But Frostpeak disciples didn’t even flinch at their attacks. They stayed in a formation that, to an outsider, would look like a frantic, chaotic scramble, but every step was coordinated.

At the front of the group was Han Qingshi, the prodigy of the sect and the son of the current sect leader. A peak foundation establishment realm cultivator.

Elders stood at the edges of the training field, watching as Qingshi rolled away from a blast of frozen flame and hurled his metallic chain straight at the wyvern. The chains wrapped around the beast’s legs, catching and tightening around its claws as Qingshi pulled hard.

That was the signal.

The disciples who seemed to be running randomly suddenly acted in perfect sync, throwing their chains from different angles and latching onto more parts of the wyvern’s body. Then, together, they pulled.

The wyvern crashed downward. Even before it hit the ground, the waiting disciples leapt onto it. Qingshi reached first, loosening his own chain only to flick it upward and loop it tightly around the wyvern’s mouth, clamping it shut before the beast could release another attack.

An axe materialised in Han Qingshi’s hand, its surface a dull stone-grey. He didn’t hesitate—he hurled it straight at the wyvern’s mouth. The weapon tore through the creature’s face in a single, brutal cut. He left the axe lodged there, unclipped the chains, and leapt over the wyvern’s collapsing body. His eyes swept the sky, immediately landing on the three remaining beasts still firing attacks at the other disciples.

“I’m going to finish all of you in the next ten seconds,” he said, loud enough for the entire training ground to hear. It wasn’t a boast—more like a declaration of fact.

Before the elders could blink, he flung his chain toward the wyvern that had just frozen several disciples. This time, he didn’t pull the wyvern down. The wyvern pulled him up. His body shot into the sky like a fired arrow, reaching the beast in two seconds.

Another axe appeared in his hand. He loosened the chain mid-air and pushed off the surrounding qi, propelling himself straight toward the wyvern. The creature spat a stream of freezing fire, but Qingshi blocked with his axe and forced his way through. Then he struck the wyvern in its eye, burying the blade deep. Blood sprayed out, but he was already climbing, sprinting across the wyvern’s back while it thrashed in pain.

Just before the creature dropped toward the ground, Qingshi jumped again. His chain snapped outward and wrapped around a second wyvern. This time he didn’t land on its back. Instead, the axe vanished from his hand and a longer chain appeared in its place. With a clean throw, he wrapped the second chain around the third wyvern’s torso.

Then he pulled.

Both wyverns were ripped off balance and slammed into each other with a crash that echoed across Mount Tianhan.

Han Qingshi hit the ground with a heavy thud, the stone beneath him cracked from the impact. He pushed himself up in time to see the two wyverns he had smashed together tumbling off the cliff, their bodies shrinking into the distance. From that height, there was no chance they would survive.

He took a breath and footsteps drew his attention. Several elders were walking toward him across the training ground. Around them, the other disciples had finished off the remaining wyverns, but none of their kills compared to his four. Qingshi pulled his chains back into his spatial ring just as the elders stopped in front of him.

The leading elder gave a short bow.

“You did well, Qingshi. As always. These wyverns are no match for you.”

Qingshi shook his head. “I only used what the sect taught me.”

One of the female elders smiled faintly. “Good. You still have humility. That will take you far, especially with the Pagoda of Eternity opening soon.”

Qingshi lowered his gaze for a moment, remembering what his father had told him about the inheritance inside the pagoda. A legacy left behind by a nascent soul cultivator. A chance that came once in a lifetime.

“I’ll do my best,” he said.

“We know you will.” The elder’s voice carried confidence. “The other Guardian sects will be there. This is your chance to show them you stand above every member of your generation.”

Qingshi nodded once. “They’ll understand that soon.”

His eyes drifted toward the distant sky. He imagined the Corpse Lands, the towering pagoda, and all the rivals waiting inside it. His fingers twitched with anticipation. He could already picture their blood on his chains.

Once he reached the top of the pagoda, the entire empire would know his name.

***

If there was any place in the empire known as the land of alchemy, it was the Emerald Sun Sect. Everything about the sect—its training, its reputation, even its history—was built on fire, cauldrons, and pills. They were the only Guardian sect whose main path wasn’t the sword, body, or the elemental aspects. Their disciples trained their dantian to hold hotter, denser flames than anyone else, and they pushed their alchemy so far that some believed they could refine pills strong enough to change fate itself.

Most cultivators in the empire thought pills were just support tools—useful, yes, but not worth basing your entire life on. No one in the Emerald Sun Sect agreed. To them, alchemy was as equal as cultivation.

And among them stood one man who believed that more than anyone else to the point that he lived by it. To him, pills were the reason to cultivate.

Elder Ruan Minghe, the youngest elder the Emerald Sun Sect had ever produced. He was only eighty-nine years old, but already at the verge of breaking to the fourth realm of cultivation. He could have attempted the breakthrough months ago, but he refused. His alchemical foundation wasn’t perfect, and he believed that if the foundation of his craft wavered even a little, there was no meaning in rising higher.

So instead, he stood at the edge of a cliff near the sect’s main alchemy grounds, guiding the flames inside his cauldron with absolute focus.

The cauldron roared, bubbling as if alive.

Ruan Minghe added ingredients one after another without hesitation—Crimson Bone, Moonvine Blood, and chipped pieces of Ironwood. Each material struck the mixture with a violent reaction. The liquid inside churned in aggressive waves, threatening to explode at any second.

But Ruan Minghe’s qi pressed down on it firmly, controlling every motion.

The heat increased. Flames curled up in a perfect vortex, wrapping the cauldron in a tight spiral. He extended two fingers, weaving refined strands of fire through the mixture. Slowly, the essence within the materials began to separate. A faint glow lifted from the bubbling mess, rising into the air as if responding to his will.

Making pills at his level wasn’t about whether he could succeed. Ruan Minghe already knew the result would be a success. What mattered was purity. If a pill dropped below seventy percent purity, he considered it a complete failure. To be known as the best alchemist in the empire, he needed to reach a point where almost no essence leaked into the air, even during difficult mixtures.

But that was far easier said than done.

As he mixed the essences floating above the cauldron, a silver glow flashed in his eyes. It was the technique known as [Silver Vein Eyes], and it was the only reason he had reached this level at such a young age. The technique showed him what ordinary alchemists couldn’t see—the tiny streams of essence escaping into the surroundings with every second that passed.

And right now, far too much essence was slipping away.

Ruan Minghe narrowed his eyes and increased his speed. He poured more of his qi into the mixture, tightening his control and forcing the essences to compress toward the forming pill. Every breath he took felt like he was fighting against time itself. More essence leaked out. More resistance came from the ingredients. But he didn’t slow down.

He dragged the remaining essence out of the Crimson Bone. He pulled the last drops of purity out of the Moonvine Blood. He spun the Ironwood essence into the mixture, keeping it from scattering.

Some of the essences clashed violently, pushing away from each other because they were naturally incompatible. Ruan Minghe didn’t panic. He simply pressed his own qi into the mixture, smoothing the conflict and forcefully stabilizing them.

The pill shape slowly became solid. The heat rising from the cauldron grew sharp enough to distort the air.

Ruan Minghe clenched his jaw and poured out half of the qi in his dantian in one go. A bright light burst above the cauldron.

The flames flared high, then abruptly died down. The clashing essences in the air vanished. All the chaotic heat snapped into stillness.

And then—finally—a single pill formed above the cauldron, floating in place like it had always been there.

Without wasting a second, Ruan Minghe raised his hand and wrapped his qi around it, pulling the pill into his palm.

He turned the pill over in his palm, inspecting it from every angle. It was a deep jade-green, smooth on the surface but with faint swirling lines inside—traces of the three essences blending together. When he pushed a thread of qi into it, the pill gave off a steady glow, the colour brightening at its core.

Ruan Minghe narrowed his eyes and pushed a bit more qi into the pill to check its purity. A moment later, numbers formed in his mind, and he allowed himself a small smile.

Seventy-seven percent.

Better than expected. He had assumed this pill would barely scrape past seventy. Some atmospheric qi had slipped in during the process—his own mistake—but it didn’t affect the pill’s overall strength. It only meant he needed to be sharper next time.

He closed his fingers around the pill for a moment, then lowered his hand and looked out across the mountain.

Far along the cliffs, dozens of other alchemists were working in the cold air, each standing beside their cauldrons. All of them were disciples, not Elders, and all of them had been ordered to refine as many pills as possible before the trip into the Pagoda of Eternity. Flames rose and died across the slopes like flickering stars.

Thinking of the pagoda made Ruan Minghe’s smile widen.

He had fought for the position to lead the Emerald Sun Sect into it. Some Elders had wanted to seal their cultivation with pills and enter themselves, but in the end, the sect leader chose him. And Ruan Minghe intended to make sure the Emerald Sun Sect came out on top.

But prestige wasn’t the only reason he wanted to enter the mythical pagoda.

There was another goal—one shared quietly by every senior alchemist in the sect.

The pagoda was filled with secrets. Ancient techniques. Pills lost to time. And somewhere inside, hidden within the first ten levels, was said to be the legacy of a master alchemist who had crafted Heaven-grade pills. A man who left behind treasures meant for an alchemist “with enough fire in his heart.”

Ruan Minghe’s fingers tightened around the pill pouch at his side.

He wasn’t going to the pagoda just to climb it—he was going to claim everything that the master alchemist left behind.

Once he had that legacy in his hands, being the youngest Elder would feel small. Too small.

With that thought, he turned back to the cauldron, and summoned the flames again.

It was time to make the next pill.

Magus Reborn Chapter 305

Chapter 305

It turned out that even after securing Prince Aldrin’s surrender, the man had still managed to cause a problem for him. The prince had apparently refused to speak to the Alparcan forces about Prince Vhailor’s death and had simply ordered his own men to subdue them if they tried anything before he left for negotiations. By the time those negotiations were over, the Alparcan forces—led mostly by Mages—had already tried to flee toward Alparca to inform the royal family of what had happened.

Prince Vhailor dying was no small matter, and it seemed they understood that with Aldrin’s surrender, they would either be captured or killed. Once Kai gained access to Fort Valemount, the first thing he did was move to subdue each of them personally.

And the only reason they were still within the walls at all was because they had been caught attempting to steal Prince Vhailor’s corpse before making their escape across the border. Kai had caught them mid-act, and surprisingly, not a single Mage had tried to fight or run. They clearly knew they stood no chance against him.

Only one had made an attempt—a Shadow Mage who slipped away quietly—only for Gareth to hunt him down and kill him in one strike. A few Alparcan soldiers had also managed to sneak out, forcing the Watchers to spend hours tracking them down and dragging them back, dead or alive.

Kai couldn’t afford any message reaching Alparca before the civil war ended. He already had his hands full dealing with the remaining princes.

He knew the Alparcan kingdom was going to try something, especially after he had killed Prince Vhailor, but that was a problem he would deal with later. His focus had to remain on the two remaining princes. Because of that, he and the Watchers had already prepared a plan to feed Alparca false information. Trade with them had already stopped due to the war, so blocking accurate messages wasn’t difficult. All he needed to do was assign the right people to the task.

Once that was handled, Kai and the others didn’t spend much time planning their next move that same night. They sent out drones to inform their allies of Aldrin’s surrender, then agreed to hold a full meeting early the next morning. Every person under him—nobles, Mages, Enforcers, and common soldiers alike—were exhausted. A night of rest was the least he could give them, especially knowing they would be marching across the kingdom soon enough.

Kai, however, didn’t rest.

He knew there would be many battles ahead, and his mind kept circling around the same thought—how much easier Prince Vhailor would’ve been to deal with if he already had a fifth-circle Mana heart. Fourth circle had been enough to defeat Veridia, but it had left him completely drained… and had nearly destroyed his new robes. Only later had he realized they possessed self-healing properties—threads woven with subtle seals sewn deep into the inner layers, almost invisible unless he focused mana into them.

He had already handed the robes to Balen to reinforce them further. The seals could be modified, and Balen had the talent to take them beyond their original design. Kai had already taught him the necessary knowledge and left him with a few Mages to assist with the enchanting.

But that didn’t change the fact that the same thing would happen again the next time he faced a powerful opponent. Vhailor had been strong, yes, but he wasn’t as efficient or experienced as Veridia, and the shadow of Maleficia lingered constantly at the back of Kai’s mind. If he stayed at the fourth circle, then sooner or later, he would be killed.

Every day, his name spread farther. Every victory made him more visible. And sooner or later, the rest of Maleficia would realise just how dangerous he was becoming. They might even move to aid Regina in killing him—if they weren’t already making preparations. In this era, with mana flooding the world the way it did, he wouldn’t be surprised if there were people quietly reaching the strength of a sixth or even seventh circle.

Publicly, there was no information on how to achieve the sixth circle safely. From what he knew, a stable method had only been discovered near the end of the first golden era of magic. But just like the Mage arrays he’d found, there was a good chance that the knowledge of it was simply hidden, scattered, or locked away. Someone, somewhere, might already have pieces of it.

So as he sat alone in his room, he focused on only one thing—cultivation.

He shut out everything else. He breathed in the dense mana of the atmosphere and guided it through the pathways of his body, trying to shape the fifth circle within his Mana heart. He had been working on it for a while now, but he had barely reached thirty percent completion. At this pace, he was still at least a year away from forming it.

For most Mages, that wasn’t a long time at all.

But Kai doubted he had that much time to spare.

By his estimates, he and Regina were going to clash in a month or two. He would have preferred to reach the fifth circle before that, but it was impossible, and Kai wasn’t foolish enough to force an early breakthrough. His Mana heart would never withstand it—he would cripple his foundation, or worse.

Even so, the feeling gnawed at him: his current strength might not be enough.

Even with his Enforcer side added to the mix, he was only a little stronger than before, barely brushing the edge of the second rank. That wouldn’t mean much against Regina. It wouldn’t even matter against someone at Shakran’s level, let alone the monsters Maleficia surely held in reserve.

Kai knew he wasn’t alone, but aside from Killian, he doubted anyone in his forces could last long against a Fifth-Circle Mage, not in a direct confrontation at least. The thought made his cultivation harder than usual. One part of him continued cycling mana, shaping the fifth circle piece by piece… while the other part kept racing, searching desperately for a way to increase his strength in the little time he had.

Relying on cultivation was out of the question. He couldn’t climb an entire circle in weeks. Balen might have been able to construct a powerful golem, but not one strong enough to stand against a fifth-circle threat. And while Valkyrie’s Tower might have contained knowledge he could use, he simply didn’t have the time to sift through the books, inscriptions, and chambers, even if he badly wanted to. Not with all the threats that were waiting for him outside.

All of it left him with very few options.

He kept thinking and thinking, thoughts grinding against the quiet rhythm of his mana flow. His cultivation suddenly faltered for just a moment—only a fraction of a heartbeat—but it was enough.

A mana vein along the side of his neck stung sharply as he accidentally pushed too much mana through it. The pain snapped him out of his spiral of thoughts.

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath and stayed still for a second. With that, he stopped building the circle and pressed a hand to his neck, casting a soothing spell over the strained vein.

Within seconds, the cooling pulse sank into his skin, and once he confirmed nothing had torn or damaged, he let out a slow breath. He had been too hasty, trying to cultivate with his mind full of chaos was asking for an injury.

He sighed and pushed himself up from the floor, moving toward the bed. He doubted he would cultivate any further tonight. The moment he closed his eyes, all the thoughts he’d been trying to push aside came rushing back: Regina, Maleficia, fifth-circle enemies, his army’s limits, the short time left.

He sprawled on the bed, but sleep didn’t come. His mind wouldn’t quiet. He kept circling around the same question—how could he increase his strength in such a short time?

A mana battery was one option. He could build one strong enough to feed him additional mana, but in a fight against someone more powerful, it would become a target. Mana batteries were notoriously fragile; everyone knew that, even in this era. And he doubted raw mana alone was the answer.

He could try to rely on spells instead.

He had many unique spells now—things he couldn’t have cast months ago. But there were others… spells he had begun designing before he regressed in time. Spells he had made himself from scratch.

One in particular came to mind.

A spell that could manifest mana arms around his body. Arms that could cast spells independently as long as he connected them to his mind.

Four spells at once. Five, if he counted his [Flight] spell.

That kind of overwhelming casting speed could flip the tide of almost any battle. If he could refine it, stabilize it, and make it battle-ready, it would give him something close to a fifth-circle advantage, even without actually reaching it.

As he thought more about it, for the first time in hours, the chaos in Kai’s chest shifted—not easing, but slowly narrowing into purpose.

The problem was that he had never been able to figure out that spell, no matter how promising the idea seemed. Even the other Mages he had quietly consulted back then agreed the concept was brilliant, but far too complex.

Not only would he need to mentally link the additional mana arms to his brain, he would have to construct entirely new pathways, additional mana veins branching out from his heart to feed those arms. It was like treating his own body as a living golem and trying to attach new components to it.

Kai still remembered the designs he had drawn, the half-finished diagrams scattered across his old worktables. Replicating them wouldn’t be difficult. Starting the project wouldn’t be difficult.

But seeing the spell become a real, usable thing? That could take months. Maybe years.

New spells were unpredictable. Experiments could backfire, misfire, or become outright dangerous. And the more he thought about it, the clearer it became: this one spell wasn’t something he could create while racing against time.

There were other spells he could attempt, but none were as versatile or as impactful, and several overlapped with abilities he already had. Every idea he came up with felt either too time-consuming or too underwhelming to matter.

He sighed. Then sighed again. A headache throbbed behind his eyes.

If his master were here, the old man would’ve smacked him on the head with his wand and ordered him to get some sleep.

But the moment the thought formed, Kai’s eyes snapped open. Maybe that was what he needed. He sat up straight.

A wand.

How had he not thought of it sooner?

If he wanted a sharp boost in power in a short amount of time, that was the way to go.

A wand not only offered him additional versatility, it would also allow him to safely attach a core to it in case he ran dry during a battle. There were multiple functions he could embed into it, each one capable of boosting his combat potential by a significant margin. The more Kai thought about it, the more obvious it became that this was the answer he’d been looking for.

The only reason he hadn’t considered it earlier was simple: he had barely used a wand in his past life. He had wanted one after becoming a Magus, but the world had been in ruins by then. Even ordinary wood was scarce—magical wood was practically impossible to find. And a wand needed a material sturdy enough to endure layers of enchantments. Some wands even carried spatial seals, storing items within them. Kai didn’t know much about spatial magic, but offensive magic and sealcraft? Those he understood better than most.

The idea kept building in his mind, each thought sharpening into certainty. Before he fully realised it, excitement drove him off the bed. He grabbed a stack of clean papers from the desk and began sketching designs—old knowledge resurfacing through muscle memory.

Line after line flowed, his hand steadying as the structure formed: conduits, stabilisation lines, seal anchors, mana regulators.

Then he wrote down the first and most important material he would need. The wood that would define the entire wand. The only wood worthy of holding the enchantments he had in mind.

Wood from the Elder Tree itself.

Magus Reborn Chapter 304

Chapter 304

Viscountess Vaessa had seen many strange things in her long life. Despite her youthful features, she was old—far older than most lived to be in the Lancephil Kingdom—and yet nothing in her decades of noble duty had prepared her for the sight before her: barbarians sitting atop the walls of Matilla City, laughing over different conversations as if they had always belonged there. Stranger still, she had grown used to it.

The Lancephil Kingdom had warred against them for a while, and she had never thought of their kind in a good light. When Duke Arzan sent a small army of them to reinforce her city, she had felt torn between fear and gratitude. They were taller than any Knight she had ever seen, broad-shouldered, wrapped in furs and iron. Each one carried the presence of a man who had killed their whole life. Even their mounts—the massive, scaled bulldrakes—were enough to unsettle trained warhorses. Her own family had trembled at the sight of them.

But after a month of living under their protection, her fear had softened into something like respect. Despite their crude manners and thunderous laughter, the Lombards were honorable and fearless. They guarded Matilla’s walls through the night, met every ambush Thalric’s agents sent, and treated her soldiers as equals rather than pawns. In that time, she had learned that savagery and honor were not always strangers.

They had their oddities, though. Like wanting to finish a game of cards even while a fight loomed over the horizon as if death could wait until the last wager was settled. Vaessa raised her head to see three Mages approaching from the north on top of kraels while the Lombards on the wall grumbled about lost coins.

They were a sight to hold—those kraels—sleek, leathery flying beasts the size of a warhorse, with talons sharp enough to pierce plates and long, fin-like tails that steered them through the air. Their wings shimmered faintly with mana, scattering light like oil on water. They looked like they could hold the weight of several men and were tamed exclusively by the Dukal house of Raktor.

Over the past week alone, Matilla had been attacked three times by these flying units. Whoever commanded them had learned that the ordinary horses and Mages they had sent at first were easy to capture.

But even as the flying beasts drew closer, the Lombards sitting on the wall barely turned their heads. A few of them squinted toward the sky, muttered something in their own guttural tongue, and went back to their game of cards. The soldiers stationed nearby were less composed. Nervous glances passed between them; one young guard even tightened his grip on his spear until his knuckles went white. They all knew the truth—the city’s wards wouldn’t hold much longer.

Repeated strikes had left the barrier vulnerable, webbed with fractures, the faint glow of its seals flickering like a candle on its last breath. The Mage that could fix it had died last month. He didn’t die for war, no, but to an illness that even the best potions they had couldn’t mend. His apprentices had tried to take over soon to keep up with everything, but their work hadn’t been the same. It was all sloppy and rushed.

Viscountess Vaessa stood on the battlements, watching the distant specks growing larger against the gray sky. She felt a shift beside her, heavy steps that seemed to push the stones deeper.

Chieftain Yafgar stopped at her side, his shadow falling across her. “I apologize,” he said, his deep voice calm despite the danger. “My tribe members—especially my son—take things easy when they think they can win without effort.”

Vaessa followed his gaze to the table propped against the inner wall, where Ragnar, his son, sat cross-legged with a broad grin, tossing cards and laughing as he pocketed another man’s coin. He looked as though war was the farthest thing from his mind.

“It’s all right,” she said softly. “I’ve seen them fight on these walls for a month now. I know what they can do. But are you sure they’ll be able to capture the beasts this time? The last three attacks, they all escaped.”

Yafgar gave a short chuckle, his bearded smile oddly good-natured. “Unfortunately, my people cannot fly like Lord Arzan. If we could, this would be much simpler.” His gaze followed the approaching shadows in the sky. “Though, I’ve been thinking of taming flying beasts for the tribe once this civil war is over. A chieftain should look to the skies as well as the ground.”

Vaessa pointed upward, where the kraels were now close enough that she could see their riders’ robes rippling in the wind. “Like them?” she asked.

The chieftain’s grin widened, though his tone remained dry. “They’re good creatures, but they wouldn’t be able to carry our weight. I’m sorry, Viscountess, but Mages are far thinner than the average Lombard.”

She blinked at him, unsure whether to laugh or feel insulted—she wasn’t sure if the chieftain’s remark was a compliment or if in Lombard terms “thin” was an insult. She let the thought slide and asked, “So what beast are you thinking of?”

Yafgar’s dark eyes brightened. “A wyvern wouldn’t be bad. Ragnar heard soldiers talking about them.”

The image came to her so clearly she felt the chill of it: Lombards on wyverns, dropping from the sky like living spears, faces and furs filling an enemy’s worst nightmares. The thought made her stomach tighten with equal parts dread and grim approval.

She turned back to the horizon and saw the kraels and their riders closing fast. Her face went serious; she bit the side of her cheek. “I can handle the Mages this time,” she said. “I know a spell that could freeze them in their tracks.”

Yafgar shook his head slowly. “That might help, but Lord Arzan told us to hold this city, and I believe it’s our duty to do so. You can just sit back and watch.” He glanced at Ragnar. “And to be honest, Ragnar suggested a plan against the flying beasts recently.”

Vaessa raised an eyebrow. “And what plan is that?”

“You’ll see soon,” Yafgar said, and she saw the faint traces of a smile on his face.

At that moment the game finally finished. Ragnar leapt up, swearing, “Fuck, I lost again!” Brugnar, a stony-faced Lombard, slapped the table and grinned. “You’ve a lot to learn. Now as a result of losing, you need to go fight those Mages now. Do your job right so we can trap them this time. If you let them fly away, you’ll never take the mantle of a berserker.”

“I’m already one,” Ragnar growled, rolling his shoulders as he stood. “Those Mages have annoyed me enough to fill my rage for a lifetime.”

He strode toward the battlements, the stone groaning faintly under his weight. One of the Lombards—a scarred veteran with arms like tree trunks—rose and handed him a massive iron mace, the head studded with spikes and engraved with faint seals that glimmered faintly in the light. Ragnar grinned, spinning it once, the air whistling from the motion.

Viscountess Vaessa couldn’t help but watch his every movement, curiosity stirring beneath her unease. They had tried to take down the beasts before with spells and arrows, but the kraels were too nimble. Their riders darted in and out of range, and even when the beasts were clipped by arrows, they always managed to recover, their powerful wings catching the air before the ground could claim them. Killing them had proved near impossible.

The creatures now swooped low, sleek bodies slicing through the wind. Their leathery wings spanned nearly thirty feet, and each flap sent dust swirling off the ramparts. The Mages on their backs raised their palms, spell structures igniting to life as streaks of light gathered—crimson, violet, and pale blue.

Then the sky thundered.

A volley of spells rained down on the ward—fire lances, compressed wind blades, and streaks of crackling mana that tore through the air like thunder. The barrier flared bright, the seals along its surface pulsing wildly as it struggled to absorb the impact. The shockwave made the battlements tremble beneath her boots, the sound like the crash of a hundred drums. Cracks spidered across the translucent surface of the ward, and for a moment Vaessa thought it might shatter completely.

She knew their goal—to weaken the ward until it broke, to make Matilla bare for a proper siege. And truthfully, she had no answer for it. The city’s best Mages were still novices other than her, and she herself could only buy time, not victory.

But as the light faded and the ward’s glow dimmed to a frail shimmer, she saw movement from the corner of her eye. Ragnar was no longer watching idly. His gaze had locked on the three Mages above, who had lowered their Kraels to strike again—this time aiming straight for the weakest point at the ward’s center.

His lips curled into a grin.

A heavy thrum filled the air, and she felt it before she saw it—a wild surge of mana bursting from him. The stone beneath his boots cracked, fissures running like lightning through the wall as he crouched low and leapt.

Vaessa couldn’t help but gasp at the sight. The force of it shattered part of where he stood, sending chunks of rock tumbling down the outer wall. Ragnar soared upward, a blur of muscle and fury, his mace trailing light behind him.

The kraels shrieked, their riders yanking the reins, diving to the side. They had learned from past attempts—the Lombards often tried to leap onto them, and dodging had saved them every time.

But this time—

Instead of missing the beast and plunging to the ground—as Viscountess Vaessa had expected—Ragnar’s boot hit air. For a heartbeat she thought her eyes deceived her, but then he pushed off it, climbing higher as if invisible steps held him aloft.

His mace spun in his grip, whistling through the wind. The kraels shrieked, their riders shouting in alarm, but Ragnar was already upon them. With a single swing, he brought the weapon down on the nearest Mage’s head. The crack echoed over the battlefield. The Mage’s body went limp instantly, falling from the saddle and dropping on the ground.

Ragnar landed squarely on the beast’s back. The krael screamed, wings beating violently as it bucked under his weight. The creature twisted and dove, trying to throw him off, but he grabbed hold of the reins, muscles straining, he showed his teeth and smiled while dragging his tongue over his upper teeth in temporary victory.

The other two riders turned on him at once. Twin bursts of mana flared in the sky—one a spear of flame, the other a lance of crackling lightning. They hit Ragnar dead on. The air exploded in light and heat, and Vaessa flinched.

But when the glare faded, Ragnar was still there.

Even from this distance, she could feel the storm of power raging around him. His aura burned wild and furious, his eyes alight with mana, glowing faintly red through the smoke. Rage carved across his face as he took the spells head-on, his body steaming with raw energy.

The krael beneath him screamed again, thrashing in panic. One of the enemy Mages had misfired, his spell struck the beast Ragnar rode, tearing through one wing and sending it spiraling out of control. It crashed downward, straight toward the ward.

Vaessa gasped, expecting him to fall with it. But Ragnar didn’t panic.

Just before impact, he pushed off the saddle and jumped again, this time catching the leg of another krael as it tried to veer away. The beast shrieked, flailing wildly, its wings struggling to keep balance as Ragnar’s weight dragged it down.

The Mage riding it panicked and began forming a new spell structure on his palm, the glowing circle expanding toward Ragnar’s face. It would have hit point blank—if Ragnar hadn’t grinned.

With a roar, he swung his mace upward. The blow landed square against the krael’s chest, the seals along the weapon flaring like molten gold. The shockwave shattered the forming spell, scattering mana through the air in sparks.

And instead of holding on, he let go.

Ragnar hit the ground in a roll, dust kicking up around him. When he rose, he did so with the ease of someone who’d been born to survive impact. Viscountess Vaessa let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. He looked entirely unhurt. Of course he was—Barbarians were built like mountains, and Ragnar was not just a barbarian; he was an Enforcer.

But the danger wasn’t over.

The last krael screeched overhead, its rider pulling hard on the reins. Maybe the sight of his comrades’ deaths had broken his composure, or maybe fury made him reckless, but instead of retreating, the Mage pressed his palms forward. Bolts of mana screamed through the air toward Ragnar, explosions of light streaking over the plain. The beast circled just out of reach of the city’s walls, staying high enough to attack but far enough to avoid the crossbows and spells.

Vaessa frowned, her fingers twitching toward a spell, but before she could act she felt a massive hand on her shoulder. Chieftain Yafgar stood beside her, calm as a man watching the tide.

“Shouldn’t we help Ragnar?” she asked sharply, her eyes flicking from the young warrior below to the Mage above.

Yafgar shook his head. “No need. His breakthrough came faster than we expected. His command of wind now rivals any Mage’s. He’ll handle both the Mage and the beast.”

Below them, Ragnar was already moving, dodging the spells that tore up the ground in flashes of light. His figure darted between craters, each explosion barely missing him by inches. He wasn’t fighting back—not yet. He was waiting. Vaessa’s eyes narrowed as she began to understand. He was letting the Mage burn through his mana reserves.

The enemy was only a second-circle spellcaster—young, overeager, and impatient. He paused between each casting, building his spell structures with wide, sweeping gestures that betrayed inexperience. Ragnar saw every hesitation and made use of them, sprinting in close before darting aside again, forcing the Mage to waste energy.

Each spell that fell came slower than the last.

Then, when the Mage finally took too long—when the spell circle hung half-formed in the air—Ragnar moved.

Mana flared beneath his feet, wind gathering in visible swirls. The ground cracked from the force as he leapt upward, propelled by a rush of air that coiled around his legs like living ribbons. He stepped on the air again and each burst of wind carried him higher and faster.

The Mage panicked, eyes widening as Ragnar shot toward him and tugged desperately on the krael’s reins. The beast banked and attempted to pull away, but it was too slow. Ragnar’s last step sent him hurtling forward like a cannon shot.

He landed squarely on the creature’s back, his mace already arcing through the air.

The weapon came down with a sound like thunder.

The Mage’s protective spell shattered under the blow, his head snapping sideways before the rest of him followed, tumbling lifeless from the saddle. The krael screamed, wings faltering.

At once, the Mage and the beast plummeted from the sky, spinning wildly before slamming into the ground with a thunderous crash that sent dust spiraling into the air. Ragnar leapt free a heartbeat before the impact, using the same air technique as before—stepping on air as if the wind itself bent to his will. He landed smoothly, rolling once before rising to his feet.

Without hesitation, he strode toward the wreckage, boots crunching over cracked earth and shattered stone. The krael’s wings twitched feebly, and the bodies of the fallen Mage lay twisted beneath it. Ragnar bent low, checking one after another with the sharp focus of a man who didn’t celebrate until he was certain his enemies were dead.

From the walls, the soldiers erupted in cheers. The Lombards roared loud enough to shake the battlements, stamping their feet and slapping their shields together in a booming rhythm. But Ragnar didn’t even glance their way. His eyes stayed on the ground, his shoulders tight with concentration, the weight of battle still in his stance.

Chieftain Yafgar grunted beside Viscountess Vaessa, watching with a faint, proud smile. “He’s still not learned to use his anger properly,” the chieftain said. “But at least now, he’s in control of it. The technique he used—those [Air Steps]—he made that himself.”

Vaessa turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Really?”

Yafgar nodded. “Yes. When he unlocked his elemental affinity, he wouldn’t stop talking about wanting to fly like Lord Arzan. Kept trying to jump into the air and glide. It was foolish then, but it seems his stubbornness paid off. That’s what came of it.”

Vaessa glanced back at Ragnar, still standing over the wreckage. Her lips curved faintly. “A rather impressive technique,” she murmured. “With refinement, it could become a proper spell—something even lower-circle Wind Mages could use to move through the air.”

Yafgar chuckled, deep and rough. “Maybe. But knowing Ragnar, he’ll just try to jump higher next time.”

Before she could reply, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed up the stone stairs. A soldier appeared at the top—Watcher Thalen, one of the men assigned to relay updates from the main front. His armor was dusty from running and his breathing sharp.

“Viscountess Vaessa!” he called out, bowing quickly. “A message from the main forces just arrived.”

Both Vaessa and Yafgar turned as the man ran forward and handed her a sealed parchment. The wax bore the sigil of Duke Blackwood’s house. She broke it immediately and scanned the lines.

Her eyes widened, and a slow, disbelieving smile tugged at her lips.

Yafgar caught the change in her expression. “What is it?” he asked.

Vaessa looked up, the corners of her mouth lifting fully now. “Duke Arzan,” she said. “He’s done it. Aldrin has surrendered.”

Yafgar’s brows rose, and she continued. “He plans to surround the capital—trap it from all sides, starting with destroying Thalric.”

Dao of money Volume 3 Epilogue 1

Epilogue 1

Jun of the Immortal Path sat cross-legged with flames wrapped tightly around his body. They weren’t gentle or warm. They moved like a living beast—like a phoenix made of fire—coiling up his arms, slashing across his skin, burning him until flesh peeled and blood dripped onto the stone floor.

Every second, his skin scorched, cracked, and opened. Every second, the flames healed it all again, restoring him as if nothing had happened.

People liked to say that once you reached a high realm in cultivation, pain became a distant memory—something you barely felt. Jun knew better. You never stopped feeling pain. You only learned to keep moving through it.

His body remembered every injury from every century he had lived. He had been slashed, stabbed and pierced by every weapon there was in the world. The time an old monster of a cultivator had ripped his heart straight out of his chest while he watched. He even remembered the time his head had been almost severed, hanging by a strip of flesh as he forced his body to heal.

He had lived through everything—every kind of suffering a cultivator could experience in the pursuit of strength.

And none of it—none of it—came close to this.

The flames of a phoenix were torture beyond torture. They didn’t just burn the skin. They went deep, stripping him all the way down to bone and then rebuilding him piece by piece. It was like deliberately throwing himself into hellfire, pulling himself out just to breathe once, then stepping straight back in.

But this was training. Necessary training.

He needed his body tempered to a level no ordinary cultivator could imagine. Strength alone was not enough anymore. He had killed countless powerful cultivators, more in the past decade than in the hundreds of years before it, but the path he was trying to walk now… the entire world would stand against him for it. If he relied only on his usual methods, he would be crushed before he even reached the gate he sought.

Hence, the training. If he could destroy his whole body and rebuild it stronger, he would do it without hesitation. The feeling of growing stronger had long become an addiction—one far greater than any fear of pain or death. Mortal concerns meant nothing to him anymore.

The flames circled him again, burning deeper, carving through muscle, filling the air with the smell of charred flesh. Then, just as quickly, they healed him. Flame. Flesh. Flame again. Over and over.

He was lost in the cycle until a sound broke through his focus.

Footsteps.

Jun’s hearing stretched across miles, so the moment someone stepped on a branch at the bottom of the mountain, he knew. Two people. Both were familiar. Both moving quickly, using movement techniques to cross terrain others would never dare to tread.

His qi sense brushed over them and confirmed who they were. His eyes narrowed.

He exhaled once and dispersed the flames around him. The fire vanished instantly, and his burned, blood-soaked skin repaired itself in a wave, leaving him whole again. Jun stood up straight and waited.

The pair climbed the last stretch of the mountain path and finally stepped into the clearing where Jun trained after an hour. Neither of them hesitated when they saw him. Instead, both dropped to their knees at the exact same time and bowed their heads.

“Master.”

Jun’s gaze moved over his two disciples.

The girl was slim but sturdy, with sharp eyes that always tried to hide the fear she felt around him. Her dark hair was bound behind her head in a tight braid, and even after weeks outside, her posture remained disciplined. She had the look of someone who refused to fail.

The boy beside her was broader, with strong shoulders and a heavy build. His expression was calmer, more composed, but Jun could see the tension in his fists. He had grit—more than most—but grit alone didn’t impress Jun.

Jun looked at both of them, expression unreadable.

“Shuyi,” he addressed the girl. Then he shifted his gaze to the boy. “Wenji.”

“You have been out searching for the next medallion for a month,” Jun said. “Yet I sense no change in your dantian. You returned unharmed—no wounds, no injuries, no hardships that shaped your cultivation.”

His qi pressed down on them like the weight of a mountain. Shuyi’s shoulders shook. Wenji’s forehead pressed harder into the ground. But neither looked away.

Good.

That meant they had came here with good news.

Jun continued, his voice sharp and cold: “So tell me, have you brought what I asked for? Or do you intend to be thrown aside and stripped of your right to walk the Immortal Path as my core disciples?”

As Jun watched, Wenji slid a hand into his robes and pulled something out. A faint metallic glint flashed between his fingers.

A medallion.

Jun’s eyes sharpened instantly. A thread of his qi shot forward, pulling the medallion from Wenji’s grasp and into his own hand. It landed in his palm with a familiar weight, and Jun turned it over slowly. He pushed a pulse of qi through it. The surface rippled faintly, responding exactly as it should.

It was real.

A genuine fragment. Another piece of the puzzle he had sacrificed centuries for. Another step toward the Gate of Immortals.

His lips curled into the barest hint of a smile.

He raised his other hand, condensed his qi into a blade, and sliced across his palm. A line of blood welled up instantly, and he let a few drops fall onto the surface of the medallion. The moment they touched, a thin glow ran through the metal as the connection formed. His control over it settled smoothly into place.

Jun closed his fist around it and looked at his two disciples. They were smiling—modest, relieved smiles—but their eyes revealed pride.

“Good,” Jun said. “Tell me, did you have to kill many to retrieve it?”

Shuyi bowed her head. “Yes, Master. But we did it during the night. The medallion was guarded by a monk in a monastery. No one else there was close to our realm.”

Her voice was steady and unbothered.

“We killed the orphans he had taken first,” she said, “so they wouldn’t slow us down. Then we dealt with the monk and retrieved the medallion.”

Wenji continued immediately, as if they had rehearsed it.

“We also made sure the scene looked natural. We damaged the surroundings and tore the bodies in a specific pattern. If the Imperial Inquisitors investigate, they’ll assume a spirit beast wandered in and destroyed the monastery. Nothing ties it back to the Immortal Path.”

Jun nodded… but his mind flashed back to something.

He narrowed his eyes.

“Were you sure,” Jun asked quietly, “that every one of the orphans was killed? Did you count them individually?”

For the first time since they arrived, Wenji hesitated.

A faint crease formed on his brow. “We… killed everyone we could find, Master. But we didn’t know the exact number of orphans living in the monastery.”

Jun’s expression tightened at Wenji’s uncertain answer. It wasn’t anger, just a controlled, cold frown. There was no way to know for sure now, not without going back, and that would be a waste of time. Still, a loose end always carried the chance of creating trouble later.

An orphan who survived a massacre… someone who watched their home burn… someone who witnessed their protectors die… Those were the ones who grew teeth.

Those were the ones the heavens themselves liked to push forward, giving them trials, opportunities, and sometimes the very blind luck needed to stand against monsters.

Jun didn’t fear them. Not really. Even if an orphan survived, even if fate decided to gift that child with ridiculous fortune, it wouldn’t matter until centuries later.

By then, Jun would be standing at the threshold of immortality. He dismissed the thought and looked at his two disciples again.

“You did a good job,” he said, and tossed a spatial ring toward them.

Both caught it together, almost fumbling, and immediately sent their senses inside.

“You’ll find enough resources in there to reach the peak of the foundation establishment realm,” Jun said.

Their faces lit up, excitement breaking through their fear.

“Thank you, Master!” they said in unison, bowing deeply.

Jun only flicked his hand to dismiss their gratitude and turned his attention back to the medallion resting in his palm. He pushed a steady flow of qi into it, and instantly a glowing hologram shimmered into existence, projecting itself into the space between him and his disciples.

A full, detailed image of a sprawling sect compound appeared.

Massive stone walls spread across the landscape, forming the outer boundary of a sect that looked more like a small country than a single place. Towers rose layer after layer, their jade-colored tiles catching the light as they climbed higher toward the clouds.

Broad pathways circled the entire complex, laid out with the kind of precision only ancient array masters could achieve. Courtyards, training grounds, meditation halls, and alchemy gardens lined the inner rings in perfect order, creating a sense of structure and purpose.

A sect built with arrogance, wealth, and power at its peak.

Jun stared at it, committing every angle to memory, then used one of the first techniques he had ever learned as a child—the basic [Memory Mapping Method]. A simple method by his current standards, but it allowed him to remember everything he had ever seen since birth.

He eyed the hologram with focus, comparing it against what he had seen in his childhood travels, his centuries wandering the world, every sect he had infiltrated, destroyed, or passed through.

His mind combed through thousands of experiences in a cold, methodical sweep.

Seconds passed.

His frown deepened.

Nothing matched.

Jun closed his eyes again, this time focusing not on his memories, but on the countless books he had devoured over the centuries. Geography tomes. Ancient sect records. Forbidden scrolls. Even travel logs from wandering cultivators who wrote more gossip than truth.

He sifted through them, page by page within his mind. Nothing.

So he leaned closer to the hologram, letting his eyes scan every detail of the terrain surrounding the projected sect—mountain ridges, the angle of the sun, the vegetation, the faint traces of spiritual energy drawn into the projection.

He closed his eyes again and matched that terrain to the vague, half-forgotten maps he had once memorised. For a moment, he found nothing again… until a faint memory tugged at him from an older, thicker book—one he had nearly burned because of how useless it had seemed at the time.

Jun mentally flipped through its pages.

And there it was. A match.

His eyes snapped open.

“The next medallion,” he said slowly, “is in the Corpse Lands.”

Both disciples stiffened.

Jun continued, “But I have never seen this sect anywhere near that region. I’ve been there dozens of times. I know every ruined structure, every dead valley, every corpse pit, every cursed mountain range. And I have never seen anything that looks remotely like this.”

He raised an eyebrow at them.

“You two know anything?”

He fully expected blank stares. But the girl stepped forward.

“We do, Master.”

Jun tilted his head. That was unexpected.

“Speak.”

“Recently… the Pagoda of Eternity emerged from beneath the ground in the Corpse Lands,” she said. “I believe the hologram might be related to that.”

Jun muttered, “The Pagoda of Eternity… I remember hearing about it. Legends said it was built for lower-realm cultivators to obtain an inheritance.” He exhaled through his nose. “I was too busy to care back then.”

His disciples nodded. The boy stepped forward next.

“It is that place, Master. Before coming here, we stopped by the capital. We spoke with the Thieves Clan to gather information. They told us the Guardian sects and even the royal family are preparing to send their disciples into the pagoda. Everyone wants the inheritance and whatever other treasures are inside. The pagoda hasn’t opened yet, but they said it will open soon.”

Jun went completely silent and this expression darkened.

The pagoda appearing now—after thousands of years—was not a coincidence. It aligned too perfectly with the appearance of medallions resurfacing across the world.

It was definitely a play by the heavens—another one of those subtle, infuriating nudges that shifted the focus of the entire world in a new direction. Jun had lived long enough to recognize the pattern. Whenever powerhouses of the empire gathered in one place, something monumental happened. The heavens loved spectacles. They loved upheaval. They loved rearranging the pieces on the board the moment people grew too comfortable.

This felt exactly like that.

As Jun stood there, thinking it through, Wenji spoke up.

“Master… do you want us to retrieve the medallion for you?” he asked, hopeful. “We can handle anyone who goes into the pagoda.”

The girl nodded immediately. “Yes, Master. With the new resources you’ve given us, we can easily climb the pagoda. It won’t be difficult.”

Jun considered it for a brief second before dismissing the idea entirely. He shook his head.

“I won’t be sending you two alone.”

Both disciples froze, their eyes widening.

“Master, you don’t need to come personally for such a small task,” they blurted out together.

Jun scoffed. A wave of his oppressive qi slammed onto them, instantly silencing any further objections. They trembled but held their ground—good. They weren’t completely useless.

“It’s no small matter,” Jun said in a low voice. “I’m not going there just for the medallion.”

Through clenched teeth, Shuyi managed to push out, “Then… Why, Master?”

Jun huffed, flames crackling faintly off his skin as if responding to his irritation.

“The pagoda will gather every Guardian sect’s disciples,” he said. “Only cultivators of the foundation establishment realm and below can enter it, so they’ll be sending their future core disciples—the geniuses they expect to dominate the next century.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “If I kill them before they grow into eyesores, it’ll be a tremendous victory for the Immortal Path.”

Both disciples stiffened, their expressions turning vicious.

“And,” Jun added calmly, “the pagoda is ancient. Its treasures are older than most of the sects that exist today. Some relics inside might be worth more to me than the medallion. Ancient artifacts from forgotten eras are far more valuable—and far more dangerous—than anything you could steal from a monk’s abode.”

“So… you’re going to seal your cultivation to enter, Master?” Wenji asked cautiously.

Jun nodded. “Yes. That won’t be difficult. And if the pagoda truly houses the medallion, then it may also hold more information on the Gate of Immortals.”

Both disciples exchanged a glance—equal parts awe and hunger—before turning back to him.

“Master… can we accompany you inside?”

Jun studied the two of them.

They were strong. Both well into the foundation establishment realm. Smart enough. Obedient enough. And most importantly, utterly ruthless—he had trained them well. At his level, he wouldn’t have time to babysit them inside the pagoda, but he doubted they would need it. More hands would simply mean more efficiency.

And more blood spilled.

He gave a single nod. “Very well. You may come.”

Their faces lit like torches.

Jun held up a hand.

“But remember, my goal is the medallion. Your only job is one thing.”

Both disciples leaned forward.

“Kill,” Jun said, “every promising cultivator who might one day interfere with what we are building. Leave no future threat alive.”

The two disciples bowed deeply.

“Yes, Master.”

Dao of money Chapter 195

Chapter 195

Chen Ren wasn’t the only one who noticed the similarity between the sect in the scroll and the hologram from the medallion. Even Yalan, perched lazily on the shelf above, leaned forward—her sharp eyes narrowing as she met his gaze for a brief second. Neither of them spoke, but the look they exchanged said enough.

Chen Ren quickly schooled his expression back into neutrality, lowering his eyes to the scroll before anyone noticed. Fortunately, Princess Yanyue seemed too focused on the illustration before her to catch the exchange. Her tone was calm but carried the kind of authority that made everyone listen as she began to speak.

“The sect is called the Azure Immortal Sect, as I already mentioned,” she said, her finger gliding across the massive sprawl of towers and courtyards depicted in the image. “I believe you must have heard some of the rumors about what happened to it.”

Chen Ren nodded slightly. “There are a lot of rumors,” he said. “Everything from demonic practices to a curse that destroyed the sect from within.”

Princess Yanyue inclined her head. “There are, and honestly, even the royal family doesn’t know the truth. At least it's not in any of the books I’ve read.” Her voice lowered a fraction, becoming more deliberate. “But we do know one thing about the sect that’s true. They had something so valuable that even the royal family covets it.”

Before Chen Ren could ask what she meant, Qing He spoke up from the side, her tone dry. “The Pagoda of Eternity.”

Yanyue’s lips curved faintly, as though pleased by the interruption. “Yes,” she said. “Even when the sect still stood, it was renowned because the sect leader of Azure Immortal Sect built the pagoda to choose his successor. He invited some of the greatest minds of his time to help him—Array Masters, Grand Alchemists, and cultivators who stood at the peak of power.”

City Lord Li Baolong, who had been quietly listening, added in a low voice, “Nascent soul cultivators.”

Chen Ren’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of Nascent soul cultivators. His mind immediately flashed back to Gu Tian and his late master—the spectral who had stood at that very realm. The memory brought a brief chill through him, but he forced himself to focus back on the conversation before him.

Princess Yanyue continued, her tone smooth but filled with restrained excitement. “The Pagoda of Eternity was opened once every year back when the sect still stood. Anyone within the first three realms of cultivation could enter and attempt to reach the top. If they succeeded, they would be chosen as the sect master’s successor and inherit not only his position but all of his treasures.”

She paused, letting that sink in before adding, “But that wasn’t all. Since other great sect leaders were involved in its creation, the pagoda itself was filled with treasures on every level. Each floor was said to hold rewards like rare materials, unique artifacts, and even cultivation manuals and techniques that no longer exist in our age.”

City Lord Li Baolong nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. The structure itself is marked with some of the most advanced spatial arrays ever made. From what’s been gathered, the inside of the pagoda is vast—possibly as large as a city, maybe even larger. With so many levels and the complexity of its design, calling it a pagoda isn’t accurate.” He glanced at the scroll, his eyes reflecting both awe and wariness. “It’s a world of its own. And on its highest floor lies the inheritance of the sect leader, a nascent soul cultivator.”

The room fell quiet again, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Even Yalan’s tail had stopped swishing as she stared at the scroll.

Then Qing He, who had been silently finishing her tea, set her cup down and spoke. “I didn’t know the royal family had this much information about the pagoda,” she said. “I knew the Guardian Sects had some idea it existed, but you’re speaking as if you’ve studied it in depth.”

Princess Yanyue’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “I have,” she said. “But you are wrong about one thing, Master Qing He. The royal family don't have so much information, but I do. I was the only one who cared enough to dig through the royal archives. Most records of the Azure Immortal Sect were destroyed or deemed irrelevant, but there was one book that everyone overlooked.”

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes gleaming. “A journal. Written by a cultivator who lived for a century yet accomplished almost nothing worth recording. But somehow, his writings made their way into the royal library. And according to his notes, he was once a disciple of the Azure Immortal Sect.”

At that, Chen Ren’s eyes widened. His pulse quickened as he leaned slightly forward. “Does that mean it has records of the pagoda?”

Princess Yanyue nodded. “Scattered records,” she said, “but yes—there are records. From what’s written, the Pagoda of Eternity has fifteen floors in total. The cultivator who wrote the journal only managed to reach the fifth before retreating, but he documented most of what he encountered. Not everything, of course—some details were clearly too complex for him to understand—but what he left behind gives us a good idea of how to advance through the floors. And even hints of what lies beyond those he reached.” Her eyes sharpened as she went on. “It’s safe to say that even most geniuses from the Guardian Sects would fail inside. The pagoda tests more than strength or talent—it tests understanding. And that’s where you come in, Sect Leader Chen.”

Chen Ren blinked, confused. “What do you mean? I’m no genius.”

Yanyue’s lips curved in faint amusement. “No, you’re not. But your dao might be the key to fulfilling my goals.”

“My dao?” Chen Ren frowned. “How could that possibly help?”

Before Yanyue could answer, City Lord Li Baolong spoke. “According to the journal’s description, advancement through the pagoda relies on an exclusive currency that exists only within its walls. There are many paths between floors, but the most common and direct is through a lift that connects all fifteen levels. However,” he added, glancing at Chen Ren, “to access the lift, one must pay using that currency, and the cost multiplies exponentially with each level.”

Yanyue nodded. “Most cultivators who entered the pagoda either died or crippled themselves trying to obtain more of this currency. But according to the journal, there was one man—just one—who managed to pass beyond the tenth level.”

She paused for a moment, letting the tension in the air stretch thin before her next words fell like a hammer.

“And that man,” she said, “was said to have been blessed by the Golden Dragon. His dao…” Her gaze locked onto Chen Ren’s. “…was the same as yours.”

Chen Ren gasped and took time to react to all the information. He sat in silence, letting everything he’d just heard settle in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more overwhelming it became. There was too much information being thrown at him all at once—about the pagoda, the currency inside it, and someone who had supposedly walked the same path as him, thousands of years before.

Not only was there a medallion tied to the pagoda, but someone with the same dao had climbed nearly to its peak. He had always known the dao of money was rare—almost forgotten—and hence he had never heard of any other follower of it. Now to hear that someone before him had not only possessed it, but used it to reach the tenth floor of a nascent soul cultivator’s trial—it shook him more than he wanted to admit.

His mind turned quickly, breaking things down as he always did when something interested him. Was there going to be records of that person? If he went inside the pagoda himself, would he be able to find something about that ancient cultivator—something that would help him understand his dao better? And if that man had been blessed by the Golden Dragon too, then… could the dragon inside him know something about it? The thought lingered for a moment before Qing He’s voice cut through it, pulling him back into the conversation.

“So, you want Chen Ren to go into this pagoda?” she asked. “For what, exactly? Do you want him to chase after the inheritance of a dead nascent soul cultivator?”

Princess Yanyue shook her head slightly, her expression calm and collected. “No. I don’t think even with his dao, Sect Leader Chen will be able to reach the very top. The inheritance isn’t what I’m after.”

Her words made Chen Ren frown slightly, but she went on before he could interrupt. “What I want is something else. According to the journal I mentioned, the same cultivator who wrote the journal had written another book before his death. He recorded a lot of different things in it, but according to his own writings, he lost it somewhere inside. And from what we know, anything that’s lost in the pagoda becomes a treasure that can be purchased.”

City Lord Li Baolong leaned forward slightly, nodding. “That’s right. The pagoda absorbs everything left behind by those who enter it—artifacts, scrolls, even bodies. All of it becomes part of its internal treasury. If the man’s second book was lost, then it’s still there, waiting to be found. And since we know he only reached the fifth floor, the book should be somewhere within those first five floors.”

Princess Yanyue turned her gaze back to Chen Ren, her eyes sharp and assessing. “All I want,” she said, “is for you to enter the pagoda and find that book for me. I will also be entering the pagoda, by the way. But even with my own talents, I’m not arrogant enough to think I can get that book on my own.”

Chen Ren looked up at her, brow furrowing slightly. “So there are others looking for it?”

The princess nodded. “Yes, a lot of my subordinates will be aiming for the book. Also, word has already spread about the pagoda, and the Guardian Sects have already sent their chosen disciples. There will be geniuses, nobles, even assassins inside. But honestly…” Her eyes softened just a fraction as she looked at him. “I will be relying on you more than any of them. Because of your dao and everything I have heard about you.”

She paused, her tone hardening again. “Still, I won’t lie. It will be dangerous. Many who enter won’t come out again. But I don’t care about the inheritance or the treasures. I only want that book.”

Chen Ren fell silent, lowering his gaze to the tea cup in front of him. He took a slow sip, his thoughts racing. What could possibly be in that book for her to risk everything for it? He doubted she would tell him. The pagoda sounded both exciting and deadly, but if one of the medallions really lay inside, then he needed to go regardless of her motives. The problem was, if he agreed too quickly, he wouldn't get any benefits out of this other than the medallion. He needed to negotiate, but before he could open his mouth, a sharp voice broke through the air.

“I’m not letting Chen Ren go into the pagoda.”

Everyone turned toward Yalan, who had been perched silently on the shelf until now. Her tail flicked as she leapt down, landing gracefully beside him, eyes narrowed. “He’s my responsibility,” she said firmly. “And if only cultivators within the first three realms can enter, then I won’t be able to go in with him.”

Chen Ren’s eyes widened. Yalan had just spoken—openly—and more than that, she’d revealed herself as sentient in front of people who had no reason to know it. Before he could even say anything, she turned to glance at him and said dryly, “They already knew.”

He blinked. “They what—How?”

Princess Yanyue smiled faintly, completely unfazed. “I didn’t expect you to realise that,” she said, her tone almost teasing. “But yes, I already knew about the spirit beast that follows you.”

Yalan’s tail flicked once, “When we were coming to this room, your eyes kept glancing in my direction. You probably have an artifact that can sense qi signatures in the air—no matter how well they’re hidden.”

Princess Yanyue blinked, momentarily taken aback, then gave a small, impressed nod. “You’re oddly perceptive,” she said in an even tone. “But I suppose it’s expected from a powerful spirit beast.” She turned her gaze toward Chen Ren, her expression softening a little. “I’m sorry about that. One of my rings does exactly what the elder spirit beast said—it detects fluctuations in qi nearby. It’s a precaution I use to sense spies or assassins, not to pry into anyone’s secrets. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

City Lord Li Baolong nodded in agreement, his tone earnest. “That’s true. I have known about the ring for a while and it's simply for safety. Still,” he glanced between the two, “I must say, I didn’t expect such a being to accompany you, Chen Ren. Is she your master, perhaps?”

Chen Ren looked from Yalan to the city lord, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Something like that,” he said after a short pause. “She’s… taught me a lot, at least.”

Yalan gave him a sideways glance, then turned back to Princess Yanyue, her voice steady and cold. “And like I said, I have no intention of sending him to his death. The Pagoda of Eternity might hold countless treasures, but if what you say is true—if disciples from Guardian and Established Sects will all gather there—then it won’t be a simple trial. It’ll be a slaughter.”

She stepped closer, her tone dropping slightly. “You said it yourself: no one knows what happens inside. If people die there, who will confirm it? Who will even know?”

Qing He finally spoke, setting her empty cup down with a soft clack. “That’s right. The pagoda sounds like a perfect place to bury rivals,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “And if even half of the empire’s geniuses will be stepping inside, I wouldn’t be surprised if more than a few ‘accidents’ happen. It’s not just unsafe—it’s an open invitation for murder under the guise of a trial.”

“Nothing in cultivation is ever safe, Master Qing He,” Princess Yanyue said quietly. “You’re the one who taught me that.”

Qing He’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “True,” she said, “but you also know there’s a difference between facing danger we must confront and diving headfirst into danger we can easily avoid. The latter is foolish, and you know that too.”

The princess went silent at that, her expression tightening just a little as she pressed her lips together. For the first time since she’d entered the sect, she looked slightly less composed.

At one end, Qing He and Yalan were trying to shield him like two walls standing firm between him and danger, but Chen Ren knew that he couldn’t let them make this decision for him. He wasn’t a child to be protected. So, taking a quiet breath, he straightened his back and took control of the conversation.

“I’m pretty sure,” he said, looking directly at Princess Yanyue, “that you’ll be able to find something to let Yalan enter the pagoda with me.”

The princess’s brows lifted slightly, her expression unreadable. “And why do you think that?” she asked.

“Because you’re a princess,” Chen Ren said simply. “You clearly have the backing of City Lord Li Baolong as well. If you can’t get one treasure that allows her to enter the pagoda, then no one in the empire can.”

For a moment, silence hung in the air as the princess tapped her finger against the table, thinking. Her eyes drifted briefly toward City Lord Li Baolong, who nodded slowly.

“There is something we can use,” Li Baolong said finally. “An Essence Locking Pill. It suppresses one’s cultivation down to the foundation establishment realm for about a week. It’s mainly used to rebuild a weak foundation or restructure the meridians, but it’s… not pleasant. Painful, even. Still, it should be enough to let her enter the pagoda.”

Chen Ren’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. “But we’d need more than one, right?”

“Yes,” Princess Yanyue said, folding her hands together. “The pagoda will stay open for at least a month, maybe two. We’d need several pills for her to remain inside that long, and they’re not cheap.”

Qing He let out a quiet snort, leaning back in her chair. “Money isn’t exactly a problem for you,” she said dryly.

Yanyue’s lips curved just slightly. “That’s not the point, Master Qing He. I still need to decide how much I’m willing to invest in this venture.” Her eyes flicked toward Yalan. “But… having a powerful elder spirit beast on our side does sound useful.”

Yalan’s tail swished behind her as she said evenly, “I don’t know what will happen inside that tower, but I can promise one thing—I’ll deal with any arrogant cultivator who thinks about bullying Chen Ren.”

Her tone was cold enough to make even City Lord Li shift slightly in his seat.

Chen Ren smiled faintly, looking from her to the princess. “Let’s say you do manage to get the pills,” he said. “And Yalan can come with me. Even then, I’d still need a reason to go into that pagoda for you.”

Princess Yanyue arched her brow. “A reason? I’m already spending quite a bit just to make that possible.”

“Yes,” Chen Ren said and clutched his hands in front of him, “but spending that much only increases the chances that I’ll actually find what you want. It doesn’t mean I’ll do it for free.”

A long silence followed, heavy enough that the sound of the teacups settling on the table felt loud. Princess Yanyue’s eyes lingered on him, and for the first time since she’d arrived, her expression shifted—just slightly with a hint of annoyance—but then it was gone, replaced by her usual composed look.

Finally, she leaned back and said coolly, “Very well, Sect Leader Chen. What do you want?”

Chen Ren’s lips curved into a small, confident smile. “Why don’t we start the negotiations?”

Magus Reborn Chapter 303

Chapter 303

Aldrin felt his composure slipping away, little by little, like sand leaking from a cracked hourglass. Each passing minute chipped at the mask he had worn so carefully. His hands twitched behind his back. His jaw clenched until his teeth hurt. He had tried to hold it together—to look like a commander, a king, a man in control—but now even pretending felt pointless.

Had his plan really failed? Was there truly no reinforcement coming? How had Duke Arzan done it?

The questions spun in his head with no answers, and each one scraped a little more at his calm. Around him, the nobles whispered in tight circles, their words a blur of fear and blame. He could barely hear them. It was as though the world itself had dulled; sound reached him as if from underwater, muted and meaningless.

His eyes stayed fixed on the horizon. If he just looked long enough, he told himself, maybe—just maybe—he’d see a figure appear from the clouds. He desperately wanted a sign that told him that Caelond’s Mages were on their way.

But the sky was empty.

Only a few birds drifted lazily across the light, free and unbothered by the chaos on the ground. No Caelond banners. No reinforcements. No salvation.

If Duke Arzan’s words were true—and Aldrin feared they were—the Caelond royal Mages were already occupied, desperately trying to contain whatever he had unleashed on their country. It would need to be something big for all the Council Mages to be busy with it.

Their hands were probably too tied to send aid.

And even if someone did come, it wouldn’t be a group as he expected. It would be one Mage, perhaps two. Not nearly enough against Duke Arzan—the man who had torn through Veridia’s spells and defeated even his cousin without any major harm on him.

The realization settled in fully now, cold and suffocating. His pulse thudded behind his temples. The weight of it pressed down on his chest until it hurt to breathe.

On top of it, he wasn’t just standing before Arzan’s army—he was surrounded by enemies on both sides. The Alparcan soldiers standing on the walls, allies for now, exchanged looks that made his skin crawl. He could feel their stares, wanting him to do something.

Rather than the enemy outside the ward, it was the ones inside of it that made Aldrin’s pulse quicken. The Alparcan Knights and soldiers, the uneasy allies, had only sworn to follow his cousin—all of them now watched him with eyes that measured, not trusted. He had planned for the Caelond Mages to handle them too, to keep both his enemies and his “friends” in check. But if those Mages weren’t coming, then he was truly in trouble.

Every one of them had seen the prince—their prince—die.

They hadn’t heard the words exchanged between Aldrin and Arzan; they were standing on the far left. But that didn’t matter. If he didn’t act—if he hesitated, even for a breath—they’d turn on him as quickly as they turned their spears on any foe.

The thought burned bitterly in his throat.

He could already feel it—the tension crackling in the air, soldiers’ eyes darting toward him between whispers, hands gripping weapons a little too tightly. Waiting. Testing. Each second stretched thinner than the last, the silence pressing like a blade against his neck.

Then, for what felt like the tenth time, Lady Seraphine’s voice cut through it. Sharp, trembling, and desperate.

“Prince Aldrin,” she said, “what are we going to do now? We can’t let Prince Vhailor’s death be in vain.”

Aldrin turned to her slowly. His mind was a storm—anger roiling with guilt, exhaustion knotted with fear. The weight of command had never felt so heavy. He met her eyes and asked quietly, voice edged with weary restraint,

“Then tell me, Lady Seraphine, what do you want to do? Do you have a Mage who can stand against Duke Arzan?”

The question hung in the air and no one spoke.

Then Count Blackbough stepped forward, his voice hesitant but hopeful. “He’s weakened right now, Prince Aldrin. We might still have a chance.”

Aldrin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He can fly,” he said flatly. “He could leave before we even draw our arrows.” He swept his gaze across the gathered nobles, eyes cold. “The wards will only hold for so long, and when they fall, what then? Do we let him slaughter all of us?”

The words hung in the air like smoke—thick, heavy, impossible to breathe through. No one dared to speak after that. The silence spread, curling around the gathered nobles like a noose.

Their eyes shifted past Aldrin, drawn toward the figure beyond the ward.

Duke Arzan stood there, motionless, watching them with that unnerving stillness. He didn’t shout, didn’t gloat, didn’t even move. He simply watched, as if he already knew how this would end. Aldrin didn’t need to meet his gaze to feel it. That calm, cold stare, it pressed against his skin, mocking him without a single word.

He hated it.

He forced himself to inhale, slow and deep, willing his heartbeat to steady. He needed to think, to breathe, to stay in control. But the truth sat in his chest like an immovable stone. He had already thought about this—days ago, weeks even—but he had never wanted to face it. Not this way. Not before all of them.

His hands trembled. He clenched them tight until the shaking stopped, until his nails bit into his palms. The weight of command bore down harder than ever before.

And when he finally spoke, the words came out like a confession torn from his throat.

“I need to surrender.”

No one moved.

Then, quietly, almost to himself, he added, “We need to surrender.”

The reaction was instant. Gasps cut through the air. The chamber filled with frantic and overlapping voices.

“Prince, please reconsider!” Count Blackbough’s voice cracked with disbelief.

“What you’re saying will get us all killed!” Lady Seraphine cried, her face pale under the ward light.

Aldrin turned toward them, his expression hard but weary. His voice carried no anger, only exhaustion, the sound of a man who had run out of illusions.

“No,” he said. “If we keep fighting when we’ve already lost, that’s what will get us killed.”

He stepped forward, his gaze sweeping across the stunned nobles. “At best, we might wound Duke Arzan. And what then? My brothers will swoop in like vultures, take advantage of the chaos, and claim everything for themselves. I won’t hand them that. Do you want to?”

No one answered.

The silence that followed was heavier than any argument could have been. Even the soldiers and Knights around them seemed to have gone still, the faint sound of armor shifting the only sign of life.

Aldrin could feel their eyes on him—fearful, uncertain, pleading. But he saw no other path left.

He had lost the game long before the battle began. And now, all that remained was to end it before it consumed them all.

Duke Ashford stepped forward, stiff-backed and steady. He had stood by Aldrin through every hard hour since the day he had decided to contest for the throne. But when Aldrin turned to him, he saw no betrayal in the Duke’s face. Only worry.

“If we hold a little longer,” Ashford said, “maybe Caelond will send help. If we just wait—”

Aldrin cut him off with a shake of his head. “No.” The word was small but it silenced the Duke. “Arzan guessed our plan the moment we set it in motion. If he can cause enough chaos to pull Caelond’s hands away, waiting will only hand him more advantage.” He looked at Duke Ashford and the other nobles, and for a moment his voice softened. “We have misread him.”

He let out a long breath and let his gaze find Arzan across the ward. The man stood like a cliff, listening as if every word were a bell toll. Aldrin did not care whether Arzan heard. He had run the scenarios until they had worn thin. Miracles were rare. If Caelond’s Mages did come, he suspected Arzan had counted on that too, and had a reply ready.

Aldrin straightened, pushing the tremor from his voice. He looked each noble in the eye as if laying down a debt. “Do not worry,” he said. “Even if we have lost here, I will not let harm come to you or to our forces without bargaining for it. We still hold Fort Valemount. I will work for the best terms I can.”

Lady Seraphine stepped forward, her hands trembling. “Prince Aldrin… What are you going to do? It will cost you your life.”

Aldrin’s jaw tightened. The choice scraped at him like a blade. He could feel the soldiers watching, the nobles waiting for the weight of his decision to fall. He curled his hands into fists at his sides until the pain steadied him. “So be it,” he said, each syllable like a stone dropped into a silent well. “I have lost. There is nothing more to be done here. But I will keep my word. If my life is the price to save those I commanded, then I will pay it.”

He looked at each noble once more. Their faces were a map of disappointment and fear, but he held the one thing that still had weight in this moment: the ward itself. If he gave that away, he could buy the men under his command a chance to live.

He took a step forward. The decision settled into him with a cold clarity. Around him, the nobles murmured—some in disbelief, some in grief—but he did not hear them. His eyes stayed on Arzan and the silent line of his soldiers and Mages beyond the ward.

Arzan glided closer until he hovered at the edge of the barrier, just beyond reach. Up close, his calm was a kind of pressure. He smiled as if already certain of how this would end.

“I see you’ve come to a decision,” Arzan said.

Aldrin met him head on. “I have,” he answered. “But it won’t be a total surrender. You can have my forces disbanded and the fort under your control, but I demand terms for my men.”

Arzan’s smile thinned. “You lost. I will not accept unreasonable terms.”

Aldrin let out a long breath. “Hear me out. Decide after.”

War negotiations were not something he’d trained for, but he had no option at this point. “I want what’s fair for my men,” he said simply.

Arzan’s eyes flicked over him. “What if I want your head?”

The question landed like a blade. Aldrin felt fear like ice through his veins. For a beat he did not answer. The thought of death made his chest tight, but behind that fear sat duty—duty to those who had trusted him. He straightened his shoulders and found his voice.

“That depends on what you can give in return,” he said.

Arzan studied him. After a moment he nodded. “Very well. But I cannot negotiate while I’m floating here.”

“We’ll meet outside the ward,” Aldrin said.

“Good. Come out in two hours and we can discuss. I promise I won't harm you or anyone that comes with you.”

Arzan began to drift back, the meeting set, when Aldrin called after him. “Wait.”

Arzan stopped and turned. “What now?”

Aldrin swallowed. The words burned at the back of his throat.

“I need the body of Prince Vhailor, and the bodies of his Mages. I can't let them stay on the ground for vultures to feed on them,” he said.

***

Kai wanted to end it then and there. The thought sat in his chest like a hot coal—finish Aldrin, cut the head off the beast, and focus on the other princes. He liked the ease of it.

But Duke Blackwood had been blunt and practical. Kill the prince now and you did not end a problem, you multiplied it. It was like killing the head of a hydra, the other heads would move to take revenge. If he killed him, there would be resentment among the nobles that would be under him, especially when Aldrin had surrendered.

They would feel for their life too and Kai couldn’t finish all of them since he didn’t have enough men to take over their territory in a single stroke.

There was also the issue of the remaining soldiers and the Alparcan forces that he needed to contend with. Winning without even breaking the ward might have sounded like a good thing, but there were many logistics to deal with. Hence, when Aldrin arrived for negotiations with Duke Ashford and Lady Seraphina at his side, Kai calmly listened to what they wanted—which was laughable, to say the least.

They wanted him to let their territories and positions remain untouched in exchange for a vow of support for his claim as the next king. They were even willing to provide troops, but before Kai could shut them down, Duke Blackwood did so first. For the next hour, Blackwood went against Duke Ashford and Aldrin in a heated verbal exchange, reminding them that they were the losers in this war and had no right to negotiate unreasonable terms. His words were, of course, much harsher, but his tone made it clear who held control. Slowly, they began to put forward their own terms.

In Kai’s mind, they weren’t unreasonable, and he had to admit, not even the worst he had heard. The first condition was that all the territories of each noble would be placed under Kai’s control. Only after the civil war ended would he decide what to do with them. This ensured the nobles wouldn’t get any “funny ideas.”

The second condition was that all the nobles would be confined until the war ended—even Aldrin, which clearly surprised the prince, who had probably thought he was going to die. The third was that all of their resources—swords, aethum stones, and rations—would be confiscated. Anything that could be used to instigate rebellion would be taken, leaving only the minimum amount of food necessary to sustain their forces.

There were smaller terms as well, such as Aldrin publicly denouncing his claim to the throne, though that was expected since he had surrendered. The soldiers were also given the option to either remain in the fort until the war’s conclusion or join Kai’s army. Both Aldrin and the nobles likely anticipated the last two terms, but they were vehemently opposed to the first one.

They believed it meant their noble titles would be stripped away and rejected it repeatedly.

And after hours and hours of discussion, they finally accepted the condition when Kai clarified that their titles would remain intact, but their territories would be redivided after the war—a completely standard practice.

They spent the entire night finalizing the terms, and once everything was agreed upon, Kai made Aldrin swear a mana oath and sign an official document detailing every clause, both major and minor.

With that, Kai had the whole north under his rune. One prince was down; only two remained, and Kai planned to finish them as quickly as he had Aldrin.

Magus Reborn Chapter 302

Chapter 302

Elias felt like he was back in his army days—a Novice Mage running from one battlefield to another, taking orders from his superiors. At his age, with his power and title, that was the worst thing anyone could make him feel. But did he have a choice? No. Favors demanded repayment, and what Arzan had done for him—for his kingdom, for the land Elias had once thought beyond saving—was no small thing. If this was the price to ease a fraction of that burden, he would bear it. It was, after all, the least he could do.

Still, every passing hour away from his lands gnawed at him. The plague lands were changing—slowly, but changing—and he wanted to be there to see it through. Each day he lingered away from them felt like stealing from his own people. But duty was duty. The sooner he finished this errand, the sooner he could return to the soil that was learning how to breathe again.

When word first came of the Lancephil civil war, he knew instantly what it meant. Bits and pieces of what Arzan had told him before began to make sense—hints he had ignored. A few days later, runners arrived. They took Amara back to Veralt, much to Elias’s disappointment. He had grown fond of the girl, stubborn as she was, and her sudden departure left him feeling emptier than he expected. The runners simply said she would be safer in Veralt.

Safer. Elias had his doubts, but he didn’t argue. Their lord, they said, wanted him to repay a part of the favor and move as close to Caelond as possible. They gave no explanation, no details. He had pressed for more, but the runners knew little.

He’d wanted Arzan to come himself to tell him what this was all about, to speak plainly instead of sending messengers. But he understood. The boy was running to become a king and Elias understood what that meant. So Elias did as he was asked. The runners handed him a smooth, dull-blue aethum stone before they left, claiming he would receive further instructions through it. He hadn’t the faintest idea what that meant, but he had nodded anyway. Curiosity, he told himself, could wait. Answers had a way of finding him whether he wanted them or not.

The problem was that Caelond wasn’t accessible by land, at least, not without cutting straight through Lancephil. And that was something Elias had no interest in doing. Marching through a civil war was a good way to tangle up in politics he had no interest in. The only other path left was by sea.

He hated the sea.

For an Earth Mage, it was the worst kind of weakness. No soil beneath his feet. No pulse of stone or grain of sand to call on. Just endless water that ignored his commands and mocked his power. But he didn’t have a choice, not if he wanted to reach Caelond.

So he went back to Vanderfall in a single day, burning through more mana than he liked to admit. Once there, he headed straight for the docks, the smell of salt and oil already souring his mood. He found the fastest ship bound in Caelond’s direction, paid double for speed and silence, and climbed aboard. The captain—a grizzled man with a missing tooth—was smart enough not to ask questions once the gold hit his palm. That alone made the journey bearable.

Days passed as the ship rocked and creaked across the waves. Elias stayed below deck most of the time, meditating and practicing what spells he could manage in this sailing prison. Every time the boards shifted under him, he could feel the absence of the earth like a missing limb. The sea was loud, restless, untamable—everything his element wasn’t. But it was okay. He kept telling himself that he needed to endure just a little bit more.

He kept the aethum stone close, half-expecting it to hum or flash with Arzan’s orders. But it stayed cold and dull. His mind also kept thinking of him and what he had become.

He had already heard of Arzan’s victory against Veridia weeks back. The rumors reached him when he and Amara had been trying to purify more land. It was impressive, too impressive, and it unsettled him. It honestly worried him a lot because he himself wasn’t sure that he could stand against that woman, but that kid had. Arzan had. It had made him far more wary even if technically they were on the same side.

He had seen enough kings and heroes rise to know that power rarely stayed gentle. Being on the same side didn’t always mean safety—it just meant that, for now, their goals aligned.

Still, Arzan was his benefactor. He owed him too much to question him openly. Elias would do what was asked, fulfill the favor, and leave before the boy’s war swallowed him too.

Once he returned to the plague lands, he could focus on what truly mattered—healing the soil, restoring the rivers, rebuilding life where there had been only rot. With Amara’s help, the progress had already been remarkable. Her gift was unlike anything he had ever seen, and a part of him couldn’t help but wonder—when all of this was over, perhaps he could convince Arzan to let him take her as a disciple.

Or at least, learn how that mysterious power of hers worked.

Even the girl herself didn’t fully understand her powers yet, but that could wait. For now, his favor came first.

The voyage to Caelond didn’t take long. The kingdom’s borderlands brushed against the sea, with a string of docks that marked the edge of its territory. But landing there would’ve been a death wish. Any foreign ship approaching those docks would have been flagged and questioned before anyone could head in a town. Elias wasn’t about to make his presence known that easily.

Instead, he ordered the ship to head toward the swamps that spread along the southern coastline—thick, dark waters that looked more like veins of rot than land. The captain had protested, of course. Few men were fool enough to sail that close to it with the rumours of swamp beast. But one advantage of being a Magus was that ordinary people didn’t get to tell you “no.” At least not an ordinary ship captain.

So, with muttered curses and shaking hands, the man brought the vessel close to the swamp’s edge. The smell of brine and decay hit Elias like a wall. When he finally stepped off onto the sodden ground, the ship was already turning away, eager to escape whatever else lingered beneath those waters.

The swamps were a nightmare to move through. Mud swallowed each step, and the air buzzed with insects that thrived on the still water. Strange shapes shifted under the surface—scaled backs, glimmering eyes, things that didn’t belong to any simple bestiary. But the ground, however damp, was still ground.

Here, he could fight. Here, he could move.

Elias sank his hand into the earth, feeling its pulse under the layers of muck. The land answered. With a low hum, he bent the terrain to his will—lifting solid steps where there was none, forming bridges of packed soil to cross pools that hid teeth beneath their reflection. A few beasts lunged at him from the dark water, but he struck them down with spikes of hardened mud or simply let the ground swallow them whole.

He didn’t waste the corpses. Any part that might serve Amara—a fang, a gland, a scale rich in condensed mana—he took, aiming to make potions out of them later. The girl’s strength was still too fragile for his liking. If he could help her grow, he would.

It took hours, maybe more, but eventually the land began to rise. The swamp thinned into tangled trees, and in the distance, he caught sight of a single watchtower. Caelond’s token guards. The kingdom clearly didn’t bother defending this place. It was too wild, too treacherous, too useless for trade and only had few guards.

Elias watched the tower for a while, counted the guards’ rotations, then sent a small quake rumbling through the opposite side of the bog. The sound drew shouts and movement as men ran toward the disturbance. By the time they returned, he was gone—nothing left but faint footprints in the mud that the swamp water was already swallowing.

Once past the patrol, Elias climbed higher into the hills until he found what he needed: a hollow in the side of a mountain, just wide enough for him to stand upright. The air inside was cool and dry, and the walls pulsed faintly with mineral veins rich in mana. It would do.

He traced a small array at the entrance, some seals to hide his presence, then sat cross-legged near the back of the cave. The aethum stone sat on his palm, dull and unmoving. He exhaled, steady and slow, and murmured to the empty air.

Days slipped by like sand through his fingers. The cave grew quieter with each passing sunrise, and Elias found himself falling into a rhythm of silence. He cultivated for hours, letting his mana cycle through his heart in slow, disciplined swirls, grounding himself against the hum of the mountains. The aethum stone lay beside him, always within reach, but it remained as lifeless as the day he’d received it.

No glow. No pulse. No message.

At first, he told himself to be patient. Orders came when they came. But after nearly a week, the silence began to gnaw at him. Civil wars weren’t common in this part of the world—but wars were, and he couldn’t help wondering if this one would swallow Arzan whole before any word ever reached him. Perhaps he should have gone to Lancephil himself, lent his strength to the boy’s side directly. The royal family of Vanderfall would have called it betrayal, of course, but he doubted he cared anymore. They had abandoned the plague lands, abandoned him, long before Arzan had ever offered a hand.

The cave gave him peace but no satisfaction. The stillness was thick, unbroken except for the drip of water from the ceiling. Hunting beasts was out of the question—too much risk of being seen. So, he waited, breathing mana, listening to the slow heartbeat of the earth beneath him. Boredom was a curse all Mages shared, and Elias had long learned to live with it.

Until, one evening, the air changed.

He felt it first—a faint thrum, distant but sharp, cutting through the steady rhythm of his cultivation. His eyes opened. He felt something approaching. Not from the ground, but from the sky.

He stepped out of the cave and tilted his head upward. Against the pale wash of clouds, a small dark shape moved—metal glinting under the light. He quickly realised it was a drone.

His chest tightened. He remembered those machines vividly—their thunderous bursts against the treant’s bark. There was no mistaking their design. It was sent by Arzan.

The drone dipped lower, struggling to hold its altitude, then veered sharply before spiraling down. It vanished somewhere near the ridge below the mountain’s curve.

Elias sighed.

He didn’t waste time. With a tap of his boot, the ground trembled and rose beneath him. Solid steps of earth formed in the air, each one blooming from the mountainside as he strode across them with long, confident strides. The wind rushed past his ears as he crossed the ridge in minutes.

It took a bit longer to find the drone itself. The metal gleamed faintly under a tangle of roots and stone, its wings half-buried in mud. Elias crouched beside it and brushed off the dirt. To his surprise, it hadn’t exploded. The structure was mostly intact—its seals still faintly visible, though dim.

He ran his fingers along its frame and frowned. “Out of mana?”

The readings confirmed it. The drone had drained every last drop of energy coming here. He pulled open its core through a latch and saw three small aethum shards, pale and cracked. They were completely spent.

Elias understood almost instantly how the drone had found him. It was keyed to the mana signature within the aethum stone he carried. A clever trick, and one that made him hum with approval. Using a mana beacon as a guide ensured accuracy even across borders. Efficient and discreet. A method only someone like Arzan would think of.

Still, it had limits. The shards were too small for long-range flight, and without a regeneration array or a secondary power link, the drone would always burn itself out before returning. Something to improve. Though that wasn’t Elias’s concern.

He searched the drone thoroughly and found a small compartment tucked beneath the core. Inside was a folded letter, sealed in wax. For a moment, he just stared at it. Somehow, the sight of a handwritten message after seeing the advanced mana drone felt absurdly old-fashioned.

When he broke the seal and read the contents, the lines on his face deepened.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

By the time he finished, he was glaring at the letter like it had personally insulted him. Arzan was insane. Only someone half mad or frighteningly confident in his abilities would ask him to do something like this.

Soon, the letter caught fire in his palm due to an enhancement on it. The flame was small but hungry, devouring ink and paper until nothing but a trail of smoke curled away.

“He’s going to get me killed one day,” Elias said to no one, the echo of his voice bouncing softly off the rocks.

But he owed him. And he wasn't the type to not pay his debts.

Back in the cave, he paced for a long while, thoughts circling like restless birds. Every path he considered led to the same dead ends—too risky, too loud, too much attention. Yet the more he mulled over it, the clearer it became. There was only one way to pull off what Arzan had asked of him. Risky, yes, but doable.

He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “Fine. Let’s see where this madness leads.”

Gathering his gear, Elias stepped out into the cold air once more. The mountain range stretched wide and silent before him, a jagged spine of stone under a dull sky. He sank his hand into the earth, feeling its pulse answer his call, and the ground shifted to carry him forward.

He traveled fast—faster than any horse could run. The land bent beneath his will, propelling him across valleys and ridges. For hours he moved, guided by his knowledge of Caelond. One advantage of age was familiarity; he knew the terrain of every major kingdom around his homeland.

His destination lay ahead: the Xyreth Forest.

Elias had never set foot there, but he knew its reputation. A place with a high mana density due to special trees. Where beasts grew faster, fiercer, and smarter than anywhere else. No common man dared enter; even Caelond’s own Mages only ventured in to hunt rare monsters or to prove their worth to their masters.

But this wasn’t their season of trials. Which meant the forest would be empty—save for the things that ruled it.

The wind shifted as Elias crossed the treeline. The smell of damp moss and beast blood filled his lungs. Beneath his boots, the earth thrummed with power.

From time to time, a beast would stir in the underbrush—drawn by the taste of mana rolling off him like faint heat. Some were small, little more than twisted lizards with too many teeth; others were massive, the kind that could crush a wagon in one strike. All of them thought he was prey.

All of them were wrong.

Elias didn’t even break stride. A flick of his wrist, a twist of mana into the ground beneath them, and stone spikes erupted. Flesh split, bones cracked, and the air smelled briefly of blood and dust before the forest swallowed it again. He didn’t even give a single second glance and kept moving forward. The deeper he went, the thicker the mana became, until even his skin prickled under the pressure of it.

When he finally reached the foot of the mountain, he stopped. The peak above loomed like a dark tooth against the sky, and at its center, halfway up the slope, yawned a cave. The air reeked of sulfur. Even from where he stood, he could see streaks of scorched rock spidering down the cliffside, like old burn scars that had never healed.

He nodded to himself. “This must be it.”

If he wanted to pay back Arzan's favour, this is the place to start his plan. What he was about to do could easily get him killed, but Elias didn't want to second guess it now.

He got to work right away.

Instead of climbing directly to the peak, Elias circled around to the mountain’s far side—the shadowed slope where the rock turned loose and earthy. There, he pressed his palms to the ground. The soil shifted at once, responding to his will, and began to open under his command. Layer by layer, he shaped a hole downward.

He didn’t want to go too deep since that might lead into the territory of the underground beasts. But he needed the hole wide enough for his purposes.

When he was done, the pit was exactly the size he needed.

Now came the harder part.

Elias drew a set of seals along the inner walls, each stroke carved with precision. They were part of an array he had learned decades ago, back when he thought it a useless curiosity. The array was a simple concealment array. But it would do.

He pressed the final seal into the dirt and poured a slow stream of energy into it, just enough to make the markings stay active for a few days. The air rippled faintly, and he could feel the array settle into place.

When everything was in place, Elias exhaled, brushing the grime off his sleeves. He ran a hand through his beard and hair in case they got scorched and made his way towards the peak of the mountain. “Let’s hope that wasn’t my grave I just built.”

The sulfur stung his throat from above. As soon as he reached the peak, he stopped and placed his hand against the ground.

A pulse of mana shot out through the rock.

Instantly, the mountain answered.

In his mind, the pathways unfolded—tunnels, caverns, fault lines, all etched like a living map. He also saw the location where something large and alive stirred faintly in the depths of the mountain.

Elias smiled faintly. People liked to say Shadow Mages made the best assassins, but they had never known the advantage of being an Earth Mage with eyes beneath the ground. In seconds, he could feel the location of every living thing within miles, trace each tunnel, each chamber. Nothing hid from him when he truly wanted to see.

With the location fixed in his mind, he didn’t waste another moment. He slipped into the cave and cast a few spells on himself. A first-circle spell of his own design erased his scent entirely, while a second spell muffled the crunch of his boots to nothing more than a breath.

The tunnels twisted like a beast’s intestines. He advanced slowly, altering his path whenever his senses warned of danger ahead, sometimes carving new passages straight through the rock to bypass beasts. It was slow work—an hour, maybe more—but patience had always been the mark of a living Magus.

Then at last, he reached the chamber.

It was vast and oddly silent, the air thick with the weight of mana. There was nothing in the chamber except for eggs—dozens of them, each as big as a dog. Their shells veined with glowing lines that pulsed like slow, beating hearts. The colors varied—deep crimson, glacial blue, and one, luminous gold-yellow, radiating heat.

“That’s the one,” Elias muttered.

The thought of what he was about to do made him grimace, but orders were orders.

He lifted the egg with effort—it weighed nearly a quarter of his own body—and tucked it under his arm. The surface was warm, faintly vibrating. He didn’t bother hiding anymore; speed was more important than stealth now.

With a burst of mana, Elias forced a straight tunnel through the mountain wall, rock folding away before him as he moved. When daylight finally broke across his face, he didn’t stop to breathe. Earth gathered around his feet, carrying him down the slope in wide strides until he reached the hidden pit he’d dug earlier.

He lowered the egg carefully into the hole, checked once that the array’s seals held firm, then covered it over with hardened soil. It was done.

“Now run,” he whispered to himself.

He turned and sprinted, the ground itself lending him speed, but he had covered only a few miles when a sound ripped through the sky.

A scream—deep, feral, and so loud it made the earth tremble.

Elias stopped, chest heaving, and looked back.

From the peak, a colossal shape uncoiled from the mountain. Scales shimmered in shades of black and red, each one edged with the dull glow of mana. The creature’s head was long and ridged, with horns that swept backward like carved blades, and when it opened its jaws, the light inside was the color of a dying star.

A wyvern.

It beat its wings once, and the shockwave sent dust rolling down the slopes. The sky darkened as more emerged behind it—red-scaled, blue-scaled, their eyes bright with fury. They roared in chorus, a sound that tore through stone, then spat their wrath into the world.

Streams of blue and crimson fire cascaded down the mountainside, igniting forest and rock alike. The air turned molten; the ground shook as trees burst into ash.

Elias stood for a heartbeat, watching the sky blaze with living fire. Then, muttering a curse under his breath, he turned and ran faster than before. He had done exactly what Arzan wanted.

He had woken the wyverns.

They were Grade Six beasts, apex predators of the skies—creatures born from fire, wind, and fury itself. Even among high-ranked monsters, wyverns were feared not only for their strength but for their senses. They could smell, see and sense mana for miles.

That was why the array mattered. The one Elias had built around the buried egg didn’t just conceal mana—it smothered it completely. No scent, no heartbeat, nothing for the wyverns to trace. To them, the stolen egg might as well have vanished into thin air.

And when a wyvern lost an egg—when the smell of one suddenly disappeared—it didn’t search calmly. It raged.

Already, the air shook with their fury. The sky was a storm of wings and fire; blue and red flames poured down like rain, scorching everything they touched. Whole trees ignited in seconds, the forest below turning into a burning sea of smoke and ash.

Elias gave one last look toward the mountain, where the wyverns spiraled in madness, screaming into the clouds. Then he turned away, muttering under his breath, “You really are insane, boy.”

The ground shifted under his boots as he moved, carrying him swiftly downhill. He didn’t stop to rest, didn’t dare look back again. He had done his part. The Caelond skies would burn, their Royal Mages would be too busy fighting wyverns to send aid anywhere else.

And while the beasts tore the kingdom apart in their wrath, Elias slipped through the dying forest, each step taking him closer to the border and away from the chaos he’d unleashed.

Dao of money Chapter 194

Chapter 194

Chen Ren hadn’t expected anyone outside the Divine Coin Sect to know what dao he followed. Yes, he was a businessman—one who had started far too many enterprises for his own good—but anyone who looked into his history would just assume it was desperation that drove him. His ventures could be seen as nothing more than a man clawing his way out of debt. Even the sect’s economic growth could easily be mistaken for ambition, not following a dao.

He had never once come across someone who recognized the Dao of Money before. So when Princess Yanyue mentioned it, it would be a lie to say he wasn’t shocked. Her words had landed like a stone in still water, rippling through his thoughts. Yet she said nothing more on the subject as though the remark had been nothing but idle talk.

When he led her and City Lord Li Baolong to the best room in the sect, she hadn’t so much as glanced his way again about it. It was as if she had said it only to see his reaction, and when he caught that faint smirk on her lips, his suspicions hardened into certainty.

By the time they reached the room, Xiulan had already bolted to fetch tea, while Chief Muyang—having realized this was far above his paygrade—vanished faster than a startled rabbit. No one seemed to mind his absence.

Only Chen Ren, Qing He, Zi Wen, and Yalan remained. The princess and City Lord Li Baolong took their seats with practiced grace, a few guards and Haoran standing silently behind them. Zi Wen positioned himself at Chen Ren’s back, tense but alert, while Qing He sat beside him, her gaze fixed sharply on their guests. Yalan perched on a high shelf, tail flicking lazily as she looked down on everyone in the room.

With so many people squeezed into the small chamber, it felt cramped. The air was thick with a mixture of curiosity and unspoken tension, but no one dared mention it.

Once everyone settled, City Lord Li Baolong was the first to break the silence. “I must apologize for coming here unannounced with the Princess,” he said in a polite way. “You must have been busy.”

Chen Ren shook his head lightly. “No, it’s nothing like that. I was just surprised to see you visiting my sect, especially with Princess Yanyue.”

Yanyue smiled faintly, only the corner of her lip curling upwards. “I wanted to come here, but since Cloud Mist City was close by, I paid City Lord Li Baolong a visit first. He insisted on accompanying me. Otherwise, I would have come alone.”

Chen Ren almost asked why she would even want to come here in the first place but managed to school his expression. Somehow, that restraint only made her smile deepen.

“You’re wondering why I wanted to be here,” she said, amused.

Before he could respond, Qing He spoke up from the side. “We’re wondering more than just that, Yanyue. You even sent a spy to the village to gather information about Chen Ren and this sect. There were times I was tempted to interrogate him myself, and you know that wouldn’t have gone well for him.”

Chen Ren braced himself for the atmosphere to shift, expecting guards to move not only because of Qing He's words, but how she had addressed the Princess. But the room stayed calm. Only Haoran, pressed against the wall, flinched slightly at Qing He’s words. Princess Yanyue merely smiled, unbothered. Even City Lord Li Baolong looked as if the comment was nothing unusual.

Watching them, Chen Ren quietly reassessed Qing He’s relationship with the royal family. The casual way she spoke, the lack of reaction—it told him far more than any words could have.

“I didn’t know you’d be here, Master Qing He,” Yanyue said smoothly. “If I had, I would’ve contacted you directly.”

City Lord Li Baolong nodded in agreement. “Yes, I was surprised as well when I heard you had closed your tea shop and moved here.”

Qing He leaned back in her seat, arms folded. “I opened that tea shop for peace,” she said evenly. “And I’ve had a lot of peace here. I hope you’re not here to disrupt that.”

Princess Yanyue’s lips quirked in amusement. “We’re here to do nothing of the sort. You know I hold you in high regard, Master Qing He.”

“But you need something from Chen Ren,” Qing He countered without missing a beat. “Will he be another one of your toys?”

The air shifted slightly, a few of the guards glancing at one another, but Yanyue didn’t so much as blink. Her voice was steady when she replied. “I’m well past playing with my toys. I don’t see my subordinates that way despite what the rumors say about me.”

Then her gaze turned to Chen Ren, sharp and curious. “But yes, I’ve been interested in him since I heard about the golden dragon appearing during the Cloud Mist City tournament. Spirit manifestations are already rare enough, but to see one of the heavenly beasts?” She smiled faintly. “It would make anyone curious. I’m honestly surprised the Soaring Sword Sect didn’t try to keep you on their mountain.”

Chen Ren returned her smile, though a hint of tension remained in his eyes. “They offered me a place as a disciple,” he said, “but I already had plans to start my own sect. I didn’t think I’d fit in with a traditional one.”

“Because of your dao,” she said quietly.

He almost frowned but caught himself. “Partially. But more than that, I just don’t like the way most sects operate. Too many restrictions, too much hierarchy. It isn’t for me.”

Yanyue nodded as if she understood perfectly. “I actually agree with you on that. But my father hasn’t exactly had the time to discuss reforming the sect system with me. Maybe in a year, I’ll get that meeting.”

City Lord Li Baolong gave a small, uneasy laugh, glancing at her. “I don’t doubt your knowledge or ambition, Princess Yanyue, but I don’t think any sect, especially the Guardian ones, would welcome you involving yourself in their affairs.”

Princess Yanyue raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see about that, City Lord Li. But all of us here know the truth—sects listen to power, not politics. And I intend to accumulate a great deal of it in the coming years.” Her gaze shifted to Chen Ren. “Especially with the help of Sect Leader Chen.”

“I don’t think my sect could even stand against an Established sect right now, much less a Guardian one,” he said evenly. “You’re putting far too much importance on me, Princess Yanyue. And if I may be honest, I don’t think you even know me.”

“I don’t,” she admitted without hesitation. “But trust me, I’ve read plenty about your dao. And it’s the one thing I believe could truly help me.”

That made Chen Ren frown. His dao wasn’t something he liked others talking about. His eyes flicked toward her guards—stoic faces, unreadable expressions—but he could feel the qi rolling off some of them. None were weak. The last thing he wanted was anyone outside the sect learning about the Dao of Money. He knew how overpowered it was and she was blurting it out as if it was nothing, and he didn’t even know half of these people.

Princess Yanyue caught his look immediately. “You don’t have to worry,” she said smoothly. “All my men are loyal to me. Not a word of what we discuss here will leave this room.”

“I’m sure they’re loyal to you, Princess Yanyue,” he said. “But I don’t know them. And if I may speak my mind freely, I don’t even know you. I’ve spoken with City Lord Li Baolong, and I’m friends with his son Li Xuan, so he’s a familiar figure to me. But you…” He paused, holding her gaze. “I don’t understand what brings you here, or what kind of help you think you need from me.”

A faint smirk curved on Yanyue’s lips. “I thought merchants were always polite when speaking to nobles,” she said, her tone half-teasing, half-probing. “I honestly expected you to say you’d do anything just to form a connection with me.”

“They are,” Chen Ren replied. “But while a royal connection might do me good, I’m not the type to chew more than I can swallow. I know where I stand, and I don’t intend to jump higher than that until I can shoulder the fall.”

He leaned back slightly. This conversation had already taken a turn he couldn’t go back on, so he went along and spoke his mind.

“And as for politeness, I don’t think I’ve been rude to you, Princess. You’re royalty and a cultivator—I'm sure you’ve had countless people treating you with excessive respect. But when dealing with nobles and cultivators as a merchant, you don’t aim for politeness—you aim for clarity. Cultivators might live for centuries, but they don’t want to waste time on empty words, especially from those they deem beneath them.”

He said it plainly, not trying to sound clever or bold—just honest. But in truth, Chen Ren had already picked up on something from the moment he saw her. Yanyue’s eyes weren’t just looking at him, they were reading him. Every flicker of thought, every shift in his tone, she seemed to grasp it all with unsettling ease. And worse, something about her presence felt… invasive. Like an invisible pressure beneath her grace—subtle, refined, and quietly demanding. It wasn’t just charm; it was a pull, a commanding allure that made him want to listen, to agree, to follow. It took deliberate effort and focus to resist giving in.

“Very well then,” Princess Yanyue said after a long pause, her expression unreadable but her tone carrying amusement. Then she turned slightly toward her guards. “You all can wait outside. Just stand by the door, and don’t disturb anyone.”

The guards bowed in unison and began filing out. The timing was almost perfect as just then, the door opened and Xiulan stepped in, carefully balancing a tray with cups of steaming tea. She froze for a second, startled by the line of armored guards moving toward her, then quickly composed herself, slipping past them to place the tray on the table. The soft clink of porcelain was the only sound in the room as the last of the guards stepped outside and closed the door behind them, leaving only the core group behind.

For a second, Xiulan’s gaze met Chen Ren’s. Her expression was composed, but there was a flicker of curiosity there—an unspoken question about what was going on. She quietly placed the cups in front of everyone, bowing her head before turning and leaving without a word.

As the door clicked shut, the room felt noticeably larger. The air wasn’t as heavy, and Chen Ren found himself finally able to take a proper breath. He lifted the cup and took a sip, letting the warmth of the tea cut through the lingering discomfort. City Lord Li Baolong and Qing He did the same, though Chen Ren noticed the princess didn’t touch hers. Her gaze stayed locked on him.

Soon enough, the same strange feeling began creeping up on him again—a tightening in his chest, a pull at his thoughts, subtle but constant. His instincts screamed at him that it wasn’t natural. The more he tried to focus, the harder it became to think straight, until finally, Chen Ren put the cup down and spoke.

“May I ask something of you, Princess Yanyue?”

She tilted her head slightly. “What is it?”

He exhaled. “Could you please turn off whatever artifact you’re using to influence me? I don’t think I’ll be able to talk rationally while constantly fighting whatever this is in my mind.”

For the first time since she arrived, Princess Yanyue looked genuinely surprised. It was only a flicker, but Chen Ren caught it before her calm mask returned. “You noticed it?” she asked, almost intrigued.

“I did,” he replied. “And if I’m honest, it’s… a very strange feeling. It keeps making me feel like I’m falling in love with you, and I’d rather avoid aiming that far above my stature.”

City Lord Li Baolong chuckled quietly. “You’ve got a far stronger mind than I expected, Chen Ren.”

“He does all right. But your tricks haven’t changed much, Yanyue,” Qing He said. Chen Ren turned to look at her and she had a smirk plastered on her face.

His eyes immediately went back to Princess Yanyue.

Princess Yanyue didn’t respond immediately. She simply slipped one hand to her wrist, unclasped a delicate ring inlaid with pale red gemstone, and placed it gently on the table.

The effect was immediate. The invisible pressure that had been lingering in the room evaporated like mist in sunlight. Chen Ren drew a deep breath, feeling as though a weight had been lifted off his chest. Even Zi Wen, standing behind him, exhaled softly—his shoulders easing for the first time since she had arrived.

“I’m sorry about that,” Princess Yanyue said, her tone softening slightly as she glanced at the ring. “I honestly didn’t expect you to notice it. It’s become a habit to just wear it.” Her gaze shifted toward Zi Wen. “Your beast tamer certainly didn’t notice.”

Chen Ren held her look for a second, biting back the question that came to mind—If I hadn’t noticed, would you have kept using it on me?—but decided not to voice it. Instead, he took a slow breath and said, “Now that we can finally talk without distractions, I’d like to know why you’re here, Princess Yanyue. And what exactly do you want with me?”

Before she could answer, Qing He spoke from the side, her voice carrying a quiet edge. “If you plan to have him as a subordinate, I won’t let you force him.”

Yanyue’s lips curved faintly. “What if he agrees on his own?”

“He won’t,” Qing He said without hesitation. Then she turned to Chen Ren. “Will you?”

Chen Ren shook his head. “I don’t have any intention of being under anyone,” he said simply. His tone wasn’t defiant, it was just firm, matter-of-fact. Then he turned his gaze back to the princess. “But I don’t think you’re here just for that, are you?”

Her smile deepened slightly. “You’re intuitive.”

He didn’t reply, but his mind was already turning. She must have gotten more information about him through City Lord Li Baolong enough to understand that he wasn’t someone who’d throw away everything he’d built, even for royal favor. Which meant she wanted something else—something that couldn’t be bought or ordered. But what could that possibly be?

Yanyue didn’t keep him waiting long. “I actually came here because I needed something,” she said. “Something that can only be retrieved from a certain place, and I believe your dao can help me get it.”

Chen Ren frowned, one eyebrow raising slightly. “What sort of place is it?”

“Let me show you.”

Suddenly, one of her rings shone and a scroll fell onto the table with a dull thud. Everyone moved their cups aside as she slowly unfurled it, revealing a detailed illustration inked in fine strokes. She straightened the parchment as the image took shape—A vast structure that stretched skyward like a temple carved by gods.

“What you’re looking at,” she said, her finger tracing one of the outer rings, “is the sect building of the Azure Immortal Sect, an ancient behemoth over a thousand years old. Recently, both the pagoda and the rest of the sect’s ruins rose up from the depths of the Corpse Lands. I need your help to retrieve something from inside.”

Chen Ren leaned in instinctively, not because of her words, but because he recognized the place. The architecture, the formation lines, even the towering pagoda drawn in the center—it was the exact same sect that had been projected by the medallion.

Dao of money Chapter 193

Chapter 193

Chen Ren had no idea why someone connected to City Lord Li Baolong or he himself would suddenly show up in Meadow Village.

For a second, he thought it might be Li Xuan, but he dismissed that almost instantly. Li Xuan wouldn't return now, not with how hard the Soaring Sword Sect would be working its disciples after the rising. And Li Xuan definitely wouldn’t ride in with a grand carriage and an entourage. That wasn’t his style at all.

So who was it then? Li Baolong himself? Coming to praise the village for surviving the beast rising? Or for some other reason? Was he going to cause trouble?

His thoughts ran in useless circles, ideas piling up faster than he could sort them, and then he froze as reality caught up to him: He was still naked under a towel.

If someone important really was arriving, the last thing he needed was to greet them smelling like beast blood and medicated bath water, wrapped in a towel like a half-dead rogue cultivator dragged out of a swamp.

“Zi Wen,” he said, using a bit of his qi to dry his hair in a hurry. “Go see who’s coming. Tell the others to stay inside and inform Chief Muyang.”

He nodded and dashed off.

Chen Ren hurried to clean himself properly as he went inside the bathhouse in the sect. A short rinse wouldn't cut it; the smell of beast blood bath clung to his skin like it had moved in permanently. He scrubbed faster, changed into a clean robe, and immediately reached for a bottle of perfume.

He didn’t even think twice—he grabbed the strongest scent he had on hand and sprayed.

Better to smell like an over-enthusiastic flower field than like rotting beast marrow. He didn’t want an important person to be disgusted by his smell that would cast him in a dark light.

As he finished tying the belt of a fresh pair of robes, his stomach growled loud enough that even he paused and glared at himself. He had planned to eat first… but whoever was in that carriage would be here soon, and he couldn’t exactly greet them with food crumbs on his robes.

Food could wait. Impressions, unfortunately, couldn’t.

Chen Ren treated nobles the same way he treated government officers back on Earth—if they liked you, your life and business flowed smoother; if they didn’t, paperwork and problems started falling from the sky. So after drowning himself more in enough perfume to smell like a sheltered young miss preparing for her debut banquet, he finally stepped outside the sect building.

Everyone was already gathered.

Qing He stood with her arms lightly folded, expression curious and a little amused. Chief Muyang looked pale, wiping sweat from his forehead and shooting Chen Ren nervous glances like the heavens themselves were about to audit the village. Yalan sat on a stone with her tail swaying, bored but alert. Zi Wen stood near her. Tang Xiulan was also there and she hurried towards him.

“Do you know what’s going on?” she asked.

“Someone important is coming,” Chen Ren replied, adjusting his collar. “Sori saw a noble carriage with City Lord Li Baolong’s crest.”

Tang Xiulan blinked. “Why would he come here?” She leaned forward, sniffed, and her face twisted. “And why… Do you smell like my perfume? And why is there so much of it?”

Chen Ren opened his mouth, immediately regretted every decision made in the last ten minutes, and muttered, “I don’t know why they’re here. And I will tell you—”

He paused.

He saw movement by the sect's entrance. A familiar figure approached them, robes neat, back straight and expression composed. Chen Ren frowned seeing who it was.

Scholar Haoran.

The man they had quietly marked as a spy and watched. The man Zi Wen reported on weekly. The one they had seen sneak around, subtly asking questions, pretending to be harmless but sending letters written in disappearing ink that burned the moment anyone else tried to read them. The spy that had been in the village since the first wave of refugees.

The letters he sent were presumably enchanted by some kind of artifact, since the man was clearly a mortal. That made it easy to guess that he was working for a cultivator. Chen Ren had thought often about dragging him into a room to interrogate him properly, but spies in this world almost always hid poison under their tongue. One wrong move and he’d choke on foam before a single answer came out. Chen Ren knew that if one spy died, whoever had sent him would just send more, so he had chosen to keep Haoran under quiet observation instead.

But why was the man here now?

There was no reason for him to suddenly show up at the sect. Yet here he was. After walking through the entrance he stopped a few feet away and clutched his hands behind him as if waiting for someone he respected. He even dipped his head politely when Chen Ren and the others looked at him. Zi Wen, who had been keeping an eye on him for months, stared at him with an incredulous expression.

A faint, uneasy feeling crawled through Chen Ren’s chest.

He told Tang Xiulan, “I’ll explain everything later,” then stepped forward. Haoran, who saw Chen Ren walking toward him and bowed slightly before looking up with a frown on his face.

“Sect Leader Chen Ren, you… smell good.”

Chen Ren blinked, then frowned back. “Scholar Haoran, why are you here, if I may ask?”

Haoran’s polite face flickered. For a heartbeat, he looked like someone deciding whether to hide or confess. Then he sighed, soft and resigned.

“I received communication a few days ago from the one I serve. She informed me she would be arriving around this time. So, naturally, I came to welcome her.”

Chen Ren stared at him, confusion stacking up like bricks on his head.

“…The one you are spying on us for?”

Haoran actually smiled—small, neat, infuriatingly calm—and nodded without shame.

“I suspected as much. My reports never received responses. This recent communication confirmed my suspicion. I must say, Sect Leader Chen, your sect has very capable people. I truly wonder when I made a mistake to be found out so early.”

Chen Ren stared, unsure what to say. The man had just admitted he was a spy. Was he serving someone from City Lord Li Baolong’s household or Li Baolong himself? Haoran had certainly sent reports toward Cloud Mist City, yes, but why be so open about it now? The only answer that made sense that he was sure no one here would dare touch him.

A dull headache pressed behind Chen Ren’s eyes, but he calmed himself down. Answers would arrive soon enough.

Suddenly, Sori swept down from the sky in an arc. Zi Wen lifted his arm, and the bird landed, chirping at him. Zi Wen stroked her chin, then glanced at Chen Ren.

“They’re coming,” he said.

Just then, Chen Ren heard wheels rumble over the village road. A moment later, three carriages rolled into view—broad frames, lacquered wood, polished fittings. Just by the look of them, it was clear that they belonged to nobles.

They stopped before the sect gates.

The first and third doors opened. Men and women in armor stepped down, weapons held low. He saw no crest of City Lord Li Baolong anywhere on there armours. But he could tell that they were strong. Even at a glance, their auras pressed out like heat from a forge—Most of them were peak qi refinement realm cultivators, and there were three whose presence sat heavier, beyond that realm.

Beside him, Haoran’s mouth eased into a small, satisfied smile. “She’s finally here,” he said.

Chen Ren didn’t answer Haoran. He kept his focus on the carriages.

The cultivators lined up on both sides of the middle one, forming a neat corridor. One stepped forward, opened the door, and a familiar figure climbed out.

City Lord Li Baolong.

Chen Ren’s brows rose. So he had come personally. The man hadn’t changed since the last time Chen Ren had seen him. But after he stepped aside, he then lifted his hand in a polite gesture toward the carriage interior.

A slender, pale hand took his.

And then she stepped down.

Chen Ren’s thoughts stalled. It wasn’t because he’d recognized who it was, but because of how beautiful she looked.

He had often read in xianxia about female cultivators looking like fairies. He had read lines after lines about that sort of thing in his previous life… but seeing one in front of him was different.

The woman looked like she’d been carved by God personally, with careful planning. Smooth features, long black hair that caught the sunlight and gleamed, and skin so clear it almost glowed. Her big eyes held calm intelligence and the kind of confidence that made people instinctively look at them. Her robes were snow-white, trailing softly to the ground, but no dust clung to the fabric.

She simply looked like the personification of elegance.

And when her gaze lifted, the air around her seemed to pause out of respect. A quiet voice at Chen Ren’s shoulder cut through his stare.

“…What is she doing here?” Qing He muttered, sounding stunned.

Chen Ren blinked, then turned towards her. “You know who she is?”

Qing He looked at him like he had just asked what the sun was. “I forgot, you’ve never been to the capital. She is Princess Yanyue of the Kalian Empire.”

Suddenly, it felt like lightning ripped through the group.

Tang Xiulan’s jaw almost hit the floor. Zi Wen stiffened like someone had poured cold water down his back. Chief Muyang nearly keeled over on the spot. Even Yalan’s ears twitched, shock breaking through her usual calm.

A princess. Staring right at his sect’s gate. And Chen Ren smelled like he had bathed in perfume, hair still damp, robe slightly crooked.

Of course.

Of course this would happen today.

He looked around to see how only Haoran looked calm as he approached the princess.

He bowed to her in a practiced fashion like this was normal and not the most absurd scene to hit Meadow Village since, well… everything Chen Ren had ever done.

The princess lowered her gaze to acknowledge him. They exchanged a few whispers—quiet enough that Chen Ren couldn’t hear—but when Haoran lifted his head again, he pointed directly at Chen Ren and the group.

Chen Ren’s stomach tightened.

Why was a princess here? Was this about Blazing Ember Sect? Even then why was the princess here? They should’ve sent Inquisitors, not the princess herself. And if it wasn’t that, then the only other thing that made even slight sense was the golden dragon.

But how would she know? Had City Lord Li Baolong told her? And if that was the case, why spy on him for months instead of confronting him openly?

None of it lined up, and that bothered him more than her sudden appearance.

Qing He, standing beside him, gave a small sigh.

“Don't overthink it,” she murmured. “Princess Yanyue always acts on her own whims. Even the emperor prefers to let her do as she pleases.”

Chen Ren huffed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I know I never asked much about your past, Senior Qing He, but just how big was your background to know the royal family personally?”

Qing He shrugged like it was nothing. “They hold a lot of banquets. I went when I was bored. You meet people. So I have my contacts.”

“…right.” Chen Ren nodded slowly. “Good to know. If she tries to kill me, please put in a good word first.”

Qing He snorted. “If she wanted you dead, Inquisitors would already be here. I don’t see a single one. Relax.” Then she nudged him forward. “Let’s go greet her. Try not to embarrass yourself.”

Chen Ren straightened his robe and stepped forward with Yalan pacing beside him. Qing He matched his steps. Tang Xiulan, Chief Muyang, and Zi Wen followed a step behind, faces pale and stiff, each wearing the expression of people who would rather be literally anywhere else.

Chen Ren inhaled slowly.

As soon as they were close enough, all of them bowed. Even Qing He inclined her head slightly—a gesture that surprised Chen Ren more than a little. Yalan, of course, didn't bother. She maintained her lazy feline facade, tail flicking once in disinterest.

Chen Ren spoke first. “It is an honour to welcome Princess Yanyue and City Lord Li Baolong to the Divine Coin Sect.”

The others echoed similar greetings, voices tight with nerves. The princess’s voice was the first thing that hit him—calm, smooth, and carried with a melody that he had never heard before.

“Raise your heads.”

They obeyed instantly.

Her gaze moved over the group, assessing, weighing. Then she spoke again. “It seems one of you already knew we would be arriving.”

Her eyes landed on Zi Wen. Or rather, on Sori perched on his shoulder.

“A beast tamer,” she noted. “Rare. One of my guards noticed your bird circling our carriages several times. In the future, be more careful.”

Zi Wen’s face went a shade paler. “I understand. Thank you for your guidance.”

Li Baolong chuckled to soften the tension. “No need to be so stiff. Princess Yanyue is only here to talk. She has been curious about Chen Ren since reading about the tournament.”

The princess nodded slightly, eyes shifting to Chen Ren. “Yes. You are one of the most intriguing figures I have encountered in some time. Unfortunately, Haoran was discovered earlier than expected, so I received no reports from him. But I did hear things from Broken Ridge City.” Her lips curved faintly. “Very impressive.”

Chen Ren blinked. Nothing about this situation made sense, not even her compliment. He cut to the chase. “So… this is about the golden dragon that appeared at the tournament?”

“Partially,” she replied.

His brows pulled together. “Then what else?”

She didn’t hesitate. Her gaze sharpened as if she could peer straight through him and weigh the shape of his soul.

“Your dao,” she said. “If my sources are correct, you follow the Dao of Money.”

Magus Reborn Chapter 301

Chapter 301

Kai watched in fascination as everything unfolded exactly how he’d planned. The threads sharpened into fire arrows struck true, slamming into Vhailor’s neck.

He’d already scanned for defensive artifacts on him earlier and found none, likely because such enchantments would interfere with the array’s delicate structure. It worked in his favor massively.

Blood poured from the wound as Vhailor collapsed, and the floating array around him faltered. In the next few seconds, Kai watched the results unfold.

The other Mages shouted in panic, scrambling to regain control. One of them tore a health draught from his belt and nearly leapt toward Vhailor, throwing the array’s stability into further chaos.

Kai seized the moment. Every move he’d made had led to this as he had planned, done countless mana calculations, and stacked spell structures to perfection. But his reserves were thin now; he needed to end this fast.

He rushed forward, closing in on the trembling Mage array as it spun out of balance in midair, held together by only three desperate Mages. Raising his arm, he unleashed another fire beam. The blast struck the array’s base, melting its edges and spreading glowing cracks through its surface.

The three Mages tried to patch the damage, weaving spells in frantic unison. Kai didn’t give them the chance. Dozens of flaming arrows burst from his other hand, streaking toward them like comets.

The first few were blocked by the weakening barrier, but the rest punched through. Cracks spidered across the array as firelight swallowed the sky.

The mages abandoned their stabilizing spells, trying to flee, but it was too late. The volley of arrows pierced through them, their cries fading beneath the roar of burning mana and collapsing light.

The structure broke into pieces. Dead and dying Mages dropped through the failing light and into the ground below. They fell fast enough that Kai didn’t bother guessing if the health draught had worked, the impact would finish the job.

He still went after them. He needed to make sure that all of them were dead.

The array slammed into the earth from hundreds of feet up, throwing up a wave of dust. Kai landed nearby and swept his hand. A gust of wind cleared the air and then he saw bodies.

The support Mages lay twisted at wrong angles. The one who’d leapt with the draught was crumpled beside Vhailor. Blood pooled and streaked over their clothes and stone. Their eyes stared up, wide and unfocused, but no chests moved.

All of them were dead. Except one.

Vhailor lay inside the faint outline of a shattered barrier. His neck wound was sealed roughly, the skin dark and wet. His breathing was shallow. Something had cushioned his fall—whether his own spell or of the dead Mage’s, Kai couldn’t tell. Bones were likely broken. The healing was clearly incomplete. But he was alive, even awake enough to fix his gaze on Kai and glare.

Kai stepped closer, his own wind barrier tight around him. He didn’t expect an attack, but he wasn’t going to take chances.

Vhailor’s lips moved. Kai leaned in just enough to catch the broken whisper.

“Don’t… kill me. It won’t be good for you.”

“Are you threatening me while you’re dying?” Kai said and almost scoffed.

Vhailor tried to reply. His eyes moved around and a wet sound escaped his lips first. He coughed up blood, eyes squeezing shut. When he steadied, words came rough and urgent. “Not a threat. Help me… heal. I’ll keep Alparca out of this civil war. You’ll have my support.”

“And not your cousin?” Kai pressed.

A tired, almost ugly grin tugged at Vhailor’s face. “No. He’s an idiot. He’d throw away half our coffers for a crown. Only thinks of himself. Don’t be an… idiot.”

Kai always wanted to laugh at that, but he settled for a chuckle. The sound made Vhailor’s bloody features pull tighter. “What?” the wounded man spat.

“Knew you’d say that,” Kai said, stepping close enough that the wind barrier hummed between them. “Aldrin expected you to die here. He really doesn't care for your kingdom or resources. He wanted you to go by my hand.”

Vhailor blinked, unease creeping over his face as Kai kept speaking. “Think about it. Aldrin already has Alparcan resources in his pocket. If you fall to me, your men will burn with rage. He feeds them that fire, moves them where he needs. He doesn’t report your death until it helps him. He doesn’t care that you’re family. He’ll use your death to gather more support, get the throne, then deal with the Alparcan royal family.”

The words landed like stones. Vhailor’s breathing hitched; his fingers clawed at the ground. He tried to speak again, to accuse, to deny, but his throat produced nothing but a wet rattle.

Kai watched the color drain from the man’s face. There was clearly nothing he could do. So he let the silence stretch at his final moments, then shook his head once with a finality. “Just die.”

Vhailor’s eyes widened in realization of what Kai was going to do next.

His mouth opened, maybe to beg again, but Kai didn’t give him the chance. A sharp flick of his wrist, a pulse of mana, and a [Wind Blade] flashed out. It caught Vhailor clean across the neck. The prince’s head rolled aside; the body slumped into the dirt, more blood pooling beneath it.

Kai stood still for a moment, watching the blood of the prince mix with the Mages. There was no way he was letting him live today. Duke Blackwood had told him to do exactly this—finish it, end the threat before it returned stronger.

And he was right.

Vhailor was the kind of spoiled royal who would have crawled back with twice the arrogance and a bigger Mage array, if he had let him go today. Mercy would only breed another war.

As for the Alparca Kingdom, they’d surely hold a grudge, but Kai didn’t care. Let them seethe. Once the civil war was over, he’d finally have the time to focus and reach the fifth circle. He’d already been pushing toward it, planning every step to make the breakthrough faster. After that, the sixth circle wouldn’t be far. Its nature made the jump easier. When he becomes a Sixth Circle Mage, a single kingdom wouldn’t matter. He could crush any number of dual casters alone.

He took one last look at the carnage—the corpse of Vhailor, the mangled Mages and the blood—then rose into the sky.

His mana reserves pulsed weakly, no more than twenty percent left. The spell that destroyed the array had drained almost everything he had. Even with mana potions, he couldn’t fight many more Mages without risking overload. The last time he’d pushed his heart too far, it nearly broke. If that happened again, surrounded by enemies as he was now, there’d be no one left to save him.

Aldrin probably knew that and had schemed for him to be in this state as even from a distance, he would see a cold smile on his face, one that didn’t touch his eyes. Up close, those eyes were bright with something else. Mirth. Like a man watching a trick work exactly as he planned.

Around them the battle kept its noise. Mages mouthed spells that hung in the air. There were soldiers that loosed arrows that stitched the sky. On the other hand, mana cannons thumped, each pulse making the ground hum. Drones darted like angry hornets. The siege breaker had joined the battle and swung at the wards again and again, metal grating on mana. On the large ward the impacts barely showed at first, but cracks soon spidered outward where the siege breaker struck.

Kai watched all of it. Then he pushed a flare of light up into the sky. A single red flash blinked and the noise changed. His whole line froze in a matter of seconds. The cannons stopped mid-recoil. Drones hung in the air. The siege breaker’s great arm sagged and stepped back. On the ground Killian and Duke Blackwood shouted orders that fell flat into silence.

The enemy stopped too. Spells faltered in the hands of opposing Mages. Arrows stopped at the string, trembling. Kai drifted closer to the ward, feeling the hum of mana press against his skin. He could see the enemy Mages, faces tight with strain, hands trembling with power. Aldrin lifted one pale hand—a small, precise movement and in response, the Mages lowered their fingers as if on a string.

Kai got closer and was met with the glare on his face.

“You, you killed my cousin,” Aldrin gritted it out. “You wouldn’t know what will happen—”

Kai’s eyebrows knitted tight. “Shut the fuck up. You already knew he would be dying after seeing my powers while battling Veridia. The act you put up deserves an applause. You knew I would have a way to kill him. You planned his death.”

Aldrin’s face immediately shifted into a mock shock before rage clouded his eyes. “I would never scheme to kill my kin,” he said.

Kai couldn’t help but sigh. “You’re acting just because you’re in public. You can maintain that petty act but we both know what you had planned and succeeded in. Yet you’re going to be losing this battle. Your plan might have worked till now, but you have miscalculated things massively.”

Aldrin’s lips twitched into a deadly smile. “I must applaud your confidence,” he said. “You might have killed my cousin, but do you even have enough mana left to last this battle? Your forces couldn’t even crack the ward around Fort Valemount. What gives you the right to think you’ll win? I say again, Duke Arzan—surrender. A Mage without mana is only a mortal, and mortals die the first in war.”

Kai only sighed. “Even without mana,” he said, “I don’t think any of you could get close enough to kill me.”

Aldrin’s eyes sharpened. “There’s always someone stronger, Duke Arzan. You should know that.”

Kai’s smile was slow and patient like a blade being drawn very gently from its sheath. He had wanted Aldrin to say that. He had steered the conversation in this direction from the start.

“Like the Caelond Kingdom Mage council,” Kai said.

For the first time, Aldrin’s perfect mask cracked. The motion was small—a blink, a twitch at the corner of the mouth—but it showed. A ripple ran through the ranks of Aldrin’s men. A murmur crawled across the battlefield and died. Aldrin opened his mouth, ready to shape a lie, but Kai did not give him the chance.

“It’s a good plan I must say,” Kai cut in, voice flat and almost amused. He drifted closer, so close he could see where Aldrin’s hair had been plastered by sweat. “Instead of relying only on Alparca, you used your cousin to wear me down. You have already made a private deal with Caelond. Royal council Mages and aimed to let them finish the job, knowing I would be able to kill your cousin.”

Aldrin’s hand tightened absently on the pommel at his hip. He did not deny it. His throat bubbled up once, but no words came out of his mouth.

“At first,” Kai continued, “I thought you’d smuggle them through the smuggling routes. Or worse, throw an all-out strike at the border forts I already hold. But I remembered something simple, I'm not the only Mage in the world with tricks up his sleeve. In a magocracy, research matters. Magic is studied, mapped, tested. A skilled Mage council could surely cross borders without being seen. From the start, you only focused on killing me instead of my army. Hence, you even called back every noble and their men to this fort.”

The more he spoke, the more that practiced calm fell apart. Tiny lines at the corners of Aldrin’s mouth tightened. His fingers curved in a fist. Sweat rolled down in lines on his face. He had stitched the plan together neatly—too neatly—and Kai had to admit, it was clever. It would have worked if Kai really didn't have any help outside of his forces.

Aldrin opened his mouth, his voice coming out flat. “Even if that is true, why bother telling me? You still don't have a lot of mana and won't be able to handle Caelond Mages for long.”

Kai smiled. “You don’t get it,” he said. “If your allies were coming, they would already be here. It's already been ten minutes since I killed Vhailor. And my plan was never to fight them. No, my plan was always to make sure that they never even reach Lancephil. You don’t get one thing. If you are relying on foreign forces, they are never going to be prioritising you instead of their own country.”

As Kai spoke, he saw the gears turning in Aldrin's mind, and he couldn't help but think about what would have been going on in Caelond. How that one old Earth Mage would have caused a large enough distraction to make sure that no Mage could travel to Lancephil.

Dao of money Chapter 192

Chapter 192

Chen Ren stared at the green concoction with a stiff face. The closer he got, the worse it became. The smell hit him like a punch—sharp, sour, and rotten all at once. His stomach twisted, and he honestly thought if he leaned in even one inch more, he might throw up right into the tub.

Qing He had warned him that beast-blood baths weren’t like natural treasures and often smelled awful, but he hadn’t expected this level of suffering. If someone ever bottled this scent, it could be used as a weapon, not medicine. Maybe it felt worse because of his heightened senses now, but that didn’t comfort him at all.

Still, he forced himself forward. Curiosity and stubbornness pushed him. He leaned over, pinched his nose, and dipped his fingers in.

It felt cold. Not normal cold, but death cold.

His entire arm jerked back on instinct. His fingers stiffened like icicles. A shiver shot through his spine and his shoulders. For a second, he genuinely thought his hand stopped working.

“How am I supposed to bathe in this?” he muttered. “If I jump in, I’ll die in minutes.”

Qing He smirked like she’d been waiting exactly for that reaction. “How do you like it?”

Chen Ren glared weakly. “Perfect. If the goal is to freeze someone to death.”

Yalan flicked her tail and sat primly on a rock, judgment in her eyes. “What did you expect a beast-blood bath to be like?”

“Not something that murders me,” Chen Ren shot back.

“It won’t kill you,” Qing He said calmly, waving her hand as if he were complaining about cold tea. “The beast you brought back was very potent. Once you step in, you need to absorb the entire essence in the bath. That cold you felt—let it inside. It will strengthen your bones.”

Chen Ren stared back at the tub. It still looked like poisonous soup mixed with swamp sludge and despair.

“… Fantastic,” he muttered, sighing. “I always imagined dying in such a way.”

He dipped a finger back into the liquid. The same violent shiver ran up his arm, all the way to his shoulder. He pulled his hand out again and stared at Qing He, like she had just handed him a death sentence.

“What if I just freeze to death before anything happens?”

Qing He scoffed without hesitation. “Then you were never meant to be a cultivator, much less a body cultivator. This path isn’t for the soft-hearted. Think about the payoffs. Once your bones are refined, they will hardly ever break again. And if you use palm or fist techniques, they will hit far above your realm.”

Chen Ren swallowed and let out a slow breath. She was right. It was too late to back out now. Cold or not, fear or not—he had to do it. And honestly, if anything went wrong, he had Qing He and Yalan right here. He wasn’t alone.

He breathed out once more, nodded, and then asked, “Do… I have to go in naked?”

Qing He blinked once, as if he had just asked whether water was wet. “Of course. Do you want to ruin your robes?” Then her eyes flicked down and a smirk tugged at her lips. “Don’t get shy now. Just undress and jump in.”

Yalan chimed in without shame, tail flicking. “I’ve seen you naked many times. No need to worry about me.”

Chen Ren froze. Many times? When? He very nearly asked… then stopped himself, because the answer would probably traumatize him.

He clicked his tongue, exhaled sharply, and stripped. Robes, underwear—everything hit the floor in one practiced motion before he could think too much. If he hesitated, he knew he would talk himself out of this.

He glanced once at the tub, feeling the cold practically radiate off it, and before any hint of embarrassment could catch up to him, he dove in.

The moment his body touched the liquid, pain hit.

He felt a crushing cold envelope his whole body. Like someone shoved him naked into space to freeze to death.

His breath locked. His muscles seized. Every nerve screamed. The cold felt like metal claws digging into his marrow and twisting.

His body tried to curl in on itself. His teeth chattered so hard he heard them click.

He couldn’t even inhale—his lungs felt like they’d frozen solid.

The only sound that left his mouth was a strangled gasp.

It wasn’t just his skin that froze. The cold shot deeper—into his nerves, into his marrow, into a place he didn’t even know could feel pain. His very soul felt like it was being gripped by claws of ice and squeezed tight.

Chen Ren didn’t hold back the scream. It tore out of him raw, and instinctively he tried to lurch upward and escape the bath, but Qing He’s cold voice cut through the ringing in his ears.

“Stay inside. Start absorbing the essence. The cold will get easier once you do.”

Absorb? How? Every inch of him felt like it was shattering. He wasn’t thinking anymore—just hurting, frozen to the bone, breath catching in short, panicked bursts. But he forced his teeth together and tried to suck in air despite the way his lungs burned like they’d iced over.

His first instinct was to fight the sensation, to thrash his way out, but instead he forced himself still. Slowly, shaking, he reached inward with his senses. The essence around him felt wild, sharp, angry—like a living storm of frost pressing in from every direction.

He tried to draw it in. Nothing happened.

He tried again, jaw clenched so tight he felt something pop in his neck. The pain made his vision swim, but he didn’t stop. He kept pulling, refusing to quit even as his body trembled uncontrollably.

Then finally—just when he thought his fingers would go numb and fall off—something moved.

A thread of energy trickled into him, sliding under his skin. He froze, stunned. It was small, barely anything… but it was warm. Warm in a way that made him gasp. It slid into his veins, faint at first, then steadier, and he felt it travel like a spark along his blood, reaching his bones.

And then, a warm pulse moved through him, from bones to his entire body.

The cold didn’t vanish, but for one second, the pain loosened. He latched onto that sensation like a drowning man gripping rope, and he pulled again. More essence seeped in, and the warmth surged, brushing every bone inside him as if marking them, strengthening them by tiny degrees.

The contrast was brutal—warmth inside, biting ice outside. It made his muscles twitch and tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He kept absorbing anyway. He welcomed the warmth and endured the chill, letting his bones drink in the essence bit by bit.

It hurt like hell. His body shook. His lips were numb. But his bones… they were changing. Hardening. Strengthening. And he clung to that, breathing through the pain as the warmth slowly ate away at the ice gripping him.

But he kept going—not out of bravery, but because he could feel it working. Every time that warmth pulsed through him, his bones felt denser, heavier, stronger. If he stopped now, all this suffering would be pointless.

Still, he couldn’t just absorb endlessly. The essence needed time to run through his marrow, settle, and harden everything inside him. That meant long stretches where he couldn’t pull anything in, just sit in the freezing sludge and endure. Those pauses were worse than the absorption. In the silence, the cold chewed through him again and again until his thoughts blurred.

His stomach twisted violently. Bile climbed up his throat, and for a second he really thought he would vomit right there in the thick green bath.

Qing He’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears again, steady and annoyingly calm. “Your body is absorbing vital essence. It will push impurities out. Do not vomit into the bath. Hold it in. Wait until you finish.”

He bit down so hard he felt his jaw creak. He forced the bile back and nodded stiffly, not trusting himself to speak. He’d rather pass out face-first than puke in front of them and ruin the bath.

More essence seeped into him, each wave weaker but warmer. The cold slowly dulled… but the price was that he couldn’t feel his limbs anymore. It was all just flashes of heat inside and ice outside, fighting over his body. His hands floated uselessly in the liquid; his toes might as well not exist. His breathing turned shallow, and even shivering took too much strength now.

Still, he knew he was past halfway. So he didn’t think. He didn’t try to judge pain. He just waited until each warm pulse settled, then dragged in the next bit of essence like a man drinking poison for the cure.

His bones began to protest. Not a dull ache—a deep splitting pressure like they were being wedged apart from the inside. Each time essence touched them again, it felt like they would crack open. He would pause, breathe, and wait. Let them settle. Then continue. Over and over.

Time stopped being time. Minutes felt like hours, hours like days. There was only the bath, the cold, the warmth and the dull roaring in his head. At some point he realized he couldn’t even cry out anymore—his throat was too raw, voice swallowed somewhere between his ribs and the frost clawing at his spine.

Then slowly—painfully slowly—the warmth overtook the cold. A balance shifted. Heat became a steady burn spreading through his skeleton, chasing the frost away.

He was on the final stretch.

His bones trembled under the last bit of essence waiting outside his skin. Any sane person would have stopped here. His body didn’t want to take more. It told him it was done. Finished.

Chen Ren didn’t listen.

With what little strength he had left, with lips numb and body shaking like a dying leaf, he pulled the final reservoir of essence into himself all at once.

It hit like fire and winter crashing together—a spike of agony so sharp his vision went black at the edges.

He didn’t scream this time.

He didn’t have the breath for it.

He just clung to the sensation as everything inside him burned and froze and broke and reforged at the same time, forcing his body into a new shape whether it liked it or not.

And he did not let go.

Qing He said something, but it came through muffled and distant. He didn’t hear the words—he couldn’t. His head was ringing. The only thing he could focus on was finishing this before his body gave out for real.

The cold vanished so fast it felt like someone had ripped winter out of his bones. In its place, fire roared through him. Every drop of essence he had forced into himself lit up at once, blazing along his marrow like molten metal being poured into fragile glass.

He barely felt his own breath. He barely felt his skin. All he felt was heat and pressure.

He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw hurt, and forced the essence to move, to follow his will. Down his arms. Through his ribs. Into his legs. One bone at a time. If he slipped now, his body would tear itself apart. He could feel it in the screaming tension inside him.

His stomach lurched. Bitter bile shot up his throat and he nearly choked. Thick saliva mixed with something darker spilled from the corner of his mouth and dripped into the bath, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. His bones felt like they were being hammered from inside, cracks spreading then sealing, again and again.

Almost there. Just one last push.

The final pool of essence hovered near his spine, refusing to sink. Chen Ren forced his focus on it, dragged it in, and jammed it deep into the bone. His spine flared with burning heat, but it held. Barely.

That was it. That was all of it.

The moment he felt the last thread settle, he moved on instinct alone.

He launched himself out of the tub, slipping and half-falling out of the thick green liquid. He didn’t care. He hit the ground, hands shaking, and he didn’t spare a thought for modesty or posture. He just bent forward and vomited.

It felt like his entire insides were being ripped out.

Black sludge poured out of his mouth in thick waves, splattering the stone, steaming faintly like it was burning its way out. Each retch pulled more up—tar-thick, sticky, foul—like his stomach had turned itself inside out. The stench hit him and he gagged harder, coughing and choking but unable to stop.

It kept coming. And coming.

His whole body curled and shook with each heave. His ribs hurt. His throat felt raw. His vision blurred.

It was disgusting, but he didn’t even care. He just let his body purge, let it empty every rotten thing the bath had forced loose.

Only when nothing came up—when he was dry-heaving air did he slump forward, palms flat on the ground, chest heaving like he had sprinted miles.

His body hurt everywhere. But under the pain, under the weakness… there was strength. Real strength. His bones felt like iron bars under his skin.

And heavens, he was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open.

He wiped the last streak of black sludge from his lips with the back of his hand and scooted away from the puddle. He didn’t want to kneel anywhere near it, not after what had just come out of him. His back found the side of the tub and he leaned against it, chest rising and falling like he had just run up a mountain.

Something warm dropped over his body. A towel.

He lifted his head. Qing He stood above him.

“You need a shower,” she said. “You stink.”

Chen Ren gave a tired, crooked smile. “I need more than a shower. I’ve never felt so disgusting in my life.”

Yalan flicked her tail and hopped closer, nose wrinkling slightly. “You’ve also never pushed impurities out of your bones before. It’s surprising how much filth was inside you when you’re already at the peak of qi refinement.”

Chen Ren stared at the black puddle again. It looked like a small tar pit. Hard to believe all of that had been inside him. He resisted the urge to gag again.

Qing He kneeled beside him and spoke calmly, as if she were explaining a recipe. “After finishing the body forging realm, cultivators usually focus only on qi. They strengthen meridians, dantian, and circulation. The body gets ignored until much later, when impurities have already piled up again.” She tapped his forehead lightly. “You’re doing this step early. That’s fortunate. Painful, but fortunate.”

Chen Ren rubbed his face with the towel, hair still dripping green liquid. “I don’t feel fortunate. I don’t even feel strong. I just feel… hungry.”

“Give it time,” Qing He said. “Your body’s still processing the essence. The strength will settle in soon.” She stood up and dusted off her hands. “Now get up and go wash. I’ll tell Xiulan to bring every plate of food she can find. You’ll need to eat a mountain to replenish what you burned.”

Chen Ren nodded and slowly pushed himself to his feet. His legs shook like newborn deer legs, and he had to grip the side of the tub to steady himself. He felt drained, empty, and a bit light-headed, but somewhere under all that, a quiet heat pulsed in his bones.

And right now, the only thing he wanted more than a bath… was food.

His legs shook, but he managed to stand. He glanced at the pool of impurities again and his stomach lurched; nothing came up, only a dry heave and a sour taste. He turned to leave the room, only to stop at the sound of quick footsteps.

Zi Wen rushed in with Sori perched on his shoulder. He froze for a heartbeat, eyes flicking from the reeking bath to the black sludge on the floor, then to Chen Ren—naked but for a towel. Zi Wen hurried closer.

“Sect Leader Chen, are you okay?”

“I am,” Chen Ren said, voice rough. “I just broke through to the second step of body cultivation. Why are you here? You look troubled.”

Zi Wen nodded, still catching his breath. “Yes, there’s something that needs your attention.”

“Can it wait? I stink, and I’m starving.”

Zi Wen’s mouth tightened. He shook his head. “I think it’s urgent, Sect Leader. Sori noticed something heading toward the village.”

“A beast? I thought the rising was over.”

“It’s not a beast, Sect Leader. It’s a carriage. Sori saw Cloud Mist City Lord Li Baolong’s crest on it, and two more carriages were behind it.” He lifted a hand to the avian beast. “I had her take a closer look. She says many men and women are inside. Some wear robes that give off a lot of qi. I believe they are enchanted robes. Her senses are sharp; she’s very sure.”

Qing He stepped forward, eyes narrowing. “All in armor?”

“Some,” Zi Wen said. “The ones with strong qi did not. They wore robes. That’s why I came running.” He swallowed. “By the count of armored escorts Sori saw, I think a noble or City Lord Li himself is coming to our village.”

Magus Reborn Chapter 300

Chapter 300

Kai had only fought a Storm Mage once before, and he had to admit—they were a pain to deal with. Wind to stay airborne, lightning to fry anything with a pulse, water to mend wounds and keep the mana flowing smooth. Stack them all together and you got the kind of annoyance who could drown an army in rain and then torch whatever floated. Vhailor couldn’t do that, he wasn’t capable enough. Probably never would be. But throwing him into a Mage array with a bunch of idiots acting as living mana batteries? Yeah, it was bound to become a big headache to deal with.

In the open sky, Vhailor didn't give him a breath. Bolts snapped upward, sharp and rapid—nothing like Veridia’s wide-arc thunder lashes.

These were compact, needle-thin shots of lightning, tearing through air faster than sound. They contained too much mana for their own good and Kai didn't even bother testing his wind shield against them.

He twisted off-line, letting one bolt whip past him by a hair. Then another. And another. Vhailor wasn't fast—thank the ancestors—but he was juicing every cast hard enough that even a half-second glance at the structure told Kai everything he needed.

The first bolt detonated behind him. There was a crack as if the sky was tearing and then heat ripped open the sky, a sudden surge of flame and wind that slapped at his back like a tantrum. The blast wave shoved him slightly forward, hair flicked over his brow, robe edges snapping. A second explosion followed to his left, then a third below.

Despite the explosions, Kai felt like smirking mockingly at the display of spell structures. The fool was drowning his own patterns. He was creating basic spell structures that were force-fed mana until they warped under pressure. The man hadn’t even thought to modify his structures for the additional mana he was adding to amplify them. At least not to a suitable degree.

Kai angled higher. The array below pulsed, threads of mana feeding into Vhailor, the prince’s eyes glowing like someone had stored a storm inside of them. And the others? They stood there stiff and proud, thinking they were doing something noble, when in truth they were nothing but fancy batteries on legs.

If they’d been competent, this might’ve gone differently. He might’ve broken a sweat.

Kai rolled his shoulders as another bolt screamed up. He again slid past it by inches, letting it cook the air where he'd been a heartbeat ago. Then the detonation rippled heat across his face, and he snorted.

If you’re going to flood your spell with mana, he thought, maybe adjust the lattice so it doesn’t detonate like an apprentice’s first enchantment experiment.

Vhailor had brute-forced the spell, muscled it into a “stronger” form, and technically it hit harder than the base version.

Problem was, forcing that much mana through a core pattern without rewriting it didn’t make it impressive. It made it a grenade. Vhailor, of course, looked thrilled about it. Some people saw unstable spellcraft and thought it was okay since in the end, it was doing damage.

The sky popped with more bolts, sparks flaring into brutal little suns, each bolt flaring out before it even got close to Kai. Explosions after explosions lit the air like someone had replaced clouds with landmines.

Instead of fighting the blast waves, Kai leaned into them. He let the shock force shove him, let the pressure redirect his glide path. To an outsider, it looked chaotic, but to him, it felt clean. Every explosion tossed him further, pulling him outside the ideal strike arc of Vhailor’s lightning.

“Stop running away!” Vhailor’s voice tore up from below. “I thought you were an honourable Mage, not a coward who only knows how to flee!”

Kai didn't reply.

Below him, Vhailor tried closing distance, but the man's flight speed was dragged down by the array’s tether, four extra Mages needing to keep up with him.

That gave him a few seconds to look down at the battlefield.

He saw arrows cutting lines in the air, spells colliding and detonating in mid-sky like angry fireworks. Mana cannons fired beams at the ward, but it held without a crack. Mages on both sides did their best to get an advantage over the other.

His side Mages raised giant walls to counter any spells that weren't stopped in the sky. The siege breaker and the drones loomed idle in the back ranks. No point in using them so early in the battle.

Focused as he was, a flicker of motion caught him at the edge of vision. Vhailor had finally clawed up enough altitude to use his spell again as blades of wind snapped toward him, thin and vicious. He moved to dodge, but they were faster than what he had expected.

One wind blade almost grazed his sides, only getting deflected by his wind armor.

They weren’t blades anymore. The wind spells spun like saw wheels, teeth whirring, each one sharper than the last. More of them came at him and one managed to clip across his shoulder, scraping his armor hard enough to crack it.

Kai shifted through the air, letting the next wave of wind saws pass close, a breath from cutting into him. The array’s pattern was clear now. Vhailor’s power wasn’t neat—it was raw, forced, and unstable, but backed by too much mana to ignore.

More saws tore toward him, fast enough that every dodge needed precision. One slip and they’d cut right through his armour.

He took a sharp breath and decided it was time to stop being on the defensive.

Mana curled around his fingertips into a sprawling stricture. He moved as he shaped it, never letting a single wind saw touch the forming spell. Two more whirled past; he slid between them, letting them miss by inches.

The spiral thickened and pressure built in his spell structure. A thin whine cut the air.

Once it was finally ready, he released it.

A tornado tore forward immediately, ripping the air open. Vhailor’s voice came from below, but the storm swallowed the sound. The prince tried to break away, sending more saws and snapping bolts upwards. Lightning flared against the sky, another explosion lighting the battlefield, but the saws didn’t escape.

They were pulled in by the tornado. Caught inside the storm, then flung back out with twice the momentum.

They slammed into the array before anyone inside had time to react. A sharp crack rang out, and the whole formation jolted back, forced toward Fort Valemount’s ward. Whatever spell Vhailor had been building collapsed instantly, snapped apart by the hit.

The tornado didn’t stop. It rolled into the barrier, battering it again and again, pressing from every side.

Shouts broke inside the array—all he heard were urgent screams, straining and scrambling to reinforce what was left of their structure.

Kai cut low, slipping into the gap where the winds eased for a heartbeat. He saw a clean opening and took it.

Mana spread from his hands, threads whipping outward, locking into place. A net fell over the array, sealing it inside the storm.

Immediately, they were caged.

In seconds, all the information he had already guessed got confirmed and he decided it was time to go out in an all out assault.

Two spell structures locked into his palms and he pushed mana till they came true and drove them together, heat surging hard enough to sting his skin.

A solid beam of flame ripped from his hands. It cut through the edge of his own tornado without slowing and slammed into the array. The formation tumbled, smashed back into Fort Valemount’s ward; ripples chased themselves across it as the beam kept eating at their shell.

Mana poured out of him in droves. His heart throbbed with the pull. He held the cast anyway, shaving the beam along the array’s rim to scrape at every weak line he could find.

And on the inside of the array, voices broke—high, clipped, losing shape under stress. For a breath, Vhailor’s command vanished in the noise.

Then the array snapped sideways.

It tore free like it had been yanked by a hook, burst-accelerating out of the beam’s path. One instant it was under his fire, the next it streaked across the sky at a speed it hadn’t shown before.

Kai cut the cast clean before it bled him more.

Another spell slid over his vision—[Sight Augmentation]—and the world sharpened. Thin silver lines marked air distortion. Speed trails drew bright scratches across the sky. Every jitter in their movement became readable.

And then he finally understood what was going on.

All four supports were Wind Mages. Third-circle ones. He should’ve caught it earlier. He’d been wondering how they were throwing so much mana into flight while still feeding Vhailor. They were all dual casters and knew how to link their spells together. They’d stripped the array’s defenses and pushed everything into speed. Not the best strategy, but Kai wasn't complaining.

He realised that this was the window to hit them.

But tracking them wasn’t the same as hitting them. Even with his eyes following the arc perfectly, the array jerked and snapped directions too fast to predict cleanly. Every time he lined a spell up, the angle shifted again. He started reshaping a structure in his hand, adjusting for the aim and moving target—

Vhailor moved then.

Lightning flooded the entire array suddenly, covering the formation in a crackling shell, and then they dove at him.

Kai dropped the half-formed spell on instinct and pushed everything into raw movement. Wind ripped beneath him as he cut sideways sharply. At this point, he had no strategy or counter spell—his goal was to just stay ahead of the charge. Or he would find his shield falling apart.

Vhailor’s laughter hit him a second later, and the array closed distance faster than before. Faster than he could create space between them.

He realised he won't be able to dodge it and changed his strategy.

Wind armor around him thickened. A second layer of ice formed around him as Kai paused in the air, and braced.

The lightning array hit like an orc’s hammer. His mana armour cracked in multiple places. His chest seized, breath torn out. The blast flung him backward and every rib felt like it had been kicked in. For a moment, the world spun sideways.

He forced mana back into his armor lines before they split, stabilizing mid-tumble. A few more seconds of shock and he would’ve dropped, and if he wasn't fighting an overconfident Mage with borrowed power, that would have cost him dearly.

Kai somehow managed to steady himself in the air and looked. The lightning cloak around the array faded. A thin fracture crawled along one section of the barrier due to the impact. It was small, but he was certain that it was there.

Vhailor also noticed it and inside, the support Mages were already shoving mana into it, trying to patch the crack before it spread.

Kai watched them, counting the seconds it took them and he began to form another spell.

Wind coiled at his fingertips again, but this time he fed heat into it from the start. Flames threaded into the forming vortex, pressure spiking until the air around him shimmered. Heat bled into the sky, pushing against his skin.

He didn’t hold it long.

The flaming tornado ripped forward the moment it formed, tearing a burning line across the air as it surged toward the array.

Vhailor shouted something through the heat, but the roar drowned it out. Kai didn’t slow. He drove the firestorm forward, pushing it straight at the array.

A ring of water burst outward from Vhailor in response, rushing to smother the flames. Steam exploded across the sky when they met, but the core of the vortex kept burning, still driving forward. The array darted back, pulled hard by the Mages inside as they tried to pull away and spin the storm off course.

It turned into a chase—the firestorm pressing in, the array dodging and weaving through the sky. Vhailor shouted inside the array, clearly frustrated by the events.

From the way he scrambled, Kai doubted he had ever needed to run poor this. The array had always been his shield. With it cracked, the man didn’t look practiced at staying alive.

Kai layered more pressure into the chase. Magma orbs spun from his left hand, wind constructs from his right. He didn’t flood them all at once; he staggered them, timing each cast so the array couldn’t settle or hold still. The sky shook as the spells struck in waves.

Vhailor countered what he could—lightning speared through wind blades, water slammed into molten stone, and each collision burst into a blast of steam or sparks. The firestorm chasing the array started to thin, its heat bleeding out, but he kept driving it forward, forcing the array to keep running in the sky.

He already knew brute force alone wouldn’t break the array. Every time a crack appeared, the support Mages moved to seal it before it spread. It was frustrating, but their formation work was tight, and they were trained to keep the barrier intact.

Meanwhile Vhailor hurled enough destructive power to match Kai strike for strike, using his borrowed strength to overpower him.

Explosions thudded through the sky in steady rhythm, shockwaves rolling across them. The air stank of scorched mana. Even from a distance, the blasts rattled Kai’s bones.

On the other hand, his heart burned hot—mana draining fast, too fast. Every cast took more effort than the last. He kept breathing steady, kept his movements sharp, but he felt the weight building.

Every time he cut across the array’s path, his eyes met Vhailor’s through the flicker of spells. The prince grinned back each time—confident, and almost excited. He looked like someone watching a game go exactly how he’d imagined.

He thought he had time on his side.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

Vhailor snapped a chain lightning across the sky and wiped out the last of Kai’s wind constructs. The two of them hung in the air, facing each other with the battlefield boiling below.

“It’s been a good fight,” Vhailor said. “Your reserves won’t hold. Stop parading as a king and surrender, so I don’t have to kill you.”

“You won’t be killing me,” Kai replied. “Not today. Not any day. You won’t live that long.”

Vhailor laughed. “So confident. You sound like a Magus I crushed in Alparca.”

“With borrowed power,” Kai said.

“Power is power.”

“True,” Kai said. “And till now, you haven't really seen my true power.”

As he said that, a structure bloomed right on his palms and flames gathered in front of him, wild at first, then shaping scale and spine. A serpent of fire coiled and grew, longer with each breath. Gasps rose from inside the array.

Vhailor didn’t flinch—mana spun along his forearm as he built another structure.

“Another construct that dies,” he said.

Kai didn't reply and released the serpent. It lunged straight for the array.

A massive wave of lightning burst from Vhailor’s hands. It slammed into the serpent. The construct opened its jaws into the blast and then got torn apart in seconds, breaking into embers.

“I told y—” Vhailor began.

Something came out of the dying fire.

A pair of flaming hands shot forward, too fast to counter. They struck the array’s side and split a crack along the already weakened barrier. Vhailor scrambled a fresh bolt to smash them, but the impact detonated first, throwing the whole formation backward.

Kai didn’t chase. He watched the fire spread.

The hands broke apart mid-air, threads of flame sliding into the widening fracture and locking together. The Mages moved to seal it apart, but they were too slow.

The threads sharpened and crossed the gap in a blink. The next second, it hit Vhailor right in the throat.

Magus Reborn Chapter 299

Chapter 299

Once Kai had accounted for every one of Aldrin’s schemes and countered them with solid plans of his own, they didn’t linger long in Solmere. The city was left under a capable watch—enough soldiers to maintain order, distribute food, and ensure the population felt secure again.

Most of the enemy troops were already locked away, and the surviving Mages were bound with Syphon stone cuffs. Kai doubted they’d pose much of a threat even if freed—their mana Heart had been exhausted in the battle, and they knew what would happen to them if they rebelled.

His forces had done well to stabilize Solmere. They’d made sure the people were fed and, more importantly, that they knew they were not under another tyrant’s thumb. Forced conscriptions, heavy taxes, and grain seized in the name of the war had made the city bleed with resentment against the Count. Duke Blackwood had swiftly ordered all such supplies returned, even announcing plans to rebuild the city’s ruined church.

Food and faith were the two simplest levers to win people’s hearts, and they’d pulled both.

So when the main force prepared to leave, there were even locals gathered to see them off. Kai allowed himself a quiet smile. They weren’t being seen as conquerors, but as something better—protectors. It was clearly a stark contrast to the three princes' army, which treated war as a playground for cruelty, blind to the rot such acts sowed for the future.

The road to Fort Valemount, however, was anything but kind. Though there was a direct route, Aldrin’s retreating forces had made sure it wouldn’t be an easy march—littering the path with traps, pitfalls, and sabotage meant to bleed time and men.

Clearing it fell to Killian. And as always, his method was simple—if something stood in the way, it was removed.

But that plan hadn’t held long. A quarter of the way to Fort Valemount, the stonework simply gave out—roads shattered, culverts collapsed—and every “detour” funneled them toward beast nests that had to be cleared before the wagons could crawl forward.

When a span ahead gave way to a crater and forced them along a ridgeline, enemy stragglers tried the old trick: boulders loosed from above, then a quick retreat. Kai was already at the fore. He split the rolling stones with a flick of mana, turned them into harmless gravel, and ran down the ambushers. They didn’t even look shocked to be caught. In fact, they were almost relieved—eager to trade the lay of Valemount’s garrison and other broad information for hot stew and a heel of bread.

Aldrin had sent them knowing they’d be taken. That much was obvious. The scouts hadn’t even found tracks because these men had been living in the hills for days—armor caked with dirt, the stink of cold ash clinging to them. And because they were common soldiers, what they knew was shallow. If any had held specifics, Kai doubted hunger alone would have shaken it loose. In the end, he could only throw them at the back of the force, chained before they started their march again.

The constant vigilance slowly bled at morale as they moved. Eyes were always up, shoulders always tight, waiting for the next trick in the brush or a trap underfoot. Unfortunately, he was the only one who could cover the whole army with a barrier and Kai refused to waste strength by walling their march in mana barriers; that kind of constant shelling would only burn his reserves, and if Prince Vhailor chose to strike early to maim their vanguard or, worse, to wound Kai, he’d need every thread of mana. So he kept the shields only when they took breaks.

Mercifully, no such strike came. They crossed the hills and dealt with minor issues until they wound up towards the road—scarred though it was—that angled toward Valemount’s gray walls on the horizon.

Kai and Duke Blackwood both suspected that Aldrin’s traps were less about inflicting casualties and more about wearing down their minds. The journey to Fort Valemount stretched over nearly half a week—enough time for fatigue and paranoia to take root. Even now, Kai could see it in their eyes: soldiers glancing over their shoulders, fingers twitching near their hilts as if the next ambush lurked behind every boulder.

To break that cycle, he did what commanders rarely did—he took to the sky. Every few hours, his silhouette cut through the clouds, a visible symbol that their leader still watched over them. From above, he’d call down short bursts of encouragement, reminding them that fear itself was Aldrin’s weapon and that they were too disciplined to fall for such tricks. His words weren’t grand or ceremonial; they were simply spoken with the same steady confidence that had carried them through Solmere.

It worked. Knowing the traps were meant to break their spirit—not their bodies—restored some sense of control. And control, Kai understood, was the thin thread that kept an army sane. The moment a soldier felt that thread slip, the mind began whispering of death—slow, inevitable death.

The nobles, too, did their part. Duke Blackwood rode among the ranks, speaking to captains and commoners alike, his tone firm but calm. Together they held the army’s morale steady until, at last, the land began to open up. The false traps ceased, and for the first time in days, the march felt unopposed.

Then they saw it.

Fort Valemount rose from the mountainside like a titan’s ribcage. Hewn directly into the rock, its walls weren’t built—he could tell that they were carved, shaped by decades of magic and labor until stone became a fortress. It was in the middle of two natural cliffs. Terraced battlements spiraled up the mountain’s face, each level dotted with watchtowers that shone due to the embedded seals. A waterfall cut down from the cliffs, its flow redirected through channels to power turbines and irrigation troughs far below.

The central keep jutted out like a spearhead, overlooking a vast courtyard large enough to hold a thousand soldiers in formation. Training rings, forge chimneys, and mana conduits lined the inner terraces. The entire structure radiated strength—a fortress built not just to defend, but to remind any who approached that this was a seat of power.

But Kai didn’t waver, they pushed on and raised a sprawling camp among the boulders. Canvas snapped in the wind. Cookfires smoked low. It wasn’t a fortress—just rocks and rope lines—but Earth Mages sank their palms to the ground, raising barricades in front of them, and Wind Mages stood on the taller stones, eyes narrowed, letting the air carry any hint of movement to them. Kai had the mana cannons hauled into gaps between the rocks, their barrels peeking out like dark eyes, while the crews that were assigned for them made sure it would work as planned.

There was no war council; they’d already argued and agreed on everything. Captains moved with quiet purpose, passing orders that needed only a nod. Kai still wanted words with Aldrin. After a short talk with Duke Blackwood, Kai stepped back, drew breath, and rose into the sky as he had at Fort Glaivegate.

He did not expect an easy win. [Solun] would have smothered a weaker hold, but the enemy Mages here would swat the spell structure apart before he could weave the cloud.

As he neared Valemount, the air rippled. A blue dome bloomed across the mountain, clear as ice and just as hard. Seals ran through it like veins. When Kai focused his mana sense, the pattern didn’t stop at the surface; the sealwork sank deep, rooting under the rock so no one could crawl up from below. Certainly not a ward you topple in an afternoon.

Figures waited on the wall. Aldrin stood at their center. Beside him was Lady Seraphine, a familiar figure he had met once. She had her hands folded in front of her and looked up at him. She had once been a polite guest. But now, she was a still blade at an enemy’s side.

Then he saw the man at her right.

Prince Vhailor was dressed like he was going to a ball. His robes flashed black and red with gold patterns running up; gems winked at his cuffs with every small move. He stood a half-step forward of everyone else, chin lifted, as if the wall were a stage built for him.

He watched Kai the way a duelist watches an opening—patient, amused, and sure in his victory. There were four Mages hugging the prince’s back like a second shadow; their hands twitched with mana and all of them looked at him with a smug expression.

Aldrin stepped forward when Kai drew close enough to touch the ward. His voice carried easily across the wind. “Duke Arzan, I don’t think words to make you surrender will work now.”

Kai met his eyes. “I can say the same about you,” he answered. “You’re making a grave mistake, bringing outsiders into our civil war. I won’t tell you to surrender—but you must understand what that choice means.”

Vhailor’s laugh cut the air sharply. “Alparca is family to Aldrin,” he said and turned to smile at the prince. “And if anyone’s making a mistake, it’s you.”

Kai glanced once at Vhailor, then turned his attention back to Aldrin. He tightened his jaw. “I thought you were smarter than your brothers,” he said slowly, “but perhaps you’re just like them after all. By the end of this fight you will know how wrong you are when you will be in your grave.”

Vhailor tried to answer again. “You will be the one who dies.”

Kai ignored him this time too and kept his voice level as he stared at the wards. “I hope your wards can hold what’s coming next.”

Aldrin’s mouth shaped into a small, confident smile. “They can hold more than you bring, Duke Arzan. There is still time to surrender. The kingdom’s finest Mage need not die. You never showed greed for the throne—Why start now?”

“Because none are worthy. You’ll plunge the kingdom—and the world—into ruins if you step foot on the throne.”

Vhailor barked out a laugh. “Big words from a man who’ll be dead before dusk.”

Despite being ignored multiple times, the man didn’t seem to give up. Kai finally turned to him, annoyance flashing on his face. “This… is between me and Aldrin. Outsiders should keep quiet… Or did Alparca’s royals never learn manners?”

Vhailor stepped forward. Kai saw his face flush immediately. “What did you say, you imbecile?”

Kai didn’t bother to lower his voice. “Do all you princes have one deaf ear that I need to repeat myself?”

The prince’s face burned red and a flicker of mana passed through his eyes. He looked as if he might leap the wall and close the distance with his fists. Aldrin slid a hand to his shoulder to hold him back, voice smooth. “Prince Vhailor is family. He has the right to speak.”

Kai’s mouth tightened. “Then speak better words. You’re a Mage, but you don't seem like you belong anywhere near a battlefield.”

Vhailor’s laugh died. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then show me.”

For a heartbeat there was only the wind and the distant hum of the ward. Then the prince’s mana answered him. It burst out like a struck bell—bright, loud, and sudden. It came from Vhailor first, a raw, hot current that flared around his gloves and climbed the gold threads in his robe. The Mages behind him answered in pieces, sleeves lifting, palms opening; their spells braided into a rush that made the air taste metallic.

Aldrin’s face went pale. Kai felt the shift of mana in the air and smiled. He pushed his mana onto his fingers beginning to form up a spell structure, noting how quickly young Mages bled into anger. They had force, yes, but little of the cautious personality that came with age and experience. Someone like Elias had learned that; these boys had not. Vhailor moved like a spoiled blade, far too eager to cut.

Part of it was probably because Vhailor’s Mage array gave him enough protection to believe he couldn’t die, no matter what Kai did. The arrogance fit him perfectly.

Mana kept pouring out of the prince and the Mages behind him, threads of blue and silver weaving through the air until a glowing pattern formed between them. Kai didn’t interfere. The ward’s dome would block any serious disruption, and it was better to study the array than waste mana.

He watched the array take shape slowly. It was crude work at max, rushed, but functional. As he suspected, Vhailor didn't seem like he could draw on his support Mages’ affinities. Instead, their mana only fed his reserves, turning him into a single, overcharged conduit. Twenty percent of their power went into forming a defense barrier—strong enough to shrug off most mid circle spells. The rest flooded into the prince himself.

Vhailor’s veins lit through his skin like molten lines. His grin grew wider and sharper, the kind of smile that came just before someone did something stupid. Beside him, Aldrin’s expression collapsed into horror. Whatever plan he’d prepared, this wasn’t it.

But it was too late.

Kai raised a hand, pulled a thread of mana together, and snapped out a flare spell. A sharp blue light tore into the sky. A signal for attack.

The ward flared a heartbeat later as Vhailor burst through it with four Mages in tow.

Lightning and water coiled around them, wrapping their bodies in a storm-bright armor. Bolts streaked toward Kai.

He slashed back, his [Wind Blades] meeting theirs midair.

The clash tore open the sky in a white explosion that rattled the mountainside and sent dust raining over the walls.

Kai surged higher, the wind at his feet kept him above the smoke just as an annoying voice spoke from behind. Kai didn’t need to look back to know who it was.

“Where are you running now?”

Dao of money Chapter 191

Chapter 191

Chen Ren opened his eyes inside the star-space.

The ground beneath him felt soft and calm. And above him, the sky stretched endlessly—a sea of black velvet studded with thousands of stars. He lay there for a moment, breathing in the quiet, letting the silence settle into his bones.

Then, his gaze rose toward the brightest cluster in the sky. Those weren’t just stars. They denoted his businesses.

The first star his eyes fell on was his noodle business. The first business he ever built. What was once a small stall in Cloud Mist City was now stretching its branches through the rest of the empire. They already had two branches opened, and there were plans for more.

Then there was the one star that shone brighter than the first one—the star for his perfume and clothing business.

What had started as a perfume business had expanded into a mall, and their clothing sections were now selling as much as the perfumes now. It was pulling steady profit and expanding, buying land for new branches in different cities. Mortal women across the empire were crazy for it, and even some female cultivators had taken interest, if Tang Yuqui's last report had to be believed.

Beside it glowed another star: his moonshine business. They had turned it into something every low-realm cultivator wanted a taste of, along with any rich mortal curious enough to try. It wasn’t spirit alcohol, but it was still spreading fast. They were already getting offers to supply clans in different regions, thanks to its success in Ashen City.

Chen Ren planned to turn it into true spirit alcohol one day. The problem was the recipe. Not even Qing He knew how to make it, and just pouring qi into wine wouldn’t work. According to what he had learned, the Emerald Sun Sect—the Guardian sect that was famous for alchemy kept the method locked down and only produced spirit alcohol for nobles and other sects.

Even Emperor Xian was a huge fan of it, apparently. Making something like that would push him into becoming one of the major alcohol businessmen in the empire, even if it drew flak from the Guardian Sect. But he wasn’t going to try making it right away. It was one of his future business plans.

He let his mind shake off those plans to focus on the business that was making him tons and tons of spirit stones: his pill business. He had thought about it for a long time before starting, and there were more than a few obstacles—he needed to create a completely different method of alchemy, hire more alchemists, had to deflect spies, and he even had to win an alchemy competition. He proved himself in each of these with tricks and schemes, and it was paying off big time. Not only did he have more than enough spirit stones to fund Jadefire Hall to create more unique pills, he also had enough for the rest of the sect to make progress at a fast pace.

And he knew that this was only going to increase as they moved into other cities with a strong rogue cultivator population. His time in Red Peak City had already proved that the pills he had were in high demand everywhere in the empire. He simply had to make use of it.

Other than those major businesses, there were more stars in the space—smaller and far dimmer. These were businesses that had been temporary but had still gathered a good amount of qi like his wolf fur and pelt business, which was now coming to an end, and the deals he had made in Red Peak City.

They had made him good money, but they weren’t solid businesses with a model that kept paying out on their own all year. Even so, with all the qi gathered in the stars, Chen Ren felt sure he could reach the foundation establishment realm soon.

And this is only the beginning.

There were more cities that waited for him, more rogue cultivators to make customers. More clans and sects to deal with.

Chen Ren smirked. His thoughts drifted towards how if he hadn’t spent so much qi calling the golden dragon, he would have even more in reserve. Though, rather than qi, the real issue was his star space.

He let his gaze trace each gleaming star in his star-space one more time, then turned away from them. Money, plans, influence—none of it mattered if his body cracked before his ambition reached its peak.

His eyes swept the ground. The fractures were still there, pale lines cutting through the space like thin frost on stone. But they no longer crawled or spread. They held and he hoped they were healing.

He exhaled slowly.

The dragon had said that his mind was strong, and he had already reached the second step of soul cultivation. What remained unfinished was his body that was still not truly aligned with the power he carried.

Once his body caught up, once all three pieces sat in harmony… he would be able to jump to the next realm.

He wondered what it would feel like.

Qi refinement was the starting point of what cultivation could offer; foundation establishment was the point right before the next set of middle realms. If he balanced his body with his mind and soul, he was sure he could blaze through quickly, especially with how much qi his businesses were generating right now. But that would come later.

He checked the cracks one last time, feeling the space breathe under his feet. It was steady and slowly improving.

Time to take the next step.

The next second, his form dissolved from the star-space. The stars dimmed, the ground fell away, and the weight of his physical body settled back around him.

Chen Ren blinked awake in his room in the Divine Coin Sect and stretched, joints popping one by one.

He cracked his neck at last. The immediate relief washed through his body to his toes.

His body still felt stiff from the long ride back from Red Peak City; being lazy and sleeping in the carriage the whole way had come with consequences. Once he returned, he hadn't gotten a moment of rest.

The first thing he had done on returning was hand the ivory slasher’s corpse to Qing He so she could prepare the beast bath. After that came reports—Xiulan’s updates on sect affairs, which had thankfully been stable—and he’d also used the opportunity to check up with her, truly ask how she’d been doing and what had been going on.

And then, he had also talked to Anji who had finally returned to the sect. She was now shut in her room, learning under Wang Jun’s strict guidance. He'd almost pitied her for that; then again, a little suffering now meant strength later.

And if anyone could bear with that head, it would be Anji, he was certain of it.

Only once those tasks were done did Chen Ren allow himself a little time. There were two things he needed to do.

First was to check his star space that he already did. And the second was to find the location of the hologram projected by the new medallion he had received from the Chen clan.

He reached into his robes and drew the second medallion out, rubbing his thumb over the cool metal. Honestly, it looked just like the first time. There was almost little to no difference between them.

He’d already bonded to it on the ride home like the way he had done the first time and as he pushed qi into it again, light bloomed.

A ghostly image rose before him, but unlike the first medallion, it was not mountains and wild landscape. Instead, a quiet hall took shape. Slanted rooftops with pale tiles. Carved eaves that caught wind. Statues of different beasts flanking stone steps.

It was the hologram of a sect building.

And not just any sect building.

The image floating above the medallion stretched upward like a mountain carved by gods—layer upon layer of soaring halls and terraces stacked toward the clouds. Even as a hologram, it felt immense. A sprawling spine of stone and jade rising so high the peak vanished into mist, like heaven itself had lent its stairs to it.

Roads wound around the structure in perfect order, wide enough to let entire armies march side-by-side. Bridges crossed between suspended courtyards. Outer rings of buildings leaned in perfect symmetry—training fields, pill pavilions, libraries, gardens glowing with faint qi. Towers arched like spears stabbing skyward, their roofs curved in sweeping traditional lines… yet the angles of some structures were sleek, straight, impossibly modern, as if someone mixed ancient cultivation architecture with the clean geometry of a modern city.

It shouldn’t have made sense. But it did. And the whole image screamed importance.

Even the projection made his skin tingle. That place could house thousands, maybe tens of thousands. It could hold entire cities within its walls. Cloud Mist City could surely fit inside it with room to spare.

A sect wealthy beyond measure. Grand beyond reason.

Which only made the problem worse.

According to Yalan, this sect building did not belong to any of the four Guardian sects. She had seen all of them in her long life, and none looked like this.

So if it wasn't one of them…

It might belong to one of the Established sects then, but Chen Ren didn't think that there was such an Established sect in the empire that was so wealthy.

His feelings and logic both told him that it was not an Established sect.

Then where in the heavens was the sect located?

Suddenly, he heard a sigh right behind him. “You’re staring at it again,” Yalan’s voice came, dry as ever. “I told you. This place isn’t in the empire.”

He blinked and half-turned. “Since when were you standing there?”

She padded forward from behind him, tail swaying casually, as if she hadn’t just snuck up on him like a silent shadow. “Just now,” she said. Her gaze rose to the projection, eyes narrowing in faint awe. “If a sect like this existed inside the empire, I would surely know of it.”

Chen Ren kept his eyes on the soaring halls. “We don’t even know what lies beyond the empire. Are there strong countries out there?”

“Not that I know,” Yalan said. “Small clans. Scattered tribes. Long stretches ruled by whoever can hold a spear without dying. Beasts are worse outside our borders. Some lands belong to… other races like the incestoids that love wide, stretching plains of land.”

“But this,” Chen Ren said, lifting the medallion a little, “is clearly human work. I can’t see any other race building something like this.”

“The medallion is old,” Yalan replied. “It could be showing a sect that no longer exists.”

He shook his head. “The first medallion showed the current terrain around Red Peak City. Why would this one show a historical sect that no longer exists?”

Yalan’s whiskers twitched. “Then it’s a mystery only the dragon in your star space can explain.”

Chen Ren snorted. “If he wakes up from his nap, that is. He sleeps more than cats.”

Yalan leveled a glare at him. “Do not compare cats to dragons. We are far better.”

“Oh?” Chen Ren raised a brow. “How so?”

“If we weren’t better, we’d be nearly extinct like the big scaled lizards,” she said, tail flicking. “We know how to stay low, pick our fights, and grow slowly. Patience is power. Dragons have no idea how to do that.”

He laughed, the sound slipping out before he could stop it. A picture flashed in his mind—cat spiritual beasts hiding in every city, quietly running the world from rafters and rooftops.

Yalan’s eyes narrowed into slits.

Chen Ren coughed, schooling his face.

That… was amusing. But his eyes went back to the medallion for one last time.

The phantom image of that towering sect shimmered… then faded as he cut off the qi. There were no answers, just more questions. But it was not like he could spend days wondering where it would be, and how to reach.

He had better things to do.

He slid the medallion back into his spatial ring and stood, stretching until his spine gave a soft crack.

Yalan tilted her head. “Where are you going?”

“To see Qing He.” He rolled his shoulders again. He could already imagine the pain creeping in. “She should’ve prepared the beast-blood bath by now. I want to break through bone refinement and get it over with. Then I can finally focus on other things.”

Yalan’s eyes gleamed with too much excitement for his comfort. “I’ll come. I believe I will enjoy it.”

He stared at her. “You sound suspicious.”

“I’m a cat,” she said, voice smooth. “Suspicious is natural.”

He decided that was not an argument worth entering and pushed open his door. The sect’s hallway buzzed with noise—disciples walking, talking, training in small clusters. The village had gifted them two extra buildings after the rising, and the sound of construction was everywhere as they were renovating those buildings to better suit the sect’s needs.

A few younger mortal disciples rushed past, but paused when they noticed him. They bowed, faces bright, before moving through the hallway.

The more he walked, the more people he saw, and some of them even paused to ask him questions on certain topics.

Chen Ren offered patient answers before he started walking again. It slowed him down—by the time he reached the rear courtyard, nearly half an hour had passed—but only a smile stretched on his lips. With the sect taking more and more people, mostly mortals, it felt more and more like a real sect.

That thought vanished the moment he stepped foot in the courtyard as the smell hit him.

The stench rolled across the courtyard like a swamp had married rotten herbs and died twice. A massive iron tub sat in the center, filled to the brim with thick, green liquid that bubbled like it wanted to escape. The fumes alone made Chen Ren’s stomach revolt.

“What the fuck is that?”

Yalan snickered beside him, tail swaying. “Oh yes. I will enjoy this.”

He shot her a flat look.

Qing He stood in front of the tub and she turned, hearing footsteps, sleeves rolled up, her expression far too proud for someone who had just brewed something that smelled like a mixture of melted corpses and week-old soup.

“Oh! You’re here,” she said brightly. “I was about to send someone to drag you over. The beast-blood bath is ready. Go on—dip in.”

Chen Ren stared at the cauldron of green agony.

Then at Qing He’s eager smile.

Then at Yalan’s barely-contained glee.

He felt his knees weaken at the thought of entering such an abomination. And he wondered just for a second if his star space was better off cracked.

Magus Reborn Chapter 298

Chapter 298

There were a wide variety of mana techniques that had been developed by the time Kai had become a Mage in his past life.

Centuries of war and survival had forced Mages to invent techniques that stretched the limits of what a Mage body could do. Some methods helped a Mage control their mana with more precision. Others strengthened the elements they wielded. Most people knew these from books or basic training.

But mana techniques could do more than just that. With centuries of research, Mages have taken inspiration from everything, including the wards around the city.

Instead of stone, instead of carved seals… one of these techniques used people as the material.

A human Mage array.

In such a formation, four Mages acted like supports—linking their Mana hearts together. All their energy, all their reserves, all their control… flowing straight into the one standing at the center.

One person worked together with many Mana hearts.

During the great wars in the history Kai knew, arrays like this made armies tremble. Kai had once heard of a hundred-man array fueling a single Archmagus—turning a normal battlefield into a crater before anyone could blink.

But techniques like that had too many risks. And Mages hardly wanted to act as batteries of one person, especially because repeated use of it could harm your Mana heart.

Kai had believed this era didn’t have the knowledge of Mage arrays. Yet Killian’s words had painted a different picture entirely.

So now, Kai stood before the gathered nobles and Mages, his face firm as he explained Mage arrays.

“As I said,” he said, voice ringing through the room, “when a human Mage array is active, all supporting Mages are feeding their mana directly into one person. That person becomes the core. In this case…” He tapped the drawing of the Alparcan prince. “Prince Vhailor.”

That created a quiet dread that spread toward every corner of the room.

For a brief second, no one spoke, no one even dared to breathe too loudly.

Kai let the idea settle over the room before continuing.

“It’s not just mana sharing,” he said quietly. “Some arrays can even transfer elemental affinity. If the members are trained correctly, the core Mage can borrow their elements—fire, water, earth—whatever is linked into the circle.”

Several nobles sucked in sharp breaths.

“It’s… more complex than I’m making it sound,” Kai added. “Arrays take years to master. Years of breathing in sync, casting in sync, getting their bodies used to the foreign mana. But once a group succeeds…” He tapped the sketch again. “…they gain an advantage that can change the outcome of any battle.”

A thick, heavy, and from what he saw, scared silence followed.

Most of the nobles kept staring at the table as if hoping the wood would give them a better answer. One Baron’s jaw trembled. Another wiped sweat from his brow. Duke Blackwood stayed composed, but his eyes were colder than before. Leopold, sitting besides his father, had gone pale as if someone had kicked the ground out beneath him. Killian didn’t look frightened—just distant, probably replaying every second of that near-death clash in his head.

Finally, Duke Blackwood spoke, voice calm and tight.

“So… the Alparcan Kingdom has held such a secret all this time.” He exhaled sharply. “I doubt even Archine Tower has successfully created such techniques.”

Kai shook his head. “They haven’t,” he said. “At least not that I know of.” He folded his arms. “If I had to guess? This isn’t a common Alparcan tactic. It’s a royal secret. Something taught only to a handful of Mages—those who have sworn mana oaths directly to the crown.”

He didn’t mention that centuries in the future, arrays would be so common that even small militias could form crude versions. He didn’t mention that he had the knowledge to create one right now if he wanted to.

The reason he hadn’t?

Because an array only became deadly when those inside it knew each other’s breathing rhythm, casting rhythm, mana rhythm. It took years of training together, and Kai had not had years to spare. Especially when he was advancing so fast.

So he let that part stay silent.

“So how do we even fight something like that?” Leopold asked, sucking his cheek. “A fourth-circle prince is already terrifying. But with a whole array behind him… wouldn’t that make him as strong as a Magus?”

Kai met his eyes. “Stronger,” he said. “Arrays don’t only share mana. They could also generate a collective shield around everyone linked. It forces them to stay within a fixed distance of each other. They move as one. Think of the prince as the core… and the others as the circuits feeding power into him. I don't think they used that against Killian, but they will against me.”

Duke Blackwood leaned forward, brows knit deep.

“And if we kill one of these support Mages,” he asked, “the array breaks?”

Kai shook his head.

“No. It weakens… but doesn’t break. To truly shatter an array, you either kill the conduit—the prince—or remove half the Mages supplying him. Anything less and the bond holds.”

He tapped the parchment showing the prince’s sketch.

“And that,” he said, “is exactly why it’s so dangerous. Most Mages alive today don’t even know arrays are possible. I doubt the Archine Tower has ever studied one involving Mages. And if the Alparcan royals had kept this secret…” His jaw tightened. “…then few people in the world have ever tried—much less succeeded—in breaking one.”

Killian’s voice came low and bitter. “That explains why he came at us like a lunatic,” he said. “Charging alone. He thinks no one alive can touch him.”

“He doesn’t think,” Kai replied. “He knows.”

The room went quiet again. The nobles looked pale as if Prince Vhailor was going to attack them right this instant. Then Duke Blackwood turned to Kai fully, eyes sharp.

“But you, Arzan,” he said. “You recognized the technique. You must have seen it before or at least read about it. That must mean you know how to break it.”

Dozens of eyes turned toward Kai at once, hope and dread mixed together. Kai lifted a hand to his head, fingers scraping through his hair as he thought. The truth wasn’t comforting. He knew a few counter techniques and each of them needed at least three Mages to counter. One to shield, two to strike—each from a different angle till the array starts to break.

It was a very tight formation. But Kai knew no Mage who could fly among his forces.

Kai let his eyes run through the table one more time. The nobles looked anxious especially as his gaze moved across them. Kai wasn't looking at them. He was evaluating the Mages. Even if there were Wind Mages in the room, none was on the third circle. Only one at that circle was Ryn Vorr, the Water Mage that served Duke Blackwood. Due to his affinity, he wouldn’t know how to fly.

Therefore, if Kai had to break an array that sailed above the field, he would be doing it almost alone. Drones could help—they were small, and fast and were able to carry out attacks, but they were fragile. It was a good tactic if it worked, but there were more chances for it failing in seconds.

Still, when every pair of eyes in the room fixed on him Kai did the thing leaders did best: he smiled like it was nothing. “Yes. I can break it.”

Relief leaked out of the room. Leopold let his shoulders drop and exhaled. Other nobles shifted, faces loosening. They trusted his words, and that was all he needed for now. But only Killian and Duke Blackwood kept their tension. Killian’s jaw stayed tight. Duke Blackwood’s hands stayed folded, the map’s edge creased into his palm as he stared at him. Kai saw the questions on their faces but moved on before they could speak. “I will handle Prince Vhailor and the Array Mages myself,” he said. “If he wants a fight, he will get one. You all need to make sure the siege plan continues.”

A Viscount nodded. “We have worked the layouts. We can hold the lines and force them to follow the plan.”

Duke Blackwood pushed a parchment across the table and flattened it. The sketch showed Fort Valemount in plain, cruel lines. It hugged the mountain like a knot. Terraced walls climbed the slope in three tight rings, each ring higher and narrower than the last. Towers jutted from the cliffs, arrow slits cut like teeth, and a single choke point—a stony causeway—fed up to the main gate. Small outworks dotted the lower ridges, and the artist had shaded bands of seals around the inner wall to mark wards.

Duke Blackwood met Kai’s eyes. “It was carved to be held,” he said. “Built into rock, with natural cliffs on two sides. No broad field to throw men into. Wards along every parapet. This is one of the hardest places in the kingdom to break.” He tapped the sketch. “So we do what we can. We hit it hard where it is weakest, hard enough for it to crack.”

***

The meeting ran for hours. Plans, maps, arguments—until finally they ran out of words. Kai was the first to leave and Killian showed him an empty chamber in the Count’s estate. Once the Knight left, he didn’t bother to straighten the blankets. He fell across the bed and let sleep take him.

His body had been running on a thin thread for days. He had pushed until his chest felt hollow. Sleep had been a stranger these past weeks with him constantly flying around; when it came, it came all at once.

He did not know how long he slept. When he opened his eyes, a strip of morning sunlight colored the far wall. He blinked, shook the last of the dream loose, and remembered where he was. The meeting’s memories came back at once, and he realised he would be fighting a Mage array soon.

Kai’s mouth tightened. He sat up slowly and let a hand rest on his knees. Taking an array alone—his master would have called it suicide.

He had accepted the task for two reasons: there was no other way, and he believed he would be fighting a weaker version of the array he knew of.

Mana arrays could be built to share power and, in some cases, to shift affinities between linked Mages. That made them dangerous on a different level than ordinary spells, but sharing affinities was far harder. And something that was only developed in the second golden era of magic. That did not make him careless. Even a half-assed Mage array could be difficult to fight against.

He could brute-force it. Smash the barrier around the Mages by using all of his reserves, then kill them off. That was actually a solid approach if one has a lot of mana to spare. But that method shared a major problem.

He would be vulnerable after that.

If he went all-in on destroying the array, that left his defenses stretched thin. Even if he killed Prince Vhailor, he would be left with very little mana and in that case, if Aldrin attacked him somehow after that, he wouldn't be able to hold on for long.

It would be a fast death. A foolish one.

He frowned, rubbing the bridge of his nose—

Then something clicked.

A single puzzle piece that refused to fit before suddenly fell into place. His eyes widened. The drowsiness he’d been fighting vanished as if someone had poured cold water over his mind.

He finally understood Aldrin’s plan. Not just the array and Prince Vhailor. The trap with Caelond Kingdom.

Kai sat up at once, heart pounding—not from fear, but from the thrill of solving a threat before it arrived. He swung his legs off the bed, ready to—

Knock knock.

Killian’s voice came muffled through the wooden door.

“Lord Arzan, it’s me. If you are awake… May I enter? I wanted to speak with you about something, if I’m not disturbing you.”

Kai stared at the door a moment, then crossed the room and opened it.

Killian stood there in full plate armor, helmet tucked under his arm, his hair damp with sweat. He must have come straight from weapons drills. The man trained as if every battle could be his last.

Kai stepped aside, gesturing. “If this is about breakfast,” he said, voice dry, “you have perfect timing. I might faint without it.”

Killian huffed a small laugh and walked in. “Actually… no. But yes, you should eat. The cooks here are surprisingly good. Better than most in the capital. But I’m here for a different reason.”

Kai shut the door behind him, mind still racing with the realization he’d just had. But when he saw the Knight's face, he forced himself to focus.

“You looked… far away in the meeting,” Killian said quietly. “Like you were saying things for the sake of it. That’s why I came. About the array, you said you’d handle it, and I don’t doubt you, Lord Arzan. But if you’re not certain, we can—”

Kai cut him off with a short, tired smile. “I can take the array. Even if I haven’t seen this exact one in person, I know the technicalities of one well enough. It’ll be bloody, but I have tricks. I won't be taken down on borrowed strength.”

He let his words hang a beat, then his face hardened. “The problem isn’t whether I can kill the prince. It’s the trap around the whole thing.”

Killian’s brow knitted together. “There’s a possibility of a trap?”

Kai laughed. “Not a possibility, Killian. It’s done. Aldrin set it already. A simple trap—simple enough to be invisible until it snaps. If he pulls it, I don’t think I will make it out of the whole thing.”

Killian’s gaze sharpened and he spoke in a low voice. “Then what do we do, my lord?”

Kai’s answer came slowly and carefully. “We use a favour.”

“A favour?”

“Yes.” Kai crossed the room, gripping the back of a chair as if the motion steadied him. “It’s a good time to use it. Aldrin has friends, and we need to show him that we do too. Let me explain…”

Dao of money Chapter 190

Chapter 190

Princess Yanyue flipped through the pages of a book she had already read thousands of times, letting her fingers trace lines she could recite from memory. She paused on the passages that always hooked her, reading them again even though she knew every single word. It wasn’t because the writing was beautiful, or because the story felt epic. It was because every part of it was real.

That wasn’t a storybook. It was a journal.

She had noticed it the very first time she read it—the authenticity in the rough handwriting, some lines smudged and rewritten in a hurry, places where grammar slipped and words were misspelled or written over. Whoever wrote it had been a commoner, clearly someone who had learned to read and write not long before recording his experiences. But that only made it more compelling. She was fascinated by what he had gone through in a place that felt like another world itself so much that it didn’t even feel real.

The Pagoda of Eternity.

Many scholars and nobles used to laugh at the rumors of its existence. They called it fantasy, a myth for adventures and bored cultivators to chase. But they weren’t laughing anymore. Not after what happened months ago, when the pagoda had revealed itself. Now, from the Guardian sects to nobles, they were all clamoring to get their hands on what lay inside.

But none of them truly understood or knew the truth of it like her.

And Princess Yanyue had no intention of sharing it, not with the Guardian Sects, not with anyone else. Opportunity like this came once in a thousand lifetimes. Whoever entered the Pagoda with its knowledge… might never have to bow before anyone again.

The problem was that Yanyue knew one simple truth: despite being a princess, she wasn’t strong enough to get what she wanted inside the pagoda.

Titles, bloodline, imperial seals—none of it mattered there. Only strength and wit would decide fate. And while she had both, she did not have enough of either to secure what she wanted alone. She had already gathered capable subordinates—cultivators hand-picked to follow her into the pagoda. Loyal, ambitious, hungry. But even then, her instincts kept whispering the same thing:

She needed him.

The person best suited for the pagoda. The one who she had been interested in for quite some time already.

The Dragonheart.

Yanyue closed the book, fingers tightening slightly over the worn cover. Ever since Haoran had mentioned that name and his achievements, she had been intrigued. It had taken her only one heartbeat to realize how important he might be, especially in a place like the pagoda. Someone who might be able to enter deeper than anyone alive, purely on the basis of the dao he followed.

And yet… she had barely been able to find anything about him after that. Haoran had vanished instead of sending her information like she had tasked him to.

There were other sources in other cities that had given her more information—like her men in Broken Ridge City, where the Dragonheart was last seen—but nothing from the guy she’d tasked to gather information. That became frustrating as time passed and no response came.

Frustration turned to concern when she considered another explanation: maybe he had fallen to the beast rising. She grew worried just thinking about it. But that suspicion proved false when she got one of her other subordinates to send a message to him about her moving to meet the Dragonheart herself.

The only way she’d managed that was through a cultivation technique, and, sadly, all she knew was that Haoran had received it.

At least he was alive. That was a relief.

But that didn’t make her wait for a response.

She had to take things into her own hands, and that was why she was in Cloud Mist City, moving through its streets.

Princess Yanyue peeked out of the carriage window as they rolled through the main road, and her brows lowered slightly. The reports she had received were not exaggerations. Cloud Mist City truly had suffered. Even with the Soaring Sword Sect right beside it, the scars of the beast rising were obvious. Fewer people filled the streets compared to her last visit, and she had already noted the damaged walls upon entering the gates.

Her spies had whispered rumours about internal strife inside the Soaring Sword Sect, and seeing the city's current condition only confirmed it. If the sect had been functioning properly, Cloud Mist City wouldn’t look like it had barely survived. Sloppy management, she thought. Or divided leadership. Both were good signs for her plans, in their own ways.

She would learn more soon enough. City Lord Li Baolong owed her his loyalty—she would squeeze the truth out of him the moment they sat down. She wondered how he would react when he saw her here without warning. The last time they met had been three years ago, at a gala in the capital. He had been there with his son, Li Xuan, and since then, he had proven himself a reliable supporter. She simply had been too busy to visit more often.

Satisfied with her quick scan of the streets, Yanyue leaned back inside the carriage and returned her attention to the journal on her lap. She still had a few pages left in this chapter, and she wanted to finish them before arriving at the city lord’s place. Her eyes traced familiar lines, rereading certain descriptions of treasures and battles she already knew by heart. The pagoda details still fascinated her, even after so many reads. The handwriting, the errors, the rushed strokes—all of it made her heart tingle for some reason.

She was so absorbed that she didn’t notice how much time passed until a firm knock tapped on the carriage door.

She blinked, closing the journal with one hand before opening the door. One of her guards stood there, bowing.

“Princess Yanyue, we have arrived. City Lord Li Baolong has been notified and we have secured a direct passage inside.”

Yanyue nodded once, composed as always. “Good. I hope he has kept some of his tea ready.”

The tall guard looked up to scan her face for the briefest moment and spoke. “I can send a runner to have the tea prepared.”

Yanyue lifted a hand and waved it off. “No need.”

She eased out of the carriage, movements steady. Before stepping fully away, she slid the journal into a hidden compartment built right below her seat. Her fingers hovered for a moment, then she took off a ring and set it inside as well. She didn’t need it here. Not with City Lord Li Baolong.

She closed it and pressed her qi into the latch. A faint click answered her touch—only she could open it now. Even if the carriage burned down, the lock would stay intact.

Then she straightened and scanned her surroundings: her guards were already lined up. Though they were silent, she knew that they were alert enough to move at any given time.

Good. She nodded once and walked. They moved with her without needing a command. There were two guards to her front and three in the back.

The entrance they used was from behind—an area ordinary citizens would never see. This path was meant for nobles, and people whose presence was better kept away from crowds.

Stairs rose ahead. Her guards led the way up them. When the stairs were over, she noticed the place was exactly as she remembered. Same pillars. Same patterns carved into the archways. Same paintings on the hall walls. No renovations, no new decorations. It was refreshing.

Most nobles changed their estates often to show wealth or simply to not get bored. But Li Baolong never bothered with that. He was the same as ever—he was reliable, predictable, and someone who wouldn’t change sides just because of greed. That was a little part of why she liked him as a supporter.

They walked through long hallways. Her guards stepped ahead to part the way, and estate guards pressed to the walls as she passed. At the final double-door, two of those estate guards froze for a breath when they saw her—nervous and bowing stiffly with quick glances at her escort. They pushed the doors open, shoulders tense.

Yanyue didn’t spare them another look. She crossed into the room.

City Lord Li Baolong stood waiting. His posture was disciplined, his face composed, but she caught the new streaks of gray in his hair now.

The moment his eyes met hers, he bowed deeply.

“Princess Yanyue. I, Li Baolong, greet the moon of the royal family. I was not informed of your arrival.”

She gave a small, warm smile which was a carefully measured courtesy. “It’s fine, City Lord Li Baolong. Fate wanted this meeting.” She paused, letting the weight of that settle before adding, “How have you been?”

“Good, Princess. Things have been a little rough, but we’re managing.”

“I saw that while my carriage moved through the city. To be honest, I wasn’t planning to come to this part of the empire. I was heading toward the Corpse Lands.”

City Lord Li Baolong’s eyes glinted at her mention of the Corpse Lands. “The Pagoda of Eternity.”

“Yes. You already know I have a great interest in it.”

“I do.” He gestured toward the seating area. “Why don’t we sit?”

She moved with calm grace, taking her place on the cushioned seat. Her guards remained behind her, silent and still like statues, forming a respectful wall between her and the rest of the hall.

A servant from the side stepped forward to pour tea. The light brown liquid gave away a smell that only said one thing: Good tea. Yanyue accepted the cup with a nod. She was usually indifferent toward tea, but Li Baolong’s supply was exceptional—one of the few luxuries she genuinely appreciated. She lifted it, inhaled briefly, then took a measured sip.

Li Baolong watched politely, then spoke. “I expected your visit to be one of your usual inspections, Princess. Not about the Pagoda of Eternity.”

She let out a soft, amused exhale. “I have stopped those inspections. My father was not pleased with me overturning city after city simply because their lords failed at the one duty they are entrusted with.” Her gaze sharpened slightly. “If he let me do the same to sects… I doubt the sects would be pleased either.”

Li Baolong chuckled, stroking his goatee. “In an unjust world, no one likes a just person.”

“Wise words as always, City Lord Li Baolong.”

They shared a brief understanding look, before she took another sip from the cup.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I am here.”

He nodded. “I assume it is not merely to greet an old supporter.” Then his expression shifted slightly. “Is it to take Li Xuan with you? He is already preparing to enter the Pagoda under the Soaring Sword Sect’s banner.”

“That will be good for him,” she replied, unbothered. “But I am not here for that.”

He raised a brow, already questioning why she was here and she continued. “I believe one of my subordinates met with you months ago. Haoran.”

Recognition flickered in Li Baolong’s eyes. “Yes. I met him. I sent him toward Meadow Village. He was looking for Chen Ren.” A faint, wry smile touched his lips. “You know he started a sect there? My son visited briefly before returning to the Soaring Sword Sect. He had nothing but praise for it.”

Princess Yanyue set the cup down, steam curling between them. “I’ve heard things about his sect as well,” she said. “But Haoran never sent me a single report on Chen Ren. I almost assumed he was dead until very recently.”

Li Baolong’s brows knit. “Do you think he was caught?”

“Probably.” Her tone stayed even. “If he was, then Chen Ren is more efficient than I expected.”

Li Baolong gave a short laugh. “It might not be him.”

She glanced up. “What do you mean?”

“Elder Qing He left Cloud Mist City months ago to live in his sect,” he said. “She could have easily found a spy. And Li Xuan also mentioned a few… interesting people he met there.”

Yanyue’s fingers curled in a fist at the mention of Qing He. She lifted the cup and took a calm sip to hide the sudden rush of thoughts. It had been years since they last met in person. She was twelve the last time she had seen her. After that, she had sent letters, but had only heard about her retirement from the immortal world.

“Why did she leave for that sect?” Yanyue asked.

Li Baolong shrugged. “I don’t know. Likely her own interests. Every old cultivator is hard to read, you know that.” He suddenly hesitated, then decided to press. “I don’t question your decisions, Princess. But… Why are you personally interested in Chen Ren enough to come here yourself? That is not your usual method. You recruit through others, not in person.”

Yanyue held his gaze and replied without missing a beat. “Because this time, I can’t afford a middleman. Haoran already failed, and I don't want to send someone else. Things are dire right now, and I believe he can help me with the Pagoda.”

“How so?” Li Baolong asked.

How so. That was a question that demanded a precise answer. But it also meant that she would have to tell things she was not planning to expose to anyone.

For a brief second, she weighed just how much to reveal.

Li Baolong was a reliable subordinate, who’d gotten her trust throughout the years. He was reliable, and someone who wouldn’t turn on her. Moreover, if she spoke about it openly, that still wouldn’t harm her chances in the Pagoda.

Li Baolong took the silence as a moment she needed to think and kept his eyes on her, patiently waiting.

Yanyue cleared her throat.

“You know I’ve been interested in the Pagoda for a long time, right?”

Li Baolong nodded. “I know. Even when court officials rejected the claim that it existed, you were firm it was true. To be honest, I would’ve loved to see the faces of those old bastards when the news of the Pagoda rising came out.”

Yanyue allowed herself a thin smile. “Trust me—when I spoke to them after, I wanted my men to draw those expressions.” Her smile faded the next second, and her tone turned serious. “You want to know why Chen Ren could help me with the Pagoda, right? Then listen, all the knowledge I have about it comes from one book. And I believe Chen Ren might be the one person who can reach the highest known floor of the Pagoda. Let me tell you why…”

Dao of money Chapter 189

Chapter 189

As Chen Ren’s carriage rolled out of the sinkhole’s outskirts and onto the lonely road leading away from Red Peak City, someone tracked each of his movements from far away.

Chen Eain.

He had finally recovered enough to stand—a shaky, painful sort of recovery, but enough to walk again. He didn’t dare go near the sinkhole where the qi was thick; he had a gut feeling that Renjie would sense him the moment he stepped close. So Eain had stayed in the city, watching everything with a family artifact.

And everything he had seen… everything he had learned… left him chilled to the bone.

If he hadn’t witnessed it with his own eyes, he would have laughed it off as nonsense.

The Chen clan's banished waste helping the Yu clan break their way deeper into the sinkhole? The same boy who once was thrown out of the city was now dealing pills that all the clans fought to buy? Pills that his father couldn't stop praising?

Impossible. Maddening. Fucking Infuriating.

The way he had found it out was way worse.

As soon as he could drag himself upright a week ago, he had sent spies crawling through every inn and alley to find out who this “Renjie” was—this supposed master alchemist’s disciple who had ruined his expedition and reputation. His grudge with the Yu clan could wait; his dantian still ached with every breath, and he could barely circulate qi without coughing blood.

So his hatred looked for an easier target. The root of the humiliation—Renjie.

He wanted to know what kind of man he needed to kill.

But then his spies reported him heading toward the Lingtang, walking quietly beside that strange cat-beast. Eain’s brows had knotted. Who went into the Lingtang without having someone to pay respects to? Did the man have a connection with someone in Red Peak City?

Family? Friend? He didn't know, but he decided to follow him himself, especially after getting the report of the man's carriage being seen at the city gates.

Once the carriage stopped at the line to go out of the city, Eain made a quick decision. Following on foot was pointless. He won't be able to move fast without his qi anyway. Instead, he quickly headed towards his estate to pick something up, then moved swiftly toward one of the sentinel watchtowers at Red Peak’s walls. The guards never questioned him—he was still Young Master Chen Eain, after all—so they simply stepped aside and bowed as he climbed up.

He brought a treasured artifact with him: an Eagle Eye Lens, a polished golden spyglass etched with runes that allowed sight for thousands of miles into the distance. He only needed a general direction, then he could dispatch mercenaries he trusted to keep Renjie under tight watch. A man selling such rare pills would never remain hidden for long; the pills would almost make a splash and attract attention.

He knew that well.

He set up the lens against the watchtower railing, eyes narrowing as the image sharpened… and then widened.

Renjie and his small group had not moved toward the outer roads heading into this plains like he expected. Instead, they made for the sinkhole.

That wasn’t shocking by itself. His father had said Renjie was a decent cultivator, and alchemists always needed materials. Hunting beasts for alchemy materials, that made sense.

But then—

As Renjie stepped off the carriage, he was holding a severed head.

Eain froze.

A. Severed. Fucking. Head.

A cold jolt shot through him as he pressed the lens harder against his eye, trying to focus. The carriage roof and the movement made it hard to see clearly, but he knew what he saw.

Was he always traveling with a severed human head? Why was he carrying it like a trophy?

Demonic cultivators did things like that. Cultivators that had lost the way and now walked wicked paths. People who should be burned alive under the sun.

His stomach knotted with a creeping sense of unease.

Then as he watched, Renjie leaped straight into the sinkhole with that spirit beast cat beside him. The others gathered the head back into the carriage as if it were normal.

It wasn’t normal.

Nothing about this man and his group was normal.

Chen Eain’s grip tightened on the spyglass until his knuckles cracked.

If Renjie was tied to demonic practices… If he was building power through such cursed practices, then Chen Eain’s humiliation in the sinkhole, his injuries, his disgrace before his clan—

It all made a terrifying kind of sense.

That had been the moment Chen Eain’s spine went cold.

By then, he was already convinced he was watching demonic cultivators in disguise. Why else would a wandering alchemist carry around a severed head like a treasured artifact? Why else would they speak so casually beside the sinkhole—feeding on lizard beast meat under a fire’s glow like barbarians? He had always found those beast disgusting to even touch, much less eat. Crude campfire cooking, no hint of even using salt… every sight made his lip curl further.

Savages. Devourers of anything that moved. Definitely not righteous.

He had nearly rushed back to inform his father—his heart pounding with imagined merit—when Renjie and the cat spirit beast finally emerged from the sinkhole.

And his world tilted.

The man who stepped out was not Renjie. Not a stranger. Not a hired alchemist.

No, those sharp brows and narrowed eyes belonged to someone Chen Eain knew better than he wished.

It was Chen Ren.

The trash his clan had thrown away. The failure who had vanished without leaving a ripple.

For a heartbeat, Chen Eain thought his mind was broken from fatigue or that the healer had missed a head injury. He ripped his gaze away from the artifact, sucked a breath through his teeth, and dared another look.

Still he saw the same face.

Still Chen Ren… walking confidently in Renjie’s clothes.

And the others—the cat, the two man, the severed head—accepted it as if nothing had changed. They greeted him with the same respect they’d shown Renjie.

Which meant… They knew.

Chen Ren had changed his face. Chen Ren had infiltrated the clan. Chen Ren had fooled everyone.

Had he turned to demonic arts after his banishment? Had he returned to drag the Chen Clan into the abyss? Were those pills—supposedly unique and efficient—actually poison meant to rot them from within?

But the pills passed his grandfather’s tests. They strengthened the Yu Clan and helped them reach deeper into it. So then—

What was the bastard planning?

Chen Eain’s breath turned shaky. His palms sweated against the artifact. Every answer led only to darker questions.

So many questions slammed inside Chen Eain’s skull that he thought his head might split open. His first instinct was to storm down the tower, chase Chen Ren, and tear answers out of him with his own hands.

But reality clenched around his heart like a vice.

He could barely circulate qi without feeling his dantian scream. He could barely stand against wind stronger than a breeze. If he confronted Chen Ren now… he would die.

He knew that truth far too well. Heavens hated geniuses, especially ones like him. He was sure of it. They waited for any moment of arrogance to send a punishing strike.

So what could he do?

Chen Ren had already slipped away from Red Peak City. Even the heavens seemed to help that bastard now.

Rage twisted into helplessness. He wanted to cut Chen Ren apart—piece by piece—after realizing he was the one who had empowered the Yu Clan… who had caused Chen Eain’s humiliation in the sinkhole… who might have even plotted his death.

They must have known his delving schedule. They must have waited for him to fall into the trap.

But if Chen Ren was truly a demonic cultivator, then he was not alone. He had a backing—strong enough to produce those terrifying pills. Strong enough to fool two clans at once. And Chen Clan’s elders, even his father, were already praising the man’s miracle pills.

Would they ever listen to him? To the injured disgrace who got himself beaten half-dead?

No. Not a chance.

Chen Eain shut his eyes, forcing his breath into a steady rhythm. Ideas rose—wild, desperate, foolish—and he crushed them one by one. His hatred begged for blood, but his instincts screamed for caution.

Down below, wheels creaked over stone. Chen Ren’s carriage rolled farther and farther away… until even the artifact, with its thousand-mile sight, could no longer trace him.

Chen Eain finally tore his gaze away. His jaw tightened. His teeth ground until his gums hurt.

He turned to the city guard who had been standing quietly beside him.

“Tell the guard captain I said thanks,” he muttered, voice rough. “I’ll be leaving now.”

The guard bowed, clueless to the storm boiling inside him.

Chen Eain descended the watchtower in uneven strides. Each step sent a sharp sting across his core, a reminder of how close his dantian had come to collapsing. The healers had warned him—walk slowly, breathe evenly, do not strain yourself.

He ignored almost all of that.

Pain gnawed behind his ribs, yet his mind burned hotter.

Chen Ren.

His face—his disguise—his schemes. The reason his body now felt like a broken shell.

Chen Ren had taken his revenge fully. He had almost crippled Chen Eain, humiliated him, and fled the city under a different name.

And Chen Eain? He was too weak to even walk without wincing.

The taste of that truth was more bitter than blood.

He moved with a stiff gait through the streets. Buildings blurred past as his thoughts spiraled. The clan would not believe him—why would they? To them, Chen Ren was a name of the past, and he had no proof other than his words that Renjie and him were the same person. They wouldn’t accept that he was a danger… let alone a demonic cultivator.

How do I chase someone so far out of my reach? How do I kill someone who vanished into the night? How do I bring him down… when even walking hurts?

He didn’t know when he entered the Chen Estate. The guards recognized him at once, bowing and pushing open the gates without a word. That snapped him back to reality, and he forced his breathing steady as he made his way deeper into the compound.

He stopped only when he reached a familiar courtyard.

His father was there, as always, sword in hand—polishing the blade with a care that bordered on devotion. Chen Chenglei lifted his head the moment he sensed a presence. Concern flashed across his expression the instant he saw his son.

“Eain? You should be resting.”

After the incident in the sinkhole, Chen Chenglei’s concern had become suffocating. Guards shadowed Chen Eain wherever he went. Servants reported his meals, his sleep, even his bathroom timings. Even stepping outside required a reason, and even today, he had to sneak out.

But this conversation could not wait.

Chen Eain paused, forcing calm into his breath before speaking.

“Father, are you free?”

At once, his father paused polishing the sword and gestured him in.

“Yes. Come. You just returned from a walk?”

“I did.” Chen Eain nodded lightly. “I feel much better now.”

A relieved smile tugged at his father’s lips. “That’s good. It seems the healers’ concoctions are helping.” His gaze sharpened. “But why are you here? You don’t intend to speak about entering the sinkhole again, correct? If so—forget it. You are barred from that place until you step into the foundation establishment realm.”

Chen Eain reflexively pressed his lips together. He hated being barred from something, hated being treated like a fragile vase. But he wasn’t here to argue for a suicide return. He knew better than that. Revenge against the Yu clan would come, but not when he was so weak.

So he shook his head.

“I’m not here to ask about the sinkhole.” His tone was steady. “I understand. The clan war is heating up. I must stay out of unnecessary danger.”

Chenglei nodded approvingly. “Good. Father was right. A defeat can teach more than a victory. You finally see your limits.”

Chen Eain lowered his gaze for a heartbeat, then lifted it again with a sharper light.

“I do,” he admitted. “But I also want to expand them. Because what good will they be if they’re holding me.. back?”

Chen Chenglei’s brows drew together. “What do you mean by ‘expand them’? I’m not letting you exhaust your dantian. If that’s your idea, forget it. Go and rest.”

Chen Eain clenched his fists at his sides. The truth clawed at his throat—Chen Ren is alive. Chen Ren is Renjie. Chen Ren is a demon wearing our bloodline’s skin. He wanted to scream it. He wanted his father to rally the clan, to hunt, to kill.

But he knew exactly how that would go.

They would not believe him.

The Chen Clan would not move against Chen Ren until he had proof. Solid proof. And there was no way to get it.

So he forced a calmer answer and said the one thing that might help him kill Chen Ren.

“I want to go on a cultivation journey.”

The polishing cloth slipped from Chenglei’s fingers. “A journey? Now? When your dantian is still unstable?”

“Precisely because it is.” Chen Eain stepped forward, voice low and tight. “Red Peak City is a battlefield. The clans won’t hesitate to send assassins if they learn I’ve recovered even slightly. It's too dangerous in the city.” He let the implication hang. “So, I should secretly get out to the outside world where they won't focus. I will broaden my experience. When I return, I will surely have stepped into the foundation establishment realm.”

His father’s jaw tensed. “You can barely circulate qi. How will you survive wilderness travel? I will not send you to your death.”

“I don’t need to go alone,” Chen Eain pressed quickly. “Send guards. Send as many as you wish, at least until my body fully recovers. After that, I will dismiss them and continue my journey properly. I want to learn beyond these walls. I need to grow under the vast sky—not sit like a sick dog waiting for strength to return.”

Silence fell thick as stone.

Chen Chenglei studied him, staring into his eyes—Chen Eain knew what he saw; the stubborn determination, the burning humiliation hidden beneath his calm. That kind of determination was something his father had, now passed onto him. Just like he expected, slowly, his resistance wavered.

“…Where do you intend to go first?”

Chen Eain allowed himself a small, confident smile.

“Cloud Mist City. I’ve always wanted to see it. And our clan has business partners there. It is a safe start.”

But the true reason burned deeper. Chen Ren had once screamed his dreams loud enough for the entire clan to mock before leaving: I’ll join the Soaring Sword Sect! You’ll all regret doubting me!

Cloud Mist City was the place he would have gone to first. It was the obvious place to dig up his secrets. To find out what had happened to him, find his strength and weaknesses, and then to kill him.

Magus Reborn Chapter 297

Chapter 297

The border strongholds fell faster than Kai had ever planned for.

Stone walls that should have held for weeks had folded in days. Towers meant to rain spells and arrows for months now flew his banners instead. At first, he counted that as a blessing. The quicker he crushed the border resistance, the sooner he could turn the full force of his army towards Aldrin.

It should have felt like victory.

Instead, a cold prickle lived in the back of his mind, refusing to leave.

All the forts were taken. Eldovar fell as easily as them, and none of the Mages and soldiers stationed there was able to stand against him.

But when Kai walked the ramparts of the city that evening, staring out across the dark plains stretching toward the heart of the Caelond kingdom, he knew something wasn’t right.

This was too easy.

Every captured soldier he questioned stammered out the same worthless things. The Mages who should’ve known better? They choked in panic, swearing they had no knowledge of Aldrin’s dealings with Caelond.

Which was a lie. A clumsy one.

His Watchers had uncovered enough to prove there was communication. There had been for a while and with Aldrin's men having the border region, it wouldn't be hard to do so. But he had no idea if they had failed in the end and if they hadn't, what was the plan?

He felt like they were waiting and preparing. Setting the board while he moved straight into the center of it.

History made one thing very clear: Caelond was hungry. They’d battled Vanderfall across the sea for years—fighting for ports, influence, and more territory. Why would they ignore a civil war right next door? Especially when Lancephil’s fall could open up more territory and resources for them?

And from what he was able to gather about their Mages, they had a council of them running the kingdom with a Magus that sat on top of it. It made perfect sense for them to be interested in the Lancephil war, especially with news of Veridia being crippled.

Yet Caelond did nothing.

No sudden armies marching across the border. No cloaked Mages slipping into his territory. Not even a threat—just a polite letter sent to Fort Glaivegate when they had taken over it, that implied, “We wish no part in your civil war. We will respond only if aggression is shown toward us.”

On paper, it looked harmless.

But Kai didn’t trust it. Not when Aldrin was involved.

The silence felt planned. Too fucking clean. Like the quiet before the strike of a hidden blade.

His instincts screamed trap.

Still, even a trap could be beaten—if he used the right countermeasure in the right moment. Kai did have a solution, but it wasn’t one he wanted to use. That favor was too valuable to burn early. He could only hope it wouldn’t come to that.

So he pushed the thought aside and moved.

He stayed only a single night in Eldovar—long enough for Clement to arrive. The man barely stepped off his horse before Kai was already giving sharp orders on the wall: “Seal every smuggling tunnel. Guard the sewer access. Triple patrols near the border towers. If Caelond tries to crawl under us, they should run into steel.”

With Clement’s nod, Kai left the border behind.

He had already gotten the memo that they had captured Solmere City from Count Arvallen, who was now in chains, in the dungeon jail. Killian had apparently marched ahead with a moderate group of soldiers to clear out the way to Fort Valemount that stood on top of the kingdom.

There were other important cities and towns along the way but they were abandoned. Nobles had stripped their lands of fighting men and fled to Valemount, clustering like frightened deer behind the fortress walls.

All because of Solmere.

The strongest city Aldrin had in the region… had fallen in a single day of fire and panic. Now the nobles saw the truth: Arzan Kellius was coming. And they could not stop him alone.

On one hand, Kai thought it was smart for the nobles to pull back and not split their strength. On the other hand, it felt like cowardice. They had left common folk to face an enemy alone, praying the enemy would show mercy. What bothered him more was the speed. Armies did not uproot and march overnight. Orders crawled over distance in this age. For them to leave so quickly meant one of two things: they had already planned to fall back on Fort Valemount and only waited till Solmere fell, or Aldrin had a way to send orders as fast as Kai did. Both could be true. He needed to hear what Count Arvallen had coughed up in the dungeon.

He followed the river to Solmere, wind at his heels, and the city rose in a broken line of roofs and smoke. From the sky he saw long wounds cut through whole streets—collapsed beams, scorched stones, carts turned to splinters. Patrols moved in pairs, helping a few men clear rubble. On the walls, men stood close together, shields stacked, eyes on the horizon. Ward-lines glowed a faint, sickly blue along the parapets and he doubted it could stand even a single third circle spell. That would need fixing.

He dropped from the clouds and let his boots touch the ground before the gates. Bows locked onto him immediately, hands tightened on spear shafts on the walls. Then a cry went down the line and the tension bled away. A soldier hurried out, saluted with a fist to chest, and called for the wards to be eased. The city’s ward shivered, flickered, then lowered. Kai asked him where he could find Duke Blackwood and the soldier told him that all the nobles were gathered in the Count’s estate.

Kai thanked him with a nod and set off.

He didn’t bother with the streets. The air was faster. With a push of mana, Kai glided above the cobbles, slipping through narrow lanes and ruined rooftops. Solmere still carried the smell of smoke and fear. People stayed behind shuttered windows, waiting to see if the nightmare was truly over. He could not blame them. Being conquered—no matter how cleanly—was still terrifying.

The Count’s estate rose ahead, its banners torn down, his soldiers filling the gardens and steps. Crates were stacked in messy rows being carried somewhere. The soldiers recognized him at once, straightening their backs and bowing with pride in their eyes as he lowered himself.

“What floor is Duke Blackwood on?” Kai asked.

“The third floor. They are using the fifth room there for meetings, my lord,” one answered quickly. “All the other nobles are also there and Knight Killian has returned as well.”

That made Kai pause for a heartbeat.

He thanked them and dropped lightly to the paving stones. The estate’s corridors felt fancy—a polished floor, velvet curtains, portraits of the Count's family. Most of the estate had been untouched by war.

He climbed to the third floor. Even before he reached the fifth door, voices leaked through the thin wall—heated, tired, urgent. He didn’t wait for permission. He pushed the door open, casting a small wind barrier spell as he entered; he doubted there was going to be anyone evasedropping, but it didn't cost him much mana.

Faces turned at once—some startled, some relieved. Duke Blackwood’s irritated expression shifted into a respectful nod the moment he saw who entered. Chairs scraped as nobles stumbled to their feet.

Killian stepped out from the table with a small bow. His armor still carried dust and dried blood, proof he hadn’t rested much since Solmere fell.

“Lord Arzan,” Killian said, voice cutting clean through the room. “We expected you tomorrow. The Watchers reported your message from Eldavor only last night.”

Kai crossed the room, eyes scanning the maps and markers laid across the table. “I finished at Eldavor faster than planned,” he replied. “Clement now holds command there. Once the smuggling routes are sealed, he’ll stabilize the border.”

He stopped beside Killian, looking him over quickly—checking for wounds, exhaustion, anything hidden.

Then he asked, “I thought you would still be out clearing our way to Fort Valemount.”

Duke Blackwood answered before Killian could. “He was until Aldrin’s forces countered. They pushed him back once they realized he was operating with only a few dozen.”

Kai stepped to the middle of the table, eyes drifting over the war table once again. One of the nobles, Baron Casten, quickly moved his chair and offered it to Kai. Kai shook his head.

He preferred to stand.

His gaze fixed to Duke Blackwood. “How many men did he clash against? A guerrilla force?”

Killian’s jaw tightened. He looked down, as though replaying every moment. “Yes, it was a guerrilla force,” he confirmed. “But they weren’t soldiers.” He drew a slow breath. “They were Mages, all of them were flying. And the whole experience wasn't anything I had seen before.”

Questions rose in Kai's mind at the last part of the sentence. He wanted to ask more about what he meant, but he let the man speak.

Killian’s hand curled slightly on his side. “There were five of them. Only one actually fought. The other four—” He shook his head. “I could see spell structures on their palms, but… none of them attacked. They simply stood behind the attacker.”

Kai raised an eyebrow in confusion and kept his tone flat when he asked, “How many made it out?”

Killian’s voice grew rough. “Twenty-eight. Out of fifty. If I hadn’t held the attacker back,” Killian continued, “if I hadn’t used every destructive potion I had—” He exhaled slowly. “None of us would have survived.”

He reached toward the map and tapped a marked stretch of terrain. “There’s a network of underground caves along that road. We fled into them. The caves hold twisting paths. Our tracks disappeared fast. The Mages either didn’t chase us or lost us.”

He frowned, looking back at him. “Lord Arzan… that Mage wasn’t like anyone we’ve faced.”

Duke Blackwood nodded grimly. “We expected something like this when Kiliian left to clear the path. Traps and guerrilla forces, but I didn't expect them to attack with Mages.” He looked up at Kai, expression hardening. “And we believe the person who led the charge was Prince Vhailor. Killian confirmed it.”

Killian reached across the war table and picked up a folded parchment—its edges smudged from anxious handling. He flattened it in front of Kai.

A sketch stared back at him. A young man drawn with bold charcoal strokes. His face was sharp and his eyes were like one of a wolf.

Kai studied the face for a long moment.

“So this is the Alparcan Prince,” he said. “Rumors have him as a Fourth-Circle Mage, correct?”

Viscount Alburn cleared his throat. “Yes, Duke Arzan. I worked as a diplomat in the Alparcan Kingdom five years ago. I saw him duel.” He gestured toward the sketch. “They keep a full ranking system for Battle Mages there. Everyone measured, judged, compared. Prince Vhailor has been at the top of that list for years. He was only third-circle back then. Even so, he was terrifying.”

His voice lowered. “If Knight Killian hadn’t been the one to face him… I doubt anyone would have survived to report back.”

Killian’s hands curled into fists. “I ran,” he muttered. “Lost men. That’s as good as a loss.”

Leopold scoffed from the side. “You survived a clash with a fourth-circle prodigy and saved half your party. That is a victory. Right now, we should be asking—why is a prince acting as a lone hunter in the woods?”

Duke Blackwood nodded grimly. “It is… highly unusual. But Prince Vhailor is known to be battle-hungry. Word likely reached him that you were advancing ahead of the main force. A Mage like that can be unpredictable, especially with the mobility of being able to fly, and Prince Vhailor is known to be anything but predictable.”

Kai drew a slow breath, eyes returning to the sketch.

He had met such Mages before. Men who believed power meant permission to do anything they wanted. Men who treated war like a personal tournament. They moved on their own volition and could be nightmares to deal with, depending on their strength.

Prince Vhailor was unfortunately powerful. The question was how strong was he truly?

He knew Alparca had sent forces to aid Aldrin, but sending a prince? That was far more direct involvement than he had expected. Still, at the end of the day, royalty bled just like anyone else. If Vhailor stood before him, Kai was sure he could kill him… But strength wasn’t measured in circles alone.

Something gnawed at him.

Kai turned his eyes to Killian.

“What did you mean earlier?” he asked. “You said the five Mages were casting spells, but only the prince attacked. The others… what exactly were they doing?”

Killian inhaled sharply, as if unsure of his own memory. “When the prince charged us, he was the only one attacking. The others stayed back. Floating. Each holding glowing spell structures. At first I thought they were preparing tracking magic, so they wouldn’t lose us if we escaped. But it was certainly not that, nor tracking magic would require four Mages.” He shook his head.

“Then what was it?”

Killian tilted his head, looking conflicted. “I truly don’t know, lord Arzan. They simply stood behind the prince surrounding him. I have no idea what their spell structures were for. The prince didn't have any barriers around him. Whatever they were doing, it was not something I was able to see through.”

Kai fell quiet.

If they weren’t casting a spell on the enemies, then… What could it possibly be? His years of magical knowledge told him one thing: they were doing something important.

But what? He couldn’t assume. He had no knowledge of such an instance… but again, he doubted they could do something that he hadn’t seen before, so he thought and thought. He even replayed the scenario in his head—five Mages positioned around Vhailor, glowing spell structure held still in their palms… like anchor points.

The answer clicked into place so suddenly he almost doubted it was that. But then, he wondered if there was anything else it could be. Kai doubted that and looked at everyone in the room before speaking. “It was a human Mage array formation.”

Everyone in the room straightened and looked at him. Before they could ask questions, he explained on his own.

“They weren’t trying to cast any spells. They were supporting the prince by pumping all their mana into his spells. Prince Vhailor was the center of some kind of array. A living conduit.”

“What do you mean, Lord Arzan?” Killian looked perplexed and everyone else in the room had similar expressions to him. He doubted anyone would like what he was going to say next.

Dao of money Chapter 188

Chapter 188

Chen Ren acted fast.

He yanked a talisman from inside his robe and lit it with a spark of friction. A thin barrier of qi burst to life in front of him at the exact moment the bone shards flew.

The shards slammed into the shield like arrows.

They bounced off in every direction, spinning wildly through the chamber walls and floor. A few hit with such force that thin cracks spread across the glowing surface of the barrier. By the time the light flickered dangerously, the barrage finally stopped.

Chen Ren let out a shaky breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. A fraction of a second later, the barrier popped and dissolved into the air.

Across the chamber, the ivory slasher huffed in frustration. Its horns lengthened with a sharp crack, bone grinding as the points extended like spears. Then it lunged, stabbing straight toward Chen Ren.

But even without qi reinforcement, Chen Ren was too fast. There was enough room in the chamber for him to move freely, and he leapt aside again and again—a blur dodging the deadly bone spear.

While he moved, his hands were never still.

He pulled talisman after talisman from his belt and threw them at the beast. Each one sparked with a different attack the moment it burned.

Fire boomed outwards, blasting chunks of bone from the slasher’s armor. Lightning snapped and danced, mostly deflecting off the hard surface until it found one of the thinner sections between the bone plates. Then the beast snarled, body twitching as the electricity tore through the exposed flesh. Earth spikes erupted from the floor… and crumbled uselessly off its outer bones like thrown twigs.

Chen Ren clicked his tongue in annoyance. Earth talismans were a lost cause.

But he had more.

Although he couldn't use much qi, scribbling a few talismans everyday was not taxing on him and he had done that every night since he stepped foot in Red Peak City, only for this one battle. The beast grunted with each explosion and spark that struck true. Bone fragments littered the ground, and sparks jumped between the shards.

Chen Ren did not know if cracking the bones actually caused the beast pain. But there was no doubt about one thing: It made him more and more furious.

The ivory slasher soon realized that its horn strikes were not landing well enough to stop Chen Ren. With a frustrated snort, it suddenly lowered its body, the bone shrinking, and charged straight at him with frightening speed.

Chen Ren’s eyes widened. He leapt upward, clearing its back by a hair, but he had miscalculated its intentions.

The beast elongated the bones along its spine in an instant.

One of those jagged spikes slammed into him mid-air.

Pain exploded across his back. The impact hurled him through the chamber like a kicked doll. His body hit the ground hard, rolling several times before he crashed against a wall. His armor tore open. He felt skin split beneath it, warm blood soaking through the fabric.

“That bone is sharper than what the book warned me about…” he cursed silently, clenching his teeth. Another reason to blame Yu Murong and his outdated trash of a bestiary.

Yalan’s voice reached him across the bone and dust. “Are you okay?”

Chen Ren pushed himself up, biting down the wave of pain. “I’m fine,” he said, voice strained. “It’s just tougher than I expected. But I’ll handle it.”

When he looked back toward the ivory slasher, he saw its eyes locked onto him.

There was something different in them now—A spark of cold amusement. A mocking glint as if it was calling him weak.

Anger flared hot inside Chen Ren’s chest. He knew some beasts could gain intelligence as they neared higher tiers, especially ones raised in the dense qi of the sinkhole… but to be openly mocked by a creature he planned to kill?

That, he could not allow.

The beast kicked off the ground to charge again. Chen Ren’s hands flashed faster than thought.

Dozens of talismans burst around him in a ring of fire and lightning. Sparks rained through the chamber as the attacks hammered into the ivory slasher again. Flames melted bone fragments. Lightning crawled under plates and left thin trails of smoking flesh.

The ivory slasher roared and thrust its horns forward. Bone shards lifted again—hundreds of them—floating and spinning like a storm of knives.

Chen Ren planted his feet. He did not retreat and created another talisman barrier around him that soon got bombarded by bone shards.

Inside it, he burned talisman after talisman, forcing every one of them to fire at the perfect moment. Explosions detonated across the beast’s hide, chipping more and more bone armor away and exposing soft patches of muscle beneath.

Parts of the bone armour broke down to become shards which the ivory slasher happily used against him. Chen Ren didn’t mind. If he carved away enough of that armor, flesh would show. Flesh was all he needed.

A lightning talisman finally slipped between two bone plates and bit into living meat. The beast spasmed and cried out, hooves scraping the stone.

Chen Ren did not waste that pause. He yanked a tier two talisman from his belt and snapped it alight. The air in front of him rippled. Hundreds of small, explosive wind blades spun into being, their edges hissing like snakes. With a flick of his wrist, he sent half at the ivory slasher and the rest upward toward the ceiling which was filled with more of its bone.

Bone burst from the ivory slasher in white sprays as the blades shredded plate after plate. Above, the grown ribs cracked apart; thick lengths of bone sheared free and crashed down onto the beast’s back and skull. The slasher bellowed, stumbled, and bolted—only to smash shoulder-first into the far wall.

Chen Ren moved.

He closed the distance in three quick strides. A wide patch of the beast’s back lay bare—ragged, bleeding, and finally free of bone armor. He snatched up a fallen shard shaped like a sword and drove it down with both hands.

The point sank in. The book had said the flesh beneath the plates wasn’t hard to pierce; for once, the book was right. He leaned all his weight into the makeshift blade, driving it deeper, angling for organs.

Then he felt it—A shiver under his palms. A ripple ran through the ivory slasher’s hide, the same telltale vibration as before.

Chen Ren tore his hands back on instinct, boots already pushing off the beast’s spine—just as the flesh beneath his strike bulged and white spikes began to bloom.

He leapt back just as a cluster of new bone spikes erupted from the ivory slasher’s back. The wound he had made still bled, but the beast had already grown a ring of fresh bone around it to push the weapon out. The shard he had used as a sword clattered uselessly to the ground.

The slasher turned, its breath sharp, its eyes burning with fury. Chen Ren understood then—this battle was not going to end quickly.

Not with tricks alone.

The next thing he knew was more shards floating upward.

This time, they were joined by large chunks of bone torn from the chamber floor itself. The pieces hovered, spinning with lethal intent.

Chen Ren cursed under his breath and activated another tier two talisman. A defensive one as a barrier of qi sprang up in front of him, but it only lasted seconds under the assault of the large bone boulders. Cracks soon raced across its surface and it shattered.

He jumped high, barely avoiding the first wave. The ivory slasher roared like a storm breaking loose.

Bone shards flew everywhere—fast, sharp and unstoppable. Chen Ren sprinted, rolled, and slid across the chamber floor to keep from being skewered. The larger boulders crashed into stone walls and exploded into new fragments, turning the air into a whirling cloud of blades.

He could not avoid everything.

Thin cuts tore into his armor. One shard grazed his cheek, slicing a clean line that burned instantly. Blood leaked down his jaw. Pain flared hot, but he ignored it.

He threw talismans—many, many talismans. Wind blasts. Fire bursts. Lightning arcs.

But the attacks vanished in the storm of flying bone, blocked or redirected before they reached flesh. Every time he tried to land a clean hit, another bone fragment came for his throat.

Minutes passed like that and the slasher didn't manage to put an end to him.

He was still running. Still breathing. Still alive. And maybe that was what finally pushed the beast to its limit.

The ivory slasher stomped hard, and all the airborne shards and boulders suddenly stopped midair, dropping to the ground with a dull rain of clattering bone. The creature gave a low, furious grunt that echoed through the chamber.

Then it charged.

The horns grew longer, even faster than before. Bone spikes burst from its skin in every direction, turning its entire body into a moving wall of bone spears.

Chen Ren’s eyes narrowed. He had been waiting for this.

His hand snapped downward to his belt.

His fingers wrapped around a pill he had specifically requested from Hun Tianzhi while sending Yalan there. He had saved it for last, and now it was time to use it.

Chen Ren rolled it into his palm. As the ivory slasher thundered closer, he tossed the pill high and snapped a bolt of lightning at it.

The arc struck true.

The pill detonated in midair, releasing a rushing wave of fire. The flames hit the ivory slasher point-blank and hurled it backward. It screamed, tumbled through the smoke, and crashed against a wall of its own bone boulders.

Chen Ren did not wait.

He flung three talismans in quick succession. Chains of condensed qi snapped into existence and shot across the chamber. They wrapped around the beast’s legs and torso, biting in tight. The ivory slasher heaved, lowered its head to charge again, and found itself pinned.

Tier two bindings would not break that easily.

As it struggled, Chen Ren moved for the finish. He tore open his pouch, pulled out a fistful of matching talismans, and burned all of them at once.

The air whistled.

Hundreds of qi swords flickered into being and hovered around him in a matter of seconds, each blade thin, bright, and cold. He sent them forward with a single sweep of his arm.

The ivory slasher ripped one chain free, but it was too late.

The swords fell like rain.

They drove into every exposed seam and soft point he had carved open: between plates, under the ribs, along the neck, through the belly. Steel-light sank to the hilt. Blood burst in dark colour across the bone-strewn floor.

The beast toppled, writhing. Fresh bone tried to grow and was cut down as new blades struck. Chunks of plate slid free. More blood poured out, pooling beneath it in a spreading lake.

Chen Ren stood with his chest heaving, eyes locked on the creature.

For a heartbeat, he almost pitied it.

Then the ivory slasher’s struggles weakened. Its breaths turned ragged. At last it lay still, eyes lifted toward him—wide, glassy, and dimming.

The chamber fell quiet except for the drip of blood and the soft hiss of fading talismans.

For a moment, Chen Ren saw defiance burning in those fading eyes. The ivory slasher glared at him with the stubborn pride of a beast that refused to bow.

But then… the fire dimmed. Its head lowered. Its body shuddered once. And it went still.

Chen Ren remained cautious. He approached slowly, each step measured, preparing to leap away if it lashed out again. When he finally reached its side, he extended a hand and pressed lightly against its blood-slick hide.

He expected a reaction, but there was nothing. His thoughts were confirmed when Yalan spoke.

“It’s dead,” Yalan said as she padded up beside him, confirming what he already suspected. Her gaze traced the ruined plates of bone and the many puncture wounds. “You did a great job chipping away at its armor. It would have been easier if you used your lightning.”

Chen Ren nodded, breathing a rough laugh. “It would have. Let’s hope I can actually use more of it once Qing He finishes preparing the beast bath.”

“For that,” Yalan replied, “you need to bring her the ivory slasher’s body. Those baths take time to make.”

She took a slow look around the cavern, eyes glinting as they landed on the scattered remains—broken bone shards mingled with intact plates.

“We should take everything we can. You should have plenty of space in your spatial ring,” she said.

Chen Ren lifted a brow. “Bone armor for everyone sounds like a great gift.”

Yalan snorted, tail flicking. “Bone armor isn’t simple to craft. Some beast bones contain explosive marrow. But this one seems safe enough. If it didn’t, you wouldn’t have killed it so quickly.”

Chen Ren huffed. “I don’t think that was fast at all…”

He knelt beside the ivory slasher and summoned his spatial ring’s aperture. Light rippled across the corpse before it vanished entirely into the pocket dimension. Its size made no difference; the ring swallowed it whole in moments.

The real challenge lay around them.

Everywhere Chen Ren looked, pieces of the ivory slasher’s bones glittered faintly under the moss-light. Big slabs. Thin spikes. Curved plates the size of shields. He sighed under his breath. Their fight had turned a solid beast into hundreds of fragments.

And each fragment was valuable.

He knelt and placed a hand on the nearest shard. His spatial ring pulsed faintly as he pushed his intent through it. One bone vanished. Then another. Then another.

But there was no “select all” option in this world.

Every piece had to be taken by hand—mind guiding ring, ring swallowing bone. Over and over.

Minutes stretched into nearly half an hour. By then his back ached, and blood still dripped from the cut on his cheek and back. He took a healing pill and a bone-mending pill while he worked, swallowing them dry. Warmth spread from his stomach, easing pain and knitting fractures in his ribs where the spike had hit him earlier. He didn’t stop moving while the pills worked.

At last, the cavern floor was bare.

Chen Ren stood, dusted the dried blood from his sleeve, and looked into the deeper tunnels—dark as a starless night, heavy with thick qi that almost hummed. A small part of him wanted to go down farther.

But the smarter part of him—the part that wanted to keep breathing—said no.

He had a beast corpse, enough bones to build a small army’s armor, and a body that felt like it had been tossed off a cliff twice already. Staying longer would only feed the sinkhole another idiot.

“We are leaving,” he said.

Yalan was more than happy to agree.

They hurried back through the tunnels. No beast dared cross their path—either too afraid of Yalan’s fire or smart enough to recognize a killer when they smelled one. When the light of the entrance finally showed ahead, Chen Ren almost sighed in relief.

Together, they jumped upward, qi flaring under their feet. They caught onto rocky outcrops, used footholds to climb, and launched themselves again. Up and up, until the oppressive darkness was behind them and open air filled their lungs.

Back on solid ground, Chen Ren glanced around. The clearing was quiet. Too quiet.

No Luo Feng. No Zhou Ping. No carriage.

His brows furrowed, heart tightening for a moment—

“Look there,” Yalan said, pointing with her tail.

Not far from the sinkhole’s edge, a small fire flickered behind a patch of tall rocks. Figures sat around it, silhouettes shifting as they talked. The carriage was parked behind them. Chen Ren’s shoulders eased.

He walked closer, boots crunching lightly on gravel.

Luo Feng spotted him first and jumped to his feet. “Sect Leader Chen! You’re back. Do you want some meat?”

Chen Ren shook his head. The idea of food made his exhaustion worse. “No. I just want to sleep.” He scanned the group. “Everything okay here?”

“Yes,” Luo Feng said proudly. “We handled any beasts that came near. None gave us much trouble.”

Chen Ren nodded once, satisfied. He looked up toward the distant red-tinged mountains—where Red Peak City perched on high stone.

“Good,” he said. “Let’s move. We’re not stopping until we reach Meadow Village.”

Excited shouts rose at his words, and Chen Ren let himself smile. For once, luck and effort had lined up. He had left Red Peak with the medallion, hefty profit, and his life—no drawn blades in the streets, no clan rage snapping at his heels. He thanked the heavens in quiet, honest relief.

He did not know—could not know—that far away, beyond the plains and mountain ridges, a pair of eyes were already on him.

Magus Reborn Chapter 296

Chapter 296

Kai floated high above the border city of Eldovar, wind tugging at his cloak as he looked down on the city spread beneath him. From here, the streets looked neat and quiet like painted lines. But he knew better. This was the gate to Caelond. Rich houses, tall warehouses, and hidden routes under the ground… all of it made the city something more than stone and walls. If a single place could stab him in the back, it was Eldovar.

Merchants had grown fat here from border trade. And smugglers had thrived even more. There were whispers of tunnels under taverns and sewers wide enough to carry out millions of gold coins worth of trade. Kai imagined Caelond soldiers crawling up those tunnels one night—appearing in the heart of the kingdom before anyone even sounded a bell.

Not happening. Not while he breathed.

Wind gathered around him in a tight spiral. The air roared below—loud enough to drown screams and shatter signs. His tornado twisted through the streets like a blue-gray serpent, sweeping soldiers off their feet. Helmets spun. Spears vanished into the clouds. Men reached for the ground and found nothing but wind dragging them up toward the sky.

Kai raised his hand each time a soldier shot too high. Thin lines of mana wrapped the falling bodies, slowing them as they thumped into a growing pile of unconscious men on the city’s walls—stacked like sacks, arms spread, mouths hanging open in surprise.

He didn’t take any joy in their fear. He just didn’t have time to play polite anymore.

Sweat slid down the back of his neck. Holding the storm steady while also catching every tossed soldier felt like pulling two horses in opposite directions. If he slipped even a little, the tornado would tear roofs clean off, take innocent people with it.

So he didn’t slip.

His breathing slowed. His focus sharpened. Every gust bent to his will.

[Solun] would have been quicker. But he hadn’t brought soldiers or drones with him to protect him as he cast the spell.

He couldn’t waste days fighting with one prince when two others waited for him. So he’d flown up himself, sent a message for reinforcements to march to the city by midday, and had started tearing the enemy forces down.

Eldovar held only one real threat: an aged Fourth-Circle Mage from Archine Tower who’d stepped out of the ward to meet him. Kai respected that he wasn't hiding, but the Mage was an alchemist, not a duelist. He tossed potions into his spells, trying to stiffen their power, but most of it was easily dodged. The man’s core aspect was fire, and when their spells met Kai simply poured wind over them until the flames ate themselves. It was quick. The old Mage had died easily.

Other Mages tried to stand, some slinging barbed bolts and arrow spells from the walls, but Kai’s wind shield ate at them. He ignored the chaff and pushed for the real obstacle: the ward. Once he broke it, the ranged attacks lost their bite. He moved out of the Mages’ reach, raised a controlled tornado, and let it sweep anyone who still stood in his way—soldiers and Mages yanked from walls and street corners, spun into the sky, and dropped in a tidy silence onto piles of unconscious men.

It felt cruel to take a city in hours and it made him feel like a tyrant. But in a world built on power and abundant with mana, his four circles gave him nearly eighty percent of the mana he could draw in his peak. If he did not push every ounce now, he would soon be standing in a broken and poor kingdom. The war couldn’t be a long, slow thing; months of siege and attrition would sap the kingdom dry. He needed to end it fast, even if some would call him a tyrant for the way he did it. There would be time to make amends later, once the throne was secure.

As bodies stopped falling from the sky, Kai hovered a moment longer, eyes narrowed in concentration. He released a soft pulse of mana downward—like a wave sweeping through the walls. It wrapped around each unconscious form piled neatly. Heartbeats… shallow but steady. Good. No deaths.

Only then did he release the tornado. Mana snapped away from his grasp, and the whirling winds lost their teeth, unwinding into harmless gusts that kicked up dust and fallen leaves. The roar quieted. Roof tiles settled. A strange hush rolled through Eldovar.

Kai stayed in the air for a few minutes. People needed time to peek out and realise that the storm was truly gone. Slowly, shutters creaked open. Faces peeked from behind broken doors. A few soldiers crawled out from wherever they had taken cover, coughing on dust, eyes wide and confused.

He descended like a falling star. Boots touched cobblestone in front of a stunned squad of soldiers. Their armor rattled from shaking hands alone. Two tried to bolt.

Kai didn’t raise a hand—his voice was enough.

“If you run,” he said, “I will catch you. You know that.”

The words froze them mid-stride. They turned back around, pale and breathing fast, as if the air itself had locked them in place.

Kai looked over the group—scraped armor, bruises, terrified eyes. They weren’t warriors. They looked more like conscripts.

“I’ve already dealt with the majority of your forces,” he said, lowering his voice. “The Mage who protected this city is defeated. There is no point in resisting further.”

The oldest man—a man with grey in his beard and dents in his breastplate—gulped hard. His boots scraped the stone as he stepped forward.

“What… What do you want, Sir Mage?” he asked, trying—and failing—to sound brave.

“I am Duke Arzan Kellius,” he said, voice steady. “I believe you missed that when I introduced myself.”

The soldier’s entire body jerked with a tremor.

“I—I’m sorry, my lord,” he stammered.

Kai exhaled softly, forcing his tone to warm. He had no intention of scaring the men. They had already been frightened enough.

“It’s alright,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt anyone who surrenders.”

Kai forced the kindest smile he could and kept his voice soft. “First, no one here will be hurt. Not the soldiers, not the common people. Do you know there’s a civil war?”

The old soldier’s hand clenched. He nodded slowly. “Aye, my lord. News reached us. The princes are taking forts and trying to divide the kingdom. The new king—he’s declared war on his brothers. And also… on you.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Kai nodded. “Yes. That’s right. A lot of men are fighting the war and a lot of forts are falling. I have also gotten control of the border forts and I think you know that. But listen to me: I won’t let this city starve. I won’t force any of you to march for me. You keep your homes. You keep your trades. I only want to end this war fast so fewer people suffer.”

A younger guard behind the old man breathed out loud, eyes widening. “Really? I don’t have to go to war?” he blurted, hope sharp in his voice. The older soldier shot him a warning glare. “Quiet, Tomas. Sorry, my lord,” he added quickly. “He’s new. None of us are soldiers by trade. We are just guards that patrol the streets. We kept watch, but the soldiers pushed us on the walls due to the war.”

Kai let a tired smile touch his mouth. “Good. That helps. You know the city and the people better than I do. Was the Mage who defended this place the one in charge?”

“Lord Judas, my lord,” the man said. The name came out like a curse. “He was in a council led by the baron, but had control of the city more than him. The baron fled the city weeks back, same with the other council members. Only Lord Judas remained, but I guess he's dead now.”

“Yes, he's dead and that’s fine. No one in charge makes it easy,” Kai said. “My men will be here soon to lead the city. But like I promised—no plundering, no food taken. Life goes on as normally as possible for you and the residents.” He let the words hang, watching the faces around him for signs of relief. There was little of it.

Then he stepped closer, voice lowering so only the man could hear. “One more thing,” he said. “You know this town. You know how goods move. I need to shut down the smuggling routes. Tell me where they hide the tunnels, the sewer paths they use. If Caelond can sneak men in here, the whole kingdom is at risk.”

The soldier stuttered, eyes flicking to the men at his back. “I—my lord—I don't know much. I’ve heard of sluice by the old mill—folk say small boats go in at dusk.” He swallowed. “But I don’t know the whole system. People who run those lines don't mingle with guards.”

Kai nodded. “Start with what you have. Tell me about the people who run this. If you help, no one here will be punished.”

The old man looked down, then up again, as if weighing his next decision. Finally he gave a single, slow nod. “I’ll do what I can, my lord.”

“Good. That is all I ask. Let's move to clean up this city.” Kai straightened, already planning the next steps, while the city around him took the first uncertain breaths after the storm.

***

Regina sat alone in the tall-backed chair, the room quiet except for the soft scrape of parchment as she smoothed the corners of another report. Selwin had left minutes before, leaving behind every information they had collected on the ongoing war. Now the bundles lay in front of her: maps, letters, enemy movement details, names underlined three times.

Most of the pages were about the fight with Thalric’s men at Eden City. Duke Renard Kestrelain led their side—an old soldier with a lot of experience. Eldric was also there, leading their campaign, and Regina had felt a small, sharp ease when she had first found out about it. Maybe the boy had finally learned how to please her. He stood with the common soldiers, gave orders that the soldiers and Mages listened to. His presence steadied them. That steadiness should have made her feel more certain in their victory. Instead, the reality was completely opposite.

Regina couldn't help but miss the presence of one person. Veridia, her strongest pawn. For years Veridia had been the blade Regina could point anywhere and she would do the job. With Veridia and her affinities, a small strike could topple a wall of men. Without her, Regina had only thinned knives: Fourth-Circle Mages who just weren't good enough to tilt the tide of the war.

She pushed back from the table and stood, walking to the window. Below, the royal castle buzzed with servants. Regina watched it all and felt how fragile the view was, how easily it could break.

No matter how much she thought about it, fate had played a bad hand with her. She remembered the arena, how Arzan had defeated Veridia and even now, reports about him displayed more clean victories.

Even if she wound up all her forces, it would be hard to kill him without destroying everything she had built.

Even after Valkyrie’s death, her kin continued to be a thorn in Regina’s side. That woman was gone, and yet the shadow of her blood still complicated everything. Regina pressed her palm against the walls, knuckles whitening. If luck had any sense, Arzan Kellius would fall long before their armies ever saw each other.

She had already caught wind of Aldrin’s secret plans—little hints and whispers that carried to her ears. Clever boy. But Regina didn’t hold any hope that he could pull it off. He was sharp but too cautious, too shaken by ghosts of his own weakness. People like him planned for perfect conditions. War never gave those.

Regina walked back to her desk and sat down. The civil war was stretching out like a slow choke on the kingdom. Every day brought more reports, more setbacks she hadn’t prepared for. To win the way she wanted, she needed something stronger.

She needed Maleficia.

She needed the hand of her great lord to tilt the scales once more. But after Shakran’s death, Dravros had locked himself away from her. He had always demanded results. And when she had lost one of his most treasured servants, he had answered with silence.

So she had turned to another for assistance. But that too had been met with silence. Weeks of sending offerings and messages… and still nothing.

Regina’s nails dug into the arm of her chair. This wasn’t the role she played—waiting, begging, hoping someone would finally look her way. She hated the feeling. She knew it was all a game, one she had played many times before. Manipulation was her craft. Being on the other end of it set her blood boiling.

Just one reply—just one answer—and she could set her plan into motion. She could end this war before—

A lazy voice suddenly drifted through the room. “Regina, you look awfully tense.”

Regina froze.

The voice continued, light and teasing. “It’s rare to see you so flustered. Almost cute, if I didn’t know you better.”

Regina shot to her feet, chair scraping loudly against the floor. Her gaze swept the chamber, but she saw nothing.

She immediately recognised who the voice belonged to. “Selenia enough! Show yourself. I am not in the mood for your tricks.”

A soft laugh answered her from everywhere and nowhere. “But I adore games. Especially when it’s you on the board.”

Air shimmered right in front of Regina. Shadows curled like ribbons around a single point. Then, with a ripple, she appeared.

Selenia stepped into existence directly before Regina, standing taller than her. Dark leathery wings unfurled behind her, stretching wide like a creature born from old nightmares. Her hair spilled like ink across her shoulders, and her eyes glowed with a hungry, violet gleam.

Selenia smiled delighted. “Miss me?”

Her face was sharp—high cheekbones and a small mouth—but her presence was both dominating and beautiful as if danger itself had learned to be graceful. Regina had met her a few times, but she always thought that the woman was born to be an assassin. She had even managed to appear before her without alerting anyone.

Regina did not linger on that thought. She folded her hands and said the first thing on her mind. “You’re late. I asked for help to end the civil war a long time ago.”

Selenia curled her wings and smiled. “I’m not your servant to command,” she said. “We have our reach across the world. Your kingdom is a single thread in a far larger tapestry.” She let the words hang, then added, small and bright, “And who said I was here to help you?”

Regina’s jaw tightened. “Then why are you here?”

“Because I like watching good players fail,” Selenia replied. “I wanted to see how you will act after losing Shakran.” Her smile hardened. “Dravros is still angry about that.”

“Let it be,” Regina snapped. “He was weak. He died as he deserved.”

“That may be true,” Selenia said. “But now you are weak—your sharpest pawn gone. It makes a messy, delightful play.” She leaned forward a fraction and Regina frowned

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

“I can’t help myself. It’s interesting. That man Arzan—he moves fast, and there is a heat to him. Handsome, too. Do you think I might be able to get him as a pet?” Her head tilted, amused as she licked her lips.

“Stop,” Regina snapped. “I’m in no mood for your games. I asked you to find a blade for Arzan. Have you come to kill him for me?”

Selenia shrugged. “I don’t know. I prefer to watch. The others think you should handle the civil war yourself. You have been clumsy lately.”

“I need an edge,” Regina growled. “Not words.”

“We all need one,” Selenia answered, and for a long beat she only stared at her. Then, as if she had grown tired of the teasing, she sighed. “Fine. I have something. It will not cut Arzan’s throat, not outright. It will not drop him from the sky. But it will give your forces an edge. It will make them stronger, wilder, more chaotic. It will give you teeth where you have only needlepoints.”

Regina’s breath caught. “What is it?”

Selenia’s smile returned. “Why don't you sit?” she said. “Let me tell you about it.”

Magus Reborn Chapter 295

Chapter 295

Aldrin stood high on the stone balcony, overlooking the training fields of Fort Valemount. He had visited this border fortress many times as a child—his mother’s homeland was right next to it. It was the place where Alparcan banners always fluttered beside Lancephil’s. But never like this. Never with so many bodies packed into the dirt, every square patch of ground claimed by another soldier.

From above, the field looked like a storm of movement. Captains barked orders until their throats went raw. Men sprinted in tight ranks. Others drilled spear walls again and again until their arms shook. There were no lazy steps… no resting hands. Not when the sound of war drums was already echoing deep in the kingdom.

Most of these soldiers had never seen a real battlefield. They didn’t know how blood smelled when it hit dirt. They didn’t know how loud dying men screamed. But they could feel something heavy pressing toward them.

Aldrin knew it was going to be soon. Because he had paid the price to know.

His purse had groaned every time he drafted more gold for his communication network—avian beasts trained to carry encrypted messages faster than any courier rider. He’d bribed border smugglers for information routes. He’d placed silent watchers in every major city weeks before the crown fractured.

Knowledge was his blade.

Yet… every report lately cut him instead.

His brothers were tearing into each other as expected, wearing themselves thin. By Aldrin’s calculations, they should have weakened each other slowly—over months—until he could strike the final blow and take what he deserved.

But the letters painted a different picture now.

Some lines advanced too fast. Some victories were too clean. Some names—one name especially—kept appearing where they shouldn’t.

Arzan Kellius. The wild card.

Aldrin gripped the balcony rail, fingers turning white. He had planned for rival princes, corrupt nobles, foreign meddlers… but not a single Duke ripping through battlefields like a spell of divine judgment.

His soldiers trained below, still believing war had not yet reached them.

But Aldrin knew better.

War was already running at them.

Although Thalric had taken several cities and forts already, Aldrin wasn’t worried about his second brother—not really. Thalric’s army was stretched thin, and Eldric would grind him down soon enough. That part of the war was moving just as Aldrin expected.

What unsettled him… was the outlier.

Arzan Kellius.

The one piece on the board that refused to move the way he predicted.

Aldrin flipped through the latest coded reports again in his mind. Two border forts were already taken. And Solmere City was lost before anyone even understood what hit it. The last whisper from his informers there had mentioned explosions that had shook the city, then there was silence.

Either his man fled… or he was lying dead in the rubble.

Arzan’s advance wasn’t surprising. The man’s reputation had been built on impossible victories. But the speed? The lack of losses? That was not part of Aldrin’s neat little timelines.

Battles were supposed to drag on. Enforcers and Mages were supposed to suffer attrition, bleed energy with every clash. That was the entire point—wear Arzan down long before he arrived at Valemount.

Instead, forts were falling like knocked-over game pieces.

Aldrin tightened his jaw.

He had planned for a war of erosion. Arzan was delivering a war of beheadings.

And every fortress that toppled without costing him strength only pushed Aldrin closer to a truth he didn’t like: If Arzan kept this pace… their confrontation would come far sooner than Aldrin had wanted.

And if his real plan failed?

Then surrendering might be the only intelligent move left.

Better to bend the knee to a rising storm than be swept away by it.

If Aldrin’s projections were right, he and Arzan would clash far sooner than he had planned. The speed of it was the only thing that worried him. Everything else—Arzan’s victories, his movement across the map, his growing conquered territory—had all been calculated, expected, accounted for in his grand design. He had prepared several ways to bring the man down. And if every single one of those plans failed… well, then Aldrin would surrender and swear loyalty. There would be no shame in kneeling to a force that could not be stopped. Only fools fought the tide.

His thoughts were cut short by firm footsteps behind him.

Aldrin turned, schooling his face back into calm just as his cousin, Prince Vhailor of Alparca strode toward him, wrapped in one of his usual showy robes—dark silk stitched with golden feathers, each gleaming at the slightest shift of light. Strength radiated off him with every step.

Four Royal Mages followed in formation.

One was a sharp-boned man with crackling, seal-marked arms; static danced over his skin, and the scent of lightning followed him like a warning. Next came a tall Mage whose staff was taller than his body. The third wore a heavy set of armour and looked more like a Knight. The last Mage was an old man who looked at Aldrin over as if evaluating him.

Vhailor reached him and immediately pulled him into a crushing embrace.

Aldrin’s ribs strained. He tried to push free without looking too desperate, but the prince’s grip made every hug feel like a wrestling match with a bear. When he finally managed to slip loose, Vhailor let out a booming laugh.

“You always make that face when I hug you, cousin,” he said, grinning wide. “You’re too delicate for your own good. You should spar with me sometime. I’ve been training with a foreign weapon—a trident. It's like a spear, but far better.” He mimicked a stabbing motion for emphasis.

Aldrin forced a faint smile, rubbing his ribs. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “But… you know the complications I have.”

Vhailor snorted, planting a hand on Aldrin’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze that almost pushed him off balance.

“I know, I know,” he said. “Your frail body, your careful steps.” His tone softened for a breath—only a breath. “But that doesn’t excuse you from being a warrior, Aldrin. Spells are good… but war needs more than hands and words. You must move. Strike. Bleed. No Mage survives by standing still.”

Aldrin lowered his eyes, jaw tightening. He wanted to snap back. I could, if your family had given me the potion.

The Vermion Elixir—that cure he’d never been allowed to touch.

His weakness wasn’t a mystery. He carried more than a few drops of Alparcan royal blood in his veins. An old bloodline that came from the blood drinkers, ancient beings stronger and faster than humans. But centuries of mixing had thinned the line. Those born outside the true royal branch—like Aldrin—didn’t gain strength from it.

They suffered from it.

His heart worked harder. His muscles tired faster. Every spell burned him more than it should. But the potion… the Vermion Elixir was designed to strengthen the body so the blood drinker lineage could finally awaken—turning weakness into advantage.

His mother had begged for it.

They had refused.

“Tradition,” they said. “Rules,” they said. “It is only for pure heirs,” they said.

Aldrin knew the real reason. It was leverage. A chain they wrapped around his throat. A tool they would use when the time came. When he finally rose up to the throne. Blood ties meant nothing to the Alparcan court unless they led to profit.

To the world, they acted like his loyal allies. His mother’s proud family. But Aldrin wasn’t fooled. They wanted a king in Lancephil they could control.

He forced his voice steady.

“I’ll… do what I can,” he said. “With the body I have.”

Vhailor simply grinned—confident, careless, completely unaware of the battles Aldrin fought inside his own skin every single day.

Even the terms of Alparca’s support had been steep—almost insulting. But Aldrin had signed anyway. The civil war had ignited faster than any prediction, and his careful plans involving Arzan had been kicked right off the board. He needed powerful allies, and Alparca had stepped forward with open arms and swords hidden behind their backs.

He fell quiet, thoughts looping again, until Vhailor bumped his shoulder.

“What are you brooding over now?” his cousin asked with a lazy grin. “You could’ve joined me for lunch with Lady Seraphine. She dressed really nicely today.”

Aldrin let out a small sigh. “I was reviewing our reports on Duke Arzan’s march. His army has taken Solmere already. It means they’ll be pushing toward the next strongholds soon. We need to discuss defenses.”

Vhailor’s eyebrows twitched up—surprised, if only for a heartbeat. “That quickly? I thought I’d have more time with Seraphine.” He huffed. “Those men of his are more capable than I expected.”

“I told you,” Aldrin replied. “You underestimate too often.”

Vhailor grinned. “Because most Mages are nothing special next to me and mine. You know that.”

From behind him, one of the Royal Mages—Aldrin thought his name was Specter—spoke up, pride sharp in his voice.

“With Prince Vhailor leading us, we could crush Arzan’s entire army. There’s no need for concern, Prince Aldrin.”

Aldrin’s gaze slid toward the Mage—flat, unimpressed—before returning to Vhailor.

“Confidence is fine,” he said. “Blindness is not. Arzan is a Fourth-Circle Mage who has already defeated a Magus And not just defeated—crippled. You remember how terrified you were of Magus Veridia.”

That struck. Vhailor’s smile tightened at the edges.

Aldrin let the silence linger a moment. He needed Vhailor confident… but not careless.

Vhailor snorted and stamped one foot, the sound sharp on the stone. “That was three years ago,” he said. “Back then I hadn’t learned the Alparcan arrays. Now I have. One Mage—no matter how bold—won’t stand before me. He’ll fall.” He straightened, eyes bright with confidence. “Honestly, I don’t think you need more help than that. I promised I’d kill him the instant he reached the fort.”

Aldrin kept his voice low. “Wars aren’t won on promises, Vhailor. You want one victory, fine. But you must plan for the next ten after that. Backups for backups.” He paused, watching a line of men run drills below. “Do not forget why your family came here. The Alparcan court wants the aethum mines and you helping me would also strengthen your position for the crown.”

Vhailor waved a hand, half laughing. “And the mines, and the forests, and the rivers—yes, we’ll talk about them once you sit on the throne.” He grinned, eager and impatient.

Aldrin only nodded. “We’ll talk about that later. There’s a long road before the throne. If we beat Arzan now, my other brothers will be easier to handle.” He met Vhailor’s gaze steadily.

For a moment Vhailor’s face hardened. “Is Arzan really that important?” he asked. “He’s a Duke, a capable Mage, yes, but you’re giving him too much credit.”

Aldrin’s jaw tightened. He looked down at the drills, the soldiers moving like a single living thing, and remembered the crack of wood and stone in the arena. “You weren’t there when the arena collapsed,” he said quietly. “Arzan isn’t just strong on paper. He reads battle. He finds the weak points no one else sees. Meeting him in the field is how you truly know him and how terrifying he could be.”

Vhailor’s smile thinned into something colder. “I don’t have to meet him beforehand to kill him,” he said. The words came easy, like a promise he had already made to himself. The heat left Aldrin’s face, replaced by a small, careful silence.

One of Vhailor’s Mages stepped forward then, voice smooth and sure. “The prince has bested Mages above his circle before. You need not worry, Prince Aldrin.” He spoke as if victory were a fact already written.

Aldrin gave a short, polite nod. “I wish you the best, cousin.”

The words did not sit well with Vhailor. He slammed both hands on the balcony rail and glared at Aldrin, jaw tight. “I don’t like you doubting me,” he said. “You should be the one who knows my power best.”

Aldrin held the prince’s stare without blinking. “I do know it,” he said quietly. “That is why I want you to take this seriously, Vhailor.”

For a moment the prince’s face hardened, then brightened with a dangerous light. He straightened his shoulders and turned on his heel. “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll train harder. I’ll change your mind when I hand you his corpse. When I kill Arzan, you will know I am the strongest Mage, not just in the kingdom, but in the world.”

He strode off in long, eager steps, his retinue falling in behind him. Aldrin watched his cousin go and the corner of his mouth lifted into a small, private smile. Riling up Vhailor had always been easy; the prince treated anyone taller and stronger than him as a target. He did not like warnings. He liked conquest.

Aldrin wondered, not for the first time, why the royal house did not post an elder to temper the prince’s heat. But he guessed it was because Vhailor disliked being guided; he resented restraint. The family had long learned to let his temper burn—it was useful theatre for their aims.

That suited Aldrin fine.

He did not expect Vhailor to finish Arzan. The man couldn’t do it, even if he wanted to. He only needed the prince to strike recklessly enough to wound or slow the Duke. A careless thrust, a poorly timed duel—something to leave a mark. If Vhailor drew blood, Arzan would be far easier to deal with. That would be the opening Aldrin wanted.

He turned his eyes back to the drilling men below, feeling the plan settle again like a set of stones. Let Vhailor rush and make a show. Let Arzan be nicked and angered. Then Aldrin’s true moves—the ones he had built for months—could begin.

Dao of money Chapter 187

Chapter 187

Chen Ren dropped toward the rocky protrusion with a startled shriek as a bat-like beast latched onto his face. It screeched and clawed wildly, trying to burrow into his shoulder, but Chen Ren refused to give it the chance. He caught the creature by the head mid-fall and slammed it against the stone outcrop the moment he landed.

The impact shook through his arms and legs. The beast tried to slither out from under him, wings beating desperately, but Chen Ren drove his fist straight into its face. Bone cracked under his knuckles. He grabbed the limp body and smashed it into the ground again. Blood splattered over the rock. A few scraps of flesh slid toward the open void.

The beast finally stopped moving.

Chen Ren remained kneeling, chest heaving as he tried to calm his racing heartbeat. His shoulders burned from shallow cuts, but the pain felt distant compared to the rush of relief flooding through him. It struck him just how close he had come to disaster.

If the thing had been larger or stronger, it could have easily knocked him off the ledge. One bad moment, and he would have been tumbling deeper into the sinkhole’s endless darkness—straight into a place no cultivator wanted to see with their own eyes.

He shuddered at the thought.

Forcing his breathing steady, he looked down at the corpse. The creature’s body was covered in bulging veins, and a strange thick liquid leaked from its open mouth. He recognized it now—an entry from the bestiary came to mind.

A scourge bat. Its venom could paralyze a cultivator long enough for something bigger and hungrier to finish the job. If it had sunk its fangs into him, he would be lying here helpless, wasting time and pills just to purge the poison.

Fortunately, it had not. He let out a slow breath.

From the side, paws tapped lightly against stone, and Yalan’s voice broke the silence.

“Chen Ren, are you okay?” she asked.

He wiped the bat blood from his cheek and steadied his breath. “Barely,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she replied. “But you should turn around.”

Chen Ren turned and stared. A swarm of scourge bats circled above them in a tight spiral. The bats beat their wings hard, and venom dripped from their fangs onto the stone, where it hissed.

“That is not good,” he said.

“You should rest,” Yalan answered. “I will take care of it.”

“I should help,” he began.

“There is no need,” she said, cutting him off. “Sit back. You will have your own fight soon.”

Her tail burst into flame. Her eyes narrowed, and she fixed the swarm with a cold, murderous glare. The bats did not retreat. Several darted toward the ledge with their mouths open.

Fire roared from Yalan’s tail like a steady stream. The sinkhole filled with light at once. The first wave of bats burned in the air and fell as blackened pieces. The rest tried to turn and flee, but the flame chased them. One after another, they caught fire and dropped, trailing smoke.

Some of the falling bodies struck the cavern walls and bounced into the dark. Others landed near the rim and melted into foul-smelling puddles. Beasts hiding below lunged upward and snatched the burning corpses out of the air. Their jaws cracked loudly as they chewed.

Chen Ren watched in silence. He felt both horror and relief as the swarms fell. The sinkhole glowed with Yalan’s fire, and the echoes of their screams slowly faded into the deep.

Within seconds, the air in front of them cleared. The last of the scourge bats fell, and Yalan’s flames finally dimmed into soft embers at the tip of her tail.

Chen Ren looked first at her, then down into the sinkhole. Many beasts still lurked below—shadowy forms clinging to walls or crouched on narrow ledges. Their eyes glowed faintly in the dark. None dared to approach. The scent of burnt flesh and the memory of fire kept them at bay.

A shout echoed from above.

“Sect Leader Chen! Are you okay?” Luo Feng called down.

“I’m fine!” Chen Ren shouted back. “We’re going deeper into the tunnels! All of you stay away from the edge. The beasts are hungry at night!”

He did not wait to see if they listened. He turned to Yalan and managed a thin grin. “That was a pretty exciting way to enter the sinkhole.”

“You should be more careful,” Yalan replied. “If not for that mask, you would have scratches all over your face. Bats are known for ripping skin off cultivators. You do not want to frighten children when we return to the surface.”

Chen Ren groaned quietly. “I know. I just didn’t expect to be attacked before even stepping into the tunnel.”

He reached up and removed the mask from his face. He only now realized how long he had worn it—day and night in Red Peak City. He had been so wary of spies from both clans that he never removed it, not even in sleep. Breathing without it felt… different. Easier. Like air finally flowed properly again.

He slid the mask into his spatial ring.

His eyes fell once more on the dead bat, then on the path ahead. The bestiary had included maps with rough directions. The beast he sought—the one whose bones he needed—had a known lair deeper inside.

The clans had never killed this beast because it shed its bones every six months and grew new ones. Those bones made excellent weapons. So the clans let it live and “harvested” it like farmers in a field. The thought made Chen Ren grimace. They fought each other in public and cooperated in secret. He guessed profit always won.

With Yalan beside him, he moved deeper into the tunnel. Pale moss glowed on the walls like smeared starlight. He didn't attempt to put his qi in the dantian. Stealth mattered less in this place when any random beast could be handled by Yalan, and their target would smell a human long before it noticed a ripple of qi.

At each bend and fork, he unfolded the rough map he had copied from the bestiary. He adjusted their course, then pressed onward. The sinkhole was too large to trust his sense of direction alone, so he left thin threads of qi on the stone—faint marks only he could feel—to guide them back out.

An hour passed before trouble came.

The first was a pack of oversized spiders—glossy black, long-legged, and mean. They spat shards of their own hardened carapace like darts and healed the missing pieces in a blink. The book had listed them as low tier, but their speed made them annoying. Yalan’s answer was simple: a sweep of fire, a crack of claws, and silence.

The second was a giant rat with sparking whiskers. It fired quick bursts of lightning that popped against the rock and made Chen Ren think of a similar creature from Earth. The rat also died fast under Yalan’s flames and a single tackle that broke its spine.

Chen Ren harvested what was useful. He pulled legs, fangs, and hide and stored everything neatly in his spatial ring. He would hand the lot to Hun Tianzhi or Feiyu later—whoever could turn strange scraps into better armor and pills.

Then he checked the map again, felt for his qi trail behind them, and kept walking. The air grew thicker with qi. Somewhere ahead, a beast with bones worth killing it over waited in the dark.

After nearly three hours of careful walking, Yalan suddenly halted. Her ears twitched, and her eyes narrowed into the dark ahead.

“I believe we are close,” she whispered. “The beast is nearby.”

Chen Ren paused as well and searched the air with his spiritual sense. “I don’t feel anything,” he said quietly.

“It is only giving off a small pulse of qi,” Yalan answered. “It is probably asleep. But I am certain it is the one.”

Without waiting for his response, she quickened her pace, slipping through tight passages and curving tunnels as if she already knew every turn. Chen Ren followed close behind, trusting her instincts more than any map.

Half an hour later, she stopped again.

“We are here,” she said. “Look.”

The tunnel ahead opened into a wide chamber. The ceiling stretched high, and the darkness felt like a cavern swallowing the world. Other tunnels branched from the far walls, forming several exits.

At first, Chen Ren thought the chamber was filled with white boulders. They were stacked high around a heavy mound in the center.

Then he blinked, and realized the truth.

Those white shapes were bones. He sucked in a slow breath, eyes adjusting.

The beast lay at the heart of them, almost camouflaged by its own remains. Its body was a fortress of jagged bone. Spines jutted from its limbs, ribs flared outward like armor plates, and a crown of hooked bones curled around its skull like a war helm. A soft breeze swirled around its bones, stirring dust without lifting a sound.

An ivory slasher. The beast he had chosen.

A creature born of bone itself. The book had called it strong and territorial. Previous attempts to hunt it were recorded in the margins. The marks beside them were mostly deaths.

And now Chen Ren stood here, staring at living danger wrapped in bones and a hulking body.

His fingers tightened into fists.

“There it is,” he murmured.

His heart beat once, heavy.

This was the beast that would decide whether he took his next step on the path of cultivation… or died deep beneath the earth, forgotten.

The ivory slasher lay curled in the center of the chamber, its massive body surrounded by towering heaps of bones—its own discarded armor from past shedding cycles. The bony mounds looked like pale boulders piled protectively around a sleeping giant.

Its two eyes were shut tight. Each exhale pushed dust from the ground with a soft huff, and a low snore echoed faintly from its throat.

Even from where Chen Ren stood, partially hidden in the tunnel’s mouth, he could tell the beast was enormous. The bestiary had estimated its length, but this one was definitely larger—lean muscle wrapped in plates of jagged bone, like a fortress that could move.

He could have chosen something easier. A predator with less speed. A creature that wouldn’t tear him apart with a single charge. But if he wanted to break into the second step of body cultivation with more than just the bare minimum, the ivory slasher was the best path. He simply had to protect his eye and other vitals.

Body cultivation was not equal. Two cultivators at the same step could be worlds apart depending on the beast they slew. And compared to other options, he had one advantage towards it.

The beast was simple. Brutal, yes. Dangerous, absolutely. But its attack patterns were well-documented. Its weaknesses were known. Chen Ren had studied every detail he could find and crafted a plan that avoided using much of his qi—just his body, tricks, and determination.

He stared at the beast, running through each step again in his mind.

Yalan watched him quietly, then finally spoke. “Are you ready? Go wake it.”

Chen Ren nodded, though his heart tightened. “Can you break those bones first? They are too thick for me to get through without alerting it. I need a direct path.”

Yalan sighed, rolling her eyes. “Fine. Just don’t have me killing it too. It's yours.”

Her tail rose, flames gathering at its tip in four dense spheres. Then, with a flick, she launched them across the ground.

The fireballs struck the bone barriers one after another in an explosion.

Cracks spiderwebbed through the structures. Shards of bone burst outward like white shrapnel, clattering across the chamber floor.

Dust lifted. The air hummed. Silence lingered for a heartbeat.

The slasher’s snores rumbled on unaware. The bestiary had mentioned it was hard to wake it up from its sleep. That's how the clans were able to harvest all the bones around. Chen Ren exhaled slowly.

It was time. Chen Ren moved.

He slipped through the dust, cut behind the slasher’s flank, and leapt. His boots hit a ridge of bone on its spine. He rode the lurch, knees bent, one hand gripping a jut of rib. With the other he hammered down—once, twice, three times—driving his knuckles into the narrow gaps between plates.

The ivory slasher finally woke up and went wild. It got up, letting out a cry and shook it head to drive away the remaining sleep.

Then it, bucked, slammed its body against the floor, and crashed side-to-side to scrape him off. Chen Ren flowed with each lurch, shifting his weight, punching again at a seam where armor met flesh. A hard tremor buzzed beneath his palm.

His eyes widened, realising what was going to happen next, and didn’t wait. He sprang away an instant before white spikes burst out where he had stood, stabbing the empty air. He twisted, rolled in the dust, and landed light in front of the beast.

The slasher lowered its head and glared. Its eyes were cold lamps in a skull of bone.

Its horns lengthened with a dry crack and lunged like twin spears.

Chen Ren slid sideways. The thrust grazed his sleeve and slammed into stone, showering chips. The beast swung, sweeping the horn like a sword. The blow clipped him on the shoulder and threw him into the wall. Pain burst through his ribs. He hit, rolled, and snapped back to his feet, breath sharp, vision steady.

The beast huffed, steam curling from its nostrils.

Chen Ren’s hand slipped under his robe to start his next plan, but just then, something happened that threw each one of his plans into disarray.

Shattered bone all around him trembled, lifted, and turned. Hundreds of shards floated up like pale leaves in a dead wind. Their tips rotated toward his chest.

Chen Ren’s eyes widened. The bestiary had said nothing about this.

He didn’t even get a chance to curse Yu Murong as the bones spun and headed straight towards him to stab through his flesh.

Magus Reborn Chapter 294

Chapter 294

The sound of the explosions still echoed in Count Arvallen’s mind as his ship drifted down the river, away from the burning city. Even the gentle slosh of the current couldn’t drown it out—the deafening roar of shattering walls, the crack of collapsing towers, the distant screams that had clawed through smoke and fire.

He could still see it vividly: himself standing in his estate, hunched over the plans of Solmere’s defenses with two retainers at his side. The ink hadn’t even dried on the last set of repositioning orders when the first blast went off—then another, and another, from every corner of the city. The walls had trembled. Windows had burst. The air filled with dust and flame.

By the time he staggered to the balcony, half the city was already alight.

He hadn’t waited long after that. The guards were shouting, the servants scattering, and somewhere in the distance someone was yelling that the gates had been breached. Arvallen didn’t even stop to gather his armor or rings—only his cloak and sword. He ran. Out of the manor, down the eastern road, his retainers at his side.

He didn’t look for his wife. Nor his children.

He told himself there was no time, that they would be safe under the enemy’s honor. Duke Blackwood was known to be a man of principle, and even in war, noble code dictated mercy for the families of defeated lords. That thought dulled the guilt clawing in his chest. Somewhat.

But as the ship carried him farther from Solmere’s smoke-choked skyline, that guilt refused to fade. He had left them behind. His family. His city. His people. All that his house had built for centuries now burned behind him.

Even now, as the wind carried the faintest echoes of clashing steel and roaring spells across the river, Arvallen gripped the rail tighter. His knuckles whitened. He didn’t dare look back.

Because he knew nothing could save Solmere anymore.

He grunted it under his breath, the words barely louder than the river. “I bloody hope the prince remembers what I sacrificed for him. He’d better keep his promises or I won’t be playing nice.”

His hands closed on the wet rail. The wood shook under his grip. Down below, the water pulled at the ship and threw back sparks of the city fire. He stared into that black ribbon until the flames blurred, then turned.

His men were waiting. His personal Mage stood with his fingers curled around a travel satchel, jaw tight. Two Knights kept their distance, boots planted, eyes flicking from Arvallen to the smoke still smoking on the skyline. One of the knights rubbed the back of his neck; the other kept his hand close to the pommel as if the sword might answer a question plaguing him. None of them smiled. None of them relaxed.

They had left in one order. No banners, no convoy—just the ship he’d had ready for this exact moment. The look on their faces said they understood the cost. Arvallen felt the weight of that on his shoulders like a heavy cloak that wouldn’t let go. If he wanted to reach Fort Valemount, he needed them. He let out a breath that was almost a laugh and tried to make his voice steady.

“We’ll cut straight to Valemount,” he said. “We move fast. The city will not stay taken. When the prince’s plan comes true, Solmere will be the first to be taken back.”

One of the scarred Knights stepped forward. His voice came low and flat. “We follow you to our last breath, my lord. But it will not be easy. Once they notice you’re gone, they’ll send riders. And our reports about the enemies weren’t clear. What if they sent Enforcers?”

Enforcers, right. For a moment he saw it all, all the stories he’d heard recently about those ‘Enforcers’. How did they come to be in Arzan's hands? He didn’t know. He felt the cold tightness of it again. His hand left the rail to rub at his temple.

“I have heard those stories and they are probably the reason why the city fell so fast,” he said slowly. He did not try to deny their truth. Even Prince Aldrin had warned about them. The thought of meeting one in the open road made his stomach twist.

“If they are chasing us, then we make the chase not worth their trouble,” he said. “We run. We push until searching for us costs more than leaving us be.”

The Knights nodded. The Mage looked conflicted but bowed his head in agreement.

“We’ll be out of the river soon,” Arvallen said, forcing a thin smile. “Once we reach the next dock, we take the land route. Let the ship drift upstream after we’re off—it’ll buy us time. Those bastards will keep chasing shadows on the water while we’re already halfway to Valemount.”

The Knights nodded, a flicker of relief passing between them. One of them even managed a small grin. “That’s the best course, my lord. We’ll lose them in a day.”

Arvallen returned the smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Inside, his thoughts were already twisting ahead. What would he say when he finally met Prince Aldrin? The man might hear him out, yes, but the Alparcan delegation wouldn’t. They would sneer, lecture, and call him a coward for abandoning their Third-Circle Mage, Serat Vellin, and the men they’d sent. Let them. The Mages had been useless anyway. Couldn’t even keep the city from being blown apart.

He exhaled through his nose, trying to push the thought away, but before he could, the ship lurched hard.

“Damn it—!” His boots slid across the deck, and he nearly went over the railing before one of the Knights caught his arm. The boat rocked and groaned, half-tilted to one side.

“What in the hell is going on?” he snapped, steadying himself. “Why did we stop?”

He started toward the captain’s cabin, but one of the Knights shouted, “My lord, look ahead!”

Arvallen froze mid-stride, turning toward the bow. He leaned over the railing and his breath caught.

The river ahead was choked. What the fuck?! No, no, no, no no, it can’t fucking be! Massive boulders and tree trunks jammed together across its width, forming a wall that hadn’t been there hours ago. The water foamed and hissed as it forced its way through the cracks.

He’d sailed this river dozens of times in his youth; it was inspected every week by the trade unions and his men. Nothing like this should’ve been possible.

And yet here it was—a blockade, deliberate and heavy.

A knot twisted in his gut. “This isn’t natural,” he muttered under his breath. “Someone did this.” He turned to his Knights, voice rising. “Get me off this damned—”

Cold metal pressed against the back of his neck.

“Move,” a low voice said, close enough that he felt the man’s breath, “and I’ll cut that fat neck of yours clean off, Count Arvallen.”

Arvallen froze. His hand twitched toward his sword before he saw the rest of them—dark shapes on the deck, surrounding his men like wolves. His Knights stood still, each one with a blade to their throat. Even his Mage had both hands raised, trembling.

They hadn’t even seen them come aboard. How was that possible? How had they crept up on a moving ship without a sound? But questions could wait—this was not the time for pride or confusion.

Multiple solutions came to his mind, but none would work efficiently as—

“You should let me go,” he said, forcing his voice steady. It was time to talk things through. “We can’t have a civil conversation like this. You’re Duke Blackwood’s men, right?”

The blade dug in slightly as the man behind him said flatly, “Duke Arzan.”

Arvallen hesitated, then gave a small, nervous chuckle. “Same thing, isn’t it? Both of you are serving the same cause. Just… lower the blade, and we can talk like men.”

A new voice cut through the air—sharper, colder, and far too familiar.

“Men don’t run at the first sign of trouble,” the voice said. “They don’t abandon their families and cities like cowards, Count Arvallen.”

The voice came from the direction of the captain’s cabin. Arvallen’s heart sank as he turned his head slightly and saw the man stepping out of the shadows.

A tall figure in dark armor, blond hair tied back, eyes gleaming with restrained fury.

Leopold.

Duke William Blackwood’s son—someone Arvallen had seen countless times at court dinners and balls, always silent, always standing behind the Duke’s chair.

“How—how did you…?” Arvallen’s words tripped over themselves before he forced a strained smile. “Leopold. It’s… nice to meet you. I barely saw you in the capital during the assembly.”

Leopold’s expression didn’t change. The calm in his face only made the air heavier. A corner of his lips lifted, ever so slightly.

“And that… was because you were too busy cozying up to Prince Aldrin instead of my father. If you’d shown loyalty to him, you’d be sleeping in a soft bed, not a cold cell.”

Arvallen’s face tightened. “Even if I’ve lost, nobles aren’t criminals.”

Leopold’s eyes went hard. “A man who leaves his city to burn is.” He stepped closer. “I would’ve slightly respected you if you’d fought. But my father knew you’d run. Knight Killian even said so. We kept the explosions away from the river—made sure your escape route was clear. You walked right into our hands.”

Arvallen forced a step forward, trying to smooth the words like oil on troubled water. He needed to win Leopold over; that meant a lighter punishment and better treatment. He needed them to see him as useful, but the cold metal that pressed against his neck choked all his words. “Leopold—” he began. “Tell your men to lower his blade. I can't run out in the river, can I?”

The cold steel at his throat bit deeper. He froze.

“Lower the blade, Gareth,” Leopold said finally. The man with the knife obeyed and eased the point away. Arvallen sagged, relief filling his heart. He tried to hide it. His eyes met the man named Gareth, and couldn’t help but glare.

Doesn’t matter now.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and offered a bargain, voice smooth and practiced. “Listen. We make a deal. You get your father to let me be caged in my castle and I will stay out of the civil war. I’ll pay—gold, jewels, lands. I’ll give women and whatever you—”

Leopold let him finish only a moment. Then, without warning, pain exploded across Arvallen’s face. His world tilted. A fist or a flat blow—something hard—sent him staggering to the deck. He hit the wood and the taste of blood filled his mouth.

Above him, Leopold stood hovering. He shook his right hand in the air and moved his wrist to the sides.

“Fucking unfortunate that I couldn’t break your nose. Just for offering me something like that, you should be rotting in the dungeons, Count Arvallen. Do you really think this is some backwater quarrel no one cares about?”

Arvallen’s glare burned through the blood streaking his cheek. “Watch your tone, boy. I’m still a Count of this kingdom.”

“Not anymore,” Leopold said flatly. “You’re just a noble who lost.”

He crouched, lowering himself until they were eye to eye. The ship rocked softly beneath them, ropes creaking, water slapping at the hull. His voice dropped lower and rougher.

“Do you know when even nobles start worrying about losing everything they’ve ever had?”

Arvallen opened his mouth to answer, but Leopold spoke over him.

“It’s during war. That’s when titles stop meaning anything. Your father might’ve been a Count. Your grandfather too. But when a war like this ends—the kind that could tear the royal line out of the kingdom—you’ll be lucky if anyone even remembers your name.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying Arvallen the way a blacksmith might inspect a cracked blade. “You’re still treating this like a game. Like it’s a bet you could afford to lose because you think you’re too important to fall.”

Arvallen’s jaw tightened, veins standing out in his neck. “I am important,” he hissed. “No one can erase what my family has done for this kingdom!”

Leopold smiled—not kindly. “Maybe. But the thing about an illiterate population is, they forget. History fades. And Duke Arzan,” he said, straightening up, “doesn’t care much for the past. He looks at what stands now.”

He rolled his shoulders, the tension leaving him as he turned away. “I’ll just wish you luck for the coming days, Count. You’ll need it. Because I doubt you’ll like any of them.”

With that, Leopold stretched his back and looked toward his men, giving them a nod. The soldiers moved forward at once, rough hands pulling Arvallen to his feet and binding his wrists tight with rope. The Count didn’t fight this time. He just glared, chest heaving, as Leopold walked to the bow—calm, composed, as if the matter was already finished.

Leopold clapped his hands once, the sound sharp in the quiet river air. “Does anyone here know how to turn a ship around? I knocked out the captain.” he asked, looking over at his men. “I’m certain my father and Knight Killian are wrapping things up as we speak, and I’m sure they’d love to show everyone how Count Arvallen here ran at the first sign of trouble.”

A few of the men chuckled under their breath, moving toward the helm. The boat began to creak as they shifted its direction, oars cutting against the current.

Count Arvallen’s frown deepened. “You—” he started, but the words died when Leopold turned his gaze on him. That glare alone was enough to silence him. The young man didn’t even need to speak. There was steel in his eyes, and Arvallen suddenly understood that another word might earn him far worse than a punch.

He looked away, jaw tightening. The ropes around his wrists bit into his skin. Savages, he thought bitterly. Every one of them. It wouldn’t surprise him if they decided to carve him up on the way back just for sport.

As the ship turned, he caught sight of the burning horizon. The smoke rising from Solmere, his city, his legacy. He felt something cold settle in his gut.

They had known. Every step, every decision—his retreat, his escape route, even the ship. They had predicted it all.

The realization hit him harder than Leopold’s fist ever could. The battle had been lost long before it began.

He swallowed hard, staring at the ruined skyline shrinking behind them. His only hope now lay with Prince Aldrin. If the prince could turn the war, maybe—maybe—he could be freed before this humiliation became permanent.

But deep down, as he remembered how easily Solmere had fallen, Count Arvallen felt a darker thought creep in.

He wasn’t sure if there would be anyone left to rescue him at all.

Dao of money Chapter 186

Chapter 186

Chen Ren stood still and looked at the two urns, and in that moment, he understood exactly why Yalan had brought him here.

He had never once thought about visiting this place. He had pushed away every reminder of the past tied to this body… because it wasn’t truly his. Even coming back to Red Peak City had been a decision made out of necessity, not desire. He had wanted to stay as far away from this past as he could.

But now, he was standing in front of the remains of his predecessor’s parents.

The Chen Ren who once lived here… had never come. He had shut himself off, bitter and hurt. To him, these urns were a symbol of abandonment. His parents had died in the sinkhole, leaving him behind. Their bodies were only recovered months later, long after he had cried his voice dry and stopped believing they would return. In his young heart, they hadn’t died—they had left him.

Chen Ren felt something twist inside his chest. A mix of emotions—some were his own, and some were old pains that belonged to the soul he had fused with. A strange heaviness sat in his throat.

He lowered his gaze to Yalan. She waited silently, her amber eyes filled with an emotion he could not name. She wasn’t pushing him… but she hoped.

He looked back at the urns. What am I supposed to do here?

He didn’t have any connection to their memories. He didn’t have grief. He didn’t have the right.

But after a quiet breath, he took a single step forward. There was incense placed neatly before the urns. His fingers lifted gently, and a small flicker of lightning qi sparked at his fingertip dancing like a tiny star.

He touched the incense.

A thin flame bloomed. Smoke curled upward in slow spirals, drifting into the air like a silent prayer.

Chen Ren didn’t speak. He simply stood, letting the smoke rise between him and the urns—two lives lost, one life borrowed, and a future neither set of parents could have ever imagined.

For a while, nothing came out of his mouth.

Thoughts churned in his head, but his mouth refused to move. His heart beat a little too loud. His fingers twitched by his side. Finally, he forced his throat to work.

“I’m… not your son,” he began, voice low and uneven. “But I’m thankful to him.”

The words felt strange on his tongue. Smoke from the incense curled between his face and the urns like a veil.

“He grew up into an idiot,” Chen Ren admitted with a thin, humorless breath. “But even then… his memories, his body, and his place in this world have helped me survive.”

He stared at the names carved into the urns. They belonged to two people who had cared for someone else entirely. But fate had bound them anyway.

“I know you must have wanted more for him,” he said softly. “Before the sinkhole stole you away. You probably hoped he’d become strong, respected… not a boy beaten down and mocked in his own home.”

His lips pressed together. The incense smoke stung his eyes.

“He didn’t handle the pain well. He shut everyone out. He couldn’t see the hands reaching for him. So I hope,” he whispered, “you remember him kindly… wherever you both are.”

Chen Ren swallowed hard. His next words carried a vow, one thing he had believed in since the start of his life in this world.

“I don’t know what ‘respecting the dead’ is supposed to look like. I don’t know what I can do for you… or for Chen Ren who should be standing here right now.”

He bowed his head.

“But I will make sure this name—your son’s name—is known across the Empire one day.”

Not as trash. Not as forgotten. But as someone who reached the heavens.

He stepped back. The faint warmth from the burning incense brushed his fingertips like a goodbye. He turned to Yalan, exhaling.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I wish I had more to offer. More to say. But… this is complicated.”

Yalan shook her head gently, her tail lowering as her eyes softened. “You did enough,” she said. “Chen Ren's parents told me once—if they ever died in the sinkhole, they wanted him to visit, to light incense… even if just once in a long while. That was their only wish. And now, it’s finally fulfilled.”

Something loosened in Chen Ren’s chest.

“We can leave whenever you want,” she added.

Chen Ren nodded. He took one last look at the urns, then turned.

They walked out together, without any word or any forced comfort. It was just footsteps echoing in the silence.

Outside, the city moved like nothing had happened—vendors calling, cart wheels grinding over stone, people running here and there. Chen Ren glanced at Yalan. “Let’s head for the gates,” he said. “The others should be waiting. Then we go to the sinkhole.”

Yalan nodded. They took the long streets instead of back alleys, not rushing. Chen Ren let the noise wash over him but his thoughts kept sliding back to the urns, to smoke curling like soft thread. He wondered—briefly, uselessly—what it would have been like if those two were still alive. Would they have seen through him? Would they have helped him or berate him?

The questions rose, then fell. There were a lot of what ifs, a lot of questions about his place in the world.

The transmigration had never fit cleanly. Sometimes he felt like a blade with two edges that didn’t quite meet. He kept the edges sharp by moving, by making deals, by hunting goals. He did the same now—pulled his mind forward, toward the sinkhole and the hunt waiting there.

He wasn’t afraid of dying in the sinkhole. He was afraid of losing something he needed: a hand, a leg, an eye. The bestiary’s sketches kept playing in his mind. Beasts down there weren’t like the ones on the surface. They were older and far more ferocious, having lived in such thick qi.

They reached the city gates as the sun tilted west. A carriage waited near the watch post, horses snorting air. Luo Feng stood with his arms crossed, dust on his boots and a grin under his travel scarf. Beside him, Zhou Ping held a bundle of rope and tools like a man counting each one twice.

When they spotted Chen Ren, Luo Feng lifted a hand and waved big. “Sect Leader Chen!” he called, voice bright over the road noise. “Let’s go. We’ve got a long road ahead.”

Chen Ren’s gaze flicked once to the wall tops, once to the sky. Then he stepped up into the carriage, ready to leave behind the city.

***

The journey to the sinkhole took longer than Chen Ren expected.

If he sprinted using qi, he could have reached it within hours… but that would have been foolish. Diving into a deadly pit while tired was like asking the heavens to smite him. So he rode with the others, letting the carriage wheels rattle and the wind brush his face while he saved every shred of strength.

With nothing else to do, he finally checked his star space again.

He hadn’t dared look since the last time—afraid the cracks might have spread, afraid he would see it collapsing piece by piece. But now, as his senses slipped inward…

He blinked.

The fractures were still there, but thinner. Shorter. Like a wound finally forming a scab. The oppressive pressure that once pushed on his soul felt… lighter.

Still no golden dragon in sight, though. Just silence.

Good enough, he thought. If his guess was right, once he broke through the first step of body cultivation, he’d have the stability needed to move toward the foundation establishment realm.

But that first step demanded a beast’s body.

And that meant he had to go deep, underground—into a world where the earth itself wanted you dead.

He imagined the fight over and over. A darting figure in darkness. Slashing claws. A narrow cave that punished every misstep. Tricks ready in both hands. Qi ready to burst the moment he needed it.

Even so, a coil of tension sat in his chest.

He had never fought under tons of rock before. One wrong move and a stray stalactite might spear him like a kebab.

He grimaced.

Please… let me not die crushed by a stupid rock.

As if summoned by the thought, Wang Jun’s voice suddenly echoed sharp and full of rude, familiar annoyance.

“Look up for your head, kid.”

Chen Ren twitched. “You and your pessimism again.”

“Head injuries are the worst to fix with pills,” Wang Jun continued with a scoff. “If you crack your skull open down there, you’ll be even more of an idiot than you already are.” He smirked for a beat.

“And then, unfortunately,” Wang Jun added dryly, “we’ll have to put you down.”

Chen Ren stared at the mountains ahead, jaw tightening.

“What a lovely, motivational speech,” he muttered. Chen Ren frowned down at the head. “I’m not a pet you can just put down when I’m hurt. And do you ever say anything that isn’t about death?”

Wang Jun sniffed. “I’m giving you advice. Good advice.”

“You can give advice without wishing me dead every three sentences,” Chen Ren shot back. “And if I die, you’ll be stuck out here in this barren land. Maybe one of the clans will find you and mount you on a wall. I doubt they’ll hand you books to read.”

Wang Jun turned toward Yalan as if she were his last hope. “The cat will rescue me.”

Yalan flicked her tail and smirked. “If Chen Ren dies, the contract breaks. I’ll be crippled trying to keep myself alive. Saving you would be the last thing on my mind.”

Wang Jun sighed then pointed his chin toward Luo Feng. “Fine. Then this farmer will handle it.”

Luo Feng blinked, scratching his head like he wasn’t sure if he had heard correctly. “I mean… I’d try. But I don’t think I could fight off a beast just to protect you. I'm no fighter.”

The head looked personally offended. “Unbelievable.”

Before Chen Ren could make another jab, Zhou Ping cleared his throat softly from the front of the carriage. “We’re here, Sect Leader Chen.”

The words stopped the bickering as surely as a blade dropped between them.

The carriage rolled to a slow stop. The wheels creaked. The horses snorted tired air.

Chen Ren pushed open the door and stepped down first before grabbing Wang Jun. The others got out slowly, leaving only Whiskey who was still napping. That's what the lunari had done the whole trip.

The ground beneath was cold, uneven, and smelled faintly of wet stone.

Night cloaked everything. The stars above blinked like distant lanterns. The sun had already vanished while they were on the way—meaning there were no wandering cultivators here, no clan scouting parties or mercenary teams hunted at night.

But it also meant the beasts would be awake.

Down below, in the enormous black pit carved into the earth, something snarled. Most people avoided the sinkhole at night. Anyone who didn’t was either confident…

…or insane.

Chen Ren took a deep breath.

Luckily, he wasn’t relying on confidence alone.

His eyes slid toward Yalan. With her here? He did not worry about the night.

Chen Ren scanned the rim. Shapes moved on the far side—low, scaled bodies hugging the rock. Eyes like cold lamps watched from the dark.

He walked to the lip and leaned out to look. The sinkhole dropped away in a black spiral. Wind rose from below, heavy with damp and mineral. He held Wang Jun’s head in one hand.

“Don’t drop me,” the old man hissed, more shaky than usual. “If you do, I’ll curse your whole bloodline.”

Yalan’s whiskers twitched. “It would be fun, though. I’m sure you’d survive a fall to the center of the earth.”

Wang Jun scoffed. “Some beast would catch me first. This place gives me chills. Thicker qi means higher danger.”

Chen Ren nodded. He felt it too. Each breath here came thick and bright, like drinking fire. His skin tingled. His limbs felt lighter. If he went much deeper, the qi alone might crush him. Good thing his target lived near the entrance.

Footsteps crunched behind him. Luo Feng stopped at his shoulder. “How are you going to do it, Sect Leader Chen?”

Chen Ren didn’t look away from the pit. “I go with Yalan. We handle the beast and come back. She’ll keep the strange beasts from getting close. You all stay here and watch the edge.”

On the rim, he suddenly noticed a cluster of lizards crouched—long bodies, iron-grey scales, ridged backs. They stared across at the group, throats pulsing, teeth bared. A few gave short, ugly snarls, but none moved closer. Instinct told them what reason would not: try it, and die.

“See?” Chen Ren said softly. “They’re thinking about it.”

He set Wang Jun carefully on a flat rock, then loosened his shoulders and rolled his wrists. Lightning hummed faintly under his skin.

“Yalan,” he said.

She padded to his side, tail low, eyes bright.

“Let’s go.”

Wang Jun glared at the pit. “Wonderful. If a bigger beast wanders up, we’ll be the side dish.”

Zhou Ping stiffened at that, his face going pale as moonlight. He shuffled back from the edge quickly like a beast was already upon him.

Chen Ren shook his head. “Relax. Stay away from the drop and you’ll be fine. Beasts down here love the qi too much to leave it. They don’t chase what’s outside.”

Luo Feng scratched at his cheek. “And if something else comes? Those lizards look like they wanna try.”

Chen Ren clapped his shoulder. “Then you deal with it. You borrowed those library books—there were combat techniques in them, weren’t there?”

Luo Feng looked guilty. “There were… but I’ve never tried them on a real threat.”

“You probably won’t have to,” Chen Ren said, sounding far calmer than what he felt. But he believed all of them would be fine.

There should be no hunters. No clan members No mercenaries this time of the night. Only a handful of weak beasts watching from afar.

And if someone powerful did show up…

Chen Ren’s gaze flicked to Wang Jun. The head played the helpless old relic too well. He always acted like one drop would end him, but Chen Ren felt it in his soul.

There was more to the old bastard than reading and insults.

Chen Ren walked up to the edge and stared into the sinkhole—the world turned upside down beneath his feet. Jagged rocks jutted inward like the ribs of some giant beast. Not far down, a ledge crook curved into the darkness. That would be his landing point.

He turned to Yalan. She was stretching like a lazy house cat about to leap onto a roof. Flames glimmered faint around her fur.

“You ready?” he asked.

Her whiskers twitched. “Always. You’re not scared of jumping, right?”

A beat passed.

Of course I’m scared, he thought. It felt like he was jumping into a throat in the earth waiting to swallow him whole.

But he set his jaw, forcing the fear back into the cage of his ribs.

“No,” he said. “In and out. It will be a quick hunt.”

The fear still bubbled. But he didn’t let it settle. Instead, he stepped back, knees coiling.

Then he jumped.

Wind howled up like a dying thing, clawing at his clothes.

And right then—right when his feet left the ground—a shadow launched from somewhere in the hole, shrieking and attached itself to his face.

Volume 3 is out on Amazon!

Magus Reborn – Volume 3 is Out Now!

Book 3 of Magus Reborn is officially live on Amazon! Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and supporting the series.

If you’re on Kindle Unlimited, you can read it for free right now.

Even if you’re not buying, a quick rating or review helps more than you think—it’s completely free and makes a huge difference in the algorithm.

Right now, the Amazon ranking system’s a bit of a mess due to AWS problem, so ratings or downloads are the best ways to keep Magus Reborn visible.

If we hit 200 ratings in the first week, we’ll release a bonus chapter as a thank-you to everyone who helped push us there.

Here’s the link: https://geni.us/magusreborn3

You can also listen to it on Audible, narrated by J.S. Arquin:

https://www.audible.com/pd/Magus-Reborn-3-Audiobook/B0FSSQ8XS7

Dao of money Chapter 185

Chapter 185

Chen Ren didn’t let any hint of disappointment touch his face. Inside, he felt the faint sting of rejection, but outwardly he remained calm—expression smooth, eyes steady. He had expected this. The medallion was a Chen Clan heirloom; there was no world where they would hand it over without resistance.

He turned to Patriarch Leijun, voice as polite as it could be. “Is there a reason why? What does this artifact do?”

Before the old man could answer, Chenglei stepped forward, his brows drawn slightly. “It’s not an artifact,” he said. “It’s a clan heirloom. I’m sure you understand. Such things are precious to us.”

Chen Ren nodded slowly, his gaze sliding back to the medallion. “That’s alright then,” he said at last. “Why don’t we move on?”

That should give them no suspicions. He turned away as if the matter didn’t bother him at all. He made sure that his steps weren’t hurried but measured. He drifted past the shelves and display cases, pretending to take interest in the vault’s other treasures. Truthfully, there were many things he found intriguing—each piece humming with qi and there were more than just weapons in the vault.

He paused before a small crystal orb sealed within a jade frame. Lightning flickered faintly inside it, flashing across the glass like trapped storm clouds. The qi that leaked out brushed against his skin.

For a few breaths, he stood still, feeling the electric pulse run up his arm. Yalan’s voice murmured in his mind, soft and knowing. “That’s a lightning orb. Formed from the core of a thunder beast. If you absorbed it, your lightning would become purer and denser.”

Chen Ren’s eyes lingered on the sphere. The temptation stirred something deep inside him. “Yes,” he thought. “It would strengthen me greatly.”

Then he shook his head, barely moving his lips as he answered her in thought. “But we can’t afford distractions. The medallion comes first.”

He stepped away, the faint hum of lightning fading behind him. From the corner of his eye, he caught the subtle frown forming on Chenglei’s face, and even the patriarch’s raised brow. They clearly were hoping for him to take the sphere and get this over with. If they thought that he was going to just pick anything, they were very wrong.

There were other treasures in the vault that he stopped in front of longer than the sphere—a slender silver sword that released qi projectiles without draining the mind, a black bow that never missed the mark, a telescope like device that let you see very far distance, and a set of jade beads that shimmered with spiritual energy. Chen Ren studied them before moving on, his expression unreadable.

To his two ignorant relatives, he might have looked like a young man browsing through items he didn't understand the worth of. But behind his calm eyes, every glance, every step, was a hidden agenda. He wasn’t here to admire what the Chen Clan had gathered.

He was here for what they didn’t want him to have. So, he moved further.

There was also a bracelet that caught his eye—simple, unassuming, but pulsing with faint qi—that could calm a beast’s instincts. Chenglei explained everything about it when he saw him looking at it. Chen Ren paused when he saw it, thinking how much it would suit Zi Wen in bonding with more beasts. A few shelves down sat a pair of spectacles with golden frames and a faint blue sheen across the lenses. According to the plaque beneath, they could read the qi conductivity of any metal at a glance. Chen Ren could almost picture Feiyu grinning, hammering away in delight with those on his face.

The more he walked through the vault, the clearer it became—the Chen Clan was no lesser force than an Established sect. His predecessor had never thought too much about his clan’s standing and had never even stepped foot in the vault. Chen Clan's estate, their members, their wealth—everything reflected the quiet power they held in Red Peak City. And much of it, Chen Ren knew, came from the sinkhole.

Such knowledge was enough for him to re-evaluate Chen Clan, but he kept his face straight as he moved through the end of the vault. He had already thought through every way he could get the medallion out of his clan's hands, and he was confident in one thing after seeing how they had acted—they had no idea what the medallion truly was. They didn’t know its worth, nor what it could do. That ignorance would be his blade.

After a while, once he had looked through everything, Chenglei’s voice broke the silence. “Uh… Renjie, you don’t like anything here?”

Chen Ren turned toward him smoothly. “It’s not that,” he said. “A lot of these items are valuable, and some would be very useful for my own cultivation. But if I’m not wrong, most of them are only about a hundred years old, yes?”

Chenglei nodded, puzzled. “That’s right. Why? Is that a problem?”

Chen Ren let a faint smile touch his lips. “Not exactly a problem. But my master doesn’t have much interest in things so new. To him, a hundred years is nothing, barely a breath. He prefers ancient items, those with age and mystery to them. That’s why the medallion caught my eye. It seems… far older than the rest.”

Patriarch Leijun looked at him closely, then nodded slowly. “You’re right. It is the oldest artifact here. You have a good eye.”

Chen Ren inclined his head lightly. “I’ve seen a lot of ancient artifacts and my master's curiosities over the years.” He paused, then added with quiet finality, “And I don’t think my master would care much for anything else here.”

He looked at the patriarch’s gaze that lingered on him. He could tell the man was thinking. After a few seconds, his hand came up to stroke his goatee. “That sounds like a problem,” he said at last.

Chen Ren stood quietly, hands folded behind his back. His gaze flickered once more toward the medallion before he spoke, tone calm but firm.

“I understand that you don’t wish to part with a family heirloom,” he said. “But unless you have something older hidden elsewhere, I believe that medallion is the only thing that would convince my master. Without it, I fear I won’t be able to persuade him to make the deal.”

Patriarch Leijun’s expression darkened slightly, the crease on his brow deepening. “You’re asking too much, Renjie. A family heirloom isn’t something we can simply give away.”

“I understand that,” Chen Ren replied smoothly in a steady voice. “But do you have anything older I could take instead? Something with the same level of age? I really don't care if it has any function. I just need something with history.”

The silence that followed was sharp. Chenglei’s gaze darted between his father and the medallion before he finally spoke. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “we should hear what we stand to gain before deciding. If the exchange is worth it, we can discuss further.”

Chen Ren gave a small nod and reached into his robe. He took out a folded piece of parchment—the same one he had shown to the Yu Clan—and handed it to Patriarch Leijun.

The old man took it, unfolding it carefully. His sharp eyes skimmed each line in silence while Chenglei leaned over his shoulder to read. The parchment detailed the pills, the prices, and the terms of agreement—all neat, concise, and deliberate. He had even modified it a bit before coming here to write down how many pills he could provide.

Chen Ren watched the patriarch’s expression carefully, though he kept his own as neutral as stone.

Leijun’s face remained unreadable, but Chenglei’s didn’t. The man’s eyes widened as he read, his mouth parting just slightly in surprise.

Chen Ren took that as his cue to continue. “I’ll sell the pills to you at around the same rates as the Yu Clan if you decide to part with the medallion,” he said evenly. “In addition, the Yu Clan and I reached an understanding—if my pills are used during their expeditions, I receive ten percent of the sinkhole haul.”

Chenglei straightened sharply. “We don’t do that,” he said, his tone clipped. “Everything the Chen Clan recovers from the sinkhole belongs to the Chen Clan. We don’t share it with outsiders.”

Chen Ren smiled faintly, as though he had expected that answer. “Then perhaps we can negotiate. Once you have something suitable for me to present to my master as a gift, I’m sure we can find an agreement that satisfies both sides.”

Within seconds, the air thickened between them. Patriarch Leijun folded the parchment again, tapping it against his palm thoughtfully while Chenglei’s frown deepened.

Chen Ren paused for a moment, letting silence stretch just long enough to draw their attention back to him. Then, with the same calm tone, he added, “Please understand, I don’t mind selling the pills to you at a fair price. But my master is the one who sends them, and I have to make sure he’s satisfied with the arrangement. If you’d like some time to decide whether there’s something else you’re willing to offer instead of the medallion, that’s perfectly fine. I’ll be in the city for about a week longer before I continue my cultivation journey.”

He said it lightly, almost casually, and he watched their reactions closely.

“That’s fine by me,” Patriarch Leijun said. “Give us two days. We’ll have an answer for you by then.”

Chen Ren smiled faintly. “That’s acceptable. Do you mind if I take my leave for now?”

“Of course not,” Leijun replied. “Ask any servant outside—they’ll show you to the gates or get you a carriage to your inn or wherever you want to go.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Chen Ren said, bowing slightly. “I’ll find my own way.”

And with that, he turned and walked out, his steps measured and steady until the door shut quietly behind him. A male servant quietly showed both of them to the exit.

As he left the compound and the heavy air of the Chen estate lifted off his shoulders, a small, satisfied smile crept across his lips. Everything had gone smoother than he’d hoped.

Yalan’s voice brushed through his thoughts. “What do you think? Will they give it to you?”

Chen Ren’s eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced back once toward the towering walls of the estate. “Probably,” he replied inwardly. “They’re more desperate than I thought. They wouldn’t have let an outsider step into their vault otherwise, especially not someone they barely know. They want the pills too badly. After seeing how much progress the Yu Clan made, they’ll do whatever it takes to catch up.”

“That’s true,” Yalan murmured. “The Chen Clan has always been hungry for power. They think whatever lies in the sinkhole will let them control the whole city.”

Chen Ren’s lips curved faintly. “Yes,” he thought. “But they’re fools. They don’t realize that the medallion they’re guarding so carelessly… is worth far more than anything buried in that pit. At least, if that old dragon is to be believed.”

The city wind brushed past him, carrying the scent of smoke and spice, but Chen Ren hardly noticed. His mind was already spinning with possibilities—two days, maybe less, before the old man decided. And when he did, Chen Ren would be ready to claim what truly mattered.

“Anyway,” he said, “let’s wait for two days. See what answer they give.”

Yalan’s voice slipped into his head like cool water. “I rechecked the vault arrays and the clan seals when you were looking at the artifacts. Everything’s as it was. No surprise traps have been added since the last time I was there.”

He looked at her and offered a small, quiet smile. “Good,” he said. He folded his hands behind his back and said, “If we don’t get the medallion in the deal…”

He stopped, breathed out, and the smile went sharp at the edges. “We steal it and get the fuck out of here.”

Yalan’s quick chuckle was all the answer he needed.

***

Apparently, they didn’t have to steal the medallion in the end. Two days later, the Chen Clan sent word—they had agreed to part with it.

Chen Ren couldn’t help but feel a flicker of surprise. Things had gone far too smoothly. In the past few months, every step of his journey had demanded schemes and misdirection. And he had always gotten into conflicts one way or another. Yet here, everything had unfolded like a polite trade negotiation.

He had walked into the city with one plan: to get the medallion, no matter what it took. And now, it sat within his reach—without bloodshed, without risk. The ease of it almost made him uneasy.

Still, he wasn’t about to complain. He guessed that in the eyes of the Chen Clan, the medallion was little more than a sentimental relic—a family symbol passed down through generations, its real value long forgotten. They didn’t see it for what it truly was: a key to the Gate of Immortals. To them, ruling Red Peak City mattered more than holding onto a trinket from the past.

He’d half-expected this outcome. After all, his predecessor had been allowed to leave the clan with another medallion just like it. Still, the lack of struggle felt strange. He’d grown used to winning through deception and obstacles, not convenience.

Yet here he was—having earned both the Chen Clan’s heirloom and the Yu Clan’s favor, while lining his pockets with more spirit stones than he could count. The city had been kind to him, almost suspiciously so.

He supposed that once the Yu Clan learned he had sold pills to their rivals, they would rage. But by then, Chen Ren would be long gone. He had no intention of staying in Red Peak City once his business was done. And really—what could they say? He’d never signed an exclusive contract. He could sell to whoever he pleased.

If anything, he might leave a letter for Yu Murong, a little note to soothe the man’s pride and lie to him on what exactly had happened, so he could still have a good contact here for the future.

For now, though, he had what he wanted. After securing the medallion, he brought it straight to Wang Jun, who examined it carefully under his eyes. Once he confirmed it was authentic, Chen Ren turned his thoughts to the next step.

The negotiations awaited.

They turned out far simpler than Chen Ren had expected. He asked for nearly the same price he’d given the Yu Clan—only ten percent higher—and they didn’t argue much. Though the Chen Clan refused to share any part of their ‘sinkhole haul,’ they agreed to part with the lightning orb he’d seen in the vault.

The orb alone made it worthwhile. Chen Ren suspected they had more of them stored away—it would make sense for a clan known for lightning cultivation. He wasn’t sure; his predecessor’s memories gave him no hint about it, but he could feel the raw lightning energy swirling inside the orb. With it, his lightning aspect would grow far stronger.

He could have pressed harder, pushed the negotiations further, but there was no need. He’d already achieved what he’d come for, and the longer he stayed in the city, the more he felt an uneasy tension crawling under his skin, as if something was about to go wrong.

Thankfully, Yalan didn’t need to return to Jadefire Hall to fetch more pills. Chen Ren had planned ahead, bringing enough from the start to ensure the deal would go through. Two days later, he sent the shipment to the Chen Clan and received his payment—neat, heavy bags of spirit stones that shimmered faintly with qi.

After that, he visited the Yu Clan one last time to collect his share from the sinkhole. The haul turned out to be mostly beast materials, nothing extraordinary, but still valuable. He already had plans to bring them to Feiyu, who could forge armor out of them.

Before leaving the city, Chen Ren left a letter for Yu Murong—a polite mix of thanks and lies, saying he had to continue his cultivation journey but valued their friendship.

With that done, his affairs in Red Peak City were over. The medallion was his, the deals were complete, and his pockets were heavy with spirit stones. All that was left was the next step—venturing into the sinkhole, hunting a beast worthy of his breakthrough, and finally moving on to the sect.

But before they could leave the city, Yalan stopped him.

She didn’t say much at first—just that she wanted him to return the favour for transporting the materials for him. So, instead of heading towards the gates, she led him down a few quieter narrower streets.

Chen Ren didn’t ask where they were going. The tone of her voice told him it wasn’t a business matter. He simply followed, silent, his steps echoing faintly on the stone.

They finally reached a wide building at the edge of the city—a Lingtang, the resting place of urns and Yalan moved inside. The air inside was still and cold, carrying the scent of old ashes and burnt sandalwood. Rows of wooden shelves stretched into the dimness, each holding bronze urns carved with family crests.

The place was mostly empty, save for a few quiet figures lighting incense or bowing before the walls. Chen Ren followed Yalan deeper in, their footsteps hushed by the stone floor.

After a while, she slowed to a stop. Her tail drooped slightly, and there was a rare hesitation in her eyes when she turned to face him.

“The last time I came here,” she said quietly, “I asked Chen Ren to visit too. Not you, the previous one.” Her voice was soft, caught somewhere between guilt and longing. “But he never did.”

Chen Ren’s brows furrowed. He looked around, the silence pressing close. “For what?” he asked.

Yalan lifted her paw and pointed ahead. Two urns sat side by side on a low stone shelf, the light from the nearby lantern painting them gold. Their names were etched neatly into the metal.

“To pay respects to his parents,” she said. “He never came. Always said he didn’t have time… or that it didn’t matter anymore.”

Her eyes softened as she looked back at him. “I know you aren’t him,” she murmured. “But maybe it would give them a little peace. To see their son’s body… still doing well in the mortal realm.”

Magus Reborn Chapter 293

Chapter 293

Killian looked at Serat Vellin as lightning crackled down his legs, burning through the vines that held him. The smell of scorched greenery filled the air as the bindings shriveled into black ash.

Serat’s eyes narrowed. “So it’s true! Huh! Arvallen told me there were Knights among you lot who could wield elements like Mages, but seeing it in person… It's impressive.” He tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “The Alparcan royal family would love to learn your secrets.”

Killian’s grip on his sword tightened, lightning still dancing along the blade. “They’re not getting it.”

Serat’s smile grew, sharp as the stones at his feet. “Are you sure? Once I kill you, I imagine some of your men would be willing to trade loyalty for their lives.”

“You’re free to try.”

He surged forward in a flash, his blade cutting through the haze, lightning crackling around him like a storm. Serat’s eyes flickered bright green as spell structures bloomed before him, two circles rotating in opposite directions. In the next heartbeat, sharp rocks burst from the air around Killian, slicing forward with deadly precision.

Killian had expected it. He twisted to the side, boots scraping against stone as the shards missed him by inches, but they didn’t stop. The stones curved midair, following him like hunting hawks.

Killian growled and kicked off the ground, leaping high. His armor flashed as lightning surged through his limbs. He landed on the battlement with a heavy clang, then used the momentum to push off again, propelling himself straight toward Serat like a lightning bolt given form.

The Mage’s eyes widened, hands flying up as his spell structures changed. The ground before him heaved, a wall of stone rising fast to intercept the strike.

Killian’s sword crashed through it in a shower of dust and debris, but when he broke through it, he hit nothing but air.

He scanned the field. Serat had already repositioned—ten paces ahead now, cloak whipping in the wind, another spell forming in his hands.

Killian raised his shield just in time as a storm of sharp stones came raining down. They struck with enough force to dent steel, but his enchanted armor flared, dispersing each hit in bursts of mana sparks.

When the barrage ended, Killian straightened, eyes locked on his opponent. The air between them shimmered with tension.

But before Killian could close the distance, the ground itself rebelled.

More vines shot up from the cracks along the wall—ugly, living things. One lashed around his sword arm, another snared his leg, tightening fast. He snarled, lightning flaring down his blade and body, searing through the vines with crackling heat. They shriveled and burned, but for every one he destroyed, another grew in its place, clawing through stone and ash to trap him again.

Then the ground beneath him erupted.

Chunks of dirt and shattered brick flew into the air as the floor split apart, and from the gap rose thick mounds of packed earth—looking like hands—giant earthen molds that clamped around his legs. Their sheer density resisted even his lightning, the current grounding harmlessly through the soil.

Across from him, Serat raised both palms. “You can’t do anything if you can’t move,” he said.

He began forming another spell structure—fine and complex, lines of mana twisting into a rotating sphere.

Killian gritted his teeth.

He pushed his will inward, channeling mana into the vault in his chest. At once, lightning exploded across his entire body in a flash so bright it turned the battlefield white.

The vines caught fire instantly, burning to black cinders. The earth molds cracked and split apart as the electric charge rippled through them.

Killian stepped forward, the ground trembling beneath his boots, lightning arcing off his shoulders like the wings of a storm.

Serat’s eyes widened and his spell faltered. He snapped it back into control and hurled another barrage of sharp rocks toward Killian, but they vaporized before reaching him, turning to dust against his lightning shield.

Killian charged.

In a blink, he was on him—his sword cutting forward like a bolt of white light. The impact should have ended it. But just before his blade could bite, Serat’s robes flashed gold and a circular barrier of shimmering light burst around him.

Killian’s sword struck it dead-on with a metallic crack. Sparks flew; the barrier held.

Serat grinned, breath quick and eyes alight. “Your tricks won’t work against my enchanted armor.”

Killian’s gaze hardened. “Is that so?”

He swung again. Once. Twice. Each strike echoed like thunder, the barrier flashing brighter under the pressure, but still it didn’t break.

Then he saw it—Serat’s hands moving again, faster now, lines spinning to form another spell structure.

Killian’s instincts screamed a warning. The air behind the Mage began to hum, the ground trembling once more.

Killian stepped back on instinct, just in time for the air to split open before him.

Two massive arms of rock materialized out of thin air, moving with terrifying speed. He raised his lightning shield, mana flaring, and the energy pierced through the constructs, but they didn’t stop. The arms broke through the electric field and slammed into him with a force that felt like being struck by a battering ram.

The impact cracked through his armor and sent him flying backward. His boots scraped against the stone before he crashed into one of the enemy soldiers behind him, both of them tumbling to the ground. The breath was driven out of him, and for a second, his vision blurred—his world reduced to a ringing hum.

But his instincts were sharper than his sight.

Footsteps thundered beside him. Killian rolled hard to the side, just as a spear struck down where his chest had been. The tip slammed into the ground, sparks flashing from the stone.

He turned, vision sharpening again, and saw the soldier who’d tried to finish him. Without hesitation, Killian lunged low, grabbing the man’s leg and yanking it out from under him. The soldier hit the ground with a cry.

Killian rose, his blade flashing. One clean thrust into the gap between the helmet and shoulder. A wet sound, a brief tremor, and the soldier was dead.

He didn’t linger on the corpse. His focus snapped back to the Mage.

Serat Vellin stood a short distance away, the air around him thick with mana. The same earthen arms that had struck Killian were now covered in layers of dirt and gravel, fusing into something larger, shaping into a full construct.

He’s forming an earth golem.

Killian tightened his grip on his sword and moved to interrupt the spell, but Serat’s smirk came first.

The Mage raised his left hand and flicked his fingers.

All around the wall, the ground cracked open again, and more vines erupted from the stone. They shot toward Killian in waves, twisting and writhing, trying to pin him where he stood.

He swung his sword, lightning bursting outward as the blade cut through the first few tendrils. But before he could move for the rest, the vines shuddered and hissed, then split open.

A thick, green gas poured out, spreading fast. The smell hit him instantly—sharp, metallic, poisonous. Killian leapt back, boots skidding on stone as the gas rolled forward like smoke from a dying fire. His throat burned.

Toxin, he realized. Clever bastard.

All across the stone surface between him and Serat Vellin, the green gas thickened—curling low and heavy. It rolled across the ground, eating through moss and singed the tips of the vines that birthed it. Killian could smell the sharp tang. His armor had no purification seals, and he didn’t know if any of the antidote potions in his belt would even work against this. Every poison brewed by Plant Mages was different.

Across the haze, Serat Vellin kept his hands raised, unbothered. The air around him rippled with power as the construct he’d been shaping grew larger and larger—its shoulders rising above the wall, its body hardening into dark stone. In moments, it stood as tall as the siege breaker itself.

Unlike Balen’s creations, this one was slower, heavier, but its power was obvious. If Killian couldn’t close the distance soon, that thing would crush everything in its path.

He tensed, ready to charge through the poison despite the risk when a deep vibration ran through the air.

Killian froze, head snapping upward. Above, the clouds began to churn out of nowhere. Blue light flashed between them, and then rain fell.

The rain fell in sheets, hissing as it hit the green fog. The poisonous gas sizzled, thinning almost instantly, leaving behind only the faint smell of wet leaves and burned sap.

Killian blinked in surprise, water running down his helmet. Then he heard a familiar voice.

“Knight Killian,” shouted Ryn Vorr. “Go on. The rain’s laced with a purification spell. You won’t be poisoned.”

Relief flickered through him, then purpose took over.

Killian lowered his stance and shot forward like lightning unleashed. The stone beneath him cracked with every step as he rushed through the clearing rain, his sword glowing brighter and brighter until it hummed.

Serat Vellin’s construct was almost finished—its arms forming, its eyes glowing faintly with green mana—but Killian didn’t give it the chance to move.

He gathered mana from deep within his heart, forcing it down the channels of his body until it reached his sword. The blade trembled under the pressure, humming violently. The enchantments along its surface flared white, barely holding together under the surge.

Then—he released it.

A beam of pure lightning burst from the tip of his sword, cutting through the rain and striking the construct dead center. The explosion was blinding.

The golem’s head shattered instantly, the mana holding it together bursting outward in a shockwave. Shards of rock rained down across the wall, crashing into parapets and scattering soldiers. Pieces of it hit his helmet.

Through the fading light and dust, Killian stood tall, sword raised. Across the rubble, Serat Vellin stared back at him, cloak torn, eyes wide and furious.

Serat’s snarl broke through the thunder. “What did you do?”

Killian grinned despite the pain lancing across him from using so much mana. “Just fucked up your plans.”

He raised his sword again, lightning flaring bright, and launched another volley of strikes. Arcs of electric fury slashed toward Serat, the air vibrating with the heat and crackle of it.

The Mage reacted instantly—walls of earth erupted between them, stacking in rapid succession, each one layered over the next like a fortress. He didn’t reinforce them; instead, he threw them forward. The ground shattered under their weight as slabs of rock hurtled across the wall toward Killian.

Killian darted aside, lightning flashing beneath his boots. The first wall crashed where he’d been standing, the impact breaking stone and bodies alike. The next one came faster—he slid under it, feeling the wind and debris scrape his armor. Every impact tore through friend and foe alike, soldiers on both sides screaming as the battlefield turned into a storm of flying rubble.

He’s losing control, Killian thought grimly, dodging another burst of vines that snapped at his feet. Serat was burning mana like a madman—one spell after another, no pauses between incantations.

Even with his strength, facing a Third-Circle Mage head-on was no easy feat. Every spell that missed him tore holes through the wall or flung allies off the edge. But Killian didn’t care about the chaos around him. His entire focus was fixed on Serat Vellin—the single obstacle between him and victory.

He kept moving. Lightning coursed through his body like a second pulse, each strike from his sword sending arcs along the broken stone. Bolts crashed into the Mage’s barriers, forcing him to keep stacking defenses.

Spells rained down in return—roots clawing from the cracks, spikes of stone jutting up to impale him, gusts of toxic green gas that hissed as the rain tried to wash them away. But Killian stayed in motion, weaving between each cast, waiting.

Lord Arzan’s voice echoed in his head—a memory from their training. “Mages of this age are wasteful,” Lord Arzan had said. “They drown their enemies with overwhelming mana instead of precision. An Enforcer wins not through power, but through control.”

Killian had seen the truth of that lesson more times than he could count. And now, as Serat’s hands shook and the glow of his mana dimmed, he saw it again. The Mage’s face was pale; sweat ran down his temple. His spells were getting slower, rougher, their form breaking apart mid-cast.

Killian pressed forward, deflecting an earthen spike, sidestepping a burst of roots. He could feel it—the shift in the battle.

Serat was burning out.

And Killian, steady and calm amid the storm, was waiting for the moment to end it in one strike.

Another barrage of stone shards screamed toward Killian, cutting through the air like razors. He raised his shield just in time—the first few slammed into it with enough force to make his arm go numb. Dust and fragments pelted against his armor, sparks dancing across the steel.

From the narrow gap beside his shield, he caught sight of Serat Vellin. The Mage was standing amidst the chaos, fingers trembling as he forced mana into a half-formed structure in the air. Killian recognized the pattern instantly—the same one that summoned the thorned vines.

But this time… it flickered. The lines of mana twisted and broke apart before the spell could take shape. The air around the Mage shimmered with unstable energy, leaking into the rain. He was at his limit.

This is my chance. Killian didn’t hesitate.

He broke into a sprint, lightning trailing behind him in jagged bursts. His blade came alive, arcs of pure mana crackling down its length as he swung it straight for Serat. The golden barrier on the Mage’s armour flashed to life again, deflecting the strike with a sharp ring that echoed through the wall. Sparks exploded outward, blinding for a second.

Serat grinned through the light. “You won’t break my enchanted armor,” he sneered. “You’ll die before it even cracks.”

Killian’s response was simple. His gaze slid past the Mage—toward a massive chunk of stone lying near the edge of the wall, where part of the battlement had already caved in.

“You sure?”

In one motion, he dismissed his lightning channeling and lunged for the boulder. His boots scraped against the blood-slick stone as he crouched, grabbed it, and with a roar—lifted.

Serat’s smirk faltered.

The Mage scrambled to form another spell structure, lines of mana twisting desperately between his hands, but Killian was already moving. He hurled the boulder with both arms, his strength amplified by raw mana coursing through his limbs.

The rock hit the golden barrier with a deafening crack.

For a second, the shield held—the seals on the armour flaring brilliant gold—but then it shattered. The boulder carried through, slamming into Serat’s chest and sending him sprawling across the stones. His back hit the wall with a heavy thud, his head snapping back, blood smearing across the stone as he slid down, gasping.

Killian didn’t wait.

He closed the distance in three long strides, lightning bursting around him once more. The Mage managed to raise a trembling hand, blood running down his face. “S-stop—” he croaked.

Killian didn’t.

He swung his blade in one clean motion.

As soon as Killian’s blade left Serat’s throat, the strength that had carried him through the fight drained like water from a cracked jug. His chest heaved, the adrenaline fading, leaving only the ache of his body and the ringing in his ears. For a heartbeat, all he wanted was to sit down—to breathe. But the battle wasn’t done. Not yet.

All around him, the clash of steel and the roar of spells still echoed through the walls and the city. Flames licked up from broken homes. Soldiers screamed. The wall beneath him trembled under the weight of it all.

Killian straightened, forcing air back into his lungs, and felt the remaining mana in his heart. He let it flow to his throat—a trick Lord Arzan had taught him once. When he spoke, his voice rolled across the battlefield like thunder.

“Mage Serat Vellin is dead!”

The words hit the walls and streets below. “Put down your weapons,” he shouted again, his tone sharp enough to cut through the chaos. “Unless you wish to join him in the afterlife!”

Silence didn’t come at once, but the shift was visible.

Dozens of soldiers froze mid-fight, glancing toward his voice. Those on the wall turned to look at each other, faces pale and uncertain. The Alparcan Mages and Knights hesitated first. Killian could see it in their eyes: disbelief, then fear.

He didn’t give them time to doubt.

Gripping Serat Vellin’s corpse by the collar of his blood-soaked robes, Killian lifted the body high for all to see. The armor shimmered weakly, its seals cracked and fading.

“This,” Killian bellowed, “is your strongest Mage!”

The effect was instant.

The Alparcan troops began to falter, several dropping their weapons entirely. Others followed, retreating down the stairs or throwing away their shields. The rest of Count Arvallen’s men, seeing their supposed allies surrender, hesitated too, but hesitation in war was death.

Killian’s own soldiers surged forward, seizing the moment. Blades cut through the chaos. The enemy line broke like dry twigs. In minutes, the fighting turned to cleanup.

When it was finally over, the wall was quiet except for the groans of the wounded and the crackle of burning wood.

Then the cheers began.

“Knight Killian did it!”

“Knight Killian is a hero!”

“He’s a Mage killer!”

The chant spread, raw and wild, echoing through the ruined streets.

Killian exhaled, lowering the Mage’s body to the stone. The title made him wince—not out of shame, but exhaustion. He had killed a man, yes. A Mage, a threat. But hearing them call him Mage killer made him realize just how far he had come from being a common Knight.

He straightened, scanning the sight in front of him and moving his eyes toward where Duke Blackwood stood, watching him, the faintest of smiles in his lips.

Their eyes met for a moment, both sharing the same unspoken thought.

This victory was just one piece of something larger. And now, both of them were thinking the same thing—whether Leopold had done his part.

Dao of money Chapter 184

Chapter 184

As soon as Chen Ren saw Patriarch Leijun, memories rushed through him like a storm he didn’t ask for.

He saw it—the day his predecessor had been banished. The man’s cold eyes, the hard voice that had carved each word into his mind: “You’re trash. The Chen Clan has nothing to do with you anymore. You’ll amount to nothing and die crushed by your own foolishness. Leave!”

There had been more—too many words to count—and the worst part was that some of them had been true. That didn’t make them hurt less.

Now those words echoed again, twisting with the rage and hate that had once filled his predecessor’s heart. They rose like fire, pushing against the inside of his skull, begging to be let out. For a moment, it felt as if the hatred had only been sleeping, waiting for this exact meeting to wake.

But Chen Ren didn’t let it show. Not even a flicker.

He knew if he let his emotions slip, his killing intent would bleed out on its own. The air would change, and the old man would notice. So he pushed it down—slowly, deliberately—until his face was calm again.

Only then did he realize Patriarch Leijun had risen from his seat.

Chen Ren’s gaze met his for a heartbeat. Then, lowering his head slightly, he offered a short bow, just enough to show courtesy without submission. “It’s an honor to meet the Patriarch of the Chen Clan,” he said evenly.

Leijun’s sharp gaze studied him in silence, but he didn't keep gazing at him, Chen Ren turned his eyes to the second man in the room—Chen Chenglei, his uncle. “It’s an honor to meet you as well, Elder Chenglei.”

Both men nodded in acknowledgment. Then Leijun’s expression softened a fraction, and his voice carried the weight of calm authority. “I believe it’s we who should be saying that to you, Renjie,” the patriarch said. “I’m glad you accepted my invitation. I’ve been hearing a great deal about your pills… and your master.”

Chen Ren smiled faintly, just enough to be polite. “My master tends to attract talk whenever he’s named,” he replied. “Every pill I have ever made is simply a reflection of his teachings.”

The words came smoothly, practiced, polite yet under that faint smile, Chen Ren’s thoughts burned quietly. He had gotten so good at lying that at this point, he had the confidence to even fool the Emperor.

“Your master must be quite the genius,” Patriarch Leijun said, voice smooth but heavy with curiosity. “Blessed by the heavens, no doubt. What’s his name?”

Chen Ren’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m sorry, Patriarch Chen,” he said calmly. “My master prefers to remain unknown. He’s a hermit now, and speaking his name might only draw trouble to him. That has always been the case with him.”

Leijun’s expression didn’t change, but Chen Ren could almost hear the thoughts behind that stillness—the silent calculations, the doubt, the subtle weighing of truth. But in the end, his pills had already proven their worth. The results spoke louder than any story he could tell. Whether the patriarch believed him or not didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had power, and power made belief easy.

Finally, Leijun gave a slow nod. “That’s alright,” he said, gesturing toward a seat. “Why don’t we sit?”

As Chen Ren moved forward, Leijun’s eyes flicked toward Yalan. “Will your spirit beast stay with you?”

Chen Ren inclined his head. “Yes. But don’t worry, she’s obedient and no threat.”

From the side, Chenglei gave a short chuckle. “I’m sure. She barely gives off the aura of a tier two spirit beast. I think we’ll be fine.”

Chen Ren didn’t look his way, but a faint thought slid across his mind: You couldn’t be more wrong.

The air in the room shifted slightly as they took their seats. Yalan sat beside him, her eyes half-lidded, acting as an obedient spirit beast who already looked bored.

Patriarch Leijun clasped his hands over the table. “I’m sure you’re curious why I’ve called you here,” he said.

Chen Ren nodded. “I suspected it has something to do with the pills I’ve been selling to the Yu Clan. Am I right?”

Leijun’s lips curved into a faint smile in return.

“You are, yes. You’re quick to catch on.”

“It’s not the first time clans or sects have become interested in my master’s creations,” Chen Ren said, keeping his tone mild. “But I haven’t done much business with them. The Yu Clan was an exception because of a friend.”

Chen Chenglei gave a thin smile. “Yu Murong, we know him.”

Chen Ren’s eyes narrowed a fraction. For a brief second, he let the smile fall from his face. “It seems your people have been digging for information about me. I thought it stopped at the men who followed me around the city yesterday.”

The room went still for a moment. Patriarch Leijun’s expression didn’t shift, but his son frowned, clearly caught off guard by how bluntly Chen Ren said it. Before Chenglei could speak, the patriarch turned his head toward him.

“I wasn’t aware of that,” Leijun said evenly. “Chenglei, did you send men to follow Renjie?”

Chenglei blinked, hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, Father. I did.”

Leijun clicked his tongue and looked back at Chen Ren. “Then I must apologize for my son. I had no intention of having men tail you after sending the invitation. It seems my son acted ahead of me, and without any thought. He could be like this. Trust me, the Chen clan had no intention of antagonising you.”

Chen Ren’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s fine. I simply don’t like people being that interested in my life. I hope it won’t happen again.”

“It won’t,” the patriarch said. “You have my word.”

Chen Ren let the matter drop. It wasn’t worth the breath and it had already served its purpose of letting the Chen clan know that sending people to tail him was useless and was just going to make him angry. This was how these people worked; for what they were about to discuss, he needed to show that he was no pushover.

He leaned back slightly. “Anyway,” he said, voice light, “let’s return to the main topic. You should know the only reason I sold those pills was because of a friend yet you called me here.”

Patriarch Leijun folded his hands over his lap, his tone as even as still water. “I’m well aware of your arrangement with the Yu Clan,” he said. “But no one said you couldn’t have a partnership with the Chen Clan as well.”

Chen Ren’s brows lifted slightly. “Wouldn’t that jeopardize my friendship with the Yu Clan?”

Leijun’s smile was faint, the kind that didn’t touch his eyes. “From what I’ve heard, you’re a traveler. Travelers rarely stay in one city for long. Friendship shouldn’t bind you so tightly. You’d do better to think about what we can give you, and how much it will help you on your path. You would always have a friend in the Chen Clan.”

Chen Ren tilted his head. “And why can’t the Yu Clan give me the same? I’m sure they’re evaluating my worth as we speak.”

Leijun gave a soft, dismissive scoff. “You’re new to Red Peak City. You wouldn’t know. The Yu Clan are merchants, first and last. They buy, they sell, they barter, but true power doesn’t come from trade. They can’t give you the cultivation resources we can. You’re young and talented; you’ll appreciate what we offer.”

Beside him, Chenglei nodded quickly. “My father's right. The Chen Clan produces the strongest cultivators in the city. What we can provide—no one else could.”

Chen Ren went quiet, lowering his gaze in thought. He stroked his chin in thought. To the two of them, it must have looked like he was seriously considering it. Inside, he was only playing the role, letting silence stretch so they could fill it with promises.

A second passed. And another. And before the silence would get too awkward, he looked up.

“I’d like to know what you can offer me,” he said. “But I’m guessing the pills you want will be as many as what I’ve already sold to the Yu Clan.”

Leijun’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction and nodded. “You’ll get far more value from us than from them,” he said smoothly. “Trust me—the Yu Clan has been underpaying you severely.”

Chen Ren gave a faint grin, leaning back slightly in his chair. “I like the sound of that,” he said. “But I don’t need more spirit stones. I have enough right now, and if you’re offering to buy the same pills, I can sell them to you at the same price as the Yu Clan. What I’d prefer instead are artifacts or martial techniques on top of the spirit stones.”

“Hah!” Chenglei’s face brightened immediately. “That’s fine. We have plenty of artifacts and martial techniques, especially for cultivators in the qi refinement and foundation establishment realms. I’m sure you’d find something to your liking.”

Chen Ren shook his head. “No. I don’t want those. I have enough resources to break through to the next realm.”

Patriarch Leijun tilted his head slightly, studying him. “Then what exactly are you looking for?”

“It’s not for me,” Chen Ren said, lowering his tone a little. “You need to understand—my master oversees the creation of all these pills. We’re not an establishment that sells to the public. My master doesn’t need spirit stones. He only agreed to sell to the Yu Clan because I requested him, also because he recently took on a few new disciples—it was good practice for them, and in return, they got a few resources.”

He paused, as though weighing his next words carefully. “If I ask him to prepare more batches, he might refuse. He dislikes anything that looks like greed. To convince him, I’d need something… that he wants.”

Leijun’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his tone stayed smooth. “So, what you want are resources for your master.” A flicker of unease crossed his gaze—gone almost as quickly as it came. “But from what you’re implying, he must be quite powerful. The kind of man who wouldn’t be satisfied by ordinary offerings. Only the Guardian sects carry resources that could impress someone like that.”

Chen Ren caught the hesitation in the old man’s tone, and almost smiled. “My master doesn’t always care for strength,” he said lightly. “Sometimes he just likes… collecting things. Rare artifacts, odd materials—he calls them trinkets. I’m sure the Chen Clan has a few of those lying around.”

Leijun’s hand twitched slightly against the armrest, and Chen Ren knew he had him thinking. He raised an eyebrow. “A collector?”

Chen Ren nodded lightly, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Yes. My master has an eye for rare things. I know his tastes well. Once, he paid an entire bag of high-grade spirit stones to a sect leader—just for a ring he liked. It wasn’t even a spatial artifact, just one engraved with intricate runes that no one knows the function of. If you have anything like that, I believe I could persuade my master to sell to you.”

For a heartbeat, silence hung in the room. Both Leijun and Chenglei exchanged a glance—subtle, but full of conversation. Leijun stroked his goatee over and over. It was clear that neither had expected that kind of request, but neither objected either. Everyone knew that cultivators of higher realms had their eccentricities. Some collected weapons, some collected bones, and others… oddities.

Finally, Leijun gave a slow nod. “Our founder started as a merchant,” he said, voice thoughtful. “Over the centuries, the Chen Clan has gathered a fair number of artifacts—some so old we no longer know how to use them. You may find something your master would appreciate.”

Chen Ren’s eyes lit up, though it was more performance than truth. “That sounds promising. I believe my master would certainly like something out of your collection. Would you mind showing me before we continue this discussion?”

Leijun hesitated for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Very well. But remember—many of these artifacts are precious. We don't let outsiders get inside, but I will make an exception for you. Handle them with care. If you wish to inspect anything personally, ask first.”

“Of course,” Chen Ren said smoothly, inclining his head. “I understand completely.”

The three of them rose. The patriarch gestured for him to follow, leading them through a long hallway lined with carved pillars.

“Where we are heading,” the patriarch said, “is our Vault Room.”

As they walked through the long stone corridors of the Chen estate, Patriarch Leijun kept probing for more information with each step. His tone was mild, but he was clearly trying to learn more about his background. He asked where Renjie had spent his childhood in, which sects he’d visited, and what parts of the Empire he liked the most. His voice wasn’t intruding but his eyes never stopped studying him. He was looking for small details to patch together his identity.

Chen Ren, however, gave him nothing solid. He answered with the same vague stories he had once told the Yu Clan—mentions of spending his childhood wandering across different cities, talking on the Guardian sects and a few old Established ones, and saying how he liked the Empire as whole—but no names, no places that could be traced back to him. Every word was shaped to sound honest while giving nothing away.

Their talk thinned as they reached the end of the hall. The patriarch stopped before a wide, reinforced wooden door carved with faint runes that ran across an array. He pressed his palm against it, and at once, light rippled through the grain. Lines of azure rune-light coiled across its surface like veins of lightning before the door groaned open.

In his mind, Yalan’s calm voice echoed. “That’s a [Qi-Signature Seal Array] Only the person who's qi is registered in the array can open it.”

Chen Ren said nothing, merely stepped forward, and at once, his eyes widened seeing the room.

Woah…

The room stretched wide and deep, lined with shelves and glass cases that gleamed under suspended light orbs. Every shelf was filled: jade bottles sealed with wax, ancient scrolls tied with golden thread, rings and pendants resting atop velvet cloth, weapons mounted neatly along the walls—blades, staves, and bows of every make. Unlike the Soaring Sword Sect’s chaotic vaults, this one was pristine, arranged with a merchant’s precision.

He hadn’t expected this much. Whatever front the Chen Clan kept, they were far richer than he had imagined.

Patriarch Leijun stepped beside him, hands clasped behind his back. “I hope you can find something that suits your master’s taste,” he said. “Everything here was either won through battle or purchased by our founder generations ago.”

Chen Ren gave a small nod and began to wander slowly through the aisles, eyes gliding over each case. Chenglei trailed close, pointing things out—an ornate fan made of phoenix feathers, a cracked jade mirror that still hummed faintly with qi, an artifact that looked almost like a telescope—but Chen Ren only smiled politely, not stopping once.

He kept looking.

And then he saw it.

His steps faltered as his gaze locked onto a small, dull medallion resting in a sealed glass case. It looked nearly identical to the one he already carried—its surface etched with faint concentric runes, its edges blackened by time.

Without hesitation, he moved toward it. The closer he got, the more certain he became.

But before his hand could even brush the glass, Patriarch Leijun’s voice came from behind him—steady, almost apologetic.

“I’m sorry if that caught your eye,” the old man said. “I’m afraid that piece… cannot be given away.”