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Magus Reborn Chapter 292

Chapter 292

Killian was ready when it happened.

The first explosion tore through the city like thunder, shaking the ground beneath his boots. Then came another—and another—until smoke began to rise in dark plumes across Solmere’s skyline. Screams followed. Cries of alarm echoed from the walls as fire licked upward through the haze.

He stood outside his command tent with the nobles and Mages, watching the chaos unfold. The enemy soldiers on the ramparts stumbled in confusion—some running, others shouting orders no one could hear over the noise. They didn’t know what had hit them.

Killian’s jaw tightened. That’s our opening.

He turned toward Duke Blackwood, who stood beside him. “Is everything ready?”

The older man gave a curt nod. “Leopold’s on it. He can be trouble, but he follows orders when it matters.” His gaze flicked toward the smoke curling over the walls. “Is the siege breaker ready?”

“Yes,” Killian said, his eyes glinting.

Duke Blackwood’s mouth curved into something between a grin and a grimace. “Then let’s see it in action.”

Killian raised his hand and shouted, “Let the siege breaker charge!”

The ground trembled.

At first, it was just a deep rumble, then the earth itself seemed to groan as something massive stirred beneath the camp. Shouts rose as soldiers stumbled back, tents collapsing in the wake of heavy movement. Then, with a burst of dust and steel, the siege breaker emerged.

Gasps rippled through the camp.

The golem—towering thrice the height of a man and broad as a gatehouse—pulled itself free from the reinforced tent that had hidden it. Plates of blackened metal glinted under the dim light, seals flickering to life along its arms and chest. It let out a mechanical, grinding roar—half mana surge, half beastly wail—that rolled through the field like thunder.

Killian flinched at the sound, hands going to his ears. Around him, several soldiers ducked instinctively, some dropping their spears as the shriek rattled through the valley.

From behind the golem’s shoulders, he saw Klan—the one controlling the breaker—standing with his arms stretched, threads of glowing mana crawling from his palms to the golem’s core.

The construct’s head jerked toward the city gates. Klan pointed forward.

The golem obeyed.

It turned its massive frame toward Solmere, seals pulsing brighter as its joints locked into place.

Then, with a sound like grinding mountains, it crouched, and leapt.

It landed several feet ahead of Killian, shaking the ground hard enough to throw dust into the air and knock a few nobles off their feet. The men stumbled, staring in awe as the machine raised its arms, light burning through its plated fists.

Golems didn’t normally make sounds other than their gears turning, but Balen had insisted on giving this one a voice. A deep, grinding roar that could shake the nerves out of even the most disciplined soldier. Killian had to admit, it worked.

On the walls, enemy soldiers stumbled back as the siege breaker rose higher, its seals flaring brighter with each step. The metallic screech rolled across the city, and archers lost their aim mid-draw, arrows clattering to the stone. Even from this distance, Killian could see fear spreading through their ranks.

Coupled with the chaos of the earlier explosions, Solmere was in no position to defend itself.

The siege breaker lumbered forward, each step thudding like the heartbeat of a god. It raised its plated arm, runes blazing, and marched toward the gate. A few desperate Mages on the wall flung spells—fireballs, lightning arcs, shards of ice—but the golem’s shriek tore through the air again, and the attacks fizzled against its armor, leaving only blackened smudges.

The golem charged straight at the city ward. But just before it collided, a voice boomed from the ramparts.

“You’re not breaking through that easy!”

One of the enemy Mages stood there, cloak whipping in the wind, both hands outstretched. Two spell structures flared in his palms. The ground beneath the golem cracked, caving in like sand, and the siege breaker stumbled forward. A second later, thick vines erupted from the earth, wrapping around its limbs, glowing faintly with green-gold light as they tried to pin the machine in place.

Killian’s eyes widened slightly. Despite the smoke, the chaos and fear, the man had managed to dual cast.

Duke Blackwood’s voice came beside him. “That’s Serat Vellin. Alparcan Third Circle Mage. He's a very famous dual caster.”

Killian nodded, gaze fixed on the man. He already knew the name. He’d memorized every report before the campaign even began. The man used earth affinities and was known to experiment with hybrid spells that complement them.

Duke Blackwood’s eyes hardened. “If we take him out, the rest will break.”

Killian’s hand dropped to the hilt of his blade, the corners of his mouth curving in a grim smile. “Then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

Baron Casten Drel took a few steps forward. “He’s trying to press it down,” he said, voice tight. “He’s forcing the vines to grow tighter. What do we do if it breaks?”

Killian’s eyes stayed fixed on the field. “Don’t worry,” he said evenly. “No Third-Circle Mage can hold the siege breaker for long.”

Almost on cue, the massive golem let out another of its engineered roars—an unholy, metallic bellow that rolled across the battlefield. Its enormous limbs thrashed, shaking free chunks of dirt and stone as the thick, glowing vines strained to keep it contained. Cracks spidered through the bindings, the air humming with mana.

Then the vines snapped.

The golem surged upward, tearing itself out of the earth in a shower of dust and debris. More vines erupted from the ground in a desperate attempt to restrain it, but the siege breaker’s chest seals flared—brilliant white-blue—and lightning arced down its arms. The energy ripped outward in a violent discharge, frying the vines to black ash in seconds.

Killian grinned. “That’s more like it.”

No matter what spells the Mage on the wall threw down, it wouldn’t matter. The siege breaker lumbered forward again, unstoppable, until its glowing fist collided with the shimmering wall of the city’s ward.

The barrier flared to life instantly—an enormous dome of golden light surrounding Solmere, humming as mana surged through its structure. Each of the golem’s blows rippled across its surface, like stones cast into water. Arrows and spells poured down from the ramparts, exploding against the golem’s armor, but the machine didn’t falter.

Killian straightened, knowing it was time to act. “It’s time for the next phase,” he said, raising his voice. “Unleash the drones!”

From the rear encampment, a rising whine filled the air as four metallic orb-like drones lifted off the ground, glowing with the soft blue seals etched into their frames. They shot skyward, slicing through the smoke as they split apart in perfect formation—each heading for a different section of the ward.

Killian knew the enemy hadn’t expected the siege breaker, but the drones were another matter. Solmere’s defenders would know them from during the fief war. They’d know the threat they posed.

Sure enough, the reaction was instant.

The Mages on the walls shifted their focus upward from the siege breaker, raising spell structures. Archers dropped to one knee, drawing their bows toward the sky.

“Mages! Prepare to protect!” Killian shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

A heartbeat later, the air erupted.

Bolts of mana, bursts of flame, and streaks of lightning rained down on the drones. The sky itself lit up with color, a storm of spells hammering against the incoming machines as the real siege of Solmere began.

But the enemy’s counterattack didn’t go unanswered.

Killian’s Mages raised their hands in near-perfect unison, spell circles spinning into existence around them. Fire met ice, lightning clashed with wind—bursts of color and light collided midair, raining sparks across the field. Every barrage the enemy sent toward the drones was intercepted before it could land.

He spotted Ryn Vorr—standing ahead of the lines, robes snapping in the wind. A volley of boulders arced toward the drones, hurled by the enemy’s earth casters. Ryn lifted his hand, and half a dozen spears of condensed water shimmered into existence above him.

The spears shot forward, piercing through the boulders like arrows through sand. Shards of rock burst apart midair, scattering harmlessly before ever reaching their targets.

Each passing second brought the drones closer to the city’s ward, and the siege breaker’s relentless pounding began to pay off. The ward shuddered visibly now, flickering with every impact. Then, with one tremendous blow, Killian saw the first crack appear—a hairline fracture running through the golden barrier.

But victory was never that simple.

Atop the walls, Serat Vellin stepped forward, surrounded by a storm of mana. Killian recognized the spell instantly. His spell structures flared on both hands and sharp stones began to rise around him, floating in a precise orbit.

“Brace!” Killian shouted, even before the rocks flew.

Serat launched them like a storm of blades, hundreds of jagged projectiles slicing through the air toward the nearest drones. Killian’s Mages responded instantly, conjuring defensive barriers that shimmered before the drones in translucent arcs. The first wave of rocks slammed into the shields and shattered, but the next strike came differently.

From below the walls, vines burst upward again, glowing green with mana, twisting and coiling toward the machines.

One drone swerved hard, losing a propeller as a vine lashed across its side, sparks trailing behind it, but it managed to push free. The second wasn’t as lucky.

The vines caught it mid-turn, wrapping tight. The drone’s core flashed violently as it struggled to break loose, but the pressure only grew. With a sharp crack and a burst of blinding light, it exploded in midair, scattering burning metal across the battlements.

Killian gritted his teeth but didn’t flinch. One loss was acceptable.

He watched as the remaining three drones dove toward the wall, reaching their target.

The first impact was deafening.

Flames erupted outward as all three drones detonated in synchronized bursts, shaking the entire wall. The force rippled through the city like thunder, a chain of explosions following in their wake. Through the smoke and fire, Killian saw archers thrown from the parapets, Mages collapsing as the wards failed mid-chant.

For a few long seconds, the sky itself seemed to burn.

The siege breaker didn’t stop. It raised its arm again and slammed its glowing fist against the cracking barrier. This time, the ward didn’t flicker—it fractured!

Long fissures spread like lightning across the dome, its golden light faltering as the roar of collapsing magic filled the air.

Killian’s lips curved into a grim, satisfied smile. “It won’t hold much longer.”

He looked over the ranks—rows of men in armor, spears and swords steady, faces set—and then at Duke Blackwood. “I believe it’s time,” he said.

The Duke’s nod came hard. He turned, voice booming across the camp. “Men, gather into your formations! Mages behind them! Today we take Solmere and show our enemies we are the best army in the land. Do you understand?!”

A single roar answered him. Men clapped shields and stepped into place. Within a minute the camp tightened: pike blocks, shield walls, skirmishers at the flanks, and Mages grouped behind with spells ready. These troops came from different lords, but they moved as one—drilled, practiced, and ready. Killian watched them line up and felt the same cold calm he always felt before a fight.

“Remember—Mages hold the line from behind. Keep the gaps closed. Move fast when the gate falls,” he shouted.

They advanced. Dust and smoke swallowed their feet, but the path cleared with every step as the siege breaker hammered at the ward. The great machine’s fist vanished into the dome and then tore outward, jagged light splintering as the barrier gave. Cracks crawled across the ward like lightning.

“It did its job,” Duke Blackwood said, watching the dome fracture.

“Yes,” Killian answered. “Put it in the rear after this. We can’t risk losing it.”

They watched the golem push through the gap. With a grinding leap it landed before the wooden gate and swung. The gate exploded inward—timber ripped apart in a single, terrible blow—leaving a wide, smoking hole framed with shattered iron.

“Men! Charge!” Duke Blackwood screamed. “We take the city today!”

Spears rose. Horns blew. The formations surged forward as one living thing, shields locking, boots thudding in time. Killian led the charge with Duke Blackwood at his side. They poured through the breach, pushing into smoke and flame, the streets of Solmere opening before them like a wound.

In a siege, half the battle was getting in and they had already done it.

Killian could see it in the enemy’s faces as they stormed through the shattered gate—panic, confusion, the dawning realization that the city was lost. The defenders scrambled to hold the streets, Mages flinging desperate spells, but his own casters met them head-on. Fire burst against barriers, lightning tangled with counter-spells, and the ground itself trembled under the clash of mana.

A streak of light flashed toward him—lightning, fast and precise. Killian’s instincts kicked in. He drew his sword, its edge catching the glow of the storm above. Blue sparks danced along the blade as he wove his own lightning through it, shaping and channeling it like Lord Arzan had taught him. When the bolt hit, he turned the blade just right, absorbing the mana instead of letting it strike. The power thrummed through his body, his Mana heart swelling full—alive and burning.

Duke Blackwood gave him a sharp, approving nod as they crossed beneath the ruined archway where the siege breaker loomed, its massive frame still smoking from battle. Beyond it, the wall stairways rose, crowded with defenders trying to regroup.

“Up!” Killian barked, leading the charge.

They surged forward. A handful of enemy soldiers rushed down the steps, spears lowered, but Killian was faster. Lightning raced down his arm, his sword crackling as he slashed upward. A brilliant arc of blue energy shot from the blade, striking the soldiers mid-run. The shock hit them like a storm; they convulsed, weapons clattering from their hands before they toppled.

Killian didn’t slow. He cut through the next man, then kicked another back into his own ranks, clearing space for his troops to advance. Duke Blackwood was beside him, his blade already red, moving with the ease of a man who’d fought wars long before Killian was born.

Within moments, their forces swarmed the walls. Steel clashed, magic flared, and the defenders broke under the pressure. Arrows fell uselessly; the ward completely flickered out. The Count’s soldiers, stripped of their formation and their courage, looked lost—swinging wildly, shouting orders no one followed.

Just an hour ago, they must have thought they were safe—that this would be another long siege that dragged for weeks. But now the tables have turned.

Killian stood at the frontlines, lightning sparking around his blade as he carved through the chaos. He met the defenders head-on, cutting down anyone who dared step forward. His sword hummed with power, arcs of blue light running down its edge every time it swung. Metal hissed and cracked, and soldiers fell like wheat under a scythe.

Ever since reaching the third rank of Enforcer, his strength had soared. He hadn’t truly tested it since the plaguelands, but now he could feel it in every movement. His muscles thrummed with energy, his mana pulsing in rhythm with his heart.

A soldier lunged; Killian pivoted, slicing across the man’s armor. Sparks burst out as the blade tore through steel. Another came at him from the flank, shouting something lost in the roar of battle—Killian turned, his strike faster than sight, the man collapsing before the words even left his tongue.

Bodies piled around him, insignias of Count Avallen’s troops glinting dull in the smoke. But mixed among them were others—their armor lighter, trimmed with silver-green etchings. Alparcan soldiers. They were faster, stronger than the average Lancephil soldier, but not strong enough to kill him.

One of them tried to strike from behind. Killian felt it before he saw it—his instincts flaring like a lightning flash. He ducked low; the blade sliced air just above his shoulder. He spun and drove his gauntleted fist into the man’s chest. The impact sent him sprawling across the stone slabs with a wet crack.

Killian turned to move again, then froze. A sudden, sharp pull locked his legs in place.

He looked down. Vines. Thick, green, thorned, wrapping around his boots and calves. They pulsed with faint mana, tightening with every heartbeat. The thorns dug into his flesh, and blood ran down into the dust.

He winced, lowering his stance as lightning flickered across his blade again. Then he looked up.

Ten paces away stood the Alparcan Mage Serat Vellin. Cloaked in earth-colored robes, eyes glowing faint green with mana, his expression hard as stone.

Their gazes met and Killian knew what he needed to do.

Dao of money Chapter 183

Chapter 183

Chen Leijun stood at the bedside and looked down at the still shape of his grandson, Chen Eain. The boy’s chest rose and fell like a small boat in rough water. He was wrapped in white bandages, and from where he stood, he could still smell the herb smoke and iron in the air. The healers had just finished their work about an hour ago. When he walked in, he saw how drawn and tired they looked.

Eain’s eyes were still closed. His skin was pale as ash. He had expected a broken body—something beyond saving. For a moment, he thought the worst; maybe the boy was crippled. Maybe he was too finished to continue the path of a cultivator. But no, he was still breathing. The heavens had been kind to him.

The healers had said the worst had been avoided. According to them, his dantian was damaged. It would not heal quickly. Eain would not be able to fight at full strength for some time. Even so, the injuries were many. Bandages hid deep cuts, bruises mapped his ribs and blood had soaked cloth and dried in flakes in the hollow of his ear. The healers worked to stop the bleeding and stitch flesh that would not hold easily. Leijun watched the small, steady rise of the boy’s chest and felt both relief and a new weight gather in his chest.

Fate, it seemed, had not taken the boy yet. The thought sat between his ribs like a cold stone. That could be mercy. It could be a sentence. Leijun did not know which.

He remembered the first time he had seen his kin in such a bad state. If he had been a hundred years younger, his fist might have already been bloody. Rage would have been raw and quick. He had been a different man then—less patient, keener on thunder than on planning, but now his face stayed calm. The world had taught him to measure danger and bend emotion into use. Feeling alone would not save the clan.

But beside him, Chen Chenglei looked exactly as his own self would have a century ago. Leijun watched the way his eldest son stood: shoulders tight, jaw clenched, eyes like hot coals. Qi leaked from him in thin, bitter threads, the sign of a man whose blood boiled. He had not slept. His hands trembled as he crouched and pressed them flat to his knees. He could tell that anger sat inside him like a warming iron.

Leijun did not need words to read the look in Chenglei’s face. He wanted violence. He wanted to give an immediate reply. He wanted the Yu Clan’s blood.

“What will you do, father?” Chenglei asked at last. He looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “Father, we must teach the Yu Clan a lesson. We cannot sit hidden in our rooms while they trample our sons. We must strike and finish them for good.”

Chenglei took a raw breath and let the words spill out like a blade. “They had the guts to hurt my son,” he said, voice tight. “This must be the last time. We are strong enough. Kill the Yu Clan, and the Huangs will think twice. Then we can take whatever hides in the sinkhole without fear.”

Leijun watched him without interrupting. He did not move his hands. He only kept his eyes on his eldest son, letting the anger leave the man as speech. Sometimes a man needed to unload his fury before he could be reasoned with.

When Chenglei finally ran out of breath, Leijun spoke, slow and flat. “You know the probable end of that attack.”

Chenglei met his father’s gaze hard. “Our victory,” he answered.

Leijun’s face did not change, but his voice dropped to a tone like a winter wind. “Or my death.” Leijun continued without raising his voice. “If we strike the Yu Clan now, their experts, especially the patriarch, will gather. They will fight to the last for their own names and treasures. They will try to kill me first. If I fall, you and your brothers will be left alone—without me who holds the clan together.”

He paused and let the idea sit between them.

“You speak of breaking a balance,” Leijun continued. “Break the balance, and you break the city. You break our bloodline. Do you not think the City Lord or the Empire will act if open war begins inside Red Peak? They will carve us down to make an example.”

Chenglei’s jaw worked. He opened his mouth to argue, but Leijun held up a hand and leaned forward, eyes steady and hard. “I am not asking you to do nothing,” he said. “I am asking you to be wise.”

He pointed once at the sleeping boy. “Let him live. Let this be the lesson Chen Eain needs. Make him harder, make him smarter. Train him until his shame turns to strength. If you burn the city chasing revenge, you may win a battle, but you will lose the house that bears our name.

“If you still wish to finish a clan alone, go. But know this: do it under your own name. Do not ask the Chen name to carry a madness that will bury us all.”

“So you’re saying we do nothing? Keep playing our part in this balance while they grow bold? I won’t stand for that.”

Leijun’s eyes narrowed but he shook his head. “Neither do I. None of the clans wants this—no one seeks a full war. That is why whatever hides in the sinkhole matters so much to us.”

“But whatever is down there has stayed hidden for too long. We’re nowhere near claiming it. And now with Eain like this, our chances are worse. If he were whole, he would have found a way!” His voice broke on the last word, the hope turning to ash.

“He was never going to take it. You know why. There is so much wild qi in that place that not even a cultivator at the foundation establishment realm can stand close. Maybe not even a meridian expansion realm cultivator could stand for long. That is the whole danger.

“What we needed from the young ones was different. We needed someone to find a safe pathway—one where the qi thins enough for a proper approach. Once a path is known, the clans would swoop in and claim what lies there. I was waiting for that moment,” Leijun said as calmly as possible.

Chenglei’s fingers flexed. “And now it looks like the Yu Clan will get there first.”

Leijun frowned. He had hoped his son would see the politics—the slow, cutting moves behind every expedition—on his own. Chenglei was a man of action; he followed orders well, but he rarely read the spaces between them. It was an old grief for Leijun, one he could not change now.

“You cannot let the Yu Clan win,” Chenglei said, shaking his head as if he couldn’t—wouldn’t accept it if it happened. “Not after what they did to Eain.”

Leijun met his son’s stare. “Then find out how they ambushed him,” he said. “No one in the Yu Clan’s young ranks holds that kind of strength to beat him to this extent. Did you question the survivors?”

“I did,” Chenglei said. His voice was tight. “Most of the returned men were wounded and useless, but one of them could talk. I got him to speak. He said a man named Renjie is working with the Yu Clan. One of them boasted his name back in the sinkhole.”

Leijun’s brow lifted. “Renjie?” he repeated. The name sounded unfamiliar and thin against the quiet room. “I have not heard that name.”

Chenglei nodded. “He isn’t from Red Peak City. The man’s from outside the city. I got the spies to look around and they said Renjie is backed by a master alchemist—someone even the Guardians sects fear and respect. And he sold the Yu clan pills.”

Now we’re talking, Leijun thought to himself while looking at the resolve in his son’s eyes.

“Well, tell me everything.”

Chenglei stood straight and began to speak, his hands moving gestures while explaining. He told Leijun what the survivor had said and what the spies had found: how the Yu Clan had attacked, the pills they carried, and how the Yu Clan was trying to offer Renjie more and more spirit stones for more unique pills. And the information of a few of them that he was able to find out.

When Chenglei finished, Leijun’s face darkened. He pressed his fingertips to his temple.

“Did the Yu Clan always have contacts like this beyond the city?”

Chenglei shook his head. “I could not find proof of that, father. But this Renjie—he’s a young alchemist, and the pills are unique enough to back the claim of him having a strong background. If they are using outside resources to push deeper into the sinkhole, we cannot let them keep it. We must cut this partnership.”

Leijun looked at the sleeping boy, then back at his eldest. A cold faith settled in his eyes. He nodded once. “You are right. These pills wouldn't let us win in the hands of our enemies. We need to do something before the Yu clan moves too ahead of us.”

“They must transport those pills,” Chenglei said. “Caravans, guards, drivers—there will be stocks moving from outside to the city. I can have men ambush one of those carts. Kill the drivers and guards, take the pills. I'm sure it won't be easy to find out when they will be getting the next batch of pills.”

Leijun clicked his tongue, a soft, sharp sound that echoed in the room. Maybe his son still didn't understand his thought process and wanted to act like a lowly bandit. “Chenglei, son, do you not hear yourself? If this Renjie is the disciple of a master alchemist, he is a man of value. Move against him and the Yu Clan will hunt us even inside the city, and would be able to justify it. And do you really want to offend a master alchemist and have his fury come down upon our clan?”

Leijun’s eyes went to where Chenglei’s hands curled at his sides. His son opened his mouth, then closed it. Leijun knew that the boy wanted revenge against everyone that was even slightly involved in Chen Eain's current condition, but that was too idiotic. Finally, Chenglei managed a hard nod, the reluctance plain in the set of his jaw.

“We must be thorough,” Leijun said. “First, learn why the Yu Clan has this backer. Find the depth of the relationship. If Renjie is tied deep to them—blood, vows, or an old friendship—then we do not stab blindly. We prepare countermeasures for the pills. We study them. We find ways to break them.”

“And if it is only trade?” Chenglei asked.

“Then buy it. Buy the pills. Pay more than what the Yu clan pays. Our coffers are big enough.” He watched his son’s face for the smallest flicker of anger or doubt. “But do not let your anger pick the wrong target.”

Chenglei’s brow darkened. His eyes drifted to the bed where Eain lay wrapped in bandages. “We will partner with the man responsible for Eain’s condition,” he said finally, the words hissing out. “If that pill would have blocked his dantian for longer, then he could have been crippled for life.”

He listened to the old, tired logic behind his son’s anger and shook his head. “Put your anger at the Yu Clan,” he said. “You do not hunt the blacksmith because a sword killed a man. You go after the swordsman who striked. Do you understand?”

He knew Chenglei would try to smear blame across everything. That was how grief worked—it wanted to burn bright and wide. Leijun had watched men do that and bury their houses under the flames. This world demanded a sharper mind than that.

Chenglei gave a single, slow nod. He looked once more at the sleeping boy, at the thin rise and fall of Eain’s chest, then turned. “I will send him an invitation,” he said. “Once we learn more, I will arrange the meeting with Renjie.”

Leijun allowed a small, hard smile. “Good. Be careful and always keep in mind to move cleanly." He moved toward the door.

They left the room together, footsteps muffled by rugs and cloth.

Though when they were exiting, there was one thing that they didn’t notice—on the bed, beneath bandages and soot, a twitch at the corner of Eain’s eyelid.

It was almost nothing, but it was there.

***

After two long days of studying the bestiary from page to page, Chen Ren finally settled on his target after a lot of thinking—a beast strong enough to temper his body and help him break through to the second step of body cultivation. He closed the book with a firm snap, relief and determination crossing his face. The choice had taken far too long, but he believed it was the best decision for him.

It was then that the innkeeper knocked softly on his door. “Master Renjie,” the man said with a raised bow when the door opened, “someone left a letter for you.”

Chen Ren raised a brow. “A letter?”

The man nodded and handed him a folded parchment sealed with the Chen Clan’s insignia.

Chen Ren didn’t even need to open it to guess what it was about. By the time he broke the seal and read through the message—carefully worded and respectful to a fault—his suspicion was confirmed. The Chen Clan wanted to meet him.

He smiled faintly but didn’t move. “Of course they do,” he murmured. “Took them long enough.”

Going straight to the Chen Clan right after receiving their letter would’ve been foolish. It would look like he was eager—that they held the upper hand. Instead, Chen Ren did the opposite.

He spent the rest of the day wandering through Red Peak City, moving through its crowded market streets like a man without a care. He visited stalls shouting about fruits and beast pelts and heard merchants argue over prices. He stopped to watch a street performer bend light into shapes for children, then sat down for a late meal at the bar he now frequented.

All the while, Yalan’s voice whispered in his mind. “Three men on the rooftops,” she said softly, her tone casual—too casual to say that there were men stalking him. “Two more in the alley behind you. All watching.”

Chen Ren took another sip of wine he was carrying for show and smiled. “Let them.”

He didn’t change his pace or his path. The shadows followed him from street to street, but he ignored them. Observation was harmless. Attacks were what he worried about, and no one dared strike him in public.

By nightfall, he returned to the inn, relaxed and quiet, as if the day had been nothing more than leisure.

The next morning, though, he rose early. A full day of silence was enough to make his point. Any longer, and he risked turning their curiosity into irritation. The Chen Patriarch, Chen Leijun, was a man known for patience, but also for pride. And he was too smart to not know what Chen Ren was doing.

If he delayed too long, Leijun would treat it as an insult to the clan. He didn’t want that, not after everything he’d gone through for just this moment.

So Chen Ren prepared. He tied his expensive robes carefully, adjusted the spatial ring at his finger, and glanced once at Yalan, who stood by the window.

“You’re coming with me,” he said.

“To the lion’s den?”

“To make sure I walk out of it,” he replied with a smirk.

Her eyes gleamed faintly. “Well, fine.”

Yalan would be his protection in case things go wrong. According to her, no one in the clan should know of her since she’d been a hidden guardian of sorts for the longest time. It was more than enough for him.

Together, they stepped out of the inn, heading toward the sprawling Chen Clan estate.

Chen Ren’s lips curved as the morning breeze brushed past. But he walked through the tide silently to where the estate was.

It wasn’t that far to the inn and there was no crowd this early in the morning, so it didn’t take them long to reach the gates, and when they did, the gate guard, a tall, young man barely looked up.

He lifted two fingers and waved Chen Ren through, like a man letting a regular pass.

Chen Ren’s mouth tipped into a small smile as he stepped inside.

A young maid stepped out of the pillar’s shadow immediately. Short and bright-eyed, she wore a long pink robe tied neat at the waist. Her smile held and Chen Ren spoke before she could.

“Helo, I am Renjie, here to meet Patriarch Chen Leijun.”

“Yes, of course. This way, honored guest,” she said, head bowed, voice sweet. He answered with a nod and followed.

Chen Ren took the time to observe while walking. The halls were cool and long. Sunlight cut thin bars across clean stone. But before his eyes could wander more the maid tried to fill the quiet. “If you want, I can bring some eastern phoenix tea for you. We recently had a supply and it's quite good…” she went on and on.

He hummed through her descriptions but her movements distracted him.

Her sleeve brushed his wrist. A step later, her shoulder grazed his arm. Perfume—light and floral—hung in the air. Her chin tilted, eyes soft, as if inviting him to notice.

He ignored it and kept walking.

At each turn, old memories rose in his mind—boys sparring in a winter yard, a stern elder’s voice at a doorway, the clack of beads in a side hall. Faces he had never truly met. Steps he had never taken. The scenes came bright, then broke like foam. He let them go. Borrowed memories were not his. The nostalgia… it wasn’t his.

They walked through the halls to climb a short stair.

By the end of it, the maid’s smile thinned when he didn’t bite her flirtations. “We have arrived,” she said, and slid the door aside with careful hands.

“Thank you.” Chen Ren walked in without another word. He almost wished to grin at the maid to make her mad, but halted his steps when his eyes shifted toward the room.

Two men waited among a table. The lamps cast steady light and one of the men lifted his head, looking at him calmly. He recognised him immediately.

Patriarch Chen Leijun.

The old man’s gaze was… heavy. It pressed on Chen Ren like a palm testing steel. It weighed. It counted. The eyes did not blink as if piercing through him.

Magus Reborn Chapter 291

Chapter 291

Arel moved through the narrow streets of Solmere, his boots sinking into wet mud with every step. The rain that morning had turned the whole city into a swamp—gutters overflowing, carts stuck in the muck, and vendors still bailing water out of their stalls. The downpour had ruined his plans, forcing him to delay his movements until the roads were at least passable.

Now, the sky still hung low and gray, clouds heavy enough to press down on the rooftops. Smoke from the forges and hearths mixed with the damp air, turning everything into a dull haze. Even the banners on the walls sagged under the weight of the rain, their colors faded to the same miserable gray as the streets below.

Arel tugged his cloak tighter and kept walking. Maybe it was just nature trying to match the city’s mood. Solmere had been restless for days. You could feel it in the way people moved—quiet, careful, watching every corner. War sat just outside their walls, close enough to taste. No one smiled anymore, no one shouted across the markets.

Well, that wasn’t strange. No city was happy during a war. Except Veralt, maybe.

Arel snorted to himself. Veralt had always been a strange one—business as usual even when noble lords were burning each other alive last year. He remembered those days well; back then, he’d been just another city guard watching drunks brawl in the streets, never thinking he’d end up as something bigger. Then the Watchers picked him, said he had good instincts, that he noticed things others didn’t.

Now here he was, walking through enemy territory, not as a spy or messenger this time, but for something else. Something far riskier.

The drone’s message from last night still echoed in his mind. And if it came true, by the day’s end, the Count will no longer rule Solmere.

He couldn’t help the grin that pulled at his face. He didn’t know the full plan—he never did—but he believed in his superiors. So he just had to do what they said he should.

A noise ahead made him slow down.

A patrol marched through the muddy marketplace—half a dozen soldiers with spears and shields dark from the rain. Behind them walked three young men in leather armor, looking lost and miserable. Their steps were uneven, their faces pale.

Conscripts.

Arel watched them for a moment from under his hood. A week ago, their biggest worry was probably finding a girl or sneaking extra ale after curfew. Now, their only thought was how not to die. He almost felt bad for them. But, oh well.

He waited until they passed, then moved again, blending back into the narrow crowd of merchants and townsfolk. His boots splashed through another puddle, and he smiled faintly.

He looked harmless enough—barely five-foot-three, wiry, with a boyish face that hadn’t seen a hint of a beard in years. Orders were strict on that; Watchers weren’t supposed to stand out. The clean face helped. To most eyes, he was just another street kid scurrying through the mud. Too small for a soldier, too weak to be useful. Heck, the conscription officers hadn’t even bothered with him. That was the point.

He moved through the shallow puddles as he jogged past a fruit stall and out toward the river. Solmere’s river fort came into view—a broad bridge of black stone cutting through the middle of the city. The towers at each end loomed high, flags heavy with moisture, and guards paced their ramparts with crossbows in hand. Even from a distance, Arel could see the shimmer of wards running faintly along the walls.

Count Arvallen’s paranoia was almost impressive. The man had doubled security around every crossing, convinced that the enemy would strike from the river.

Arel almost laughed. You’re watching the wrong side, old man.

Still, he kept his thoughts to himself and moved with purpose. When he reached the checkpoint at the bridge, a soldier stepped forward, hand resting on his halberd.

Arel took off the hood and looked up with innocent eyes.

“Where are you headed, boy?”

Arel let his voice crack just enough. “To the church, sir. My brother’s been conscripted. I’m—” He hesitated, head bowing a little. “I’m going to pray for him.”

The guard’s shoulders eased. He waved him through without another question.

Arel crossed the bridge quickly, keeping his pace casual. Once on the other side, the city changed.

The streets widened, the air smelled cleaner, and the buildings stood taller—homes of merchants, Mages and relatives of the Count. His path veered from the church road, turning toward an estate he’d studied for weeks.

The manor once belonged to a local rich merchant, but now it housed one of the Alparcan Mages stationed under Count Arvallen’s command that had arrived two weeks back. Arel had watched the place long enough to know the Mage’s habits—morning drills on the walls, evening walks near the gardens, and two servants left behind to tend the house.

A big place. Too big for three people. Easy to move through, easier to hide in.

Arel circled the edge of the estate, keeping low beneath the windowsills. The walls were old, their pale stone darkened from years of rain and soot. A servant moved through the garden, hanging damp sheets on a line, so he kept wide of the open yard until he reached the north side of the house.

There he saw a window on the first floor, cracked open just enough.

He looked around once. No ladder, no crates. Just slick stone. But old estates had their flaws, and this one was no different. The rain over the years had eaten tiny grooves into the wall, just enough for a careful foot and steady hand.

Arel smiled to himself. When he was a kid, he’d climbed over walls to steal food from inns and taverns at dire times in need. And now, he was well versed in the art of climbing buildings. Guess stealing bread as a kid really pays off.

He started his climb, slow and quiet. Fingers slipped once, found their hold again. His boots scraped against wet stone as he pulled himself up, one shallow grip after another, until his hand hooked the window ledge. He swung a leg over and slipped into the room without a sound.

A grin cracked across his lips.

Inside, it smelled faintly of herbs and parchment. A desk stood by the wall with a few ink bottles left uncorked, and the air seemed to stick to him. He didn’t waste time.

The mission slip in his pocket had been brief: “Cause a large-scale distraction.” No instructions, no target. Just that. But he knew what exactly that meant.

He scanned the room, eyes settling on the tall wardrobe in the corner. Perfect. He dragged a chair beneath it, climbed up, and pulled three small, dull stones from his pouch—Syphon stones, still inert.

From another pocket, he took out a small Aethum stone, the size of a walnut, glowing faintly blue. He placed it in the center of the circle of Syphon stones.

The reaction was instant.

A faint hum filled the air as the stones began to vibrate, drawing at the Aethum’s energy. Light bled from their edges—dim at first, then brighter, like veins waking under skin. The Aethum stone pulsed, feeding them endlessly, the glow flickering between white and pale violet.

Two, maybe three hours, and they’d be full. After that, they’d keep pulling, over and over, until something broke.

It was a perfect distraction.

He climbed down, pushed the chair back into place, and gave the room one last look. Even if someone walked in, they’d never check the top of a wardrobe.

Without a sound, he slipped back through the window, grabbed the familiar footholds, and made his way down the wall. His boots touched the mud again, and he pulled up his hood.

By the time the servants noticed anything strange, he’d be long gone.

Arel didn’t wait around. The city wasn’t a place to linger when you had pockets and pouches full of magical stones. He jogged through the side streets, careful not to draw eyes, moving fast but not panicked—like a boy running errands for a master who’d whip him if he was late.

The next few drops were quick. One on the cracked roof of an old church that hardly anyone visited anymore—the kind where the doors hung half-open, and pigeons were the only regulars. Another at the Count’s riverside manor, the one he used for retreats. The guards there were lazy, half-asleep, more worried about the cold than intruders. Arel climbed the wall, tucked the Syphon and Aethum stones beneath a loose tile, and was gone before anyone looked up.

His third stop was less elegant. The sewers.

He crouched by a rusted grate and dropped inside, boots splashing in ankle-deep water. The stench hit him like a fist, but he kept moving, breath shallow, nose half-covered with his sleeve. He’d heard that gangs lived down here—smugglers, killers, thieves—but the tunnels were empty. Only the sound of dripping water echoed through the dark.

No guards, he thought, almost laughing. A perfect escape route and not a single man watching it.

He wedged the stones into a crack in the wall, checked it was stable, and climbed back out, blinking at the faint light of dusk above.

Three stones placed. One left. The hardest one.

The east wall.

That was the real risk. Even with most soldiers moved to the front walls from where they could see Lord Arzan’s army camped around the hills—there were still plenty stationed there. Enough to make a problem out of one wrong glance. Arel didn’t want to deal with them, but to complete his mission and get to safety, he needed to get on top.

If he was correct, the earlier stones he had placed would already be half-full, maybe more. He didn’t have much time.

So he sprinted.

The climb up the eastern stairs felt longer than it should. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, every step echoing off the stone. He forced his breathing steady, keeping his expression calm, the way they’d trained him. Blend in. Don’t think about it.

And then, halfway up the last flight, a soldier stepped into view.

He stood leaned with his back against the wall, one boot hooked on the stone, spear resting point-down beside him. He yawned, then blinked when Arel came up the steps; the sleep slid away and his eyes sharpened, but he didn’t reach for his weapon.

A sigh almost escaped Arel’s lips. That was a small victory.

“What are you doing up here, kid?” the man asked, voice flat.

Arel didn’t hesitate. “They told me to hold the walls, sir. Got delayed—had to tend my mother. She’s sick from the worry of the war. I’m late, that’s all.”

The soldier peered at his face through his head armor. “You look like a boy… How old are you?”

“Fiftteen, sir.”

“That is young.” He took off the helmet and sized Arel up and down. Finally, the man’s mouth pulled into a hard line. “Do you know how to fight?”

Arel kept his face calm. “I’m quick, sir. I can handle a spear.”

“Is that so?” The soldier pushed off the wall and straightened. He watched Arel for a beat, testing. “Who sent you here?”

“No name, sir.” Arel shrugged. “He said they needed fifty conscripts—men and teenagers—sent across the walls. Said to split them up.”

The soldier spat into the floor. “Those bastards. The Count wants everyone who can walk on the walls. No one left behind. Even kids.” He shook his head, half anger, half pity. Then he squinted up. “All right. I’ll get you doing basic drills. Can’t have you standing like a stump if the horns blow.”

He straightened, tossing Arel a short, guarded look. “The enemies have been quiet out there. Too quiet. Maybe the Count is talking with the enemy Duke to find a way out of war. But that's unlikely. Heard from one of the Alparcan Mages that Duke Arzan Kellius, the one leading the charge is a cursed Mage.”

“Cursed?” Arel echoed, keeping his voice small.

“Something like that,” the soldier said, shrugging.

Arel barely kept a straight face, trying not to laugh loud. If the soldier only knew how wrong he was.

“What else do you know, sir?” he asked, tilting his head with just enough curiosity to sell the act.

The man replied gravely. “That the Duke drinks the blood of beasts to power himself. Don’t know if it’s true, but…” He chuckled dryly. “Makes for a scary image, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Arel said, trying not to grin. “Where can I get a spear and armor?”

The soldier barked a short laugh. “Can’t wait to feel like a warrior, huh? I get it. Come on, kid.”

He led Arel along the wall, where rows of soldiers leaned on their spears or sat with blank stares. Most looked half-trained—men in mismatched armor, breastplates two sizes too big, helmets held together by string. Conscripts, every one of them. Arel felt a flicker of pity. They didn’t deserve what was coming.

But pity didn’t change orders.

He followed the soldier toward a small shed built into the wall. The man stopped at the door, pulling a heavy iron latch free. “Inside, you’ll find spare gear. Might not be a full set, but take what fits. I’ll be out here on the wall if you need anything.”

“Yes, sir,” Arel said, lowering his head.

As soon as the door closed behind him, he turned serious. The room smelled of oiled metal and dust. Spears leaned in uneven racks, armor piled on benches—too large for him, all of it. But the walls were wooden.

Perfect.

He moved quickly, pulling a small pouch from under his cloak. The Syphon stone gleamed faintly in the dim light. He set it down in the corner, then placed two small Aethum stones beside it, forming a triangle. The reaction was immediate—a soft pulse of mana, the faint hum of energy building faster than before. This one was already full; it wouldn’t take long before it tipped over.

No hesitation. No second look.

Arel turned and slipped back out of the shed, closing the gate quietly behind him.

By the time the soldier noticed anything strange, the hum beneath the walls would already be too strong to stop.

As soon as Arel stepped out, the soldier was still there—leaning against the wall with his spear in hand, eyes half-lidded like he hadn’t moved an inch. When he noticed Arel empty-handed, his brow shot up.

“Why’re you back out already? You didn’t even grab a spear.”

Arel stopped just long enough to meet his eyes. “I’ll give you some advice,” he said quietly. “Run.”

The man frowned. “What—?”

But Arel was already gone.

He sprinted down the length of the wall, boots pounding against stone, cloak snapping in the wind. His heart hammered, but not from fear—adrenaline burned through him like fire. Every step came easy, his legs remembering the endless laps around the training grounds back under Knight Killian’s brutal drills. At the time, he’d cursed those runs. Now, they were saving his life.

Behind him, a shout rang out.

“Hey! Kid! Wait! What’s going on?!”

Arel didn’t look back. He pushed harder, breath steady, dodging past a few soldiers who blinked in confusion as he sped by. One of them stepped into his path, raising a hand to stop him.

Not a chance.

Arel’s boots hit the edge of the railing, and before the man could react, he vaulted onto it, balancing on the narrow stone ledge as he ran past them. Gasps followed him, someone shouting for him to stop, but he was already halfway down the stairs.

He took the steps two at a time, the wind howling past his ears.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, kid?!” the soldier from before yelled, finally catching up near the top.

Arel turned just enough to flash a grin. “You should thank me for saving your life.”

The man’s confusion barely had time to form before it hit.

A loud, deafening, thunderous explosion tore through the wall behind them—louder than thunder, sharper than lightning. The shockwave threw dust and shards into the air. The soldier stumbled, eyes wide, as another explosion followed, then another.

The whole city shook.

Screams rose from every direction as smoke began to twist upward from several points—plumes of gray and red climbing toward the sky.

Arel turned back toward the stairs, the ground trembling under his feet. “Farewell,” he muttered—not waiting to see if the man heard him—and broke into a run.

He leapt down the last few steps, landing in the muddy street below, where chaos was already blooming. Alarms rang, people screamed, and the once-calm city roared awake.

He kept running, weaving through alleys and smoke, the smell of burning wood and stone following him.

By tomorrow, if everything went as planned, Solmere would be under Lord Arzan’s banner.

Dao of money Chapter 182

Chapter 182

As soon as the first batches of his new pills landed in the hands of the Yu Clan, Chen Ren knew something in the air had changed. The stillness before a storm—he could feel it even without hearing the reports. The balance of war was about to shift.

He didn’t need to wait long for proof. Four days later, the inn doors slammed open with a loud bang, and a familiar voice rolled in before the man himself did.

“Brother Renjie! Are you here?!”

Chen Ren didn’t even have time to put down his teacup before Yu Murong burst through the doorway like a gale, hair unkempt and eyes bright with wild energy. The young master’s grin was wide enough to show every tooth as he threw himself forward and crushed Chen Ren in a hug that made his ribs scream. He felt his body tightening with every second, and he couldn’t breathe.

“Murong, let me breathe—” he tried, but the man only laughed and patted his back hard like he wanted to crack his spine.

When Murong finally dropped into a chair, Chen Ren drew a breath so deep it felt like he hadn’t breathed in days. His lungs burned, but he let it pass. The moment Murong sat across from him, he started talking.

And he didn’t stop.

For the next few hours, the air around their table turned thick with words—boasts, laughter, half-drunken stories, and more boasts. Murong talked about the war, about how the ceasefire had ended, and how every other clan had been stunned by the Yu Clan’s rapid push into the sinkhole. Apparently, no one could believe how fast they were clearing the beasts or how easily they were advancing into the deeper zones.

Half of it was information. The rest? Pure self-praise.

From what Chen Ren gathered between the boasts, Murong had decided to enter the sinkhole again—his second time ever—after his father had showered him with rewards for securing Chen Ren’s pills. The man had wanted more merit, more favor, more glory. Fear had followed him in, but the pills had burned that away.

According to Murong, his party had been unstoppable. The beasts never even reached them. They spotted and killed their prey long before any threat drew near. The whole expedition had gone so smoothly that Murong swore the heavens themselves had been on their side.

Chen Ren only smiled faintly, fingers tracing the rim of his cup as he listened. He already knew which pill had done the most work.

Among all the concoctions he’d sold to the Yu Clan, none wax as valuable as the Infernal Vein Pill—a creation that borrowed the instincts of beasts themselves, granting sight through heat.

In the depths of the sinkhole, qi flowed like wild rivers, chaotic and unrestrained. It drowned every trace of life force, making most techniques for detection useless. But heat remained loyal. The living always burned, no matter how deep the dark or how thick the qi.

With that pill, Murong’s men could sense the warmth of a beast’s body long before it struck. What was once a death trap had turned into a hunting ground.

Murong, of course, had no idea how much theory or danger had gone into creating such a thing. He just drank his wine, laughed too loudly, and talked about how the Yu Clan would soon dominate the sinkhole.

Other than that, Chen Ren had sold them dozens of other pills, each one crafted for a different purpose. There were Sensory Bloom Pills, which sharpened the five senses until a cultivator could feel the shift of wind or the pulse of an approaching beast. There were Elemental Surge Pills, amplifying a person’s elemental affinity so that even a basic fire spell could roar like a dragon's breath. He had also sold Dantian Sealing Pills, dangerous things meant to block a cultivator’s core for a short time—perfect for capturing enemies alive—and even Thunderburst Pellets, small bombs Hun Tianzhi had made after getting blown up so often that could be thrown, and carried the detective spark of compressed lightning.

He had even drawn out crude strategies for them: smoke bombs mixed with Elemental Surge Pills to mask sight and confuse beasts, allowing the hunters to strike deadly attacks from safety. All of it—every pill, every idea—had turned the expedition into child’s play for Yu Murong.

The man couldn’t stop bragging.

“Brother Renjie, you should’ve seen it! We cleared half the outer tunnels before dawn! The beasts didn’t even know where we were! Hah! The Chen Clan dogs were also so surprised and were weeping when we taught them a lesson!”

That last part made Chen Ren pause.

“The Chen Clan?”

Murong grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Oh yes. We ran into one of their parties down there—small group, looked weak. Captured them all. You know the name Chen Eain?”

Chen Ren’s fingers tightened around his cup. The name hit like a spark in dry tinder. Images surfaced—memories that weren’t entirely his, but ones that pulsed with old pain. A young man sneering down at his predecessor. The sound of laughter. The crack of a kick.

Chen Eain had been one of the worst of them. The one who’d turned his predecessor’s life into a cage—every bruise, every humiliation, every insult rooted back to that smirking face. The man had mocked him for his poor talent, beaten him every time he dared to touch cultivation, and gathered others to do the same.

Murong’s voice dragged him back. “Have expected much more from him, honestly. But he looked more like a servant than a cultivator. Barely put up a fight. I beat him bloody, partly thanks to that Dantian Seal Pill you told me about. Worked perfectly. He couldn’t even summon a spark.”

Chen Ren forced his tone flat. “And after?”

Murong waved a hand lazily, as if it were nothing. “I wanted to kill him, or at least cripple him. But the others thought it’d be better to ransom him and his party instead. We sent a letter to the Chen Clan—sweet words, you know. Said we found their people ‘injured’ in the sinkhole and would kindly return them… for a price.”

He chuckled at his own wit and leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink he had gotten from the inn owner.

Apparently, it was common practice among clans to ransom their enemies rather than kill them outright. It kept the balance—blood for gold, pride for silence. That was what had happened in the sinkhole. Murong, for all his arrogance, wasn’t stupid enough to start a major conflict by killing someone like Chen Eain, who was considered one of the Chen Clan’s strongest younger cultivators, if not the strongest.

Chen Ren imagined the scene—Eain crawling back to the clan, broken and humiliated, wrapped in the Yu Clan’s terms of mercy. It must have burned. The man’s pride had always been larger than his strength. And when that pride was wounded, it would look for someone to blame.

Chen Ren already knew who that would be.

Yu Clan and the one who made the pills.

He didn’t care. Let Chen Eain rage. Fear was something he had long forgotten how to feel, especially against young masters. Even without using his qi, his body alone would be strong enough to take him on, especially with his mastery in cultivation disciplines.

Murong, however, didn’t stop talking. For nearly another hour, he went on—boasting about the beasts he had slain, the rewards he had gotten, and, with a sly grin, the maids who now threw themselves at him.

Chen Ren’s expression didn’t change. He let the man talk, offering a polite hum or nod whenever there was a pause. But when the stories started to grow more vulgar, he raised a hand and said quietly, “Young Master Murong, I still have work to attend to. Can we continue this later?”

Murong blinked, clearly disappointed the audience was ending, then waved a hand dismissively. “Work, eh? Fine, fine. I was actually here to invite you anyway. Father wants to host a family dinner tonight—he’s been singing your praises ever since those pills proved themselves. Come. You’ll be the guest of honor.”

“Oh? Is that so?” Chen Ren nodded. “I’ll be there.”

Murong grinned and finally took his leave, swaggering out of the inn like a man who owned the heavens.

Chen Ren exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair. A family dinner meant that there would be more orders; hence more profit.

But his thoughts weren’t on the spirit stones.

Sooner or later, the Chen Clan, and even the Huang Clan, would begin to question how the Yu Clan had suddenly gained such an advantage. It was only a matter of time before the elders started digging. Once they interrogated the survivors from the sinkhole expedition and learnt about the pills, the trail would point in one direction—toward him, or rather, toward Renjie.

Chen Ren wasn’t naïve. He knew there were spies scattered across every clan. But even if there weren’t, Murong’s mouth alone was enough to ruin any secret. The man’s ego was too big to keep anything quiet for long. Eventually, word would reach the wrong ears, and when it did, the Chen Clan would come knocking.

Chen Ren was waiting for that day.

But for now, there were other matters to handle.

Apparently, Luo Feng had stumbled upon news of a sickle-shaped artifact, something one of the mercenary parties had dragged out of the sinkhole. Rumor had it the thing pulsed faintly with its own qi and carried the name of a forgotten craftsman. Luo Feng wanted it, badly enough to ask Chen Ren along to help negotiate the price.

Chen Ren didn’t mind. He needed to get out more anyway. There were too many things on his list—too many plans running in parallel.

The second step of soul cultivation, for one.

Every night, Wang Jun had been drilling him on intent and touching one's soul, pushing him toward that breakthrough. The old man’s scolding had become sharper as Chen Ren drew closer, his irritation barely hiding his surprise. The truth was, Chen Ren could feel it too—he was right on the edge on making contact with his soul.

But before he took that step, he wanted to do something else. Something important.

He wanted to hunt a beast in the sinkhole himself, so he could also make a breakthrough in body cultivation.

He had already mastered the physical drills; his body had hardened, his muscles carried a steadiness of strength. But the moment he would slay a beast and temper his bones in a bath, he’d finally break through the first step of body cultivation and stabilize his star space, at least to a point where he could finally make progress into higher realms.

But before that he needed to select a beast to hunt.

***

Chen Ren sat by the window, the pale morning light sliding across the open book before him. The bestiary of the sinkhole. Yu Murong had sent it to him two days ago as promised, proudly claiming it listed every beast his clan’s scouts had catalogued in the last three years.

Chen Ren had already skimmed through it before, but choosing one beast to hunt was far harder than it sounded. Every creature in the sinkhole was vicious in its own right; the more pages he turned, the crueler the sketch became.

He flipped through another section when Yalan’s voice cut through the quiet.

“How about this one?”

She leaned over his shoulder and tapped against a page. “An ivory slasher. Peak tier two. See? It’s covered in bone—its ribs and spine jut out like blades. Perfect for tempering your skeleton further.”

Chen Ren looked down at the drawing. The artist had done well to capture its monstrous form—a lean, wolf-like beast with white bone spikes bursting from every inch of its body, sharp enough to tear through metal. Its face was half skull, half flesh, the eyes sunken and hungry. Beneath the illustration, notes marked the region it was often found: Near the entrance of the sinkhole. A place named Bone Ridge Cavern.

He studied it for a moment before shaking his head. “Too dangerous,” he said simply. “It can elongate its bones to puncture through enemies. I’d have to use my qi the entire time to not get stabbed, and that’ll shatter my control. I’ll lose an eye before I even land a hit.”

He turned the page.

Yalan exhaled through her nose, clearly unimpressed. “Fine. Then how about this one?”

She pointed again—her little paw hovered over a massive creature that filled half the page. It had the body of a lion, but its mane was dark and metallic, its tail long and sharp like a blade, and two curved horns jutted from its skull.

Chen Ren’s gaze swept over the sketch, then down to the notes scrawled underneath. “A horned sand devourer… fierce, but reckless. Says here that it can shoot concentrated beams of qi from its horns.”

Yalan tilted her head. “And?”

He snorted. “And it could bring down the ceiling with one shot. The sinkhole isn’t exactly forgiving. I’d die buried alive before I even land a hit. Also—” he traced the map beside it “—it lives far too deep. I’d need a full squad to get close, and that defeats the point.”

“Tch. You’re too choosy,” Yalan muttered.

“I need to be picky if I don’t want to die hundreds of feet underground,” he said flatly. The thought alone sent a shiver crawling up his spine. The image of falling into eternal darkness—crushed under earth, lungs filled with dust—wasn’t something he cared to test.

He kept flipping through the pages. Some beasts looked manageable, but were far weaker than what he needed. Others seemed perfect for bone refinement, but were elusive, hidden in depths where light itself barely reached.

One after another, the sketches blurred past his fingers—fangs, claws, scales, wings. All promising death in different forms.

What he needed was one that matched all its criteria.

The sinkhole was a world of its own—vast, layered, and treacherous. Even with the Yu Clan’s bestiary in his hands, Chen Ren knew that knowing a beast’s name and actually finding it were two very different things.

What he needed was precise. The beast had to match his current strength—not too weak, not too powerful. It couldn’t be too deep within the sinkhole, where the air grew thick with qi that could poison you and the ground swallowed footsteps. It had to be traceable, not one of those elusive predators that vanished like ghosts. And above all, it had to be something he was confident he could kill.

Ticking all those boxes was like trying to thread a needle in a storm. Worse, the bestiary might already be outdated. Beasts died, migrated, or mutated all the time. Even the Yu Clan’s records, neat and organized as they were, could be lies written by dead men.

Still, Chen Ren had no other choice.

So he kept reading.

Page after page turned under his fingers. Yalan had left him alone by then, too bored to watch him squint at ink sketches.

By the time he finally leaned back, two hours had passed, and other than the first two beasts Yalan pointed out, three more had caught his eye.

The first was a fire-tongued earth wyvern, a giant creature with rough, metallic scales that glimmered like dull iron. It was fire-attuned and would throw fire with its tongue. Its regeneration was limited compared to other beasts of its tier, making it a realistic target. Fire-attuned flesh would also strengthen his ligaments and lungs—A good fit for body cultivation.

The second was a mist-eyed chimera, a strange hybrid that roamed the outer tunnels, rarely staying in one place. The last recorded sighting was nearly a year ago. The book described it as passive unless provoked, intelligent, and solitary. A beast that preferred evasion over battle. It was harder to find, but far safer to fight once cornered.

The third was the most tempting, and the most dangerous. A Thunderhorn Ram, a four-legged beast that resembled a goat, but was born of both lightning and wind. Sparks ran through its fur in the sketch, the horns crackling like storm clouds. Unlike the others, its nest was marked clearly—a fixed location, with notes of previous cultivators’ attempts to slay it. Most of those attempts had failed, but the book also mentioned that it might have progressed to tier three since it had been close to it for years now.

Out of the five, any would do.

But selecting one was another battle altogether.

Chen Ren sat there, fingers resting on the page, eyes narrowed. The inked drawings stared back at him, beasts frozen in mid-snarl. His thoughts flickered between them.

Choosing wrongly could mean death. Choosing wisely could mean a new stage of strength.

He exhaled slowly, the paper rustling beneath his breath.

Yalan leaned over the book and pointed at the fire-tongued earth wyvern’s sketch. “Why not the lizard?” she said. “Looks easy enough to kill, even with that little regeneration. Its scales aren’t thick.”

Chen Ren hadn’t even noticed when she had come back. His eyes went back to the page, and at the inked teeth, and the long, low body.

“I’m… worried about its speed,” he admitted. “If I can’t match how fast it moves, I’ll never land a proper strike. You know I can barely use my qi right now.”

Yalan snorted. “Still, if you can hold it in one place, blowing its head off won’t be hard.” Her voice was flat, but the grin at the corner of her whiskers said she liked the image.

He imagined the scene: a flash of claws, a spinning head, his hand steady as he set the final blow. It felt good for a second, a clean, honest victory. He tapped the page with a finger. “If I trap it, yes. But that’s the problem, I don’t know how long it will take to even find the thing. The sinkhole is wide. And I need to prepare. I’d rather do it before we leave the city.”

“Are you planning to hunt it while we sit in the market, then?” she asked.

“No.” He shook his head. “I’ll find it and finish it before we go. If I’m right, the medallion talk should come up soon. I want to move before I get too embroiled in this clan war which honestly shouldn't happen. But I don't want to take risks.”

“You’re always so sure of yourself,” Yalan said and stretched where she was.

“It usually works out,” he said, and felt a grin creeping to his face before it faded. “But I have to think three steps ahead. Once word gets out—and it will—both the Chen and Huang clans will start asking questions. They have spies. If they don’t already know, they’ll learn soon. I need to be ready for what happens when they come looking and then see if the Chen clan is willing to part with the medallion. That's the only obstacle in our path right now and with my luck, we might get in a conflict one way or another.”

Magus Reborn Chapter 290

Chapter 290

A lot of people said that winning a fort was the hardest part of war. They weren’t wrong, but they weren’t right either. Taking a fort was simple compared to what came after.

You had to round up every soldier, throw them in the dungeons carved beneath the stone, and make sure no Mage inside tried to turn clever. Every hall, cellar, and shadow had to be searched for survivors hiding with daggers or courage left in their teeth. It was the kind of work that never felt like victory. More like cleaning.

And Kai had done it all with barely a hundred men.

Even then, a few enemies had managed to slip into the forests, hoping to reach the next border forts to sound the alarm. Kai hadn’t wasted time chasing them. He’d sent a few riders for form’s sake and left it at that. Let them run. The other forts could know him and method, but it wouldn’t change anything. None of them had the strength to stand against him, and even if they tried, he could crush their wards himself, mana cost be damned.

For now, his focus was elsewhere.

Two tasks mattered more than anything: rebuilding the shattered gates, which had crumbled under the drones’ bombardment and Feroy’s flaming spear, and questioning Orlen.

Kai had a feeling the man knew more than he let on.

Prince Aldrin was no fool. Among all the royal brothers, he was the one who planned furthest ahead. And the ease of this victory—how little resistance he’d faced—only made Kai more certain of it.

Something was moving behind Aldrin’s silence. And Orlen, bound and silent in the dungeon below, was the key to uncovering what.

Kai had expected another battle the moment he stepped through the gates.

Caelond Kingdom was a magocracy—its power built on Mages, not armies. Every report said the same: their spellcasters were trained for war, their towers full of men and women who lived and breathed mana. Rumor even claimed that, beyond the publicly named Magus, there were others—hidden and far more dangerous.

He had thought Aldrin would call them in, especially after what had happened with Veridia. The prince wasn’t foolish; if he wanted Kai dead, that was how he’d do it—strike fast, with strong Mages instead of soldiers.

But no one came. No army. No spell. Only silence.

It bothered him more than he liked to admit.

Orlen had refused to speak. Even drained by the Syphon stones clasped around his wrists, the man’s jaw stayed set, his tone the same each time. He was here to defend the fort. He knew nothing else.

Kai didn’t believe a word of it.

It made him sure that Aldrin was preparing something, something larger than a single battle. But for now, there was no way to know what. Kai wasn’t one for cruel methods and it was sure that it would take time to break the fort captain either way. There would be other prisoners, other chances to uncover what the prince was weaving. The war had only just begun.

By evening, the fort was slowly getting into order. Scaffolding lined the inner walls, and workers were already reinforcing the broken gate with charred beams. The smell of burnt metal still lingered in the air.

Kai stood on the parapet beside Feroy, watching the last of the soldiers drag their captives down to the lower levels.

“We’ve put the important ones in separate cells,” Feroy reported, rubbing at the dirt on his hands. “The rest are sharing. But there aren’t enough jails, so we’ve converted some of the storage halls into holding rooms.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “Just make sure you seal off the windows. I’ll work on some detection wards before we move to Fort Eldovar.”

He gestured toward one of the drones hovering nearby, its surface glinting faintly in the dusk. “Send word of our victory to the others. Use the messenger drone.”

Feroy gave a curt nod and turned to shout for one of the handlers, his voice fading under the wind.

Kai looked around the fort, mind moving over how easily they had won the battle. Then his gaze drifted to the horizon, where the dying sun drew a thin line of gold over the distant forests. Beyond that, somewhere past the treeline, lay the Caelond Kingdom.

“Any word from the border?” he asked quietly.

Feroy exhaled, turning back to him. “We sent Watchers. They saw patrols—probably heard the screams and came to check. But they didn’t engage. It looked like a routine round. Nothing strange. I don’t think Caelond will attack now. If they do, it’ll be deep in the night, when we’re resting. They don’t know how easy it was for us to take the fort, but they’ll have some idea.”

Kai nodded slowly. He’d been thinking the same thing. “I’ll spend the night here. In case they decide to try. But I doubt they’ll make a move while I’m still around.” He turned to Feroy again. “Call up reinforcements from Veyrin. I want two hundred stationed here before the week’s done. I’ll take twenty-five with me to the next fort. It’s smaller, so it won’t need more than that.”

Feroy hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Do you think they’ll send their Magus?”

Kai’s gaze went back to the horizon, thinking about fighting another Magus. “Probably not,” he said after a pause. “Veridia was dangerous enough among the Fifth Circle Mages, and I defeated her. If Caelond sends someone, it’ll be quiet—an assassin, maybe. They’ll want to strike when I’m not looking.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “But if they come here… The Magus will be in for a surprise.”

Feroy gave a short laugh and nodded. “For sure, my lord.”

The next hour passed in the dim orange glow of lanterns as Kai and Feroy discussed everything that came after victory—the tedious but necessary parts no one sang about. They talked about ration supplies, inventory ledgers, and what could be sent to the frontlines where Killian and Duke Blackwood led the main charge.

“The storerooms here are full,” Feroy reported, flipping through a dirt-stained logbook. “If we move it fast enough, we can resupply the frontline troops before the next push. I’ll have carts ready by dawn.”

Kai nodded. “Do it. If Caelond decides to strike back, the first thing they’ll do is burn the stores. Let’s not make it easy for them.”

Burning rations was a classic tactic—every soldier knew it. Destroy the enemy’s food, and you starve them before the fight even begins. It was exactly what Kai would’ve done in their place.

Once they finished with the fort’s immediate needs—gates, walls, prisoners, and storage—the discussion shifted toward the frontlines. The real war.

According to reports, Duke Blackwood’s forces had already advanced into the southern region of the kingdom, alongside Killian. Together, they were pressing toward Solmere City, a key stronghold under one of Aldrin’s allied counts. Capturing it would cut off supply routes from the west and open the road straight to Fort Valemount where prince Aldrin currently stayed.

Kai didn’t need to ask how difficult that would be. Every Count’s household was centuries old like the Dukes, and those families had built their estates into fortresses—layered with wards and relics no ordinary siege could crack. Even a small city under their control was a mountain to climb.

He remembered Veyrin and the wards that were engraved on its walls. If not for Rupert, he would have been fighting for entry for a while. Solmere would be worse.

But if anyone could pull it off, it was Killian. The man had a talent for battle and an instinct for war that couldn’t be taught.

Kai leaned back against the parapet, staring into the night. The wind carried faint traces of smoke and salt from the edge. Somewhere far ahead, beyond the gates and the borders, Killian was probably already in the thick of battle.

***

Killian wished he was in a battle right now. Steel in hand, blood in his mouth, the rush of mana in his veins—that was where he belonged. Not here. Not in a tent thick with sweat and candle smoke, listening to nobles and Mages argue over and over again.

But war wasn’t only just a string of glorious fights. It was one long chain of meetings, reports, and waiting. Endless waiting. He understood that. It didn’t mean he liked it.

This was his third meeting of the day. The only reason he hadn’t walked out yet was because the long-awaited reply from Count Arvallen—the lord of Solmere City—had finally arrived.

Leopold, seated to his right, unfolded the letter and spoke in his usual dry tone. “It’s like we thought. He’s calling us traitors. Says we’ll be burned to the ground for the kingdom. And apparently, our Watchers ‘forged reports’ about the Alparcan knights and Mages inside his city.”

Killian let out a low breath through his nose. “So, the usual,” he muttered.

Across the table, Baron Casten Drel leaned back with a wry smile. “Count Arvellen’s always been intense in public showings. He would never willingly give up the city and betray Aldrin.”

Killian’s gaze swept the tent. A dozen men sat around the table, armored and stiff. Behind them stood Knights and guards. Other than the ones, a handful of Mages—their robes marked by the colors of their noble houses—sat on the council.

The Sorcerer’s Tower had sent a few of their own battle ready Mages with two of them leading: Klan and Jacks, who hadn’t stopped rubbing their fingers since they’d sat down. Both of them looked nervous. More from being among nobles than the upcoming battle, he guessed.

And then there was Ryn Vorr—their most powerful Mage. The only Third Circle Mage among them, loyal to Duke Blackwood’s command. He sat near the head of the table, opposite Killian, shoulders drawn tight as if he expected to be struck at any moment. His robes were spotless, but everything else about him gave off squeaky energy.

Killian didn’t trust him. Not because Ryn wasn’t powerful—he was—but because power meant nothing if the man wielding it froze when the sky lit up with spells.

Still, Ryn was the only one who could match the enemy’s Third Circle Mage when the fighting started. At least that's what he was here for. And Killian would need him, whether he liked it or not. Though, he himself wanted a chance against the enemy Mage.

Duke Blackwood’s voice cut the murmur. “It doesn’t matter if he’s intense. Aldrin ordered him to hold. We break Solmere, we push deeper.” He looked at each man in the tent like weighing a scale. “That’s the point.”

“How?” Baron Hadrian Vellmore asked. His hand hovered over a map rolled on the table. “They have soldiers on the walls. Mages. A ward rings the city tight. We’d need a day of full effort to punch through—bombardment from every mana cannon and Mages flinging spells. And that assumes the enemy doesn’t snap back at us.”

“Not a day,” Killian said. “Hours.” The words landed like a thrown knife. Heads turned. “You forget, we have the siege breaker with us.”

Silence fell hard and few heads nodded. They had all seen and admired the giant golem they’d hauled across two marches. Of the three breakers they planned, one stood ready now. It could smash a gate in seconds that would take men hours to burn through.

Leopold folded his letter away slowly. “Even with the breaker,” he said, voice careful, “we’d need the Mages to form a shield ring. The golem would be bombarded by the enemy spells otherwise and won't be able to do its job well. That puts our Mages in harm’s way. We can’t lose a breaker or half our Mage force this early. We don’t have any reinforcements coming anytime soon.”

Ryn Vorr shifted in his seat. “He’s right,” he said. “Mages have value when fought from distance. We fire from safety. We do not stand under walls to be smashed. We can shield, we can strike, but we keep distance. That’s the way Mages fight.”

Killian almost spoke up, almost tore into Ryn’s logic with the memory of Lord Arzan’s fighting style. Lord Arzan would never stay behind soldiers just firing from a distance, afraid of getting hurt. Knowing that, Klan and Jacks exchanged a look, probably thinking the same thing he was, but it wasn’t the time to start a disagreement with Ryn.

They needed a plan to get inside Solmere city and capture it.

That was exactly what they did. They spent the next hour chewing through strategies while Duke Blackwood took the lead. The duke spoke with the authority of someone who’d bled in half a dozen campaigns; his plans were solid, but slow. Most would need a week or more to put into motion. Killian felt that time as a weight. He couldn’t afford it.

He didn’t want Lord Arzan to come help because then the victory wouldn’t be his. After the duel in the capital, the power gap was obvious between the two of them. He felt happy he served under such a strong man, but felt like he was only a Knight in name since he wasn't strong enough yet. Killian wanted to prove he could win on his own. Still, the sensible part of him kept warning: rush a war and you bury your men.

As the arguments rolled on, a shape of a plan began to warm in his head—one of those old lessons his father had drilled into him during evenings on the training field. He let the talk wash over him and worked the pieces quietly in his mind, timing and pieces slotting into place.

When Duke Blackwood and Ryn hit a sharp point of disagreement, Killian leaned forward and cut through the noise. The tent fell silent.

“I think I have a way,” he said, voice steady.

Eyes turned towards him. Duke Blackwood’s gaze pinned him. “What is it?”

Killian leaned over the map and tapped a line with his finger. “One of my father’s old battle tactics—always give the enemy a way out. If they can leave without dying, they won’t fight as hard.”

Dao of money Chapter 181

Chapter 181

Smoke ate the world.

A scream cut through it—close, sharp, and—who voice was it? Chen Eain snapped his focus to his eyes and drove qi there, trying to burn a tunnel through the dark. But nothing happened. He only saw black. The smoke tasted like metal and ash. It crawled into his throat.

The next thing he knew, something slammed into his head. His ears rang, and his body staggered sideways and down. First, stone scraped his shoulder, then his hip, and then his ribs.

“Son of a—”

He hit the cave wall hard enough to make the rock shiver. Chips of grit skittered across the floor.

“What the fuck!”

He immediately felt qi flared ahead of him. Instinct took over and he threw lightning up in front of his face, a thin skin of light cracking over the smoke. It was rushed, too thin and too light. A fist punched through it like it was paper and crashed into his cheekbone. Light burst behind his eyelids.

His head snapped back and warmth rushed from his nose and ran into his mouth.

All of a sudden, everything was worse.

He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe right. And the air—air tasted all foul.

A voice came out of the smoke, close to his ear and smiling. “Chen Eain. I’ve wanted to teach you a lesson for a long time. I’m glad you walked into our little trap.”

His stomach dropped. Threads linked in his head one after another. Of course, it was the Yu Clan doing after all.

Stupid. He’d marched into it like a cow to a butcher.

He couldn’t think anymore. Another blow landed, and his teeth snapped together while the world lurched. For a single heartbeat, he could hear nothing but his blood throbbing hard and fast inside his skull.

Anger found his hands. He shoved lightning out from his chest, an uneven wave that crawled over his forearms and bit the air. The blast chewed a hole in the smoke and he heard someone yelp.

He bared his teeth without meaning to. Good. I will shock all of you all and cripple—

A leg hooked behind his knee and kicked. He lifted without wanting to, then flew. The ground met him flat. Air rushed from his lungs with a grunt.

“Argh!”

Dirt filled his mouth. The smoke burned his eyes till water leaked out and turned the dust on his lashes to mud.

He tried to stand. He made it to one knee.

Qi clamped his wrist like an iron shackle and drove him down. Stone kissed his cheek. He pushed back, pulling from his dantian, drawing more and more, but the weight didn’t budge. It pressed through his arm and into his shoulder, slow and steady, like someone laying a mountain across him by hand.

“Too slow,” the voice said, closer to him now. Breath raked across Chen Eain’s ear.

He swallowed blood and spit. His tongue tasted iron and grit. He pulled more qi. It slid through his channels, but when it hit the pressure pinning him, it broke and ran like water against a dam. That strength wasn’t normal.

It was unnaturally strong.

He gritted his teeth and wanted to pour every drop of qi into the air—rain lightning until the cave burned. He pushed, felt the current answer him, then something screamed in his head and his focus wavered. Around him other screams flared, the sharp crack of his party’s qi snapping like broken ropes. He could hear them, but he couldn’t see where they came from. The sound slid under his skin.

A cold whisper tried to curl into his thoughts: give up. You’ve already lost.

Chen Eain spat the whisper away with a cough. He was the scion of the Chen Clan. He was born to climb the peak. He would not fold to a trick. Pride and hate braided in his chest and he poured more qi out, a thin, frantic thread at first, then thicker, hotter. The foreign pressure pressed back like a hand on his chest, but he shoved anyway, unleashing a [Lightning Frenzy] to hit whoever was around him.

He was soon rewarded with screams, and thankfully, it didn't seem like his people’s this time.

A grin spread under the blood on his lips.

He drove his qi into the knot at his wrist, into his shoulders, into the hollow behind his breastbone. The metal weight on him shuddered. He felt the hold loosen, a fraction. He shoved again, raw, blind and furious, and lightning flared in every corner he could sense. If he pushed a little more, he would break out of the hold.

He knew it.

Even when he couldn’t see, he wouldn’t give up. He would kill every single one of them and send their bodies back to the Yu clan.

“I was told—” his thought halted. “One of you would try this,” the voice said. “Renjie gave something for someone exactly like you.”

Before Chen Eain could turn his head, a hand clamped over his mouth. Fingers like iron dug into his cheek and jaw. The palm smelled of smoke and oil. Pain shot up his arm, then a pressure locked his throat. He gurgled, tried to bite, tried to unleash a bolt out through the pressure, but the hand held fast.

Something hard and little slid between his teeth.

Before he could spit it out, another blow smashed into the side of his head. White burst across his vision.

The world tilted, and he hit the ground hard.

He tasted dirt. Blood. The pill rolled down his throat as he tried to cough it out, but his body wouldn’t listen. It went down anyway.

Rage boiled up inside him. He wanted to tear everyone apart, to make the Yu clan regret ever touching a Chen. He clenched his jaw, pulling at every scrap of qi he had left—

Then it hit.

Something foreign bloomed inside him, cold and slick like oil poured into fire. It spread fast, climbing his veins, slipping into his core. His chest tightened. His heart kicked against his ribs. When it reached his dantian, pain exploded.

It wasn’t just pain—it was knives. Thousands of them, scraping, cutting, twisting through his core. He screamed before he even realized it, the sound tearing his throat raw. His back arched. His fingers clawed the dirt. Lightning flickered from him in broken bursts, but it was useless now. He couldn’t focus or tame the lightning like he wanted to.

He rolled on the ground, choking on dust. The taste filled his mouth and his muscles seized. His vision swam. Every breath hurt, and every heartbeat burned. He wanted it to stop, wanted anything to stop—

—and then he felt it.

Wet warmth on his face.

Tears.

Chen Eain blinked, stunned. He’d seen enemies cry before. He’d made them cry. But him? The proud heir of the Chen clan? Crying in the dirt like some beaten stray?

He wanted to laugh, but another wave of pain folded him in half. His scream mingled with others echoing through the cavern—his party, his people. Their voices cracked and faded one by one until only silence answered him.

For the first time, real fear sank in.

What if none of them survived? What if this was it—his end?

The Yu clan had always used this sinkhole to bury their enemies. Even the Chen clan had profited from it often, using it to erase rivals and nuisances alike. It was an unspoken rule for a reason: no one went in alone.

Chen Eain did not want that. Nothing in him wanted that end. He was meant to climb, to break the heavens, to become the immortal people bowed to. A sinkhole full of bones was not part of that picture.

The pain stole his words. He couldn’t do anything about what was happening to him at the moment, but roll in the dirt, each turn a blade through his chest as his dantian felt like it was being ground to dust. Smoke pressed at his nose.

Through the damn torture, he momentarily forgot where he was, because everything was painful—too painful for him to think like a normal person.

A face cut through the blur, and it felt like a momentary escape from pain, but when it got close, he saw a huge man, grinning like someone who had chanced upon a treasure.

He blinked as his senses suddenly recognised who the man was. Someone he’d seen only on brief occasions, but knew, simply because he was one of the famous wastrels of the Yu Clan.

Yu Murong. The bastard stood there with a polearm on his arm and a grin on his face.

He spat, the wet smack loud in Chen Eain’s ears. The spit hit his cheek, mixed with the tears.

Something hot and furious rose in Chen Eain—shame, rage, and pride bleeding into one. He reached for his qi, pushed with everything he had. Lightning wanted to tear out of him and turn Murong to ash.

Pain answered instead. It flared through his core like a belligerent furnace, so bright and raw his teeth hurt. His eyes bulged and he threw his head back with a howl that tasted of grit and metal. He felt the dantian press, a hot, brittle knell like bone about to snap.

Murong laughed slowly and softly. “So loud,” he said, as if Chen Eain were an annoying insect. “Keep screaming. It makes my enjoyment far better.”

How fucking dare he?!

He felt lightning surge through his body in anger so strong that it could make the bastard a charred corpse, but when he tried, another excruciating pain erupted through him.

His eyes widened as another scream left his lips.

His body hurt, his eyeballs felt like they were about to burst and his dantian… His dantian was on the verge of breaking down. He felt—no, he knew it.

“You… filth. What… What did you do to me?” his voice came out ragged, each word a scraped whisper.

The coward only smiled. “A little gift from a friend,” he said, voice oily. “It floods your dantian with strong foreign qi. You can’t use your own anymore.” He spat on the floor. “Don’t ask how it works, I don’t know or care. Feels good to see you like this after you killed so many of my cousins. Father was right. Sinkhole trips are fun.”

Chen Eain’s mouth went dry. He felt the foreign qi like ice pouring into his core, cold and crawling. He stared at the man’s face until the grin looked carved. “You crippled me,” he managed.

The man shrugged, amusement in the curl of his lip. “Not yet. You’ll recover. But crippling you—that’s a lovely idea. Could fetch me more resources.” He turned his head and called, loud enough for the cave walls to echo it back. “Hey, you lot, how do you feel about crippling Young Master Chen Eain?”

An uproar answered him, they were hungry voices and a chorus of “Yes!”. Chen Eain felt his heart fall into a bottomless pit. The world tilted and his stomach went hollow.

By sheer will he rolled his head to find his party. The sight hit him like a second blow. Cousins he had trained with since boyhood lay like broken idols: one face up, eyes wide and empty; another curled against the rock, blood dark at his mouth; a sword stood from a younger man’s belly, the handle slick with mud. Some had been smashed against the wall until their bones sang under the skin.

Were they alive? He couldn’t tell. Chen Eain didn’t care which of them would live or die. All that mattered was that he survive—to spit vengeance into the faces of every man standing here. Maybe that single, savage need was the only reason he kept his eyes open: to memorize the faces of his tormentors, every sneer, every smirk.

He forced the words out, each syllable a flint: “You don’t know what you’re doing. The Chen clan will never—”

He felt a jab right on his cheek and lost his words. The man leaned close. “I don’t care what the Chen clan will do. You’ve lost. But I don’t like the look in your eyes.”

Then his fist hit Chen Eain full in the face.

Pain cleaved through him and Blood filled his mouth again, warm and bitter. The edges of his sight went soft and gray. He tried to spit, to speak. “Let me go,” he ground out, each word a broken stone.

They did not care. Around him boots scuffed on rock and voices argued like trading merchants. A short Yu man spoke up. “What do we do with him? Kill him? He looks like he has a spatial ring.”

Another voice answered. “Kill him. He’s killed so many of our kin in this sinkhole.” Chen Eain’s chest dropped as if someone had cut his rope. The thought that he might die here burned colder than any wound.

A cautious voice tried to hold them back. “That could start a clan war. He’s prized in the Chen clan.”

Laughter snapped out from someone else. “He went down too easy for someone supposed to be strong.”

A cruel sneer followed. “He’s been coddled. Strip him and he might turn out to be a woman.”

More anger flared under the pain like a flare in his gut, but when he tried to move his hand the effort crashed through him like a struck bell. Knives of fire stabbed his dantian and his arm fell back useless. He could not even lift a finger.

Smoke curled again and shadows leaned in. The voices above his head argued whether to bury him or break him. But he stayed still in the dirt.

Even if the Yu bastards didn’t kill him, the pain might. He wanted to keep listening—to lock their words in his mind—but smoke pulled at his sight until the burly man’s face blurred, then ran together like wet ink. His lids grew heavy.

He groaned; the sounds were small and ragged. No help would come this deep in the sinkhole. The voices above him thinned, words melting into a low, hollow hum. He fought to stay awake, to catch breath and meaning, but his body was uncooperative: muscles slack, qi weak, and the knives in his dantian stinging with every heartbeat.

Sleep pressed at him like a warm hand. He did not know if he wanted to wake. Would he wake at all? Fate held the answer, not him.

Darkness slid over his vision slowly. Before it closed, one clear thing rose up in him—not fear, not pity, but a red, cold promise. If heaven showed him mercy, he would take it and pay them back in full. If heaven did not, the names of every man standing above him would be carved into the world by his hand—one way or another. If not in this life, then in the next one.

Then the dark took him.

Magus Reborn Chapter 289

Chapter 289

Orlen squinted, but he couldn’t see. Or more like he could, but only clouds filled his vision. It was the thick, wet stuff that clung to his face and robes.

He tried to move but felt the air itself push back. He tried to blow it away, using a horizontal bolt of lightning to clear the vision first. As a result, a flat bolt scraped along the parapet. For a blink he saw stone, a helm, a hand on a rail, then the mist stitched the gap shut.

A groan escaped his lips and he cast [Storm Stir], a second circle spell for a wide, fan-shaped arc that superheated air in front of him to open a short corridor. When it activated, the air around him bucked. A narrow corridor opened—two heartbeats, three—and folded closed.

He couldn’t see anything more than that. The cloud ignored his back-to-back casting and swallowed each spell like he’d thrown pebbles in the water.

He cursed under his breath and tried again, and again. But nothing worked.

When Arzan Kellius rose over Fort Glaivegate, Orlen expected a tense battle—lines holding, spells traded, maybe a duel. Instead, exactly what Prince Aldrin warned about hit them: no straight fight, just a single unexpected move that shut the fort down before Orlen even saw him up close.

He’d let himself hope when he counted barely fifty something enemies. Maybe he could bring Arzan down with help. If the strongest Mage in the kingdom fell here, Orlen’s name would be famous. Kill him—even with help—and he’d be remembered. Aldrin had promised a new Mage tower after the civil war; Orlen pictured himself as Tower Master. He had seen that vision.

Instead, he swung at nothing in the whiteout while his men shouted around him—voices asking for help, not knowing what was going on. He heard the noise of shields knocking shields out of their hands. Someone begging for the way to the stairs. Someone else swore that they were at the wall, then walked into another soldier, tumbling over each other. A few Wind Mages tried to carve lanes clear, but their gusts only churned the haze and made it cling harder.

The only silver lining was that the wards still held.

If they could endure this spell, if they could wait it out, they might rally and strike back.

The thought barely formed when the first explosion hit. He felt stone jump under his boots. And a second blast rolled through the fog, flashing blue against the mist. Orlen set his stance, dragged breath into his chest and raised his hand to cast again. Before he could, a third blast rang out.

He stumbled on the ground, palms skidding on stone, and the screams around him spiked. More blasts came until dread ran cold through his chest. When the thunder finally stopped, he didn’t think the enemy had quit. His gut said the opposite.

Orlen attempted to create a spell structure, but it wobbled with the fear building up inside of him. The second attempt went worse than the first, and the frame fell apart. He tried again—same result. His fingers shook and his focus broke.

“F-fuck… I can’t focus… Breathe… breathe in…” He inhaled shakily, his gut clenched at the thought of what could be happening. But he held onto the breath as if his life depended on it. Orlen let out all the air through his lips. He tried his best breathing technique but he couldn’t stop the shaking.

”The structure wouldn’t even form properly.” He tried again but the screams from the explosion rang in his ears from all sides.

Suddenly, footsteps rang out from the direction of the stairs and the dread that was building up reached its peak.

“They’re he—!” someone shouted but his voice faded with a loud, metallic bang.

“Shit! They’re here! Men, raise your shields!” He screamed on top of his lungs while a spell structure finally formed in his hand purely out of anger and urgency.

He could lose a wide bolt and scour a lane, but it would burn friend and foe together. He hated the thought more than he expected. These were his men after all. He had spent years with them living in the fort and he knew his spell would kill them. But was there an option? As he thought that, he felt a presence right next to him.

“Why don’t you surrender? I don’t want to waste more mana today,” a familiar voice came through the screams and sounds of footsteps.

Orlen snarled and snapped the last few lines of the structure into place. He hurled the bolt at the sound.

Lightning tore the mist, and smashed against an unseen wall with a flat, ugly crack. Shattered arcs sprayed sideways. Someone screamed. A man fell, twitching, somewhere in the milk-white haze. He could only hope it didn’t hit one of his men.

His eyes widened when a shape stepped into view. Wind peeled the fog back in slow curls around him. Blue light ran along a floating ring of drones at his shoulders. A pale barrier shimmered between them like glass under water.

Arzan Kellius.

Behind him, shadows moved with purpose—enemy soldiers moving to kill and subdue his own men. The sense of defeat immediately whirled inside of him but he refused to give up. He set his stance, sweat tracking cold over his ribs, and reached for more mana. For the man who had wrecked every plan Orlen made with one bizarre spell.

“I’m going to kill you,” Orlen said. He bared his teeth and glared, even as his heart hammered like it wanted out.

“We both know those are empty—” Arzan began.

Orlen didn’t let him finish and fired first. Lightning burst from his palm in a white-blue flurry, but the man in front of him vanished. A scream tore the mist somewhere to Orlen’s left. Once again he hoped it was an enemy and not one of his own, but there was no time to check. He pulled mana hard and shaped a blade of lightning along his forearm.

A sound came from above.

Orlen looked up and saw Arzan floating, cloak tugged by the air, a tight funnel of wind spinning in his hand. The tornado came down in a rush. Orlen raised his lightning blade to cleave it, but the wind wrapped his lightning instead, coiling it, stretching it thin. His robes flared and for a moment, control slipped. He felt the charge stutter and killed the spell before it could backfire, throwing himself right.

Ropes of flaring mana sliced through the space he had just left, hissing like hot wire.

“You managed to anticipate it,” Arzan’s voice came, calm, almost pleased. “That’s honestly impressive.”

Orlen ground his teeth and began another weave. Lines and circles formed in a deadly spell—

Cold ran through him like a blade of ice.

His hands stopped moving.

What the fuck is happening?! No… No! The spell structure wavered. “No, don’t!” Breath fogged in front of his lips. The mist itself seemed to tighten, and for a heartbeat Orlen couldn’t tell if it was fear, a frost spell, or the weight of a stronger will pressing down on his own.

A beam of white light cut through the mist and hit his legs. Ice climbed fast, biting his bone. Orlen tried to throw a lightning bolt to shatter it, but a boot hit his chest and sent him skidding over stone.

He slammed into a wall. Pain lanced bright across his body. The ice webbing his shins had already cracked; he smashed it apart and forced himself up, hands lifting to weave—

Red-hot, smoking chains whipped out of the fog. He flinched, his eyes squeezing shut a heartbeat before they struck. Fire-wreathed links wrapped his chest and arms, cinched tight, and dragged him down. He groaned as his knees hit stone. He could only lift his head by will alone.

Arzan stood over him.

He looked exactly as the rumours described—proud, confident, a man who knew he’d already won the battle before it even began.

Orlen ignored his stance and tried to set a spell structure in his fingers. The chains tightened, digging in, and burning.

The pattern unraveled from pain alone.

“Don’t attempt it,” Arzan said, voice even. “You’ve already lost. You’ll see it in a few seconds. The spell should be timing out now.”

Orlen said nothing. He glared up, mind racing. Is this it? Will he kill me? Parade me? He had no answer and no air for questions.

The fog began to thin.

First it peeled back from his boots, then from the nearest stones, then from the shattered gate that led down. Shapes took color. Sound sharpened. The last of the cloud tore like gauze in sunlight, and the sight before him punched the breath from his chest.

All around him, his soldiers lay on the stones—knocked out, some bleeding, some groaning. A handful still swung blades out of habit, then saw their fellows bound and silent and let the steel drop. A few broke for the stairs. A golem stood there already, head turning, big hand closing around each runner and setting them down like sacks.

The Mages fared worst. Their hands were locked in tight cuffs—dull gray bands that drank the light. Made of Syphon stones, he immediately recognised it. Orlen’s stomach dipped. With those on, a Mage was just a man.

They had nearly two hundred men on the roster. Arzan’s force looked barely fifty. Still, the fifty moved through the courtyard with calm speed, looping glowing ropes, checking pulses, stacking weapons in a neat pile while drones watched from above.

Maybe others would run away and get help… Orlen’s last hope reached for the men beyond the walls, the ones in the yards, the ones in their rooms—

“I’ve sent more soldiers around the fort,” Arzan said, as if answering the thought. “None of yours will run. Not unless they plan to cross the border.”

Orlen fixed on him, venom in his voice. “You won craftily. That’s not how a true Mage fights.” he spat on the floor, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth where his lip had scraped.

“A win is a win,” Arzan replied. “A true lord doesn’t let his men shed even a drop of blood. That’s what I did today. And I don’t need a lecture from you. In war, it doesn’t matter how you win—only that you win.”

Orlen ground his teeth until his jaw hurt. The words were clean, hard, and—worst of all—true. It didn’t cool the heat in his chest. It only made the loss burn deeper.

Such a spell—he had never seen anything like it. Maybe only a Fourth Circle Mage could have stood against it; maybe not. It didn’t matter. He had lost. The chains were hot on his ribs, the syphon cuffs drank everyone of his Mages, and he could do nothing.

“What do you want to do with me now? Kill me?” Orlen asked, voice rough.

“No,” Arzan said. “I gain nothing from that. I want to ask you some very important questions.”

Orlen narrowed his eyes. “What questions? I’ll tell you nothing.”

“I think you will,” Arzan replied, calm as ever. “It isn’t something you shouldn’t know. I have many questions, but only one matters now.” He turned his head, gaze cutting far beyond Glaivegate’s walls. Orlen followed it and saw nothing, yet Arzan spoke as if he saw something. “From what I know, Aldrin has been in talks with the Caelond Kingdom, and I still see their fort over the border. I expected them to help you—they have good Mages. They didn’t. Care to explain why?”

“How would I know what a prince and another kingdom are planning?” Orlen scoffed. “I was tasked by the king to hold this fort. That’s all.”

“Yet you failed at it,” Arzan said, without anger. “You can keep your mouth shut, but that won’t last.”

“Try me.” Orlen set his jaw and held the stare. Behind his teeth, his resolve tasted like iron. Behind his calm, his hands shook in the chains. He could feel drones humming above, the golems’ steps thudding through stone, the quiet murmur of captives being counted and bound. He had no faith he could withstand true pressure from this man. But he was still loyal. He would not spoil Prince Aldrin’s plan. More than the fear of pain, he wanted one thing—to watch Arzan stumble, to see his rise break. So he glared, said nothing, and swallowed the tremor in his chest.

Dao of money Chapter 180

Chapter 180

Chen Eain looked down on the massive sinkhole, breath held without meaning to. Cold air rose from the dark like a living thing. It slid under his robes and pricked his skin. A shiver ran down his back and the hair on his arms stood. He did not see anyone, and yet the feeling of eyes on him would not leave. Many eyes. Hungry eyes.

From where? He had no idea.

Even with the improved sight he had worked so hard to temper, he couldn't see everything. It didn’t let him see what was beyond, or what was lurking the sinkhole. He only noticed the wind that whistled along broken rock ribs and the loose pebbles that fell and kept falling.

At the rim, beasts crawled over one another. Slasher maws, lizard monsters, low tier one. The kind that lived only on the edges of the sinkhole, cold-blooded with pale bellies stained the color of dust. Their tongues flicked. Their eyes were small, dull, and always moving. They were snacks, nothing more, the first to die when something bigger climbed up for a look at the world above.

He curled his fingers until his knuckles ached. The ache steadied him. He rolled his shoulders, shook off the bite of the wind and the whisper of unseen things, and reminded himself of his name.

Chen Eain.

He said it inside his skull. Chen Eain, young master of the Chen clan. Chen Eain, the future. The sinkhole was not a mouth to swallow him; it was a gate. Below lay an artifact or a cultivation method as old as the sinkhole itself. He could feel it. The sensation sat under his bone like a hot coal. Once he had it, Red Peak City would not be able to cage him. Not only Red Peak City, but also the empire would be a road, and he would walk it.

If it were up to him alone, this would already be over. He was already close to finding whatever lay buried under the sinkhole. But the clans chose to hold peace talks.

His father had laughed without smiling. “A show,” he’d said. “They want time to gather grain, buy pills, call in debts. Let them posture and we’ll do the same.” Then his father’s hand had found his shoulder and squeezed until Chen Eain winced. “Don’t be reckless.”

He had not been reckless. He had wanted to run to the sinkhole anyway, run until his lungs burned and his legs shook and then keep running, but he was not an idiot. The hole was thick with beasts. More than he could count. Even from the rim, the stink of them climbed up—wet scale, old blood, something like iron and old leaves. He would not last alone under that weight. He needed bodies to take on the stronger beast, to hold them back while he went for the kill.

His cousins and mercenaries. Fodder as his father called it. He did not like the word. He did not flinch from it either. Those who followed him would be paid in coin and favor. Those who fell would have their names spoken in the clan hall. The rest was fate.

He had waited. He had sharpened his blade. He had trained until moonlight turned to dawn and the world outside the courtyard wall began to wake. He had nodded through the council talks. He had smiled the way a son should. Now the waiting has ended. The clan elders had sent their messages. The temporary peace had broken like a clay plate on stone.

He stood at the edge and let the cold air work on him until the shake left his legs. He shifted his weight and stones slid off under his boot. The sound was like tiny bells falling. A few slasher maws turned their heads up at him, tongues tasting, then turned away.

He would go down. He would kill whoever stood in his way. If he found the bastards from the Yu clan or the Huang clan, he would take their lives and everything they carried—their maps, their weapons, the talismans they hid under their robes and the pills on their belts. Anything. Everything—he’d take it all. He imagined the looks on their faces when his blade found the seam in their defenses. He breathed out slowly, and the image faded. No need to rush that joy. There would be time. But the imagination was a sweet taste.

If they sent a lot of girls, maybe he could even strike up a good deal in exchange for their lives. That thought brought a faint smirk to his lips. In cultivation, everything was a transaction. Power, favors, blood—all of it measured and traded. He had been taught that since childhood, and he hadn’t forgotten. Mercy had no value unless it bought something in return.

Once he had seen enough of the hole’s darkness, he turned away. His group waited a short distance behind. His cousins looked back, and his eyes went to their clan armor—then toward the mercenaries who wore worse gear, but held far more pouches around their belts.

He didn’t waste time on speeches or plans. He didn’t care. They wouldn’t understand his methods anyway. He simply pointed toward the sinkhole.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We head down to the newer tunnels. Deep enough to find what the others missed.”

A few of them nodded, uncertain but obedient. Others exchanged quick looks. One of his cousins opened his mouth—perhaps to question, perhaps to complain—but Chen Eain didn’t care to hear. The world didn’t wait for the hesitant.

He stepped forward, and the next moment lightning crackled around his legs. The air snapped sharp and blue-white. Before anyone could say a word, he leapt from the edge.

Wind screamed past his ears as he dropped. The sinkhole swallowed him whole.

Qi gathered around him, wrapping his body. He felt it everywhere, even inside his bones. The lightning around his limbs turned brighter, sharper, as if alive. He breathed in deeply, and the air burned rich with spiritual energy—thicker here than anywhere above. It rolled through him, heavy and sweet, until his chest felt full.

He fell for a long time. As he descended, the faint glow of his lightning threw light on the walls, revealing shapes that moved—the twisted bodies of beasts clinging to the rock, scales glistening, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Some watched him fall, their heads tilting, tongues flicking. None dared leap toward him. They knew what lightning meant.

He kept going deeper.

The sinkhole widened, narrowing again in places like a throat.

The air grew denser with qi, so strong that his skin prickled and his thoughts grew sharp. Finally, he spotted a jagged protrusion of rock jutting from the wall. He twisted his body mid-fall, lightning flaring around him. The energy surged down his arm and shaped itself—a solid hand of light extending outward, reaching far below him. It caught the rock with a loud crack and pulled him in.

He landed hard on the protrusion.

The lightning dimmed to a faint vibration around him as he straightened. The air down here was alive. It seeped into his bones with every breath.

He sat cross-legged on the uneven stone and closed his eyes. The scent of damp rock and raw qi filled his lungs. Slowly, his breathing steadied, matching the pulse of the energy around him.

He remembered the first time he’d come here—he was trembling, foolish, barely more than a boy. He hadn’t even dared to look down for long. Yet even then, a few breaths in this place had been enough to push him through the barrier and into the qi refinement realm. That memory stirred something fierce inside him—hunger, pride, and the certainty that he was meant for more.

He pressed his palm against the stone beneath him and drew in another breath, deep and slow. The qi flowed freely here. And he tried to relish in it. This place had made him once, and it would make him again.

Thus, time flew.

Ten minutes later the sound of boots and ragged breath told him they were coming. He had been sitting still so long that the knots in his shoulder had gone numb. Down here, ten minutes could be an hour. He opened his eyes.

His party moved awkwardly through the gloom. Unlike him they had to stop and assimilate themselves to the qi concentration in the sinkhole. They hadn't been here often enough for their body to be naturally molded to it. A few even wore shoes that pushed a thin cloud of qi under their soles, helping them traverse. The cloud bubbled and hissed as they stepped, soft light underfoot. Chen Eain snorted. If a man needed tricks to walk, he had no business in the sinkhole. Still, his cousins were useful. Useful, and replaceable.

They formed up slowly at the rim of the chamber. Faces were pale in the mosslight. The mercenaries shifted their weight; the cousins checked armour and blades. He counted without thinking—this was muscle memory etched into him to be a leader. When the last pair of boots whispered into place, he pointed to a dark throat carved in the far wall.

“There,” he said. “The big hole at the back. That leads to the newer veins. I went in before the truce. Lots of paths we haven’t taken.” His voice was flat. He did not need to sell it; the men already knew what he wanted.

“Keep your qi in your dantian,” he added. “Don’t leak. If you let it out they’ll smell you. These beasts see in the dark and sense qi, better than you do. We fight only when we have to. Stay tight. Back up, no heroics.”

Heads bobbed. A few mouths formed questions that died when he looked at them. He could feel their fear like a draft. He liked it. Fear made things orderly.

He drew in breath. The cave air tasted of wet stone and something sweet and old—the glowing growth on the walls. It looked like moss, but it pulsed faintly, as if every cell had a heartbeat. Alchemists valued it. It fed on stray qi and cast it back like a lightbulb. Some of the mercenaries’ hands itched toward it already. He watched the movement and let the shadow of a threat pass across his face.

He tucked his qi down. The warm hum in his bones dimmed and folded into the place behind his navel. The lightning that had followed him here thinned to threads and vanished. He felt naked and full at once.

They moved into the cylinder of the cave. The place swallowed sound. Stalactites hung like the teeth of giants. Every step raised a fine rain of dust. Once in a while a spike loosened and smashed to the floor. The crash was a hard slap that set teeth chattering. When that happened a dozen heads would snap up, eyes hunting for movement. The beasts answered with small sounds like the rustling of dry leaves. Sometimes a shadow slid along a wall but was gone before they could do anything.

The moss painted everything in green-gold. It lit false corners and made deep places look shallow. Its smell clung to fingers—iron and honey. But due to it, he was able to traverse easily—no beast could ambush from the front. One of the mercenaries knelt and scraped at a patch with a fingernail, pocketing the crumb. Chen Eain watched him, but ultimately put it to the back of his mind and moved.

The tunnel opened to the hidden path he’d found before—the one under the giant boulder. In his last expedition, he had explored a little, but after a beast fight, they had little strength to move forward—therefore, the party he’d come with chose to leave.

Although the entire sinkhole was full of concentrated qi, he could feel a stronger current of it coming from this path. If they kept following it, he was certain that they would reach the artifact.

“Do you know what we’ll meet down there?” one cousin asked, voice barely a whisper.

Chen Eain looked at him and gave a bored look. “Not the name,” he told him. “A lizard that hangs from the ceiling. Its tongue carries a fireball. Don’t stand under it. Use qi projectiles to pull it down so we can cut it open. It moves alone, so it shouldn’t be hard to kill.”

The cousin’s frown split into complaint. “You should say that before—”

“A cultivator should always be ready,” Chen Eain cut him off. “Besides, they flash before they strike—”

The words died in his throat.

Above them, the ceiling flared like a lantern. Light poured down in a single, bright bloom that stole their sight for a heart-beat. Chen Eain’s skin prickled and every hair on his arms stood. He looked up.

The lizard hung like a dark scar against the glow. Its body clung to the stone with hooked claws. Black scales shone in the flare. Its mouth worked and a tongue uncoiled from between teeth. On the tip of the tongue a small ball of living fire burned. The creature rolled the ball like a gambler rolling dice, then shot it forward.

“Get away from it!” Chen Eain shouted.

The warning came too late for one mercenary. The lizard’s tongue whipped out like a rope, the fireball on its tip hissing as it struck. The man screamed. The tongue slammed him into the wall with a sick wet crack. He slid down, dazed, arm smoking where the heat had seared leather and flesh.

Chen Eain muttered, “Useless.” and lightning unfolded in his palm and he hurled it. The bolt struck the wall with a sound like snapping bamboo. The beast hissed and skittered, claws scraping stone as it ran across the ceiling and wall, jerking its tongue to fire again. It moved too fast for any one blow. It was only one creature, but it used the roof like armor.

Another cousin finally hit it. A clean bolt struck the tongue as it shot out, and the fireball went dead in a spray of sparks. The lizard convulsed in midair, slamming onto the floor with a thud that shook dust down from the stalactites.

Chen Eain’s lips thinned. He charged.

Lightning wrapped his forearm like a glove. He slammed his palm into the beast’s belly. The shock tore the scales open. The creature went still then gave one long, ragged shudder. Blood exploded from the wound, hot and dark, spraying across stone. The smell hit Chen Eain—iron and singed flesh. He stepped back fast, boots sliding on wet rock, careful not to let the blood touch his enchanted armor. He had been taught not to mingle his fortune with filth.

He let himself smile. “Peak tier one. Nothing special,” he said aloud. “I’ll take it. We can use the materials.”

The cousin who’d landed the bolt leaned on his staff and grinned through the grime. “Half,” he said bluntly. “You killed it, but I struck the blow to get it on the ground. I want half.”

Chen Eain cold-eyed him. “I killed it,” he said. His voice had the weight of a decree. “You’ll have the limbs. That’s enough for your work.”

The cousin opened his mouth, something sharp on his tongue, but Chen Eain moved first. He slipped his hand into his robe and drew the small ring his father had given him. The spatial ring hummed faintly when he brushed it. He pressed the beast’s body to the opening and the lizard folded inward like water poured into a jar. The ring sealed with a clean click.

He held the ring for a second longer, feeling the hum against his palm. The ring was more than an inventory. It was a promise—a promise from his father that the things Chen Eain found in the sinkhole would always be his. He had wanted one of these since he was a boy.

He slipped the ring back into his robes and let his eyes move over the men. The mercenary with the burned arm was sitting up, face white but breathing. The others were steadying themselves, hands on weapons, eyes on him.

“Let’s head inside,” Chen Rong said flatly. “It’s not good to stand in one place for too long.”

A few nodded. No one dared to argue. He could tell that they were still shaken by the memory of the fire-tongued lizard. Regardless, they gathered their packs and followed him deeper into the sinkhole.

Chen Eain noticed the change. The way their necks craned upward, the way their weapons twitched at every drip or rustle. It was good—fear made them sharper and more guarded. He did the same, eyes scanning the jagged ceiling.

Maybe it was because of that vigilance, but the next few battles went better. The next lizard that appeared barely had time to drop before a spear of qi pierced its chest. The second tried to ambush them from behind, only to be crushed against the rock when Chen Eain sent a bolt of lightning snapping through its skull. The third and fourth were slower, older perhaps, but both died without leaving a single scratch on his party.

Four kills. Four beasts. No injuries this time.

Chen Rong didn’t let the faint thrill show on his face, but inside, his blood buzzed. Efficiency was its own form of pleasure. He absorbed each corpse into his spatial ring, the shimmer of the storage spell flickering for a moment before sealing again. The weight of his growing collection was a quiet satisfaction in his chest.

After another hour of winding paths and uneven stone, they came across something new. A tunnel—one he hadn’t seen before. It curved downward, dark and narrow, air thick with qi. The moss-light grew faint, and only the glow from their torches gave the tunnel a shape. He didn’t hesitate. “Inside,” he said, and stepped in first.

They walked in silence. The air felt heavier the deeper they went, like something pressing against their lungs. Halfway through, Chen Eain slowed. Something wasn’t right.

He lifted his hand for silence, then moved closer to one of the tunnel walls. The surface was cracked, blackened at the edges. A few steps ahead, the ground was gouged—there were sword marks. Beside them, a cluster of vines lay torn and scattered, some still pulsing faintly with leftover energy.

He crouched and ran his fingers over one of the cuts in the rock. The qi residue stung faintly at his skin. Not beasts. No, these were definitely cultivators.

“Someone fought here,” one of his cousins said quietly.

Chen Eain didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed, tracing the pattern of destruction; the direction of the strikes, the broken stone, the faint scent of burned qi still lingering in the air. It hadn’t been long. Whoever had fought here, they weren’t far.

He straightened slowly. “We’re not alone,” he said. “One of the other clans is surely here.”

The thought made something sharp twist inside him. His lips curved in a small, dangerous smile. The idea of another clan finding something before him—that was unacceptable. But catching them here, deep in the sinkhole, cut off from their support? That was an opportunity.

“Move faster,” he ordered.

Some of the mercenaries hesitated, exchanging uneasy looks. “Young master,” one of them said, “if there was a strong cultivator among the clan members, then—”

“I said move!” Chen Eain interrupted. His eyes flicked toward the man, and the mercenary’s words died in his throat.

A strong leader did not change his mind. Chen Eain’s orders were not for arguing. The men and cousins behind him moved without question. That saved him a show. It saved time.

They followed him down the tunnel. Marks of battles cut the walls. Broken vines lay like ropes. Each new scrape told him they were close and finally they reached an opening. He pressed himself into the shadow at the bend and peered.

The chamber opened and his breath stopped.

A huge lizard lay in the middle of the room. It was like the others they had killed, only far bigger. Molten skin dripped from its flank in dark beads. The smell of hot iron and cooked meat hung heavy.

Around the corpse stood a dozen cultivators. Their robes were scarred with soot. Their armor caught the mosslight and glinted. Chen Eain recognised the faces in seconds. Yu clan.

He had even beaten two of them in duels a year back right outside the sinkhole. They were very weak then. How they had killed such a thing he could not tell. Maybe it had been weaker than it looked. Maybe they had been lucky. That did not matter.

He turned to his group and said, “We attack.”

A dozen faces went pale. One of his female cousins stepped forward, eyes wide. “They just killed that beast,” she whispered. “What if one of them is an expert?”

Chen Eain looked at her like the question was stupid. He did not raise his voice. He only said, “I know them. They are not experts. They probably burned their qi in the fight. They are tired. This is our best chance. They have spatial rings, I see them. We take them.”

He did not wait for answers. He faced the chamber one more time. “Wait for my mark,” he told everyone. “When I launch, you fire projectiles. Surprise them and kill as many as you could.”

They nodded. They did not ask. They had learned that arguing got nothing and obedience kept them breathing.

Chen Eain bent his knees and drew breath. He gathered qi at his dantian. It slid up through his veins like cold water. He shaped it with his hands until a thick bolt of lightning stood in his palm, blue and humming. He felt it weighty and sharp, the kind that could shatter bone or break a ring.

The Yu clan members were talking in low voices, still distracted by the corpse. Chen Eain could hear the scrape of a boot. He could hear one of them laugh quietly. The chance sat in his mouth like a ripe fruit.

He raised his arm. The bolt pointed toward the chamber. He let his fingers curl, ready to throw.

Then something pricked his skin. His hair lifted. Instinct flared inside him like an alarm bell.

Before he could name the warning, a black tide rolled over them.

Smoke hit. It came fast, thick and bitter. It stole the light and choked the air. Chen Eain’s bolt in his hand sizzled and died. For one small instant the world went grey and hot, and he couldn’t breath normally anymore.

Magus Reborn Chapter 288

Chapter 288

Kai stood on the edge of the cliff, wind tugging at his cloak, and stared down at Fort Glaivegate. He couldn’t help but think that even with their plan, it was going to be tough to take the fort down.

From up here, the fort looked like a metal claw gripping the flattened hill beneath it. He’d seen forts before, of course, plenty of them. The Sylvan Enclave had its share of strongholds, but most were little more than glorified outposts. Fort Aegis had been the only one worth remembering, built to withstand sieges, spells, and all the horrors war could throw at them. The rest? A few good explosions and a strong enough push through the gates had been enough to take them.

Glaivegate, though… it was closer to Aegis than any of those weak forts. And with the information they received from the Watchers, it would be much harder to breach Glaivegate.

The fort was built atop a small hill that had been flattered and had wards covering the walls that would protect against any sort of magical attack. Projectiles, siege spells and everything else. Worse, there would be around five to seven times their numbers inside with a good amount of Mages that were stationed there instead of noble houses.

Most were likely second-circle, still learning the craft of magic. But he was sure there would be one Third Circle Mage. Aldrin had a few under his command; one could easily be stationed here.

Still, that wasn’t what made Kai’s stomach twist. It was the wall itself—tall, thick, and alive with the hum of protective mana. Even from this distance, he could see archers lining the ramparts, silhouettes shifting as they loaded bolts into mounted ballistae.

They had seen them. Of course they had. From the way the archers shifted on the wall and the faint glimmer of wards rippling to life, it was clear Fort Glaivegate had been warned in advance. It didn't matter.

Kai hadn’t come here to be sneaky anyway.

He turned slightly, eyes finding Feroy. “Once the gates open,” Kai said, his voice steady despite the wind whipping around them, “follow the plan. Make sure no one kills unnecessarily. And tell everyone to keep their distance with the mana guns. We want as few casualties as possible.”

Feroy nodded, tightening his hand around the spear tightly. “I’ll make sure you’re not disappointed, Lord Arzan.” His tone carried the faintest hint of excitement. “Are we starting right away, or do we give them a chance to surrender?”

“Surrender,” Kai said simply.

He didn’t wait for a response. Mana stirred beneath his boots as he invoked the [Flight] spell, and the world fell away beneath him. Gasps rose from his soldiers as he lifted into the air, a trail of wind curling around his cloak.

Truthfully, he didn’t want to waste breath offering surrender. He already knew how this would end. But wars weren’t only about breaking walls—they were also about shaping stories. And a man who offered mercy before victory had a better reputation than one who didn't.

He’d need that reputation soon. He’d need soldiers, Mages, and cities that would bend the knee willingly when the throne came within reach.

As he climbed higher, the fort loomed close. Soldiers stared up in stunned silence, some faltering in their movements. A few scrambled to ready ballistae; others loosed arrows that cracked uselessly against the faint shimmer of his wind armor.

Kai sighed and let his voice carry across the field as he raised his hand. “Soldiers of Fort Glaivegate!” he called out, his mana amplifying each word until even the stone seemed to hum. “I am Duke Arzan Kellius—contender to the Lancephil throne and a Fourth Circle Mage.”

At his declaration, the ballistae stuttered, then paused.

His eyes moved towards the bows that lowered, and the fingers that slacked on strings. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the wind and the soft thud of armor as men shifted on the ramparts.

“I’m here to give you a chance to surrender,” he called out in a clear voice. “Surrender now and I will spare you a battle you will only lose!”

Silence answered him at first, though he expected them to shout or at least laugh. He didn’t know how fast the tale of his duel with Veridia had spreaded, but he could guess: Aldrin would have warned every man here. The thought flickered, then a ripple of movement broke the quiet.

A wave of mana slammed into him.

Kai immediately turned in that direction to see a burly figure vaulting the railing. The burly man wore a full plate that caught the sun; seals shining along the pauldrons. He stood like one a War Mage.

“I am Captain Orlen,” the man said, his voice hard as a flint. “Third-Circle Mage of Archine Tower, and captain of Fort Glaivegate. What you threaten is treason against the crown. Turn back now, or be declared a traitor.”

Orlen’s words rang across the courtyard.

“We both know the crown is split,” Kai replied, the words riding along the wind. “Don’t make yourself holier than you are. If I am a traitor, then what is Prince Aldrin—who confides with foreign powers just to get a shot at the throne? Tell me, if someone who is willing to sell the kingdom is a traitor or not.”

His last statement turned heads, and murmurs erupted.

“Duke Arzan,” Orlen said with a tight frown on his face, “I respect you as a Mage. But step away. Leave and keep your honor. Stay, and I will call you a traitor and do my duty.”

Kai sighed and let the cold wind bite his face.

“The talk is over,” he said finally. “I gave you a chance, and you refused. I cannot help what comes next.”

For a second, nothing moved. Kai looked down on the ground and Feroy nodded, already moving as they had planned.

Orders rippled through the ranks on the ramparts like a quiet wave. And the defenders didn’t wait.

The air cracked with the sharp twang of bowstrings. A storm of arrows and spells rained down all at once. Fire, lightning, and steel filled the sky. Kai raised a hand, and the wind roared to life—his barrier flaring around him like a living gale. Every arrow that struck shattered to splinters, every spell dispersed into harmless sparks.

He counted quickly. A dozen Mages, maybe a few more hiding inside the fort. All of them were Second Circle Mages, easy enough to defeat. The captain, though… the one named Orlen—his mana burned brighter and stronger. He was a Third Circle Lightning Mage.

He sent out bolts of white-blue energy crackling across the air toward Kai, forcing him to weave and shift through the sky. The arcs hissed past his cloak, sizzling into the ground below. Orlen gritted his teeth, flinging another volley, but his control faltered—each bolt flew straight, unable to bend or chase its target.

Kai noted it quietly. Raw power, no finesse. That alone made him easier to deal with. But he didn’t counterattack. Not yet.

The air around the fort pulsed—he felt it before he saw it. Threads of mana, fine and deliberate, wove together in the space before him. Then, like a ripple through glass, the ward on the walls flared to life.

A translucent prism of mana enveloped the fort, shimmering faintly under the morning sun. It extended upward, even enclosing the air above the walls. Kai’s eyes narrowed. The structure was dense, tightly layered and precisely channeled.

Not bad, he thought. Better than expected. Impressive even.

The ward didn’t just absorb attacks—it redirected them, tuned only to block from one side. Arrows and spells from inside passed through unhindered. Whoever built this knew what they were doing. Probably the same hand that had shaped Archine Tower’s defenses.

Impressive for this era, but flawed all the same. There were spells that would easily go past it.

Kai exhaled slowly, the wind stirring at his feet. The fort might’ve been wrapped in glass and lightning, but it wouldn’t save them for long.

And then, with a soft hum, the first of the drones appeared, floating into view from behind him. They were sleek, angular and thrumming with mana, and hovered right before Kai.

Right on time.

The next wave came faster—arrows whistling through the air, spells streaking like comets. This time, their aim wasn’t at him. They went for the drones.

Kai didn’t even flinch.

The four floating constructs clicked together with a mechanical snap. The seals etched to them glowed white-hot, drawing power straight from the condensed Aethum cores built within. A hum filled the air.

Then, with a rush of wind, a spherical barrier expanded outward, wrapping around him in a dome of bright blue light. The storm of arrows and spells struck it, flaring against its surface before dying away to nothing. Each impact rippled faintly across the barrier, but the mana flow didn’t falter.

Kai allowed himself a small nod. The design that he had came up with Balen worked as expected.

The defensive drone model had been the Minotaur’s idea. Together, they’d refined it into something practical. It didn't only redirect the spells. It also absorbed parts of them. He could feel the energy distribution stabilizing through the aethum lattice.

Even a sustained Third Circle Mage assault wouldn’t crack it for at least five minutes. That was more than enough time.

He raised both hands, mana flaring between his palms. The air thickened as glowing lines began to take shape before him—circles, runes, and spirals overlapping in intricate harmony.

A fifth-circle siege spell.

The kind that could bring down city walls on its own. The kind Mages feared as much as they admired. And the kind that demanded time—time to construct, stabilize, and feed. Normally, that was a fatal weakness on the battlefield. But inside the hum of his barrier, Kai had all the time he needed.

He shut out the world—the shouts from the fort, the calls to reload, even the faint shimmer of lightning gathering in the sky. All that existed was the spell structure unfolding before him.

Mana wove like silk threads, bending under his will. Lines branched, curved, and merged into new runes. The structure rotated slowly, layer after layer forming around a growing core of raw, compressed energy.

The heart of the spell—the core—was everything. One mistake there, and the entire construct would collapse, taking him with it.

Kai’s breathing slowed. His eyes reflected the spell’s blue light as he shaped the core structure. Only when the center pulsed with perfect rhythm did he move to the next segment, letting the outer layers build around it—one side, then another.

Outside, the fort roared with desperate energy. Inside the dome, only the sound of humming mana and his own heartbeat filled the silence.

Lines of mana bled into one another like rivers of molten light, each feeding the growing spell. The barrage against the drone barrier only intensified—more arrows, more desperate spells, all hammering against the shimmering blue dome that kept Kai untouched.

For a moment, he wondered. What if any of them could fly?

If Orlen or one of the other Mages had mastered flight, he’d have to fend them off before completing the spell, burning through his own reserves just to stay alive. That would’ve made this entire siege slower, bloodier. But luck, or perhaps fate, favored him. None of them rose to meet him. No one dared to leave the safety of their walls.

That meant he could pour everything he had into this.

And for a spell like this, more was always better. The bigger the fort, the more the mana needed.

He didn’t rush. Each heartbeat added another set of runes, another layer of complexity, another pulse of energy folding into the structure. The shouts below grew frantic now—panicked orders, screams, even the deep crackle of overloaded spells trying to punch through the drones’ shields.

Then, he felt it.

The final strand of mana locked into place, the spell resonating in perfect balance. It was ready.

Kai glanced at the fort below, measuring its shape and size—walls, towers, ramparts, the clustered barracks in the back. Then he rose higher, breaking through the top of the drone barrier. The air above was clean and thin and the world stretched wide around him.

The instant he left the shield’s safety, every spell on the wall turned toward him like a swarm of angry hornets. But before they could even fire—

He spoke.

Five syllables of pure power rolled off his tongue, and the spell ignited.

“Solun Aras Tookan Marlv Arnkto!”

The structure flared, flooding the sky with blue light that washed over the fort in a blinding wave. Mana shivered through the air. Then the light condensed, and clouds began to pour out of the spell—thick, rolling masses that spread like a storm given form.

The entire fortress vanished beneath the veil in seconds and such a ward wasn't made to redirect such a spell. No Mage in this era would think to push back against clouds and air when designing a ward.

From within, Kai heard the first screams—short, startled, then drowned beneath the muffled roar of wind. The clouds clung to everything—walls, weapons, people. Arrows shot through them, only to lose direction. Spells sparked, fizzled, and disappeared into the mist.

Kai watched, impassive, holding the spell steady as the clouds thickened. He could see the faint outlines of soldiers waving swords uselessly, trying to carve through vapor that refused to disperse. A few Mages hurled fire and lightning, but the haze swallowed it all, unyielding.

It wasn’t smoke. It wasn't an illusion. It was consuming.

The fort below writhed in chaos, its proud defenders reduced to silhouettes in the misty storm he’d summoned. And through it all, Kai hovered above—calm, focused, a lone figure against the vast sky—holding the spell as it devoured everything beneath it, piece by piece.

The spell was known as [Solun]—one of the most feared and elegant siege spells to come out of the first golden era of magic. Named after its creator that probably wasn't even born yet.

Back then, armies had used it to swallow whole cities in clouds so thick that neither arrows nor mana blasts could pass through. It blinded defenders, choked their formation lines, and made their wards useless for hours. For two full years, every army worth its name had relied on it—until the counter spells and wards came.

Kai doubted anyone in Fort Glaivegate had that kind of luxury.

Below him, the muffled roars of confusion and panic carried faintly through the clouds—shouts of orders lost, Mages trying to dispel the fog, soldiers slamming against unseen walls. He let the sounds sit with him for a breath longer, then turned, letting the wind carry him back toward his army.

Feroy and the others were waiting. Even though they had known what the plan was, the look on their faces was a sight to see—eyes wide, mouths half-open as they watched the entire fort vanish beneath a swirling dome of blue mist.

Knowing and seeing were clearly two different things.

Kai landed softly, his boots stirring dust. Feroy was the first to step forward, his expression quickly hardening into readiness. “We are ready for the assault, Lord Arzan.”

Kai gave a short nod. “Remember—don’t kill unless it’s necessary. The spell will hold for a while. You’ll have enough time to disarm and bind the soldiers.” His eyes flicked over the gathered troops. “Are the potions ready?”

“At once,” Feroy replied, already signaling the line.

All at once, hundreds of soldiers reached into their belts and pulled out simmering white vials. The liquid shimmered faintly, a blend of energy and resistance potions brewed for his men to see through the mist. They raised them in unison, gulped them down, and a collective shiver ran through the ranks as the potions settled.

Feroy grimaced slightly as his own body adjusted, then steadied himself and turned to the men. “Deploy the golems and drones!”

The command rippled across the camp. Soldiers cleared a path, stepping aside as two massive golems lumbered forward, each one glowing faintly from the cores embedded in their chests. Above them, combat drones lifted into formation, their cores pulsing blue as they synced with the golems’ mana signatures.

The ground shook as the constructs advanced, heading straight for the gates now lost inside the fog.

Kai watched them move, arms folded, eyes half-narrowed. Everything was unfolding perfectly—too perfectly.

Even as the golems neared the wall and the soldiers began their careful advance, his mind drifted elsewhere, to the horizon beyond the smoke and dust.

Will the Caelond Kingdom attack?

The thought lingered for a second, then he shook his head. Even if they did, he had a lot of tricks remaining in his bag. After all, this was just the start of their campaign.

Magus Reborn Chapter 287

Chapter 287

Eldric strolled forward towards the stage at the centre of the royal castle.

No matter where his eyes moved, people stood there. The hall was filled to the edge with nobles in their bright silks, and beyond them, rows of commoners pressed together in awe. His mother had allowed them to enter the castle for the day—to watch the coronation before joining the parade outside. Now they stood as one sea of faces, and all of them were looking at him.

He felt a prickle between his shoulders as he moved, each step measured. Perhaps it wasn’t him they were weighing, but the clothes. They were worth as much as several noble estates. It wasn’t as if he’d never worn fine clothes; he had wardrobes full of them. But this—this—outshone anything he’d ever worn. Opulent gold threads wove through the cloth, and each ring on his fingers glittered like captured stars. They were more than ornaments, though. Each ring carried power—a defensive artifact, in case an attack happened.

Honestly, he doubted anyone would. His brothers? Not a chance, not even Arzan. But his mother never left anything to chance. He could almost hear her cold, even voice: The crown will reach your head, Eldric. No matter the cost.

Even now, guards moved through the crowds below. Their eyes were sharp and constantly searching. On the balconies, Royal Mages stood with their hands clasped behind their backs. The air itself felt tight with all the security. This was likely the most guarded event in Lancephil’s history. The entire capital had been locked down for this one day.

And yet, as Eldric walked through the thunder of cheers, he knew every bit of this protection had nothing to do with love. His mother did not fear for him—only for her plan. She had built this day piece by piece, year by year, and she would not let it fail.

At the stage, he saw her sitting at the high seat next to his father King Sullivan, calm and still. The golden light through the stained glass made her look like a saint, though he knew better. Beside her, in long white robes trimmed with blue and silver, stood a man Eldric knew was Archbishop Callen of the Church of Goddess Lumaris, only one of the three to attend the coronation. The priest’s thin hands held a staff crowned with a sun-shaped sigil. His eyes were pale, but he had a gentle smile on.

The Church had always stood beside the crown, though never truly under it. Eldric wondered briefly if his mother had chosen Callen herself, but it didn't matter.

And so, with every gaze upon him—his mother’s, the nobles’, the Mages’, the Archbishop’s, the commoners’—Eldric stepped toward the centre where he would be crowned.

Eldric’s heartbeat matched his steps—not from the cheers around him or the weight in his chest, but from the simple ache of need. He hadn’t been able to drink more of the liquid he’d come to depend on, the one thing that steadied him each morning and night. His body reminded him of it now, a faint tremor under his ribs with every breath.

Since the civil war had broken out, his mother had chained his days to duty. War councils at dawn, formation drills till dusk, endless talks of supply lines and troop numbers. All of it felt empty to him like being forced to move pieces on a board he had never wanted to play. He had no control over the war, no say in its course, yet he played the part as he always did. The dutiful prince. The obedient son.

Soon, he reached the centre of the hall. The Knights and Mages who had flanked him stopped and moved aside, joining the cluster of nobles allowed close to the stage.

The air grew heavier here, thick with incense and expectation.

He looked at his father and mother who were right beside him now. His sister, of course, was nowhere to be seen. She had run off with that damned Arzan. It was a distasteful thought, but he ignored it. Let her stay gone, he thought. He had no use for her anymore.

Eldric’s gaze slid to his father again—King Sullivan. The man stood in full regalia, the royal cloak draped across his shoulders. When their eyes met, Eldric saw only stillness—no pride, no warmth. Only the familiar kind. He’d seen it a hundred times before in the mirror, in his own eyes.

So even you’re acting, Eldric thought. The idea almost made him laugh, but he swallowed it down. This wasn’t the place to find humor.

The trumpets blared, sharp and bright, pulling every head toward the stage. The herald stepped forward, his voice loud and clear as it carried through the massive hall.

“People of Lancephil,” he began, “our kingdom has known unrest. The royal princes have turned upon each other, tearing at the peace that bound our lands. Yet, to end this turmoil and bring unity once more, His Majesty—King Sullivan Lancephil—has chosen to pass down his crown to the First Prince, Eldric Sullivan Lancephil.”

A murmur skimmed the crowd, then broke into pockets of noise—some commoners bowing, others cheering. Eldric’s gaze brushed each face, especially the nobles who offered nothing.

The herald lifted his hand for quiet. “By this act, His Majesty hopes to end the bloodshed of civil war and lead our kingdom toward new prosperity.”

Archbishop Callen stepped forward then, his staff catching the light. The golden sun emblem at its top shimmered faintly, the glow reflecting off Eldric’s rings. He raised his voice—not loud, but strong enough to carry through the hush.

“May Goddess Lumaris bear witness to this passing of the crown,” Callen said. “May she grant wisdom to the one who takes it, and peace to those who follow.”

He drew in a slow breath as the man lifted his hand in blessing. His eyes went from his mother’s gaze to his father’s distant eyes. He almost smiled at how fitting it was—each of them playing their parts to perfection.

It was his time, too. He straightened his shoulders and prepared himself to begin the performance he had been born into.

The herald took over the crowd once again, thanking the archbishop for being here and continuing, talking about the future of the kingdom that made the people cheer loudly.

Eldric almost laughed at the cheers. It was hard not to. The speech was polished lies, pretty and empty. The commoners drank it like sweet wine. Say a thing with enough shine and they would believe it. That was how the game worked.

He looked at his father again. King Sullivan’s eyes were flat, tired, unwilling. There was no welcome in them, no pride, no claim. Eldric felt nothing in return. The man had never cared; why should he start now?

Despite the roar and glitter, the coronation was only steps on rails—oaths, a speech, more oaths. His mother had drilled each line into him until the words lived on his tongue. He did not need to think. He only needed to speak.


“Do you swear, before Goddess Lumaris and Her Church,” the Archbishop intoned, “to keep Her light at the heart of your rule to guard Her sanctuaries, heed Her clergy in matters of faith, and shelter those who seek Her mercy?”

“I swear,” Eldric said and a cheer rolled up the crowd.

“Do you swear to treat the whole of the kingdom, and each citizen, as your son or daughter, to hear them, and to help them grow in the best way you can?”

“I swear,” Eldric said.

Another cheer broke against the ceiling, then thinned to a hush.

“Do you swear,” his father said, speaking for the first time, “to keep the kingdom safe from our enemies’ eyes, and to protect it to your last breath?”

“I swear.”

His father did not look at Eldric when he spoke the next vow, shifting his eyes to his mother. “Do you swear to act as a just king—honest in your judgments that would be always for the good of the realm, even when it cuts against your own will?”

Eldric’s gaze slid to his mother. She was already watching him, a small smile shaping her mouth.

“I swear,” he said.

As the words left Eldric’s mouth, the hall erupted. The sound rose like a storm—cheers, cries, the pounding of fists and feet against marble. It was the loudest roar the capital had ever heard. The kind that could shake walls. The kind that could drown thought.

Eldric flinched. For a brief moment, he wanted nothing more than to drink that damned liquid to quiet his shaking heart, to push the noise away, to steady the tremor crawling up his spine. But he stopped himself. Not here. Not now.

His father stepped forward, and the hall began to quiet, though the cheers still rippled in waves. A herald came from the side, holding a long box made of dark oak. Inside, cushioned in red silk, rested the crown—golden and heavy, carved with the names of the old kings. The herald lifted it for all to see before bowing and stepping back.

King Sullivan took the crown with slow, careful hands. The cheers grew again, the people calling Eldric’s name now. The air trembled with their voices as his father turned and placed the crown gently on his son’s head.

For a moment, it all stopped—the sound, the air, even time itself. Then his father looked at him, truly looked at him, and Eldric saw something break through that calm mask.

“Eldric,” his father said quietly, his voice meant for him alone. “Remember—whatever you do, you are my son. And I’m sorry… for not being able to protect you. I truly am. But you still have time to change things.”

Eldric’s eyes widened. His heart thudded hard against his ribs. Change things? A gasp escaped his lips and before he could think, the noise of the crowd rushed back in, swallowing the words whole.

Then came the sting of his mother’s gaze. He didn’t need to look long to understand. Her eyes told him to hurry up and follow the next part of the act.

He forced down the frown that tried to rise and turned away, walking slowly to the front of the stage. From there, he could see everything—the endless sea of faces, the banners swaying like waves, the golden light spilling through the windows. The cheers of the people still thundered for him, their new king.

For years, he had dreamed of this moment—of standing here, crown on his head, the kingdom at his feet. But now that it was real, there was no joy in it. No triumph. Only a hollow dread sitting cold inside his chest.

Still, he straightened his shoulders. There would be time to feel later, when the hall was empty and the noise was gone. For now, he had a part to play.

For now, he simply swept his eyes over the crowd and thought of the speech his mother had drilled into him all week. It was not his speech—only a shape of what he wanted, shaved to fit the politics of war. Still, he stepped forward and lifted his hands for the cheers to come to a halt.

“Citizens of Hermil, and those who have come from beyond in these turbulent times to witness my coronation,” he said, voice even and clear. “By the grace of Goddess Lumaris, and under the eyes of Her Church, I will not hide from the darkness that has spread across our kingdom. After our father chose not to press the crown on my brothers, they—Aldrin and Thalric—betrayed the land and lit the torch of civil war. They march by force, with no care for our people. They butcher our garrisons to take our forts; they tear banners from their poles. Some treacherous nobles have gone with them.”

“Today I name them traitors to Lancephil,” he went on and saw the way the crowd’s tide changed, “and oath-breakers before the light of Lumaris. By the crown on my head, by Her altar at my back, and by each of you here, I swear I will bring them to the noose and to judgment in daylight. No one—not even my own kin—will be allowed to tear this kingdom apart!!”

The hall exploded. The cheers that rose this time were louder than any before, higher and more violent, like a storm driven suddenly into the glass. For a heartbeat he stood soaked in sound. It felt like power—hot and heavy—and for the first time since he could remember he let himself bask in it. He felt, briefly and dangerously, like a king.

His mother moved closer. She had not smiled; she did not need to. Her glance was a small, sharp thing. “Make sure you act the same in the parade too,” she said, the words low but clear. “You are acting adequately.”

The word hit him more than any cheer. It was not praise—it was a mark, a rating, a hand keeping him exactly where she wanted. Eldric looked up at her, the applause still pounding in his ears, and the meaning of her glance turned in his blood.

He did not answer. He did not need to. He had practiced the speech until the lines lived under his skin, and all he was… adequate. The small, cold ache of need began to rise again—the urge for the vial, the thought of the liquid that smoothed his edges and quieted the thunder inside him.

It bubbled up in his mind, bright and dangerous, and he clenched his teeth to hold it down.

***

Kai looked at Feroy as the man spoke, his voice low but edged with concern. “I really don’t feel like we’re going to take down a fort with these few soldiers, even if I know otherwise.”

At his words, Kai turned his gaze toward the column behind them. A hundred soldiers rode in formation, their armor glinting faintly beneath the morning sun. Behind them trailed the carriages—heavy, iron-banded things laden with drones, golems, and the precious mana cannons that would serve as their only real advantage in the coming assault. Hopefully, they wouldn't need to use much of that in the battle.

If he was right, more than half of the soldiers were fresh recruits. Some couldn’t even ride properly, their reins held awkwardly as more seasoned fighters shared saddles with them. Their faces were mostly expressionless, but as the jagged outline of Fort Glaivegate grew closer on the horizon, Kai caught glimmers of fear in their eyes.

Understandable—this was to be their first battle, and the fort they approached was one of the strongest on the border.

“I don’t think the soldiers believe it either,” Kai murmured. “At least not the new recruits. Let’s just hope they don’t run at the first sight of the enemy. Though…” he paused, glancing toward the carriages again, “if the plan goes right, the enemy won’t be able to do much anyway.”

Feroy nodded. “I think it will. The problem is that the Watchers still haven’t verified Kingdom Caelond’s stance in the civil war—whether they’ve decided to support Aldrin or not.”

Kai’s expression hardened. “Even if they are, they’ll need time to send reinforcements. At worst, once we take Fort Glaivegate, it’ll turn into a siege war with them. I’ve heard they have another fort very close by.”

“They do,” Feroy confirmed. “But I believe the cannons will be sufficient to hold them back.”

Kai nodded slightly at Feroy’s words. “They should be,” he said quietly, then paused, glancing sideways at his companion. “Tell me, Feroy—are you disappointed you won’t get to be in the thick of the fighting? Facing Aldrin’s main forces head-on?”

Feroy blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. Then, after a heartbeat, he gave a faint, almost sheepish nod. “A little,” he admitted. “I believe I’m getting close to reaching the third rank. I spoke with Knight Killian about it—the feeling he had right before breaking through. I can sense it, that same tension inside me. I think the war will help push me over the edge.”

Kai’s lips curved faintly in understanding. “Let’s hope so. Even if you don’t get much action with these border forts, the civil war won’t end anytime soon. There’ll be plenty of battles ahead.”

He turned his gaze forward again, toward the stretch of barren field that separated their army from their target. Drawing a slow breath, he let mana flow into his eyes, the familiar rush of heat and sharp clarity filling his vision as his [Hawk Eyes] activated. The world sharpened, distant shapes snapping into perfect focus as he saw the grey stone walls of Fort Glaivegate, rising like a scar on the land, its high towers lined with ballistae and banners fluttering in the wind. The fort itself was a formidable sight: surrounded by a moat and reinforced with wards and layers of metal plating that caught the sunlight like dull silver.

Watchtowers dotted its perimeter, and even from here, he could see faint movements along the ramparts—soldiers patrolling, unaware of the storm approaching.

A smile touched his lips.

Disengaging the spell, Kai turned back toward the column, his voice carrying firmly across the line. “Increase your speed, and get into the first formation” he ordered. “The fort is close by. We’re about to experience our first battle of the civil war.”

He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the young, tense faces behind him. “I hope you’re ready.”

Dao of money Chapter 179

Chapter 179

It didn't take long for Yu Daoxing to ask Chen Ren to sit down alongside Murong, who looked like he had seen stars in the afternoon from how shocked he was. Chen Ren stayed calm, folding his hands in his lap as the man repeated the same questions—were the pills on the parchment real, and could Chen Ren deliver them on time?

Chen Ren reached into his robe without hurry and produced three small pills wrapped in oiled paper. They were the same ones sold by the Divine Pill Apothecary in Broken Ridge City. He laid them on the desk between them and said, “These three are the cheapest items on the list I gave you. Twenty percent below market, but the purity is the same—if not better.”

Yu Daoxing picked one up with long, wrinkly fingers. He turned it against the lantern light, studied the texture and the slight iridescence, then frowned. “Why do they look… different?” he asked.

Chen Ren allowed a small grin to curl at the corner of his mouth. “Flavoured,” he said. “My master added something so they don’t taste bitter. Easier for your men to take when they’re injured without feeling like they had eaten something rotten.”

Murong’s eyes lit. “Can I try one?” he blurted, already reaching. “I always thought the pills were too bitter.”

His face lit up in a hopeful, childish manner.

A single look from his father snapped him back. Yu Daoxing’s expression hardened; Murong folded his hands into his sleeves and sank lower into himself. The man’s gaze returned to Chen Ren with a new weight.

“These are good, if they work as you say,” Yu Daoxing said. He tapped the parchment with a knuckle. “I will have them tested by clan members. If they pass, I want larger batches.”

Chen Ren inclined his head. He tried his best to maintain his posture relaxed and unbothered. Yu Daoxing’s finger traced down the parchment until it stopped at the section Chen Ren guessed was about the offensive pills and their uses.

“And these offensive pills?” the elder asked. “Do you have samples of those? If they truly let a middling cultivator wound a foundation establishment cultivator, then I need proof.”

“I can try to get them,” he said. “My master keeps those compounds guarded and it would take time to convince him. I traveled here on a cultivation journey to learn the empire’s paths, not to throw myself into a war. If you approve the prices, I can ask to dispatch the samples to Red Peak City. They can arrive within the week.”

“Then why try to sell them now?” the man asked back

Chen Ren glanced at Murong, keeping his face calm. “I made a friend of your son,” he replied. “He cares about the clan and the war that was going on. After he heard of my master, he asked me to help.”

Yu Daoxing turned that sharp gaze to his son. “Is that true?”

Murong’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. For a long breath no words came. Finally he bowed his head and nodded so hard it looked like his head was about to fall off his neck. “Yes, father. I—I couldn’t sleep. I saw my cousins hurt. I wanted to do my part for the clan.”

The man’s face softened just enough that Chen Ren noticed it. Yu Daoxing tapped the parchment with a knuckle and said, “If these pills perform as written, the Yu clan will be interested in buying batches. And you,”—he looked at Murong—“you will be rewarded.”

Murong swelled with pride, ready to speak, but Chen Ren stepped in. “We can talk about the price after you test every pill. Let the results speak first.”

Yu Daoxing inclined his head. “I will need clan approval once you send me the pills and if you want to truly help, you should hurry. We have been in talks with other alchemists as well.”

Chen Ren’s smile was small and steady. “I doubt they can give you what I can.” He folded his hands. “I believe our business here is done for now. I will return once the batches are ready to deliver. Will that be acceptable?”

Yu Daoxing looked down at the three pills on the desk, then back up. He measured Chen Ren as if weighing his whole existence. At last he nodded once. “Yes. Bring proof and then you will get an answer.”

Chen Ren rose from his seat, bowed once more to Yu Daoxing, and the old man nodded.

“Your name is Renjie, right?” Yu Daoxing asked.

“Yes,” Chen Ren answered.

“I will remember it.”

“I hope you do. We should meet a few more times while I’m in the city.” Chen Ren kept his voice even. Then he turned and left the room.

Out in the corridor, the afternoon light slanted across the stone. Suddenly, Murong lurched forward and almost knocked into him and Chen Ren Instinctively lashed out with lightning. Before he could step back, the young master threw his arms around him and hugged him tight.

“Thank you so much, Renjie,” Murong babbled into his shoulder. “My father never spoke to me like that. Thank you for giving me the credit. Thank you. Thank you so much. I promise I’ll share whatever reward he gives me—”

Chen Ren eased his hands gently on Murong’s back and tried to pry the boy off. He took a breath, steadying himself. “I don’t need anything from you,” he said. “If the deal goes through I’ll earn enough to cover my cultivation resources till the next realm. Don’t worry.”

Murong pulled back, eyes bright and earnest. “No, there’s no way I won't repay the debt. Please, is there nothing I can do to repay you?”

Chen Ren paused. He watched the hope on the young man’s face and thought fast. Murong probably had little money and few cultivation resources to spare, but he had the clan’s reach—records, scouts, patrol reports, and relatives who still went down into the Sinkhole. That could be turned into something far more useful than coins and spirit stones.

“You can do something for me,” Chen Ren said at last, watching Murong’s face change. “I need a list. All the Tier-2 beasts in the Sinkhole and their exact locations.”

***
A week went by pretty fast in Red Peak City, and things moved faster than Chen Ren had expected.

He spent mornings with Luo Feng, kneeling in cramped stalls and dusty market plots while Luo Feng fingered roots and leaves like a man reading a book. Together they hauled samples back to the little room in the inn they were using to keep the plants: brittle stalks that smelled faintly of sinkhole earth, leaves that shimmered with a faint inner glow. Luo Feng marked each scrap with careful strokes and muttered plans about soil, shade, and where the plants might take root. Chen Ren tested them between cultivation sessions—a steady, boring kind of work that felt like building the same wall, brick by brick. His soul cultivation crept forward too and he progressed deeper into the second step of soul cultivation.

More important than plants or practice, he finally got Yalan to move the pill batches from Jadefire Hall to Red Peak City.

He had seen her true form before, but he had not expected her to turn the two-week distance between Broken Ridge and Red Peak into a two-day round trip. She arrived like a shadow that had learned to run, returning in forty-eight hours with crates. The amount stunned him: rows of jars, bundles of wrapped pills, slips of paper with tiny, precise notes. Yalan only shrugged once, tired but satisfied. “It would have taken a day but I got busy killing a pest,” she said, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Along the way she’d also found Anji and gotten reports from her. Jadefire Hall had begun taking on more hands. Work had grown; recipes had multiplied. They were even recruiting more disciples to keep up. Small faces from the trials were turning up at the Hall’s doors—one of them was Biyu, one of the finalists. Hun Tianzhi had persuaded him to join; money and resources did the rest.

Anji had also finally freed herself from the manager position. She’d found a steady mortal disciple to take the post and was planning to move back to Meadow Village. Funnily, Wang Jun grumbled when the news reached him, complaining that it meant extra work when they returned. Chen Ren could tell from the way Wang Jun’s lips flattened that the complaint hid more pleasure than duty; the man liked teaching, and he’d said so before: Chen Ren picked things up too fast for his own good. And he preferred someone like Anji.
Once he had the full crates and jars from Jadefire Hall, he did not waste a breath. He sent a few samples of every pill straight to the Yu estate and settled in to wait.

He had expected at least three days before they contacted him. He did not expect Young Master Murong to burst into the inn the very next morning—gold-threaded robes, a new polearm slung across his back, eyes bright as if he’d swallowed the sun and tell him to come with him to meet his father. Chen Ren noted the showiness and ignored it. If Yu Daoxing had called so fast, there were only two likely reasons: they either loved the pills far above his expectations, or the cooling period was ending and the clan needed the pills as soon as possible. Chen Ren put his money on the latter.

When they met again, Yu Daoxing had forbidden his son from attending. The old man sat alone in the same lacquered room, that slow gravity in his face.

Before Yu Daoxing could speak, Chen Ren folded his hands and said, plain and steady, “I think you all have tested the pills I sent and found them satisfactory.”

Yu Daoxing’s nod was short. “Yes. Do you have batches of them ready?” the elder asked.

“I do,” Chen Ren replied. “Depending on how many you need, I can get more. But it depends on what price we decide on.”

Here we go, Chen Ren thought to himself as he brought up the main conversation he was hoping to have. And Yu Daoxing’s eyebrows rose instantly in confusion.

“The prices were on the parchment you gave me,” he said slowly. “A bit high, but we can haggle.”

Chen Ren cleared his throat.

“Master Yu Daoxing, those prices are all right, but we need to talk about a hidden one that I didn't include in it.” He met the man’s eyes. “I’m not native to Red Peak City. I had to send word to my master, get his approval, pull samples, then bring the batches here. Transporting and storing such valuable pills isn’t like carrying herbs. They need special care and fast, guarded transport. I use high realmed spirit beasts for that. Keeping them fed, guarded, and steady costs coin and manpower.”

Yu Daoxing’s face shifted at once—confusion folding into a small, cold curiosity. The mention of a high realmed spirit beast was not casual talk; it suggested resources and backing. Chen Ren didn’t push the point, seeing that the man had already gotten it.

“How much are you quoting for that?” Yu Daoxing asked in a flat voice and stroked his beard.

Chen Ren's reply was ready. “I’ll keep the healing pills at the prices written, still cheaper than city alchemists. For the unique offensive pills, I ask an extra ten percent on top. That covers rare ingredients, my master’s oversight for batch stability, secure transport on those spirit beasts, and a delivery guarantee.”

Yu Daoxing frowned, quick and sharp. “All of them are already seven to eight spirit stones each to begin with.”

“They take a long time to make,” Chen Ren said, watching Yu Daoxing’s face for the smallest change. “They’re not something you’ll find anywhere else. And they’ll change the tide of battles in the Sinkhole. Even if you don’t find the ruins you’re chasing, pushing deeper with these pills will let you recover your investment, if not turn a profit.”

Yu Daoxing’s jaw tightened. “There’s more to it. The deeper we go, the higher the chance of death.”

Chen Ren shrugged, blunt as a blade. “That’s your clan’s problem. I’m just an alchemist. I can help you win, but my master will not be pleased if I undercut his work. If any other major power wants these pills, they have to pay far higher prices.”

The old man’s eyes flicked, weighing the claim. He tried a number. “Nine spirit stones each?”

“At least ten,” Chen Ren said immediately, still keeping a neutral mask.

And then, dance began—the old ritual that all transactions wore. Yu Daoxing argued the prices by talking about various moot points, but Chen Ren kept sticking to his original ones about transport costs and the rarity of the pills.

Words soon folded into numbers, numbers then folded into conditions.

Safe to say that neither gave ground easily. The old man saw in his resolution that Chen Ren wasn’t going to give pills for a cheaper price.

At one point Yu Daoxing grew frustrated enough to reach up and scratch his bald head. “I can’t go higher than nine,” he admitted at last. “I can add wen on top of it. You know, you should keep in mind that we will be buying a lot.”

Chen Ren watched the twitch in the elder’s hand, the way the cave of his mouth tightened when he chose words. It was then that he talked about the condition he wanted to talk about from the start. “Then how about this? Twenty-five percent of any resources you recover from the Sinkhole on every expedition that uses my offensive pills. Quarter of what you find goes to me.”

Silence hit like a dropped coin. Yu Daoxing’s eyes narrowed. “Twenty-five percent is too much,” he said at once.
“I believe it's the right price.”

“Ten percent,” Yu Daoxing countered finally, bargaining like a man who’d traded for decades. “And I will pay eight spirit stones per unique pill. We will buy the healing pills in bulk at the prices on your parchment. Also, our clan will decide what resources to give you.”

Chen Ren folded his arms and pretended to think. He let the pause stretch long enough for the weight of the offer to sit. He could have pushed—taken less money up front, demanded more resources from the sinkhole—but there was a limit to even pushing things.

A quiet breath left him. Then he sighed, soft and practical. “Alright. Ten percent. Eight spirit stones for the unique pills. Healing pills in bulk at the discussed prices. I’ll draw the contract.”

And then Yu Daoxing sighed, looking at him with a weariness that had nothing to do with age. “You’re taking a lot out of the Yu clan, Renjie,” he said bluntly.

Chen Ren smiled, smooth and careful. “Trust me,” he replied. “What I'm selling will help your clan rise above the others. Speed and advantage always cost resources.”

He said it like a man who believed it, but the truth lived quieter in his pocket. Eight spirit stones a pill left him a profit of about two to four spirit stones on each one—enough margin to earn a massive profit and he wasn't adding up whatever he might get from the Sinkhole. If everything went as he hoped, and if the Yu clan kept buying, he would be far richer soon. He didn’t yet know about the medallion, but the numbers on the deal already looked like his best deal ever.

Dao of money Chapter 178

Chapter 178

Apparently, even after trying for hours, Chen Ren could not convince Yalan to move the pills out of Jadefire Hall. She had listened, argued, and then shut the matter down entirely. No tricks or persuasion worked on her. Still, Chen Ren did not feel pressed. According to Yu Murong the very next day, the clans had fallen into a strange stalemate. None of them wanted to lose more members or resources, so the clan heads had decided to “talk things out.”

Chen Ren did not believe much would come of those talks. The clans had never been able to work together in the past. At best, this would be a pause, a chance for each side to catch their breath and prepare for the next round of attacks. But even a pause had its uses. It gave him time.

He was thankful that fortune had led him to Yu Murong. Meeting him had been chance at first, but now they crossed paths nearly every day. Of course, keeping the young master company cost Chen Ren a fair bit of coin, yet his businesses were growing so quickly that the spending hardly mattered. By mortal standards, he was already wealthy, and he could afford the indulgence. More importantly, the information Murong let slip was worth far more than the wine or food that bought it.

From what Chen Ren gathered, the Yu clan was showing signs of nervousness. They had started teaching certain techniques to their ordinary clan members—techniques that were usually reserved for the most promising members. At the same time, they were quietly seeking to hire alchemists and talisman makers to strengthen their position. If the Yu clan was doing this, Chen Ren reasoned, then the other clans must be following the same path.

Yu Murong had complained about it one evening, slurring his words over a cup of strong liquor. His father, apparently, was furious at having to deal with low-life rogue alchemists, but even anger could not hide the clan’s desperation. To Chen Ren, it sounded less like a problem and more like the chance he had been waiting for.

So, that night, once he had plied Murong with enough wine to cloud his pride and loosen his tongue, Chen Ren leaned in with a smile and steered the conversation toward the young master’s own background.

Chen Ren had no wish to tie himself to the Divine Coin Sect here in Red Peak City. His stay was meant to be temporary, a stop along the road, not a place to lay down roots. So instead, when the wine had loosened Yu Murong’s tongue enough, he wove a story of his own.

He spoke of a master—a great alchemist who had once worked for the Guardian Sects before leaving the lofty peaks behind. A master who had chosen to wander the mortal world, to test himself outside the polished walls of sects and halls, taking only one core disciple with him. Chen Ren himself.

It was a thin story, patched together with plenty of lies. Still, with the firelight warm on his face and Murong’s cup constantly refilled, it sounded real enough. Chen Ren even went into detail, talking at length about his master developing a lot of unique and cheap pills that were suited for combat until anyone with half a mind would understand what he was really offering.

But Yu Murong was either too drunk or too dim. He laughed, nodded, and clapped Chen Ren on the back, yet somehow missed every hint. Chen Ren’s patience thinned. In the end, he had to spell it out.

“Young Master Yu,” he said, leaning closer. “If your clan is looking to buy more pills, I might be able to help. And if the deal goes through… your standing in the clan would surely rise.”

Those words broke through his thick skull. Murong’s eyes widened, and he shot upright as if struck by lightning. “That’s a great idea!” he shouted, nearly tipping his cup. He stumbled toward the door, already shouting that he would speak to his father at once. Then, without another word, he ran off into the night.

Chen Ren sat back, watching the doorway with calm eyes. He had not expected Murong’s hunger for his father’s approval to be quite so sharp, though in hindsight, all his complaints and bitterness had pointed in that direction. Still, enthusiasm was one thing—results were another.

For the next two days, there was silence. There was no sign of Yu Murong at the bar. No message. Nothing.

Chen Ren didn't think too much about it and simply waited patiently. If this path was blocked, then he would find another way to reach the clans. Red Peak City was not short on desperate people looking for advantages, and desperation always opened doors.

In the meantime, he turned his focus inward. He trained his soul and body with steady discipline, refining both step by step in the morning. At night, he went over the list of spirit plants Luo Feng had circled out in the markets.

Not all of the spirit plants Luo Feng had wanted would survive the climate around Meadow Village. The winds there were harsh, and the soil was too stubborn for delicate roots. But some of them—Chen Ren had noticed—were hardy, their leaves were rich with energy that could strengthen even a mortal’s body. If he could secure a batch of those, he could turn them into fields, whole stretches of medicine growing under Luo Feng’s careful hand.

With such crops, Jadefire Hall’s foundations would only grow firmer. And if any of it could be tied into Wang Jun’s unique pill recipes, then the sect’s growth might take another giant leap.

That kept Chen Ren steady through the two days of silence. But by the third morning, a little bit of impatience had set in. He had nearly made up his mind to march to the Yu estate himself and look for the man to at least get an answer.

As fate would have it, he didn’t need to.

When Chen Ren came down from his room at the inn, the innkeeper at the counter looked up and said, “A young master’s waiting for you.”

Chen Ren’s gaze followed, and there stood Yu Murong—robes wrinkled, face flushed, eyes bright with excitement. The way he was practically bouncing on his heels told Chen Ren everything before a word was spoken. The plan had taken root.
“My father has agreed to meet you!” he announced, almost too loudly for the quiet inn. His smile was so wide it seemed to split his face.

Chen Ren inclined his head, keeping his expression calm even as his chest lightened. “Then we should not delay.”

And so, without a pause for rest or food, Chen Ren followed Murong northward.

The Yu estate sat on a wide expanse of land, the walls of it were tall and polished, its gates bristling with guards in neat formation. Surrounding streets were lined with shops—goldsmiths, tea houses, cloth sellers—all thriving under the Yu clan’s banner. Chen Ren’s predecessor had walked these streets many times, and he knew well enough that even the stalls selling roasted chestnuts answered to the Yu coffers.

The Yu clan might not match the other two great powers in martial strength, but in wealth, they reigned supreme. And in Chen Ren’s eyes, that made them the best partners of all.

Murong strode ahead proudly, not even slowing for the guards’ inspections. “He’s with me,” he said offhandedly, and the guards only bowed and stepped aside. Chen Ren noted their discipline—and how carelessly Murong took it for granted—but said nothing.

Inside, the estate opened into a vast hallway paved with polished stone, its walls lined with lacquered screens and painted lanterns that cast a warm, golden glow. Murong marched through without hesitation, and Chen Ren followed silently, yet keeping a sharp eye on everything.

Every detail mattered when walking into a lion’s den, even one padded with gold.

As they walked deeper into the Yu estate, Yu Murong kept his voice loud and cheerful, pointing at one thing after another as if he were a guide in some grand museum.

“See that?” He jabbed a finger at a massive drake skull mounted high on the wall, its jaws open in a permanent snarl. “That one was taken down by my third uncle in the lower reaches of the Sinkhole. Cost him half a leg, but he got it. And that painting—our ancestors slaying three drakes in a single battle. The blood ran like rivers!”

Chen Ren smiled politely, nodding as though impressed, but inside he dismissed the tales. He knew better. It was an open rumor in Red Peak City that the Yu clan had purchased many of these skulls from traders and passing hunters, dressing up their halls with them to mask their lack of true achievements. But Chen Ren did not care. If anything, it only proved they had silver to spare. Money, after all, was the only measure that mattered in the deal he was here to strike.

For nearly half an hour, they moved through long corridors, the scent of polished wood and faint incense lingering in the air. At last, Murong stopped before a pair of towering sliding doors carved with curling patterns of cloud and flame. His steps slowed, and his usual chatter vanished.

He swallowed hard. So hard that he almost lost all breath.

“My father should be inside,” he whispered, glancing at Chen Ren. “I’ve… talked you up to him. But he won’t give us much time. Make sure you don’t mess this up… Please.”

Chen Ren gave a small, steady smile. “I won’t let you down.”

Murong nodded once, bracing himself, then pressed his palms against the doors and slid them open.

The room beyond was a world of wealth. Paintings hung in ordered rows along the walls, their frames gilded and polished until they gleamed. A tall bookshelf stood against one side, its shelves heavy with scrolls, ledgers, and thick-bound tomes that gave off the faint musty perfume of age. The floor was layered with the pelt of some great beast, its fur thick and dark, serving as a carpet underfoot. Lantern light glowed warm, reflecting off bronze fittings and lacquered wood.

In the center, seated behind a broad low desk, was a bald, bearded man well into his middle years. His face was lined but firm, his eyes sharp despite their weariness, and in his hands rested a half-open book he had been reading.

As the doors opened, he lifted his head slowly, gaze falling on Murong first.

“You are finally here,” he said, his voice gravelly with age and authority. “I told you I don’t have much time, yet you make me wait.”

Murong stiffened, his bravado melting into hurried defense. “I wasn’t dallying, Father. It took some effort to find Renjie here, but once I did, I came straight to you.”

At that, the older man’s eyes shifted, settling on Chen Ren with the weight of a hammer.

Chen Ren stepped forward, bowed slightly with practiced grace, and spoke in a calm, respectful voice. “It is an honor to meet one of the pillars of the Yu clan.”

The bald man did not move, did not smile, did not even tilt his head at him. His voice came steady and unbothered, like stone rolling down a slope.

“My name is Yu Daoxing,” he said. “You don’t need to know more than that. You can ask around if you wish. My son claims you might be able to sell us batches of cheap and unique pills. So, I am giving you five minutes. Explain your offer. I will extend the time if I find you worth it. Otherwise, you may leave. Is that clear?”

Chen Ren bowed once more, unhurried. “It is clear. Thank you for your time, Master Yu.”

He noted immediately that no gesture had been made to offer him a seat. He would stand. And he also knew the five minutes had already begun to tick away. Yet he didn’t rush into words. He let the silence hang, as if weighing its worth.

Yu Daoxing raised a single eyebrow. “You do know your time has started?”

“I do know,” Chen Ren answered evenly. “But I am thinking of how best to speak my next words. I do not wish to offend your clan.”

“You won’t do that,” Yu Daoxing said flatly. “Just speak your mind.” His beady eyes looked at him pointedly and waited.

At that, Yu Murong’s face tightened with worry. He looked as though he wanted to tug Chen Ren’s sleeve and beg him to tread carefully.

Chen Ren, however, inclined his head once and said, “Then allow me. What I am offering is not the pills and potions you purchase from other alchemists. What I intend to place before the Yu clan are resources that could let you win the war being fought in the Sinkhole.”

For the first time, Yu Daoxing’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing faintly. “You know of it?”

Chen Ren met his gaze without flinching. “It is an open secret in Red Peak City. Everyone with ears knows of it. And, to speak plainly, it is also clear that the Yu clan, unfortunately, will not be the one to come out on top.”

Beside him, Yu Murong went pale, his hands curling into fists, his whole body tense as though he might drag Chen Ren from the room to stop his tongue.

But Yu Daoxing only leaned back slightly in his chair, his sharp eyes fixed on Chen Ren with a look that weighed more than any words. He did not shout, nor strike the table. He simply listened.

Chen Ren took Yu Daoxing’s silence as a small victory and went on.

“It’s not that the Yu clan is weak,” he said. “You have power and gold—more than most. But the Chen clan has something you don’t: expendable fighters. They throw men away like dice. Against that kind of number, strength alone will wear anyone thin. When the scale tips that way, brute force loses. You must be smart.”

“And that is where pills and potions matter,” Chen Ren continued. “Not just to heal or to restore qi, but to change how a battle is fought. My master’s recipes are not the usual tonic or elixir you buy from alley alchemists. They are made to work with a cultivator’s body—sharpen reflexes, harden tendons, wake latent channels and do much more to control a battle. Used right, they let a qi refinement cultivator hit like someone far above him. They make a handful of fighters into a blade that can split ranks.”

Yu Daoxing’s eyes narrowed. “No war is won by pills alone, child. We seek more healing and qi pills so our fighters last longer. You promise miracles. Yet I'm afraid you won’t be able to deliver them. ”

Chen Ren let a small, easy smile cross his face. He had expected the doubt. “That’s where you’re looking at this the wrong way,” he said. “Most alchemists in Red Peak City only think as healers. They patch wounds and refill qi. They do not think of pills as tools of strategy. It’s not incompetence alone—it's tradition. What I offer is not better bandages. It’s a different art. If used properly, the pills I can supply will let your qi refinement men strike as if they were foundation establishment cultivators. They can wound, cripple, and even kill the enemy’s stronger cultivators.”

At that bold claim, Yu Murong’s eyes widened. From his peripheral vision, he could see that Murong’s thoughts were plastered on his face. The man was probably thinking that it was too much boasting.

Yu Daoxing, meanwhile, sat without changing much—only his head tilted a fraction, as if measuring whether Chen Ren was bluffing or exaggerating. The skepticism in his gaze was blunt and final. He regarded Chen Ren like a young, reckless alchemist who had drunk too deep of his own pride.

Silence fell hard enough to be felt. The carved clock on the shelf kept its slow, steady ticking. Chen Ren felt the time slip by like water through his fingers. For a moment a tight wash of panic ran through him — the five minutes were still counting — but he kept his face calm. He had to.

Finally the man spoke, voicing the question Chen Ren had been dreading.

“Who is your master?”

Chen Ren’s mouth stayed soft and controlled. “I can’t name him,” he said. “He forbade it. He used to belong to a Guardian Sect before he came down to the mortal world to change how pills are made. If I give you his name, you’ll know him, and his wish is to remain anonymous.”

Yu Daoxing made a sound like a dry branch breaking — a scoff meant to cut. Chen Ren did not flinch. He read something else in the man’s face: a sliver of doubt, it was hard to see, but it was there. His nose scrunched ever so slightly. Yu Daoxing looked ready to order him out, but his hand stalled. And Chen Ren knew why. Tales of great cultivators leaving their peaks and walking among mortals, taking new names, hiding their pasts were common and true. Qing He had been one such rumor. If Chen Ren’s claim were true, the Yu clan might be losing a real chance.

“You boast a lot for someone so young,” Yu Daoxing said with a sigh. “Words are cheap. If you speak like this, show me something practical. Otherwise you’re just another blabbermouth.”

“I always carry proof. But before that, you should take a look at this.” Chen Ren reached into the inner fold of his robe and drew out a single roll of parchment. It was sealed with a strip of red wax and smelled faintly of camphor and alchemical herbs. He unrolled it on the desk with care, laying it where both men could see.

The parchment was neat and precise. Columns of ink named each pill, its function, recommended use in battle, and a clear price per batch. In marginal scrawl he had added suggested formations and small tactical uses, the sort of things a strategist might pair with an alchemist’s product.

Yu Daoxing reached for the paper and read, slow and cautious at first. His fingers paused over a line describing a pill meant to quicken tendon response — the sort that might let a qi refining realm cultivator land a crippling strike they could not normally manage. He frowned, then read on. Chen Ren saw the faint change: the skepticism folding some, curiosity pressing in.

“Can you really bring me batches of all these pills?” Yu Daoxing asked at last.

Magus Reborn Chapter 286

Chapter 286

Kai stared at the faces of all the nobles gathered before him—pale, tight-lipped, and silent. He had just finished explaining his plan, and the tension that followed was thick enough to cut through steel. Only Duke Blackwood and Leopold seemed unshaken by his plan. But that was to be expected—they were the only ones he had spoken to beforehand.

The rest looked as though the floor had dropped out from beneath them.

He didn’t expect immediate agreement. He couldn't expect them to follow everything he says with loyalty when their faction was so young. So he waited patiently, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting for the first voice to rise.

Then it came, sharp and cynical. “What do you mean that we need to divide our forces, Duke Arzan?” Viscountess Vessa demanded. “You already said we have the fewest troops compared to the princes. That doesn’t sound wise to me. How will we win if we scatter them?”

Kai met her gaze evenly. “By taking out the princes one by one,” he replied.

A murmur rippled through the hall — disbelief, perhaps even alarm.

“We have no ability to take them all on at once,” he continued in the calmest voice possible. He knew it was true. Even with his power, his mana was not limitless, and after what had happened in the capital, no one would dare underestimate him again. Surprise would no longer be his ally.

He had thought long and hard, turning over every possibility, refining every detail. The plan had finally taken hold after a long discussion with Duke Blackwood.

Now, he stepped toward the large map spread across the table, its surface littered with forts, cities and rivers. From his side, he took three pieces — the figures of princes from a Battleboard set — and placed them carefully on the map.

“The princes are spread out,” Kai said, his voice cutting through the silence. “Each carving his own claim to the kingdom. Thalric is here—” he tapped the western edge, “—at Kaelgrim, pressing hard into the western territories. I have confirmation that he’s committed a large part of his men to guarding the border region.”

Kai inclined his head as Viscount Buck cleared his throat. “Because of the threat from the Ashari Desert tribals,” Buck said, “and the hibernating beasts that live in those underground caverns along the rim.”

“Precisely,” Kai replied. “I don’t think he’s afraid of the tribals. They’ve kept to themselves for centuries. But he is wary of the beasts. Most are Grade five and six, with a gloommaw and siltwurm nesting there. He assumes his enemies might poke them and sprint back, forcing his army to deal with the chaos. A distraction.”

He let that sink in. “Beyond that, most of his strength is tied up in seizing forts, cities, and towns. Some of you have holdings along this edge, too.”

A few heads dipped and faces drew tight. Viscountess Vessa’s among them.

“But Thalric’s main problem isn’t the west,” Kai went on, tapping the center of the map, the circle inked around the capital. “It’s here, the heartland. Eldric and Queen Regina hold it firmly. In the next few days, I expect them to launch a full–scale strike against Thalric. We can afford to breathe while our rivals grind each other down.”

A hand went up—Baron Lionel. Kai nodded for him to speak.

“Why wouldn't Prince Edric attack the Sylvan Enclave?” Lionel asked. “It’s a week’s march from the capital. And the rumors say he and Queen Regina never liked you.”

Kai chuckled. “They don’t like me; they hate me,” he said lightly. “But they’re also cautious. That’s exactly why they won’t commit to the enclave with full strength, not at the start. They know I’m more dangerous on the ground of my choosing and they probably expect me to have tricks they know nothing about which is true.”

Kai leaned against the edge of the table, his eyes still fixed on the capital’s marker.

For Regina and Eldric, Kai was a big unexpected variable. They didn’t know what he was capable of, not completely, and that uncertainty made them cautious. Regina, especially. After what happened in the capital, she would be thinking that he might be able to surprise her even more.

And if she were to move on the Sylvan Enclave now, she’d be exposing herself. Thalric would seize the chance to march straight for the capital. She knew that. An attack of Kai would divide her attention, and right now, that was the last thing she could afford.

That was the greatest advantage he had right now—the princes being divided. They were all too busy fighting each other, and none of them wanted to be the first to face him directly. They’ll posture, maneuver, and try to bleed one another dry before turning their aim on him.

When he was done explaining his consensus to others, a murmur rippled through the hall. Some cautiously agreed while others stared at each other with unease.

Kai ignored it for now. “As for Aldrin,” he continued, shifting one of the carved pieces to the southern border, “he’s the most underestimated of the three. The others think little of him—his army’s small, his commanders lack experience, and his nobles haven’t fought a real war in years. But his strength doesn’t come from the kingdom.” He paused. “He has an entire kingdom behind him, and perhaps more than one ally waiting in the shadows.”

That drew a sharp breath from several of the nobles.

Baroness Marren spoke up in a cautious voice. “If that’s true, we might still have some time. Queen Regina will surely send out her diplomats, warning foreign kingdoms not to interfere in the civil war.”

Kai inclined his head. “She will,” he agreed. “But for the kingdoms outside our borders, there are only two choices—stay out completely, or commit fully.” His gaze hardened. “And I believe it will be the latter.”

Duke Blackwood’s voice cut through the hush. “Yes. I believe so too. Alparca has always backed Aldrin—bloodline obligations. The others will bide their time, watch how the tides turn, then swoop in. They have little to lose and everything to gain.”

Kai met the Duke's gaze and spoke. “Hence,” he said, “we will put the bulk of our forces to take out Aldrin before turning to the others.” He tapped the southern marker, then drew a slow line toward the center. “When I said we must divide our strength, I meant it precisely. Eldric sits between Aldrin and Thalric; they’re not going to clash directly because the capital lies between them. Even if nobles from other regions join their banners, they’ll let territory fall now and think of reclaiming it later, moving to join their main armies.”

A ripple of unease moved along the benches. “But our position is different,” Kai continued. “We will be bombarded by portions of each prince’s army. They will test our flanks, probe our defenses, and try to bleed us while they hunt one of them down.”

Viscount Redmont leaned forward, incredulous. “So you want to detach contingents to hold Thalric and Eldric while you take the main force to fight Aldrin?”

Kai nodded once. “Precisely.” He pointed at the western border. “Viscountess Vessa, I believe you can lead the containment in your territory against Thalric’s pushes. I have heard you have personally warded the city of Matilla, right?”

All eyes swung to Vessa. Her face was tight, jaw flexing as she measured the risk. “Yes, but it's not as good as it should be. How much of our force are you asking me to hold?” she asked.

“Ten percent,” Kai said plainly.

Her frown deepened. “Ten percent?” she echoed. “Even if Thalric is tied up with Eldric, ten percent won’t be enough. He’ll send more than that once he knows the main army is marching south.” Viscountess Vessa’s eyes flashed. “Then what? Are you going to sacrifice my territory?”

A few heads turned. The question hung like a blade.

Baroness Marren’s lips curled. “If it helps us win the war, I say let it be. Think of the greater good.”

Vessa’s glare could have cut iron. Before the argument could swell, Kai stepped in, voice flat and final. “No. I’m not sacrificing you.”

He crossed to the map and pressed a finger to the sliver of land that marked her holdings. “You will be besieged, yes. That’s why the ten percent I send will not be light levies—they’ll be seasoned, battle-hardened troops chosen for holding ground and fighting under pressure. I’ve arranged supplies as well.” A ripple of surprise moved through the room. “A merchant on my side has donated what he has,” Kai said. “Food, preserved rice, grain—enough to keep your garrison fed for six months.”

“That’s generous,” Vessa said, voice unsteady for the first time in the evening. “Are you going to be giving a part of your Enforcers too?”

“Yes. You’ll also get part of my Enforcers,” Kai continued. “But they will be more than that too. You will see. I’ll place a similar number of forces under Viscount Redmont to hold Veyrin in my absence. Is that okay with you, viscount?”

“That is acceptable. With Vanderfall being a plagued land, my men haven’t been getting enough practice anyway.”

Kai smiled at that.

“They will get their quota of it in the civil war,” Redmont said further.

Kai nodded. Internally, he was happy that even if Vanderfall tried something in the civil war, they wouldn't be able to, especially with Elias being in contact with him. Though, he would have something else for them to do, but that was an issue for later.

For now, he needed to make sure that each of the nobles were on the same page as him.

The talk moved on as Kai pointed at the map spread out across the table. The candles flickered, throwing long shadows over the drawn lines and markers. He spoke slowly, his tone calm but sure.

“Thalric and Eldric would surely try to take out Matilla and Veyrin once they get a sniff of our plans,” he said, tapping the map twice. “They won’t fight us head-on. They’ll send small groups of Mages—quick and deadly. They’ll strike, burn what they can, and vanish before our troops can even respond. Bit by bit, they’ll try to break us with these tactics.”

He straightened up, looking around at the others. “The fief war was won because Lucian grew too confident,” Kai continued. “He had the blood drinkers with him, and he thought that made him untouchable. That overconfidence cost him everything. This time, no one will be underestimating us. All the princes are surely taking us as a major threat or the civil war would have never started.”

The others nodded quietly. The air in the room grew heavier as Kai moved to the next part of the plan.

“Now,” he said, drawing his finger across the right side of the map, “we talk about Aldrin. If Thalric’s army is pressing from the left side of the capital, then Aldrin stands on the right. Most of the border lords are loyal to him. And here—” he pointed again, tracing the curved line that marked Lancephil territory, “—this whole stretch is our longest border. If we move too deep into enemy lines, and a smaller country decides to join the war, this border will become our biggest weakness. We’ll be exposed from behind.”

A long silence followed. Then Duke Blackwood spoke.

“To destroy Aldrin,” the Duke said, “we first take the border forts. Without them, his support will crumble. Once those are secure, another force will march deeper toward Fort Valemount.” He moved his gloved hand to the top of the map. “Countess Seraphine rules there, and Aldrin should be with her now. The fort sits at the head of the kingdom, right beside the Alparca border. I have no doubt it’s already open to outside allies and mercenaries. That’s where the heart of his strength lies. House Blackwood will lead the main assault there.”

The men around the table murmured in agreement. Kai listened, then spoke up once more.

“As Duke Blackwood moves for Fort Valemount,” he said, “I’ll take a smaller force and capture the border forts first. Once they’re under control, I’ll fly to join the main attack.” His tone stayed calm, but there was a hint of quiet confidence in his words. “With my spells, I can disable the guards and strike fast before they even realize what’s happening. The quicker we secure the borders, the safer our advance will be.”

Everyone nodded in agreement, and Kai stepped closer to the map once more. His hand hovered over the markers as he began to explain the rest of the plan in detail.

“We’ll divide our soldiers between the border forts,” he said. “Each one will have enough men to hold against a siege for at least two days. If one is attacked, the others will have time to respond.”

He pointed to each fort in turn, naming the units and captains that would take command. There were more forts than most had realized—small outposts scattered across the long, uneven border. It was a lot to manage, but Kai’s tone stayed calm. Because if anything, that would give them the confidence they need.

The meticulous plans were made with Francis, Killian, Duke Blackwood and the Watchers. During that conversation, they’d gone through every possible situation they could think of and came to solutions.

As he spoke, he slowly revealed one strategy after another—supply routes, retreat paths, hidden channels for messages, and magical barriers that could be raised in emergencies. Some nobles listened silently, their eyes fixed on the map. They trusted him enough not to question his words. Others leaned forward, asking about what would happen if things went wrong.

Kai answered each question with the same quiet confidence. “I’ve made contingencies for that too,” he said more than once. Even if he believed the chances of failure were small, he refused to leave anything to luck.

But deep inside, beneath all the careful planning, there was still unease.

He didn’t show it, of course. To everyone else, he was composed and sharp, almost unreadable. Yet as the meeting went on, a single worry kept circling in his mind.

Maleficia.

Kai couldn’t stop thinking about it. Regina’s influence ran deep through that shadowed group, and by now, Kai was certain she was one of its core members. What he didn’t know was how she planned to act when the war truly began.

Would Regina fight openly, revealing her dark magic and forcing everyone to see what she truly was? Or would she move from the shadows, letting her creatures and followers strike unseen while she hid behind others’ banners?

Both paths carried danger. If she stepped into the open, her political power might weaken, but her intent would be clear. If she stayed hidden, then every ally, every campfire, could hide her agents, and no one would know until it was too late.

Kai exhaled slowly and turned back to the map, masking his thoughts with a small, thoughtful frown. “That covers our first movements,” he said, finishing his explanation. “Once we take the border forts, we regroup and strike at Fort Valemount. Then, we will have another meeting depending on how the war is moving.”

Around the table, the nobles murmured their approval.

Kai stayed a moment longer, his gaze fixed on the map of the border. So many pieces, so many players. And somewhere among them, Regina and her shadowed allies were waiting.

He didn’t know what role Maleficia would play in the civil war, but he knew he would find out soon enough.

Magus Reborn Chapter 285

Chapter 285

Baron Lionel Marcaster walked through the hallways of a castle so vast that for a brief moment he thought of the royal palace itself. Its marble arches rose higher than the tallest trees he had seen as a boy, and the stained-glass windows spilled colored light across the stone floor like rivers of fire and emerald. The sheer scale pressed on him, reminding him that this was not his world, not truly. Only weeks ago he had first stepped inside the king’s own castle, and now here he was again, wandering another seat of power—this time the stronghold of House Kellius, one of the greatest ducal houses in all of Lancephil.

It was not his rising fame or sudden importance that had brought him here. No. The truth was uglier. The kingdom was bleeding, and the war that had begun as whispers in the court had now broken into full cries of rebellion. Each day more banners were raised, more swords sharpened, and every prince of the realm moved his pieces as though the land itself were no more than a game board.

Lionel had refused to follow any of them. Once, he had bent his knee to Prince Aldrin. The prince was kind enough to remember his name, even to greet him with a smile, but his vision had never matched Lionel’s own. Aldrin was steady, cautious, noble—good qualities, but not the fire Lionel searched for.

The Baron came from a house of Mages, though the word “Mage” clung loosely now. His great-grandfather had been a true wielder of the magic, a man whose spells were remembered in old ballads, but the flame had died with him. His father, his grandfather, even Lionel himself—none carried that same gift. They were barons by name and nothing more, small men in a kingdom of giants. Lionel had made peace with that truth once. But peace was not what he wanted anymore. He wanted change. He wanted something to spark.

And so he had turned his eyes to the one man no one had expected to rise—Arzan Kellius. The dark horse. The name still echoed in his mind, like a whisper in the Assembly chamber the day he had raised himself in support. At the time, he had not even realized what he had done. He acted with hope and now… now Arzan stood closer to the crown than anyone dared to imagine, and Lionel found himself caught in his shadow.

He told himself he would hold onto Arzan not out of loyalty or cunning, but out of hope. Hope that if this man triumphed, he would drag the kingdom into an age of magic.

And Baron Lionel wanted to ride that wave—both for his own sake and for the sake of his house. If Arzan could bring magic roaring back into the heart of the kingdom, perhaps Lionel might finally awaken something buried in his blood. Perhaps the name Marcaster would carry weight again. His wife had argued bitterly against it, calling him reckless, even foolish, for throwing himself into the lot with a man who wasn't even his prince. Yet his father, who was old, tired, but still proud, had clasped his shoulder and told him to follow his gut. And so Lionel had chosen, and he would see it through.

With those thoughts, he made his way down the last hallway. He was extremely close to the chamber where the meeting would be held. Finally, the great doors stood before him—tall and ironbound, carved with the sigil of House Kellius.

Two guards stood before the gate.

When Lionel approached, the guards bowed slightly. “Baron Lionel,” one said in a respectful voice, “you may go inside.”

Lionel blinked, caught off guard. They knew his face. He had never set foot here before, and yet these men recognized him at once. He felt a small shiver creep down his spine, but he hid it, offering only a curt nod before pushing the doors open.

The hall swallowed him the moment he stepped inside. For a heartbeat, Lionel froze where he stood, struck dumb by the sight.

Nobles filled the chamber. Not one or two, but rows of them. Silks, jewels and all kinds of shiny stuff shone beneath chandeliers heavy with candles. Murmurs buzzed like restless insects. His eyes darted first to the high seat at the far end of the hall.

There sat Duke Blackwood, broad-shouldered and grim, his presence heavy enough to anchor the entire room. Beside him was his son Leopold, leaning back in his chair with his arm crossed. A cluster of nobles surrounded them, mostly viscounts, their heads bent together. Lionel counted two barons among them, both men known for clawing their way upward with unusual success.

Further down, nobles scattered along the table in smaller groups, cups of wine in hand, some laughing too loudly, others whispering to each other. Lionel’s gaze drifted across their crests stitched into fine coats and cloaks.

And then his eyes landed on one side of the hall—where the whole of Sylvan Enclave had gathered. There sat Viscount Buck, speaking low with Viscount Redmont, his face drawn with thought. Around them sat others, though Lionel did not know them by face. Younger men, sons and nephews most likely, wearing the crests of houses whose elders were conspicuously absent.

Lionel’s mouth tightened. He remembered what had happened. The Sylvan lords—every one of them save Buck—were either locked in confinement or cut down, their houses thrown into chaos. Only Buck had been spared, and from what Lionel had heard, it was by Arzan’s will alone.

Lionel’s hand curled at his side. He realized once again what the council was going to decide today. This was a council carved from survivors, opportunists, and men staking everything on a dark horse’s rise.

And now he, Baron Lionel Marcaster of a fading Mage’s line, was among them. He studied the room even more.

Other than Duke Blackwood and the Sylvan lords, two faces caught Lionel by surprise that he almost took a step back.

Viscountess Vessa and Baroness Marren. For years, they had been known enemies—women who spat venom at each other in gatherings, whose houses had feuded over every petty thing for as long as anyone could remember. Yet here they sat side by side, their gowns brushing against each other as though they were the oldest of companions.

They smiled as they spoke, lips curved in pleasant masks. But Lionel’s eyes lingered long enough to catch the truth. Their smiles never reached their eyes. Those sharp glares beneath their lashes told the real story. Friends? Hardly. Allies of convenience, perhaps. Or vipers nesting in the same basket, waiting for the chance to strike.

It almost made him laugh, but deep inside, he felt a twinge of unease and turned away, only for the sound of heavy doors creaking open on the far side of the chamber to draw every gaze in the hall.

Duke Arzan entered.

The duke moved with a stride so assured that even in a room filled with lords and ladies, he seemed the only figure of true weight. His cloak, dark as midnight, trailed behind him, and the candlelight caught the silver clasp at his shoulder like a flash of steel. Around him walked his closest circle. Lionel recognized Killian, the knight who had been in the banquet he'd attended and had made a name for himself in the previous fief war. Another face walked on his side and if he guessed correctly, it was Francis, the administrator he had briefly heard of.

But it wasn’t Arzan’s men who stirred the most whispers. It was the figure walking directly beside him.

Princess Amara.

Her step matched his, steady, unflinching, as though she belonged at his side. Her gown flowed like river silk, but her expression was carved from stone—it was unreadable. Only her eyes moved, flicking from one corner of the hall to another. She did not speak a word, yet Lionel could feel the weight of her gaze, as though she were weighing each noble like a merchant considering wares.

So the rumors were true. The princess and the duke were together.

Even Lionel, who had tried to ignore gossip, felt a jolt at the sight. It was no small matter. Whatever else it meant, it gave Arzan’s claim a crown-shaped shadow of legitimacy.

Lionel realized, a moment too late, that he was still standing stiffly near the entrance, gawking like a newcomer at a market fair. His breath caught when Arzan’s eyes swept across the hall and landed on him.

“Baron Lionel,” the duke said, “please, take a seat. I believe we can begin the council at once, since all are gathered. The others cannot join us—some are trapped in the western territories, where Thalric presses hard.”

Every noble turned their head slightly at the name, a ripple of unease moving through the room like wind over tall grass.

Lionel’s heart thudded in his chest. He managed a quick nod, his mouth twitching into what he hoped was a polite smile. Moving quickly, he crossed to the nearest empty chair. As he sat, he smiled again at those whose eyes lingered on him—a smile too quick, too nervous, but all he could manage.

Duke Arzan took his place at the head of the table, waiting just long enough for the shuffling of chairs and rustle of cloaks to die down. Only when silence settled over the hall did he nod, a small gesture that seemed to carry the weight of command.

At once, servants moved like clockwork. A pair unrolled thick maps across the length of the table, weighted at the corners with polished stones so that every detail could be seen. Others stepped lightly between the nobles, handing out thick bundles of parchment bound with string, one for each seat. Not a word was spoken as they worked; even their footsteps seemed muted against the stone floor. When the last of them bowed and departed, everyone in the hall looked down on the parchments.

Lionel turned the bundle in his hands, curiosity prickling at him. It was heavier than he expected, the parchment stiff and well-prepared. Slowly, he pulled it open.

His breath caught as he read it.

Each page was filled with writing so neat it looked almost mechanical. The title of the first section leapt at him: Prince Aldrin, his core retainers and sworn lords. Below, line after line of names, descriptions, notes stared back at him. Lionel’s eyes widened further as he turned the pages. Not only were the princes listed, but their strongest Knights and Mages, their known tactics, their armies’ estimated size, even the disposition of their families.

One page showed a Viscount’s Mage with notes on the spells she favored and the battles she had won. Another described a baron's loyalty, down to the fact that his wife’s family owned shares in a business the first prince controlled.

Lionel’s mouth had gone dry. He had known nobles kept their eyes sharp, their ears sharper. Spies spread across the kingdom, and everyone collected rumors. But this, this was no collection of rumors. This was knowledge bound. He had never imagined records so thorough existed, not in one man’s hand.

He swallowed, his fingers tightening slightly on the parchment. A chill crept into his mind before he could stop it. If Arzan has this on them… does he have one on me too?

For an instant, he pictured a page bearing his name: Baron Lionel Marcaster. Weak Mage bloodline. Wife outspoken against his choice. Father is supportive. Ambitions: uncertain, seeking worth in magic. The thought sent a small shudder crawling down his spine. Perhaps not, not to that extreme at least.

Quickly, he lowered his head and let his eyes fall to the maps, hiding his unease.

And the maps—gods above, the maps were even more impressive. Where most maps he had seen marked only borders and roads, these were alive with detail. Fortresses were outlined, their walls marked with careful lines. Valleys and forests stretched in ink with notations about terrain advantages. In the northern reaches, someone had drawn a symbol for a cave with the words: Hibernation site of frost drakes—avoid disturbance. Another note warned of marshland where armies might sink to their knees.

Lionel stared, half in awe, half in disbelief.

Had Arzan been preparing for this all along? Planning not just to rise, but to seize the very crown with strategy so meticulous it felt inevitable? If so, Lionel realized, then he had grossly underestimated him.

But the realization did not frighten him as much as he thought it might. No, if anything, it steadied his choice. His lips pressed together, the hint of a smile threatening as the thought settled into him: If I am to gamble, then this is the man to gamble on.

The hall grew quiet save for the soft rustle of parchment as the nobles studied the records before them. Pages turned slowly, some lips moving as their eyes traced the writing, others glancing up now and then to read the expressions of their peers. The silence stretched long, heavy, until finally Baroness Marren leaned back in her chair. Her voice cut through the stillness.

“It seems,” she said with a thin smile, “that you have planned much in so short a time.”

Heads turned to Duke Arzan. He did not immediately answer, instead letting the pause hang long enough that Lionel thought it deliberate, a reminder that it was his council, not theirs. Then he spoke after giving a brief nod.

“Every noble being drawn into the capital has its uses,” Arzan said. “While others wasted time playing courtly games, my men were gathering what mattered. Information. They worked hard.”

A murmur swept through the table, some nodding, others frowning. Viscountess Vessa raised her chin, her smile sharp as a blade.

“And now it will come in handy, no doubt,” she quipped. “But I would like to point out, Duke Arzan, that even with all of us here—and the talk of your fine army and equipment—we are still vastly outnumbered by the princes.”

Lionel found himself nodding before he even realized it, the truth of her words pressing against his chest like a weight.

Arzan inclined his head slightly, unbothered. “I am well aware of that.”

He paused, and then with crisp certainty continued:

“Thalric commands the largest force. Seventy to eighty thousand men, most of them drawn from the royal army. They have declared for him outright, giving him the spine of his strength. And we have reports that he is swelling his numbers further—forcing commoners into service. I expect his army to double in time.”

A chill settled over the hall. The nobles exchanged uneasy glances, whispers moving like wind across the chamber. Lionel’s fingers tightened on the edge of his parchment. He had men—yes—but only two thousand five hundred who could bear arms, and that was counting farmers and household guards pressed into service. A number pitifully small in the shadow of Thalric’s army. And most of those gathered here were barons or viscounts like him. Their combined banners would still look meager beside a single prince’s.

And Thalric was not the only one.

Arzan let the silence steep in their worry before he spoke again, unflinching.

“Aldrin,” he continued, “has the lowest numbers—barely thirty thousand by our best count. But his strength was never in his men.”

Lionel glanced up at that, heart tugging with unease. He knew it was true. Aldrin, for all his caution, was well-loved by the commons and courtiers alike. His support was not measured in swords, but in loyalty and sympathy. That, Lionel thought grimly, was a weapon of its own.

The murmurs stretched until Duke Blackwood spoke, “It isn’t Aldrin’s men we should fear. It’s the armies of other kingdoms.”

The words settled around the gathered men heavily. Even Lionel felt a small knot twist in his gut.

“Precisely. Alparca will send most of their strength—everything save what they need to guard their own borders. But it is not their soldiers that should worry us most. Their Royal Mages are their true weapon. They train them to fight in groups, weaving their spells together. They have invested in them for decades… And Aldrin… Aldrin is already moving to curry their favor. With his mother being from there, he will easily get their support. And I have it on good authority that he is also talking to the other kingdoms. That means we will always have to watch our backs when it comes to him.”

Blackwood’s hand slammed once, softly, on the table. A growl rumbled in his throat. “Outsiders will not come without a price. They’ll want a slice of our land for every favor they grant.”

Lionel found himself nodding almost instinctively. Several others did the same, muttering agreement. The thought of foreign banners marching on Lancephil’s soil left an uneasy chill down his spine.

But Arzan did not dwell on it. His gaze swept the table. “Which is why,” he said, “I believe that rather than Thalric—whose strength is vast but already tested on many fronts—Aldrin poses the greater threat, for now.”

A ripple of nods circled the table. Even those who had looked doubtful earlier could not deny the truth of it.

And then Leopold Blackwood, sitting tall beside his father, broke in. “And what of Eldric?”

The question shifted the air. Lionel’s eyes flicked back to Arzan. For the first time since entering the hall, the duke did not answer at once. There was the faintest hesitation—his shoulders shifting, a fleeting look that almost seemed… sheepish.

“We estimate Eldric’s forces at forty to fifty thousand,” Arzan said finally, his voice level though not as sharp as before. “That is what our network can confirm. But…” He exhaled through his nose, as if annoyed by the words that followed. “We are certain much of his true strength is hidden. Queen Regina always had the support of certain hidden organizations. I have crossed spells with them myself.”

“But,” Arzan pressed on, “if there is fortune to be found here, it is that their strength will not be pointed at us first. Their focus lies on Thalric. Eldric and his forces will move to strike him as he pushes toward the capital.”

Lionel’s hand rested on the edge of the map, his eyes drifting over the neat lines of borders and forts. Princes, foreign kingdoms, hidden factions—each word seemed to pile heavier on his shoulders. His two and a half thousand men felt smaller and smaller in his mind, like grains of sand against a tide.

Baron Lionel felt a question rise to his tongue. He wanted to know more about these hidden organizations Arzan spoke of—who they were, what powers they truly wielded, and how a duke had crossed spells with them and lived to tell of it. But the discussion rolled forward before he could open his mouth, and he swallowed the question, promising himself he would find a chance to ask later.

Still, the weight of what he had heard pressed on him. He had always known the princes’ power was overwhelming, but hearing the numbers laid out so plainly—the tens of thousands, the foreign Mages, the hidden blades in the dark—gave it a shape too big to ignore.

Finally, someone broke the silence with the one question that sat on every noble’s mind. “And what are our numbers?”

Arzan did not flinch. “Around thirty thousand including all of us If I'm right,” he said, his voice even. “That includes the commoners who have already signed to join my banners. Far fewer than any of the princes.”

A ripple of sighs moved through the hall. Some frowned, others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Lionel’s gut twisted as doubt wormed its way in. Did Arzan himself believe those numbers could stand against what they had just heard? For a fleeting moment, he feared the duke had only gathered them to walk blind into ruin.

But when his eyes lifted to the head of the table, he found no uncertainty there. Arzan’s expression was as confident as ever. It silenced Lionel’s doubt almost as quickly as it had come.

The murmurs began to rise, nobles leaning to whisper to one another, worry seeping into their voices. Then Arzan raised his hand. The hall obeyed. The voices dwindled into silence.

“Even if we are the fewest in number,” Arzan said, “there is much we can do. Do not forget—none of the princes have ever waged true war. Not Thalric, not Aldrin, not Eldric. They know ambition, yes, but not strategy. Even Thalric has never commanded on the scale he pretends to.”

A few nods followed but Lionel saw Viscount Redmont arch a brow, lips curling faintly in skepticism.

“Then,” Redmont said, “do you already have a plan, Duke Arzan?”

The room stilled again, every eye drawn to the man at the head of the table. Arzan’s reply was slow. He gave one firm nod.

“I do.”

The words dropped like stones into a pool, rippling through the chamber. Lionel’s chest tightened, a flicker of heat racing through him. Once more, he thought, Yes. I have chosen rightly. This man knows what he is doing. He will lead us through this storm.

But then Arzan began to speak of his plan.

The words unfurled steadily, calmly, with the same quiet confidence as before, but as Lionel listened, his gut sank. The plan was bold, audacious to the point of madness. To his ears, it sounded less like a strategy and more like a gamble tossed against the heavens themselves.

And in that moment, the first spark of unease pricked at him.

Had I chosen rightly? Or have I thrown my lot in with a man reckless enough to bring us all down with him?

The pit in his stomach deepened with each word Arzan spoke.

Fuck, it’s too late now to change, isn’t it?

Dao of money Chapter 177

Chapter 177

Li Xuan darted to the right. A greatsword tore through the air where he had just been, the edge of it wrapped in violent dark qi. The strike landed with a deafening boom, shaking the ground and leaving a crater large enough to swallow a carriage.

He had no chance to counter. From behind came the harsh rattle of iron links. Li Xuan’s legs tensed, qi surging into them as he leapt upward. A chain of twin blades hissed through the spot he had stood, sparks flying as the weapons scraped against stone.

He took advantage of being airborne and tightened his grip around his sword. He used the fourth strike of the Seven Sword Arts [Thunderfall Slash] and forced lightning through the blade until it howled with power. Bolts split the sky as he slashed downward, rain of thunder falling toward both of his foes.

But the two only grinned. The giant, senior Li Shijun with the greatsword met the lightning head-on, his weapon steady like a mountain. Sparks flew, but he did not budge. The chain-wielder danced through the storm, his body weaving between the bolts as though they were no faster than drifting leaves.

Li Xuan hit the ground, knees bending to absorb the impact. He barely had a breath before both men surged at him together. His qi flared in panic, and a barrier of lightning spun out around him, crackling with blue arcs.

The greatsword fell again. This time not a single strike, but a wave of savage qi that split the earth. The moment it touched the barrier, the shield shattered in a violent burst. The force blasted Li Xuan off his feet, hurling him into the air like a rag doll.

He twisted, trying to right himself, but the chains were faster. They whipped up with a metallic shriek, binding his limbs. The blades bit through his robes, scoring lines of pain across his skin as they dragged him down. His body slammed against the ground, breath ripped from his lungs.

Before he could recover, the chains pulled tight again, lifting him into the air. Dangling, his vision cleared, and there, waiting with a calm smile, was the second senior brother.

“We were ordered to train you,” Li Kuangdao said lightly, tugging the chains as if he were reeling in a fish. “Not to cut your flesh. So my blades won’t bite deep… but this will suffice.”

His fist came without warning. It smashed into Li Xuan’s nose with a crunch.

White pain exploded in his skull, lightning sparking uncontrollably across his body, dancing from skin to chain in a wild storm. Though the seniors didn’t seem to be fazed by it.

Li Kuangdao’s fist hammered into his chest, driving the air from his lungs and sending him crashing to the ground in a heap. The chains loosened and clattered against stone, but relief never came.

A shadow loomed over him. Li Shijun stepped forward, dragging his blade across the earth, sparks skittering from the dark qi clinging to its edge.

He spoke in a raspy, low voice. “Unfortunately, I believe juniors should be taken seriously. So I will use my sword—to cut everything inside of you.”

The man’s free hand reached for him. Li Xuan’s heart lurched. He rolled hard to the side, grit scraping his skin, and forced himself upright. His grip tightened on his sword until his knuckles went white. Lightning flared again, answering his call.

Gritting his teeth, he launched into an [Rolling Thunder Slash]. His blade blurred, arcs of light flashing so quickly that his senior’s eyes actually widened for the first time. Li Xuan’s strike sliced across the man’s robes, fabric tearing, and drew a thin line of blood. For a breath, Li Xuan’s spirit soared.

He pressed harder, body flowing with the art, slipping close and slashing across the towering frame. Cuts opened across reinforced cloth, faint streaks of red showing through. Yet Li Shijun only grinned—a wide grin that made his bones chill.

The next thing he knew, though his strikes landed, Li Shijun stood as if carved from stone. The unease burrowed deeper with every exchange, until finally, when Li Xuan’s blade angled for his shoulder—a hand clamped over his head like an iron vice.

Panic flared. He swung wildly, sword flashing, but the greatsword came down with brutal precision. Metal screamed as it struck his weapon. The dark qi wrapped around the heavy blade seeped into Li Xuan’s own, gnawing at it, breaking it down before his very eyes. Tiny shards of steel rained to the ground.

His eyes went wide. His breath caught in his throat. “You can’t do much without your sword,” Li Shijun murmured.

Desperation clawed at him. Lightning erupted across his body, wild and uncontrolled, zapping his captor as he twisted to throw a punch. But the man’s grin only stretched wider, unbothered by the sparks crawling over his skin.

The greatsword lifted, qi howling along its edge, and with one savage stroke it came crashing down—aimed to cleave across Li Xuan’s shoulders.

Agony burst across his shoulders. Li Xuan screamed as the blade tore a shallow line of fire across his flesh, only for a sudden kick to slam into his ribs. The impact hurled him sideways, and his body smashed against a boulder with a sickening crack. Blood spilled hot down his face from his head—nose—he wasn’t sure.

Through the haze of pain, he tried to summon lightning again, forcing qi through battered meridians. But before the power could gather, chains wrapped around him once more. The twin blades dug into his flesh, grinding against bone. He cried out, fingers clawing desperately at the cold metal, but the links only bit deeper.

When he lifted his head, he found nothing but the cold gleam of his seniors’ eyes like wolves circling a broken prey. His heart sank.

The next few minutes blurred into torment.

Without his sword, his arts were crippled. Every fist form, every movement technique, meant nothing before the suffocating control of the two who caged the battlefield.

Whenever he ripped himself free of the chains, the greatsword was waiting, its edge forcing him to stumble, to dodge, to throw himself aside just to breathe another second. Each clash left him bleeding anew. Every punch that landed rattled his bones. Every kick drove him closer to collapse.

His qi strained to hold him together—forcing healing into torn flesh, forcing strength into trembling limbs, forcing lightning to flare in weak defiance. But the cost was too high. His dantian burned, his body screamed, and still the two pressed forward with smiles, relentless as executioners.

The third time he was slammed into the ground, the stone beneath him cracked. His vision swam. Another kick sent him rolling across the dirt, limbs limp, blood streaking his path.

And this time… he could not rise. He wanted to—He wanted to stand, to fight, even if only for the smallest, most foolish chance of victory. But his body had betrayed him.

His muscles refused to move, his bones throbbed with fire and his qi—the usual explosion of qi was now flickering like a dying flame.

All he could manage was to lift his head a fraction, just enough to meet their gazes. His seniors looked down at him, expressionless, then spat at the ground before him.

The sound rang louder than any strike.

Li Shijun tilted his head, the dark qi on his blade fading into a lazy haze. His voice was low but full of disdain. “And here I thought you would give good competition. Guess you’ve really lost your way—ignoring Master Xiaosheng’s teachings, running off to protect a lowly village when you should have been on the walls.”

Li Kuangdao nodded, his chains clinking softly as they retracted. “But as seniors, it’s our job to bring you back to the right path. Rebellion is good at your age, but it gets beaten out of you too.”

Li Xuan’s teeth ground together. His battered body trembled, but his eyes still burned. “I did what a true cultivator should,” he rasped, voice rough but steady.

Shijun scoffed and rolled his eyes. “No, you didn’t. Don’t lie to yourself! You follow a set of codes that only make you weak. Be righteous when you have the power to be.”

He reached into his sleeve and flicked something to the ground. A small pill rolled across the cracked earth, gleaming faintly. “Eat it and return here tomorrow. You need more sparring.”

Both men smiled at each other, a quiet, satisfied grin, before turning away. Their heavy steps echoed against the courtyard stones as they left leisurely as if they had simply finished a morning exercise.

Li Xuan lay there, the world tilting, blood sticking his hair to his face. He stared at the pill for a long time. A part of him wanted to crush it under his fist, to spit on it and reject anything from those who had just humiliated him. But every second his body screamed louder. He was used to pain—he had endured pain his entire life—but he knew the truth. If he didn’t heal, he might not survive tomorrow’s “lesson.”

And Master Xiaosheng… Master Xiaosheng would not care if he died. Not anymore.

His arms trembled as he dragged himself forward, inch by inch over the blood-streaked stone. He picked up the pill and placed it in his mouth. Bitter sweetness burst across his tongue.

In an instant, his body swirled with energy, warmth pouring into torn flesh, knitting veins and bone. He closed his eyes, letting the pill do its work.

Alone in the empty training grounds, the only sound left was his ragged breathing and the soft sound of his body putting itself back together.

Li Xuan didn’t even know when he had passed out. The next thing he remembered was waking to the orange glow of evening. The sky stretched wide above him, dyed in firelight as birds wheeled lazily through the fading sun. On any other day, he might have admired the sight, but not now.

With a groan, he pushed himself upright. His bones cracked as he moved, the sound echoing in his ears. Pain throbbed through his body, but it was dull now, bearable. His wounds had closed; he wasn’t bleeding anymore. One night of rest, and he would be whole enough to fight again.

Fight again. The thought sat like iron in his stomach. Tomorrow will be the same. It has been the same for three days now. Every strike, every chain, every broken rib—he had endured it under the excuse of training. But was it really? Or was it simply punishment dressed as teaching?

Maybe it was the heavens themselves mocking him. Even with superior spirit roots, even with more resources than most disciples could dream of, he had only reached the peak of qi refinement. By now, he should have already stepped into the foundation establishment realm. Others had.
Chen Ren might have already.

That man with far less talent than him had walked steadily forward, step by step, while Li Xuan, blessed and chosen, stumbled.

He clenched his fists as he left the training grounds and made his way into the sect’s streets. His body was steady, but inside he felt hollow.

A voice called out suddenly. “Li Xuan!”

His shoulders tensed. He turned sharply, qi ready to surge, only to pause when he saw who it was.

A tall man stood there, waving with an easy smile. He recognised him instantly. Elder Yan Xiu, the vice sect leader of Soaring Sword Sect.

Li Xuan’s eyes widened. He hurried forward, bowing low.

“This disciple greets Elder Yan Xiu.”

The elder’s smile softened. He lifted a hand in dismissal.

“No need to bow your head like that, Li Xuan. It seems you’ve been having a hard time in the sect these days.”

Li Xuan slowly raised his head. His lips tried to form a smile, though it was faint and strained.

“No, Elder Yan Xiu. It’s only training.”

The elder’s brows lifted. “Training with two foundation establishment cultivators while you are still at qi refinement?” His tone carried no sharpness, only a solemn tone. “Even in my time, training was never so harsh.”

He paused, then tilted his head.

“Do you want some tea? We can discuss some matters about you while drinking.”

Li Xuan blinked. “Matters, Elder Yan Xiu? What matters?”

“Why don’t you follow me to my chambers?” the elder said with a faint smile.

Li Xuan hesitated only a moment before nodding. He could not refuse the vice sect leader, no matter what his condition was. Even if his body longed for rest, curiosity stirred in him. What did Elder Yan Xiu want with him?

There was only one way to find out.

He followed in silence as the elder led him toward the inner sect gates. Li Xuan had seldom stepped into that part of the sect. The two disciples guarding the gate glanced at him strangely when they saw him walking behind the elder. Their eyes lingered with curiosity, but they said nothing.

Inside, the paths of the inner sect were quieter, cleaner, yet every disciple they passed looked at him the same way—eyes questioning, lips whispering after they moved on. Li Xuan kept his gaze steady, though his heart felt uneasy.

At last, they reached a secluded courtyard. Elder Yan Xiu opened the gate himself and walked in, motioning for Li Xuan to follow. The air inside was calmer, fragrant with herbs and tea leaves.

They entered a small room where a low table waited. On it, two cups of tea had already been poured. Steam curled upward in the evening light.

“Sit,” Elder Yan Xiu said gently.

Li Xuan obeyed, lowering himself onto the cushion. Even when he sat, he felt a slight throb in his head.

His eyes lingered on the cup before him. It was full, and the tea was still warm.

“Why don’t you take a sip before we continue?” the elder said.

Li Xuan nodded, lifting the cup. The first sip was smooth, carrying a subtle sweetness. At once, a wave of comfort spread through his body, soothing tired muscles, washing away lingering aches. His breath came easier.

He almost sighed in relief but noticed the pair of eyes on him. So he set the cup down carefully and looked at the elder.

“What do you want to talk to me about, Elder Yan Xiu?”

Elder Yan Xiu smiled over the rim of his cup. “Always quite eager, the young ones.”

He took a slow sip, then set his cup aside. “I want to talk about your discipleship. I’ve been watching you for some time, Li Xuan. I don’t think Master Xiaosheng… suits you.”

Li Xuan blinked. “He’s just trying to discipline me, Elder.”

“I know how you train,” Yan Xiu said. “Every waking moment. You don’t need the whip. He’s venting his frustrations on you. For a promising disciple, that is the worst kind of teaching. So, I want to give you a chance.”

“A… chance to do what?”

“To soar.” The elder’s eyes warmed. “You’re one of the few who act righteous without being told. Many would disagree with your choices, but a sect needs a spine like that. I won’t have you rotting in the outer sect.”

Li Xuan’s hand tightened around the cup. “Are you saying… transfer me to the inner sect?”

Yan Xiu nodded. “Yes. Under my tutelage. You’ll have resources, guidance and space to grow. But I will ask something in return.”

Li Xuan drank again to calm his racing heart. Of course there was a price. There was always a price. He thought of Master Xiaoshen’s cold eyes, of chains biting into flesh, of dark qi chewing at his sword. He thought of how every talk with his master turned into a wall he could not cross.

“What is it you want me to do, Elder?” he asked at last.

Yan Xiu leaned back and smiled. “Recently, we discovered a tower in the Corpse Lands. It’s old and sealed. The sect will send selected disciples to explore it. I want you among them.” He paused, watching Li Xuan’s face. “But not for the sect. For me. Be my eyes in there.”

Dao of money Chapter 176

Chapter 176

It turned out Young master Yu was far more stupid than even his expectations, the man only needed a little bit of alcohol in his system and feeling like he was heard before babbling about a lot of stuff. From his name which was Yu Murong to even about his clan.

The tavern’s lamps burned low, smoke from incense coiling into the beams above. The tables near them were filled with merchants and travelers as the day moved, the clatter of dice and laughter rising like waves.

Yet at Chen Ren’s table, only one voice mattered. Yu Murong’s voice.

His face was red already, eyes half-lidded, lips loose. He wasn’t drunk enough to fall asleep, but drunk enough that all his pride and guardedness had melted away. A cultivator should have been able to hold his liquor better, but from the way the man swayed after a single jar, Chen Ren was certain he had only just stepped into the peak of the body forging realm, if at all. That explained everything—the way his qi felt shallow, the way his body gave in to wine like a weak reed in water.

Chen Ren did not need much effort to guess the truth. Yu Murong wasn’t listened to in his clan. Nobody important gave him a voice. When he had companions, they were nothing more than lackeys chasing free food and prostitutes. Lackeys didn’t last long, and once his novelty faded, he was left to sulk in his silks, resenting everyone. So now, finding someone important, someone rich, and—more importantly—someone who nodded at his words, Yu Murong forgot to build any walls at all.

The alcohol did the rest.

Chen Ren sat quiet, barely sipping from his own cup, while Murong filled the silence with the entire history of his shallow life. From his preference in silk colors to his obsession with embroidery styles, from his collection of boots made from imported leather to his endless dream of owning a spirit beast.

“I almost got one, Brother Renjie,” he said, his voice thick as he slapped the table with a wet palm. “A wyvern egg! Do you know how rare that is? It was right there at the auction, mine for the taking! But no—my clan elders pulled me back, said it was too expensive. Too expensive! When have they ever cared for me? I should have had that egg, do you hear me? It was fate!”

He scowled into his cup, shoulders slumping, before pouring again.

Chen Ren only smiled faintly, tilting his head as if he truly cared.

Yu Murong’s resentment didn’t stop at missed eggs. His voice grew louder with each jar, circling back to the same wound—his cousins.

“They’re not even as talented as me. Fewer spirit roots, weaker bones. Yet every time I turn around, one of them has broken through, and what do I get? Mockery. The elders say, ‘Murong, you must put your heart into cultivation.’ My heart? My heart wants wine and freedom, not meditation in some cave!” He stabbed a finger in the air, nearly spilling the jar. “And when I tell them that, they look at me like I’m worthless. Worthless!”

Chen Ren let the man rage, let him pour out all the poison. He had no reason to remember most of it. He only sifted, like a miner washing sand away to glimpse specks of gold beneath.

He guided gently. “Your clan seems harsh. Do they treat everyone the same?”

“Of course not,” he snorted. “The main family shines while the rest of us polish their boots. I’m expected to obey, to nod when they give orders, to take the scraps of glory when battles end. Do you know what I did last season in a beast hunt? I counted arrows. Arrows! While my cousins rode to the front.”

“Arrows are important,” Chen Ren said mildly.

“Not when you are me.” Yu Murong leaned across the table, breath thick with wine and oyster brine. “I was born for more that that…”

On and on it went. Childhood embarrassments, tutors he hated, servants who had betrayed his trust, friends who vanished after using him. Yu Murong spoke of jade pillars in his clan manor, hidden granaries, small gates in garden walls. He even bragged of the sneaky routes he used to escape curfew.

Chen Ren stored only what mattered. The rest washed past him like rain on stone.

The hours crept by. Five jars were emptied, the dregs dripping sticky across the table. A mountain of meat bun crumbs and oyster shells piled between them. Yu Murong’s eyes shone with the pride of a man who thought himself understood for the first time in years.

Chen Ren finally nudged the conversation to the main topic, voice smooth and calm. “I’m also hearing things about a war that's going on. Your clan must be a part of it. What's that about?”

Yu Murong froze for a heartbeat, then puffed his chest, pleased at the chance to speak of grand matters. His words slurred.

“Yes… yes, the war. You see, Brother Renjie, the three clans are tearing each other apart.”

He suddenly stomped the table. The plates jumped, shells rattled, and an oyster flew into the air.

To Chen Ren’s amusement, the man actually leaned forward and snapped it out of the air with his mouth. He chewed triumphantly, wine dripping down his chin.

“Can you believe it, Renjie?” Yu Murong said, voice muffled with oyster flesh. “My own father is ignoring me these days all because of some artifact the clans are fighting over in the sinkhole. I tried talking to him, but he waved me away like I was air. How is that fair?”

Chen Ren set down his cup and clicked his tongue. “It’s horrible. Those types of people shouldn’t be parents.”

Yu Murong froze, then nodded quickly, pleased to be agreed with. He gulped his wine, swallowed the oyster whole, and banged his chest.

“But what is this war that’s going on? I haven’t seen anything. I’ve been in the city for two days, and it’s calm. I’ve only heard things.”

Yu Murong gave a snort, waving his greasy hand. “That’s because the city lord forbade us from destroying public property. Otherwise half these streets would already be rubble. No, the real fighting is at the sinkhole and outside the city walls. It’s a mess, Renjie. A big mess. No one’s figured out the way to the artifact yet, so the three clans—Huang, Chen, and my Yu clan—just fight each other more than the beasts inside. Hah! Do you know? Some of my cousins are already dead! And still it goes on.”

“If it’s so dangerous, why doesn’t your patriarch or the stronger clan members step in? Surely they could end it.”

Yu Murang barked out a humorless laugh. “Because they are fucking cowards. That’s why. They hide behind excuses. They say if any elder goes, it will make it look like the clan’s younger generation is weak. They say if a strong man dies, the whole clan will suffer. Bah! So they send us instead—the young ones, the cousins, the ones who can be replaced. They hide their fear behind words about ‘face.’ Face!”

He sneered, poured another cup with unsteady hands, and downed it in a single swallow. The jar clinked hard against the table.

Then he grabbed another meat bun, tore it open, and stuffed it into his mouth. Grease smeared across his lips as he chewed, still muttering. “Cowards, all of them.”

Chen Ren chewed slowly on Yu Murong’s words, his mind turning them over one by one. They were the same reasons he had already guessed. If a higher-up in any clan moved, then the others would be forced to move as well. In the Kalian Empire, the old monsters rarely stirred. They only acted when the matter was truly grave—like when the Blazing Ember Sect Leader had personally struck down Shen Linao.

He reached for a meat bun, tore it in half, and let the steam roll out before taking a bite. He chewed, swallowed, then looked across the table at the young master.

“So,” he said quietly, “the younger generations are just killing themselves.”

“Precisely! You see why I’m here drinking in the afternoon? If I stay in my clan, they’ll send me to die too. Hah! And for what? They aren’t even winning.”

Chen Ren tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Who is then?” The words left his mouth faster than he intended.

Yu Murong paused mid-chew, oyster juice dripping from his lip. His eyes blinked slowly, as if the thought needed time to move through his fogged mind. Chen Ren held himself still, wondering if he had pushed too quickly.

But then he swallowed hard and said, voice low and grudging, “Not the Yu clan. Not right now.” He shoved the bun into his mouth, speaking around it. “Both my clan and the Huang clan are doing badly. They charged in early, rushing to claim the artifact, but the Chen clan was already there. They ambushed them. My clan’s top fighters are still bleeding in their beds. Wounds like that, even if you drown them in pills, they don’t vanish overnight. If the injury’s deep, it takes months. So the Chen clan… they’ve already got the lead.”

Chen Ren’s gaze flicked toward Yalan, who had been quietly watching from the side. Their eyes met, a silent current running between them. Then Chen Ren turned back, his voice calm and even.

“Why do they think they’re close? The artifact hasn’t even been found yet.”

“Because recently the Chen clan went deeper into the sinkhole and found gold coins. Old ones. Relics. They think the artifact’s right under their feet. I won’t tell you how I know this, but it’s true.”

Chen Ren didn’t even need to ask him. He could already guess the truth. It would be strange if the clans hadn’t put spies in each other’s camps. Even if not spies, there were always loose tongues willing to trade information for coin, pills, or favors. That was simply how the world worked.

Still, what Yu Murong said about the coins and the Chen clan’s lead made something tighten inside him. The balance of power around the artifact—whatever it truly was—was shifting fast. If the Chen clan really was close to uncovering it, then he didn’t have much time. His plan wouldn’t work if the Chen clan gained the artifact first. He needed them off-balance, pushed back, scrambling. Only then could he move.

He took another slow sip of wine, watching Yu Murong. “It seems like a pretty bad predicament for your clan, Young Master Yu.”

He sighed, his head sinking low, eyes glassy. “It is. And what can I do? Nothing. Some of my clan even whisper that it’s my fault we’re losing—me! As if me doing anything would change a war. They talk about ‘responsibility of the younger generation,’ just because I’m a few years older than them. Hah. They don’t understand that I don’t want to die an early death. They can have their glory. I’ll keep my life.”

Chen Ren gave a slow nod, the same polite mask as before.

Yu Murong slammed another bun onto his plate, tearing at it as his rant spilled out. He cursed his clan’s hypocrisy, the way they used him as a scapegoat, the way his father ignored him, the elders’ cold eyes. The words tumbled over themselves, bitter and slurred.

Chen Ren didn’t interrupt. He didn’t even change his expression. He simply let the man vent, let him drain himself like an opened wineskin. Every so often he asked a careful question—about the war, about which groups were stationed where, about how his clan and the others planned to even the odds.

But Yu Murong only shrugged, his voice dull. “I don’t know. I’m not in the inner circle. They don’t tell me anything real. I’ve only been in the sinkhole once, and that was enough. You go down there, you don’t know what will swallow you. Beasts. Falling rocks. Darkness. Not for me. Not worth dying over.”

He stuffed the rest of his bun into his mouth, glaring at the table as if it were an enemy.

That was probably the only time Chen Ren related to the man. For a brief moment—when Yu Murong ranted about not wanting to die young, about being forced into battles he had no interest in—Chen Ren understood him. That sliver of honesty was the closest he had come to being more than just a spoiled young master.

Hours bled away in the smoky tavern. At one point, Yalan whisked her tail and padded off, muttering through their bond that she was too bored to sit through such useless chatter. She only returned an hour later, eyes half-lidded, as if confirming the ordeal was still ongoing.

Fortunately, Yu Murong finally decided he had ranted enough for one day. By then the food and alcohol were gone, reduced to greasy crumbs and empty jars. Chen Ren didn’t feel like ordering more.

Yu Murong leaned back, his robe askew, face flushed but smiling faintly.

“Thank you, Renjie. You don’t know how much I’ve enjoyed talking to you today. Truly. If you’re staying in the city for long, I’d love to show you around. Maybe even bring you to my clan. Hah, they’re all stuck-ups, but they’d appreciate meeting someone like you.”

“I would love that, Young Master Yu. I’m staying in Heishu Inn. If you want to visit, you can always find me there. But for now,” he rose to his feet, brushing his sleeves, “I have some work in the city. Private matters.”

His lips curved into a smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I understand completely.”

Chen Ren didn’t bother correcting the misunderstanding. He simply lifted his hand and gestured for the waiter. The man hurried over, wiping his hands on his apron, and Chen Ren handed him a bag of silver wen.

“This should cover everything and more.”

The waiter pulled the drawstring open, peered inside, and his eyes widened. He felt the weight quickly and bowed with vigor. “Yes, honored guest! Of course!”

As Chen Ren turned, he caught Yu Murong’s eyes lingering on the bag, following it until it disappeared into the waiter’s hands. Then those eyes trailed back to him, watching with a mixture of envy and calculation. But he said nothing. He only slouched deeper into his chair, lips pressed tight.

Chen Ren preferred it that way. He had done everything right. There was no need to say anything more.

He pushed open the tavern doors and disappeared into the street.

Yalan’s voice slid into his head the moment the tavern door shut. “Looks like you made quite an impression on the man,” she purred.

Chen Ren kept his steps even. “Certainly seems so,” he replied.

“But what did you achieve by it? A fool’s favour won’t help with a war.”

Chen Ren folded his hands behind his back and looked up at the moonlit street.
“No,” he said. “It won’t win the war by itself. But it gives me what I need — access. Young Master Yu is small, useless maybe, but his rank in the clan lets him hear things. People trust him enough to talk. If I go straight to the Yu clan now, they won’t open the door. If I go with him, they will at least listen.”

Yalan clicked her tongue in his mind. “And once you are inside? What then?”
He smiled faintly. “Simple. Let the Chen clan think they are about to win. They press forward. If I help another clan push back, not by winning the whole war, just by making Chen stumble — the Chen clan will grow desperate. When clans are desperate, they start bargaining. Pride falls away. They will trust anyone who offers a way out. That’s when I ask for the thing I need. The medallion. They won’t think twice if it saves them.”

Yalan padded close, tail whipping. “Chen Ren, your plan sounds tidy on paper. But it has many variables. I guess that's how every plan is. Anyway, are you going to be selling them pills?” she asked.

Chen Ren nodded. “Yes. I would have liked to sell them talismans too, but it takes time to make a good prototype for the printer. For now, pills will do. I know Hun Tianzhi had made progress on some pill recipes in the last report from Anji. We will use that.”

Yalan’s eyes blinked slowly in his mind, then she hummed once.

“How do you plan to move all these pills from Broken Ridge? It’s on the border.”

Chen Ren’s smile faltered a little. He looked away from the streetlamps. “Actually, that’s why I wanted to ask for your help,” he said. “Can you—”

Before the sentence finished, Yalan snorted in his head, a low, sharp sound. “I’m no mule.”

He chuckled to hide the sting and tried a lighter tone. “Not a mule. I was thinking more… glorious spirit-beast transporter. It sounds better.”

The joke landed flat. Yalan’s tail flicked in irritation. “Glorious?” she sent back, claws unsheathed in thought. “You want me to carry bottles of various pills because it sounds glorious?”

Chen Ren met the glare in her eyes and held up both hands and understood one thing. More than selling the pills to Yu clan, the hardest part might be to convince Yalan.

Magus Reborn Chapter 284

Chapter 284

In war, there was maybe nothing more important than information. But if there was one thing on the same level of importance, it was being able to pass on the information to his allies.

The fief war had been simple by comparison. It had played out in the Sylvan Enclave, and though the land stretched wide with forests, rivers, and cliffs, he had only needed to guard two cities and strike at a handful of forts. Messages could move quickly enough along the same roads he patrolled, and the men under his banner all knew the land like the lines on their palms.

But this was different. This was not one fief pulling at another—it was a civil war. A war that would drag in every corner of the realm, that would splinter loyalties and blur borders. He would be fighting three factions of nobles, each with their own allies and secrets, while trying to keep his own house steady in the storm. The scale alone made his stomach knot.

This war would not be won in a single valley or by taking a pair of stone gates. It would sprawl across open plains, through towns he had never marched in, and over rivers that bent toward other lords’ lands. In the Sylvan Enclave, a few Watchers had been enough to warn a city. Now, he needed dozens of them in every major city in the kingdom.

He knew one thing with certainty: if word did not pass cleanly and quickly, his men would stumble blind. Orders would come too late, allies would march into traps, and the war would grind on, bleeding them dry. Information was breath. To share it was to keep his side alive. Without it, they would not end this war soon—perhaps not at all.

Hence, he had already told Balen to make a messenger drone. Though if he was honest, what Kai truly wanted was to figure out mana messaging. In the distant future, entire kingdoms had run on it—a vast web of artificial mana currents carrying words instantly across thousands of miles. Messages leapt between towers, from one end of a realm to the other, in the span of a breath. For centuries it made war and trade easier than anyone could imagine. But that was knowledge Kai had not yet mastered here. He hadn’t had the time to unravel the spells himself, nor to teach other Mages how to weave them.

So for now, the drone would have to do.

The construct was right in front of him. He took a closer look.

The body of it was shaped of fine brass plates into the form of a bird and he could see the thin seals. The seams fitted so tightly it almost looked alive. It even had wings–wings that glistened and silver in color. The beak and eyes weren’t perfectly sculptured, but Kai had no complaints. His eyes moved toward the chest, where there was a small compartment, just big enough for a folded letter or a narrow strip of knotted cord. But deep inside, there was a shard of aethum stone. That’d let the enchantments run to let it fly.

Balen’s large hand reached out and patted the drone lightly, pride clear in his rough touch.

“As you can see, Lord Arzan, it’s delicate work to make, but small enough that I can put together dozens. Especially with the Sorcerer Tower Mages lending their hands.”

Balen paused, thumb against his chin. “The problem is the range,” he said. “It can’t fly far. The aethum shard we put in it gives it enough juice for a short run, but not for long hauls. Make it bigger and it needs more power—then it’s heavier and slower and everyone notices. I doubt you want that, Lord Arzan.”

“No.” He did not want the birds to be slow or clumsy. “It needs to be fast and small. How does it know where to go?”

“Mana signatures, mostly.” Balen tapped the little brass breastplate, where the runes hummed faintly. “If you can imprint a signature on it, it will follow that same sort of current. I’m sorry I haven’t found a better way to send them over long distances without someone guiding them by hand. Compared to the exploding drones, these are far more complex.”

Kai nodded and didn’t move away from the bench. He watched the bird like a man learning a new tool. In the silence he mapped possibilities in his head: mobile fuel depots tucked behind friendly lines, wagons with spare aethum shards, riders carrying extra stones to hand off. All of them took time he did not have.

Then an idea struck him so cleanly it felt like a blow. He turned to Balen. “We can have Watchers refuel them.”

Balen blinked. “How?”

“We've been recruiting more Watchers since the fief war,” Kai said. He kept his eyes on the drone. “Not all of them are field agents. Some are stationed, some move between towns. If we give them devices with the same mana signature as the drones, the birds will home to them. A Watcher can top one up and send it on to the next. It will have stops instead of a straight flight, but it keeps messages moving across the kingdom.”

Balen thought for a long beat, jaw working. He tilted his head side to side in thought. After a few solid seconds, he nodded. “That’s a good idea. I can do that. We’ll need to train the Watchers, but it should be simple enough. When do you want more of the messenger drones, Lord Arzan?”

“As soon as possible.” He kept his voice low. “We’ll hold a war meeting at Veyrin in a few days. Eldric’s coronation has been announced and Thalric is already taking forts. We can’t wait. The nobles who’ve pledged to me need to be there. Especially Duke Blackwood.” He paused, then looked straight at Balen. “I want you with me at the meeting.”

The minotaur looked at him squarely. “Me? Why?”

“You’ll explain the cannons, the mana guns, the golems, the drones—everything your workshops have been building. We’re going to act as a faction. I’ll lend them what they need to hold the princes back. Civil war will be messy; we can’t afford a lost front.”

Kai stared at him, expecting a response immediately, but the minotaur hesitated.

“What is it?” Kai pressed.

“I will take time out of my schedule to move with you,” he said. “But—are you sure it’s wise to give away so much? You know, Lord Arzan, these things can change a battle. Other than the Duke, I don’t think you trust anyone else.”

Kai nodded. Although not every noble with him was a traitor, he had no time to learn of their nature beyond a point. He couldn't take risks. “No, I don’t. But if there are traitors in the faction, the equipment is how we will catch them. Let me explain...”

***

Killian looked down at the training ground where circles of men clashed against each other. The fighters had been given a weapon different from their opponents—a spear facing a sword, an axe meeting a shield, a staff against a dagger. His ears rang with the familiar sound of steel and the grunts of his men. Occasionally, an Enforcer or two barked commands, correcting a stance or shouting for a man to keep his guard up.

A few of the new Enforcers stood on the side, arms crossed, watching the drills with the kind of half-interest that came from believing their presence alone was enough to command respect. Killian’s gaze lingered on them for a moment before returning to the fighters. He hadn’t come just to look. These men—all of them—were new recruits, civilians until only weeks ago. Farmers, craftsmen, hunters, even a few clerks and laborers. They had thrown their lot in with Lord Arzan, not for coin but for belief. And that belief meant they had put their lives on the line.

Killian’s jaw tightened. It was his duty to make sure they came out of this war alive. In war, going up against a weapon you had never faced before was nothing short of a death sentence. He wouldn’t let these men march to their graves out of ignorance. Not while he was still breathing.

That was why they trained like this. Why he made them swap weapons, break rhythms, fight as if every duel was against something unfamiliar. The drills were brutal, but necessary. And once this stage was over, the real test would begin. He had already requested a cadre of Second-Circle Mages from the Sorcerer Tower to join the training.

Steel he could teach them to parry. Flesh he could harden with discipline. But Mages… Mages were another matter entirely.

They were the true variable in any war. A single Fire Mage or a Wind Mage could turn a skirmish into a slaughter. And none of these men would ever kill a trained Mage head-on. Killian knew that much. What he could teach them was how to survive. To move in formations that made it harder for a Mage to pin them down, to use terrain to disrupt, to escape. Because fighting a Mage is a lost battle. He had seen too many brave fools think themselves heroes, only to be burnt, frozen or ripped apart before even reaching striking distance.

Even the Enforcers, with their newly awakened strength, would be thrown into these drills. Killian had noticed the way many of them carried themselves—chests out, heads high, drunk on power they barely understood. They thought themselves invincible. They thought the leap from a common man to an Enforcer was enough to make them Mage-killers. But what they didn’t understand was the gulf between weeks of training and years of it. The gulf between raw strength and controlled mastery.

Killian’s hand curled into a fist at his side. He knew the truth better than most. Even after all his battles, even after countless clashes against Mages in the field, even after sparring with Lord Arzan himself, he wasn’t certain of taking one head-on. A Mage was never just the man in front of you—it was the storm he carried, the fire he commanded, the unseen tricks he had layered before you even realized you were stepping into a trap.

That was the lesson he needed these men to learn. Not fear but respect. Respect for the difference between flesh and sorcery. Respect enough to live through it.

And Killian would make sure they learned it. Even if it meant breaking them in training so the war itself wouldn’t.

As Killian stood and watched, his eyes picked out details the men themselves might never notice. Some of them had thick arms and heavy swings that made axes look like extensions of their own bodies, cleaving through the air with raw force. The others, they were men who would do well with swords. Then there were the leaner ones, fast on their feet, darting in and out, dodging blows that would have broken bones if they landed. Scouts, Killian thoughts. Some might sneer at running away from attacks, calling it cowardice, but he knew better. Dodging and waiting for the right opening was as deadly as brute strength—sometimes more. One clean strike after patience could change a fight entirely.

He would talk to those men later, the ones quick on their feet. He would recommend them to the Watchers. Glory-seekers or not, if they survived this war, they would find themselves with a place long after it ended.

He was still thinking it over when he heard footsteps coming from his left. He turned and saw a soldier making his way toward him, a letter clutched tight in one hand. The short man stopped in front of him and gave a small bow before holding it out.

“Knight Killian,” the soldier said. “this came for you, sir. I brought it as soon as I saw it.”

Killian took the letter, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Where did it come from?”

“Hermil, sir.”

At that, Killian’s body went a little stiff. There was only one person who would ever write to him from Hermil. He gave the man a short nod. “You can go now.”

The soldier saluted and turned away, leaving Killian alone to his thoughts.

And he stood there for a long moment without touching the letter. He just stared at the sealed paper in his hands. He unclenched his jaw when he realised how hard he’d been clenching it.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, letting some of that frustration away and broke the seal.

When he unfolded it, his eyes moved over the first lines, and by the time he was halfway through, a frown had already crept across his face.

His father hadn’t changed at all.

The letter was written in his father’s sharp handwriting, written in a way that it told him exactly how the man was thinking during these tough times.

“The clouds of war are upon Lancephil, and I have heard about the Duke you serve gaining a chance to contest for the throne. But I write this letter to advise you still: come back to Hermil and pledge your allegiance to the First Prince, Eldric. Apparently, King Sullivan is already in support of him and will be at the coronation. I have spoken with a few old contacts of mine, and with your achievements in the fief war, you would surely gain access into the prince’s close circle and secure a noble title once the war ends in his favor. Please, listen to me and understand that this is the only way for our house to rise up and do something—”

Killian stopped there. His fingers tightened on the page, and he let out a long, frustrated scowl.

This was exactly why he hadn’t sought his father out when he was last in the capital. He knew this was what he would say. His father had always been firm—unyielding—that the firstborn must inherit. And so, he bent himself to Eldric’s cause, blind to all else.

Yes, his father had kept track of his steps—the battles he had fought, the victories he had earned. But even with that, he still didn’t see. He didn’t see that Killian was already in the place he had always pushed him toward. That without Lord Arzan’s banner, without his service, he might have already been left to die, his strength spent and forgotten.

His father didn’t see it. He might never see it.

And though some part of Killian still wanted his father to understand, to finally accept the path he had chosen, he wasn’t sure if such a thing was even possible anymore.

Did his father really think he would come crawling back to serve someone he hated because of a single letter? Killian didn’t know. He didn’t even want to think about it. With another slow exhale, he folded the parchment and tucked it away inside his coat. Writing back would be useless—his father wouldn’t understand, and no words on paper could change that.

His gaze drifted forward again to the sparring grounds. The practices carried out the same. His men were still doing the drills. The soldiers moved with sweat on their brows and fire in their eyes, while the Enforcers watched with pride and impatience.

For a moment, Killian let himself wonder—just for a moment—if the outcome of this war would change something in his father. If victory would finally make the old man see what he had become, and where he truly belonged.

He doubted it. Deep down, he knew his father’s stubbornness ran too deep, rooted into his very bones. But still, there was that thin silver of hope buried in Killian’s chest, fragile and small, yet impossible to kill.

One thing, however, he did not doubt. Lord Arzan would win this war. No matter the odds, no matter the factions that rose against them, Killian believed it as firmly as he believed in the rising of the sun or the turning of the seasons. To him, it was an absolute law of the world.

And he would play his part to make sure of it.

Magus Reborn Chapter 283

Chapter 283

Regina moved through the hallways of the royal castle with a stride in her steps.

The castle breathed differently now. She felt it in the air. Everything felt… charged. Maids were rushing past her, clutching trays and bolts of cloth, bowing so quickly that they nearly dropped whatever they were carrying.

Their hands visibly shook, and their eyes darted up at her before snapping down again.

They feared her, yes, but not the small, passing fear of yesteryears . This was heavier. A fear that lingered, that acknowledged her as more than a queen—acknowledged her as the one who decided how the kingdom lived or broke.

The guards lining the hallways were the same. It was quite the sight to see, especially when whenever their gazes flicked toward her, they revealed the reverence and the uneasiness that made her almost smile. It had always been there in pieces, the uneasiness of knowing that they stood before one of the strongest people in the kingdom. But now, it was more evident; especially because they knew that soon, she would decide everything in the kingdom. Once she removed some parasites who thought they’re better than her.

At her side, Selwin spoke, garnering her attention. “According to our spies, Thalric has captured another fort. His soldiers are pushing further every day.”

Regina’s eyes stayed forward. She had expected this. “That brute was born to break walls,” she said.

“Aldrin has been seen meeting with foreign powers. He is trying to weave ties.”

“As if paper shields could stop our army.”

“Well, Arzan, your majesty. He stood before his city yesterday. Declared openly that he will claim the throne. The people cheered him over and there's almost a festival in his territory.”

Regina gave a nod, and felt like the words were no surprise. She had seen them coming the day of the Assembly; where all of her horrible nightmares came true.

Now, they didn’t matter, not at all. What mattered now was what would happen in the near future—the coronation.

Full preparations were ongoing.

The dais was being raised, the banners prepared, the choir readied. She had walked past the courtyard earlier and seen it all, from carpenters to servants to seamstresses. All of it was for her son.

Her son, who would wear the crown. Her son, who would sit where his father once had.

And herself—she would be the one behind the throne, the hand that shaped the kingdom’s breath. The kingmaker.

She smiled at the scenario as Selwin continued his report, her attention only coming back to him when he reached the news about the coronation.

“As you instructed, Your Highness,” Selwin said in a low but careful voice, “the parade after the coronation will pass through every affluent quarter of the capital. The speech will be given just after the coronation. We will declare the other princes and Arzan traitors. Our men will be in every house and on every rooftop—watching for miscreants.

“We do not expect trouble,” he added. “Veridia fled the city. We don’t know where she is, but she is the only one I’d fear trying to harm the prince.”

Regina’s shoulders did not move. She only nodded once, small and sure. “And the attendees?” she asked.

“All the nobles who back us have agreed to send sons — first sons are called, but many will be sending second sons saying that the first is needed in the front,” Selwin answered. “Many claim they must stay to raise armies, but their families will come in their place.”

“Fools,” she said. “They believe their sons will return to their homes after the week is done. Make certain the heralds send this in ink and on seal: if any of those nobles disappoint me, or even think to harm my son’s reign, they will be sent their son’s head.”

Selwin nodded and rolled his papers back into order and moved onto the next sheet. “The choir master will rehearse at dawn. The eastern chapel’s draperies will be checked twice. The captains request positions for noble banners along the procession, and the steward asks if the feast should serve three courses or four.”

Regina listened to everything and gave replies where it was needed. Every small item was a stitch in a garment she was sewing for a single shape: her son on a throne. In another life, when she might have acted colder and quicker, the other princes would have been buried and Arzan crushed long before. That time had not come. But the crown would. Her son would sit beneath it, and she would stand where the world could not ignore her hand. She would make sure of that.

She had waited, patient as stone, to see how the others would move before she struck. Yet when their pieces slid across the board, they did so exactly as she had expected—so plain, so predictable, it was almost comical. Hilarious, even. Now the time for waiting was over. The next month would go according to her design, step by step, and she would not allow a single hand to shift the pattern.

Once her attendant had gone through everything, they walked on in silence, her stride steady, Selwin’s steps half a beat behind. The rhythm of their march carried them through corridor after corridor, until Regina stopped before the entrance of another hallway.

Months ago, this place had bristled with guards. No one had been able to pass through without having an official summon. Now the doorway stood open, unguarded, as though anyone could wander in.

Selwin paused beside her. “Do you want me to go inside with you, Your Highness?” he asked.

Regina shook her head.

“I want him to hear what is happening from me. A couple deserves their private time, don’t you think?”

“As you wish, Your highness,” Selwin bowed his head deep and low and took a single step behind.

Regina drew in a quiet breath and moved into the hallway.

The air felt different here, still, heavy with dust and memory. Taking the castle itself had been easier than she had once imagined after that Assembly. Her husband had seen it in her eyes—that she would burn everything to ash if it meant claiming power—and instead of fighting, he had retreated on his own. There were many flaws in Sullivan, countless weaknesses, but he had always known one thing: when to surrender. When a battle was already lost. It was a skill Regina despised in herself, but one she had come to appreciate in her enemies.

She walked slowly now, the click of her heels echoing in the lonely passage. These were halls she had known for years, chambers she had once entered with her head bent and her hands folded. The tapestries were still on the walls, the old rugs still dulled with the same stains, but everything seemed… drained. Bleaker. As if even the stones carried defeat.

A thought twisted in her mind: how would he be taking this? Hollowed and colorless? Would his eyes be as tired as the walls? Or would he be rageful?

But when she stepped into the open garden, the answer cut against her expectations.

There, crouched among the flowerbeds, was Sullivan. His hair caught the late light, his back was bent in simple focus. He held a clay pot in one hand, tipping it carefully so the water trickled down into the soil at the base of a plant. A small smile rested on his face, so gentle, so utterly out of place in the shadow of a crumbling kingdom. He even spoke with his Knight, Roderic who stood on his side.

Regina’s lips parted slightly, but no words came. This was not the sight she had prepared herself for.

Had he given up on everything? She thought of the Assembly, of the way he had folded when the room turned. She had known he feared loss. She had also known, once, that he would go down with the house he built rather than watch it burn. Now he seemed to have chosen something else—quiet, ease, the little mercies of a life that refused to be sharp. He had tried, once, to keep her from taking everything. Had he really accepted defeat?

Sullivan straightened suddenly, wiping his hands on his trousers, and turned toward her as if he had only just noticed the cold line of her shadow. “I thought I felt a gaze on me,” he said. “What brings you here? I thought you were too busy planning your son’s coronation.”

Regina curled her lips. “I’m always busy,” she said and paused, watching him as if testing the air. “So you’ve heard news from outside?”

“No. It’s just the most basic conclusion. When is it?” he asked.

“This week,” Regina said. She put the fact down flat, like a tile. “You need to be there, Sullivan. You must put the crown on him. He needs to be seen as the legitimate heir you have chosen.”

He blinked, and for a moment the garden seemed to lean in to listen. “But I haven’t chosen him,” Sullivan said quietly.

“Do you think your opinion matters?” She said, her voice sharp. “You will do what I say. It will be easiest for us all.”

For a few heartbeats he said nothing. Regina felt the familiar battle map unroll between them: her plans, her threats, the old, thin lines where things could break. She had prepared for his refusal. She had imagined arguing until her throat was dry, imagined calling men, imagined using threats that left no doubt whose hand held the blade.

Instead Sullivan exhaled a small breath and looked resigned. “Okay,” he said. “I will be there.”

Regina nearly lost her words and pressed for why, but she did not ask. Her face remained a flat mask. Inside, a quick, sharp satisfaction moved through her like light through a slit. Outside, nothing changed.

“Even if I don’t think Eldric is suited to be king,” he continued, “I’ll be there. I might even advise him.”

Regina’s mouth made a thin line “You won’t be talking to him,” she said. “Or to anyone.”

“That’s a shame. He would have done well with my advice.”

“You can’t give advice, when your choices have left you nothing more than a prisoner in your own house.”

Sullivan’s laugh was quieter this time, edged with something that might have been pity. “True,” he admitted. “But not all my choices are sealed. Some still hang in the air. Maybe they will save me.”

“Arzan won’t be able to do anything this time,” she said. “He might be a strong Mage and had loyal subordinates, but it takes far more to win a civil war, and I will make sure he dies a cold death.”

Sullivan looked at her then. For the first time, something sparked in his eyes. “You have always underestimated your opponents,” he said as if it was a fact. “It has worked for you—strength, schemes, the slow turning of people’s loyalties. But you have grown used to winning because others were weaker. Now you meet someone who is not easily broken, and you call their success luck or the incompetence of your subordinates. Don’t rely on that habit. I want nothing more than to see you dead, Regina. Still, take that one piece of advice.”

She snapped instantly and frowned. “I don’t take advice from men who are going to be dead soon.”

Sullivan’s mouth twitched. “Then enjoy your certainty while you can,” he said softly. “Enjoy your last days of being sure.”

Regina turned back, knowing the conversation had come to an end.

Sullivan’s words rang inside of her. The sound of it made an off-key note in the corner of her mind. She felt it, then brushed it away the way one shakes water from a sleeve.

But it came back. She walked while her head was filled with thoughts of just one thing; that she might be wrong. She could have turned, asked for the why of his warning, stripped his words to the bone. She did not. Doubt was dangerous when nursed in public. Better to bury it under action.

By the time she reached the corridor where Selwin waited, the garden conversation had already faded from her mind. She was capable. She had always been capable of handling everything.

And she would do the same this time.

***

Kai moved through Balen’s workshop, the heat pressing against his face like a second skin. The forges roared on both sides of him, belching smoke and fire, while men darted back and forth with armfuls of metal, wood, and glowing crystals. Everywhere he looked, something was being shaped for war—swords stacked like grain, shields piled high, spears bristling from racks. Cannons lined one wall, half-assembled, their barrels glinting red with fresh polish. Drones buzzed overhead in their testing frames, while in a corner, smaller golems stomped in rigid, awkward steps under the eyes of tired workers.

It was chaos, but it was the kind of chaos born of purpose. The kind that thrummed with urgency. No one stopped to greet him, no one even noticed him as he moved deeper inside. That was perfect. Kai didn’t want to interrupt the rhythm. Since his announcement, the entire city—and the castle above it—had shifted into a different pace with everyone working harder to prepare for war.

But weapons were as equally important as people. Destructive artifacts even more so. But what had brought Kai here today mattered more than swords or cannons. He was here to check if Balen had succeeded with what they had discussed. If he had, it could decide not just the outcome of one battle, but the whole war.

He passed through heavy doors, into narrower passages where the noise didn’t fade but deepened, echoing. The shouting grew clearer the closer he came, one voice rising above all the rest—Balen’s. The blacksmith’s tone was sharp, commanding, yet layered with a strange enthusiasm that could cut through the exhaustion of men.

Kai finally reached the gate of the main chamber. Even before his hand touched the door, the hammering rattled through it. He pushed it open and froze.

The sight inside was more impressive than he had imagined.

In the center of the chamber stood three massive figures—metallic giants towering above the workers that swarmed around their feet. Blacksmiths hammered at plates the size of wagon doors, sparks spilling down like fiery rain. Chains rattled from the ceiling as cranes hoisted heavy parts into place, slotting them into frames that groaned under their own weight.

The golems loomed over everything. If Sentinel had been imposing, these would dwarf it. Their frames shouldered upward like towers of steel, each fitted with monstrous arms ending in siege weapons—hammers thick enough to splinter walls, drills meant to bore through stone, claws that could drag down gates. Their eyes—still empty sockets for now—glared hollowly at the chamber, as if waiting for the spark of life to turn them from iron statues into war machines.

The room shook with every strike of the hammers. And even the air reek of metal.

Kai’s lips parted slightly. For the first time in weeks, something cut through his carefully kept calm. These weren’t weapons. These were moving fortresses.

And if they worked as Balen promised, they would change everything.

He kept staring until Balen’s voice cut through the hammering.

“Impressive, isn’t it, Lord Arzan. I call them siege breakers. You’ll take forts easier with them. I guarantee that.”

The room quieted for a breath. Heads lifted; hammers hung in midair. A few men dared a look his way, but Balen’s glare snapped the noise back into motion. “Back to work!” the minotaur barked, and the rhythm resumed as if someone had struck a drum.

Kai let the sound wash over him. “They are impressive. Are these the only three you can deliver?”

Balen’s brow folded. “Yes.” He spat the word, then added, as if counting in his head, “If Tharnok helps, maybe a fourth. But he’s tied up overseeing the new designs—those new guard drones you asked for.” He glanced at the ceiling where a small swarm of testers buzzed. “Those are easier to make than these hulks.”

Kai’s mouth tightened. He had expected this. “Three are more than enough,” he said. “We have other means to break walls.”

He let the sentence hang and then shifted his weight so their eyes met. The noise of the workshop blurred; only Balen’s face stayed sharp. “I’m not here for the golems.”

Balen’s grin spread. “Are they ready?” Kai asked.

“They are. Drones that explode—those are child's work compared to this. You really gave me a great design with great seal work, Lord Arzan. You will be happy to see them.”

“Where are they?”

“In my office.” Balen said, then turned and fixed the workers with one last glare. “Make sure at least one of them is done before I come back. Understood?”

A chorus of murmured “Yes, master” followed. Balen hooked an elbow under Kai’s arm like a man guiding a guest. They moved through a long passage that smelled of oil and hot iron—corridors lined with half-made shields, racks of spears, a wall where hundreds of blueprints were pinned like a city map. Kai let his hands brush the cool metal as they passed. He remembered when this place had been a small forge and two rooms. Now it swallowed whole workshops and still grew.

That was a change he welcomed.

The steps changed pitch as they walked: nearer to the office the shouting thinned and the air turned cleaner, carrying faint aromas of ink and cooled steel. Balen pushed open a heavy door with a shoulder and stepped into a room lit by a single window. On the desk, sitting like a bird atop a pile of papers, was the thing Kai had come for.

Balen’s smile widened until the corners of his eyes crinkled. “That’s the messenger drone,” he said, as if introducing an old friend.

Dao of money Chapter 175

Chapter 175

Chen Ren had come to understand something about the world: there were many ways to make people talk. Some required silver, some required patience, and some required nothing more than the right ear in the right place. The most common way was to buy information. Every major city had its shadowy network of brokers, men and women who made their living whispering secrets for coins. Another was to scatter men across inns and taverns, listening as drink loosened tongues and gossip slipped free. With sharp senses, even a body forging realm cultivator could catch every slurred word, every careless slip. Chen Ren was almost certain Tang Boming had used both methods to gather the flood of knowledge he always seemed to possess.

But Chen Ren did not want to follow that road.

Money was easy to spend, difficult to protect. A broker who smiled today could sell him out tomorrow, and Chen Ren had lived long enough in the Chen Clan to know that information was guarded as tightly as cultivation manuals. As for placing men in taverns—who would he send? How long would it take before they earned trust, before rumor separated itself from truth? Too long, too messy. And every word still needed to be weighed and tested.

No. He had no patience for that. What he needed was information that was quick and clean, something he could use the moment he heard it.

He had thought of this even before their journey to Red Peak City. A simpler method: find someone who talked too much. A blabbermouth was worth more than a dozen spies, and thankfully, every city was full of them.

So, once they were settled, Chen Ren stepped out into the streets with Yalan beside him. A slight change in posture, a different rhythm in his step, and the mask hid his true features so well even his own clan would not know him. The city buzzed around them—merchants calling out wares, hawkers shoving food at passersby, drinkers already stumbling out of inns despite the hour. Somewhere in this sea of faces, Chen Ren knew, was a loose tongue waiting to betray its secrets.

Wang Jun had been left behind with a book. Luo Feng had gone to wander the seed market, chasing after rare sprouts and the chance of new books on spirit farming. Zhou Ping had been sent to scour the city’s markets. Alcohol, perfume, cloth, even dyes—if there was a coin to be made, Chen Ren wanted to know about it.

Red Peak City was no dusty backwater. Wealth flowed here in carriages and silk bundles, and merchants came from half the empire to taste a share of it. If he could find the right person, someone with loose lips and a weakness, he might draw out not only gossip but also business opportunities.

Beside him, Yalan’s voice slipped into his mind like a whisper of wind. “That face and robes. You look… unappealing.”

Chen Ren glanced down at himself. The robes were fine, cut from spirit-woven silk that shimmered faintly in the light. Lines of silver ran along the hems, catching the eye even when he wished they wouldn’t. Classy, expensive, the kind of clothing that turned heads. And they did—everywhere he walked, people stared. Yet he knew it wasn’t only the robes. The mask had given him a face sharper than his own, handsome to the point of arrogance, sculpted to draw attention rather than hide it. Exactly what he wanted.

“Unappealing?” He let a small smile curl at the corner of his mouth. “You know why I chose this look.”

Yalan gave him a side-eye, her whiskers twitching. “It feels less like you’re searching for someone to manipulate and more like you’re looking for a lover.”

Chen Ren visibly shuddered. “That’s the last thing I want. Just play along.” His gaze swept the street ahead, where tavern signs creaked in the afternoon breeze. “We’re almost at the ‘Wooden Gold Tavern’”

Yalan arched a brow. “In the afternoon? Who would even be there this early?”

Chen Ren’s smile widened. “Someone who loves alcohol and good food. The kind of person who talks too much, and exactly the person we want.”

The tavern was easy to spot, its wide red roof gleaming under the afternoon sun. Like most buildings in Red Peak City, it carried the color that had given the place its name. Chen Ren knew the place well from memory—its reputation, its patrons, and most importantly, the kind of talk that spilled freely within its walls.

He pushed open the heavy wooden doors without hesitation.

The air inside was warm, thick with the smell of stale wine and roasted meat. Yet the place was far from lively. Only a scattering of men sat around the tables, most of them mercenaries by the look of it. Their armor was battered, their blades resting casually at their sides. The scrape of tankards and the low murmur of conversation filled the room, but Chen Ren’s eyes moved quickly across them. These weren’t the kind of men who hoarded secrets—brutal, straightforward types at best. Nothing he wanted.

He strode past them anyway, boots clicking against the wooden floor, and claimed a table at the back. The largest one in the tavern. Yalan slid into the chair beside him and sprawled out.

A waiter hurried over, bowing with the careful respect given to someone who looked wealthy and important. Chen Ren ordered without hesitation: the finest alcohol they had and a plate of steak to go with it. When the man retreated, Chen Ren leaned back in his chair, settling into patience.

“You should have ordered something for me too,” Yalan said, her tone flat but her eyes glinting with amusement.

“You can share my steak,” Chen Ren replied, tilting his head toward her.

“I doubt it will be spirit beast meat.”

“This place is more about alcohol than food,” he said, lips curving slightly. “I’ll get you something proper once we’re done here. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours."

“You’re awfully confident.”

Chen Ren’s eyes flicked toward the door, already imagining who might stumble through. “Afternoon is when the worst of the young masters stagger in here, demanding wine. Half-drunk already, their tongues loose before the first cup even touches their lips.”

“And with a war going on?” Yalan asked softly. “Do you think they’ll still come?”

Chen Ren let out a quiet snort. “More, during a war,” he said, his tone certain. “These drunks are useless even if they’re born into the right families. When swords are drawn, no one cares about them. They’re left behind, ignored, and so they drink all the harder.”

Yalan only sighed, shifting into her seat, stretching as though she had settled in for a nap.

Chen Ren, meanwhile, let his ears wander. The mercenaries nearby spoke loud enough for half the room to hear. At first, their talk brushed against something interesting—a hunt in the Sinkhole, chasing some beast for its parts. His focus sharpened for a moment, but the subject passed as quickly as it came. Soon enough, the talk returned to what truly stirred their blood: prostitutes. Crude laughter, boasts, and comparisons filled the air, drowning out anything useful.

Chen Ren’s lip twitched in disappointment. Mercenaries were cultivators in name, but their ambitions rarely reached higher than their next cup of wine or warm bed.

Time slipped by in this haze of voices. The steak and alcohol arrived at last, carried by the waiter who bowed with exaggerated respect. No doubt he had mistaken Chen Ren’s bearing and robes for that of a powerful clan heir. That was fine. Illusions were meant to be believed.

Chen Ren tasted the steak first—decent enough, though nothing to impress. The alcohol burned more than it pleased, but he drank anyway, letting the image of indulgence build around him. He wasn’t fond of alcohol, but appearances mattered more than preference.

Even after half the meal was gone, the door remained quiet. No spoiled young masters barged in demanding cups, no loud voices spilling secrets with their arrogance. But Chen Ren did not mind. Patience was a blade he had learned to sharpen well. If it took another round of wine to keep the mask in place, so be it.

Yalan snorted beside him, eyes half-lidded. “I could have been exploring the city instead of sitting here. Checking on some… past matters.”

Chen Ren tilted his head, studying her. “What matters?”

“Just things I left unfinished.” She changed her posture to turn to his opposite side. “Nothing that concerns you.”

Chen Ren opened his mouth, ready to press Yalan further, but the creak of the tavern door broke his thought. A loud, grating voice followed almost instantly.

“Bring me the best wine you have! Young Master Yu has come to drink!”

Chen Ren’s head turned. The newcomer strode in with the swagger of someone who believed the world owed him respect. He was a burly man, his robes embroidered with gold threads that screamed of wealth, though the way he wore them made them seem more gaudy than noble. His long black hair was tied up with a bright ribbon, bouncing as he moved toward the counter.

The waiter who had served Chen Ren earlier stiffened, color draining from his face as the young master bore down on him.

“Where’s my wine?” he demanded, slamming a heavy palm on the counter.

The waiter swallowed, his voice trembling. “Young Master Yu… the boss said… you must first pay your tab before we can serve you more.”

The man’s nostrils flared. “Didn’t you already send it to my family?”

“We did,” the waiter stammered. “But there was no reply. We even went to your clan’s gates, but the guards said… you must pay for it yourself.”

Young master Yu’s face darkened. He stomped his foot so hard the floorboards rattled. “Nonsense! Lies! The great Yu Clan would never turn away their own young master.”

“I’m only repeating what happened…” The waiter edged backward, clutching his tray like a shield.

“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped, stepping forward with clenched fists. “Bring me the wine and food now or else!”

It looked as if the young master was about to strike the poor man. Around the room, the mercenaries kept drinking, their eyes glinting with amusement at the unfolding scene but not a single one moving to interfere.

Chen Ren’s gaze slid to Yalan. I told you so.

Yalan answered only with a soft, dismissive snort.

Pushing his chair back, Chen Ren rose and walked toward the counter. His steps were unhurried, deliberate, and yet each one drew eyes in the quiet tavern. The waiter noticed him first, his desperate gaze locking onto Chen Ren as if he were salvation itself.

But instead of helping, Chen Ren reached out and seized the waiter’s collar in one smooth motion.

The waiter’s eyes went wide as Chen Ren’s grip tightened on his collar.

“Don’t you hear the young master?” Chen Ren asked crudely. “He wants food and alcohol. Why aren’t you understanding your place and giving him what he wants?”

The man trembled. “It’s not my decision—it’s what the owner—”

Chen Ren cut him off sharply. “It doesn’t matter. Can’t you see? Young Master Yu is from a reputable family. By forcing him to make a scene in your tavern, you drag down his reputation. Do you really think you’ll keep your head if word of this spreads?”

The waiter’s face drained of blood. His knees seemed ready to buckle, and for a moment Chen Ren thought the man might faint. A pang of guilt flickered through him, and he resolved to leave a generous tip later. But the act was working—better than he had hoped.

Across from them, Young Master Xu’s scowl faded into surprise. Then his expression shifted, a pleased, almost smug smile tugging at his lips. His gaze lingered on Chen Ren, a spark of wonder glinting in his eyes.

Chen Ren turned smoothly, offering the man a shallow bow. “Young Master Yu, this waiter—and his owner—are nothing but fools. I’ll deal with them properly later. For now, if you wish to dine, why not join me? A man of your standing deserves better company. I would be honored to share a table with someone from such a distinguished family.”

Yu’s gaze flicked up and down, taking in Chen Ren’s robes of spiritual silk, the handsome face carved by the mask. After a moment, he gave a satisfied nod. “I would like that. Are you a traveler?”

“Yes. Of a sort.” Chen Ren inclined his head, voice smooth. “My name is Renjie. Why don’t you go ahead and take a seat at my table? I’ll be with you shortly, after I deal with this man.”

“Good. Good.” Young master Yu’s smile widened as he strutted toward the largest table at the back, clearly pleased with him.

As the young master moved away, Chen Ren loosened his grip on the waiter. With a subtle motion, he pressed a small pouch of coins into the man’s hand before letting go.

The waiter still stood frozen, clutching the pouch of coins as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the world. His eyes were wide, a man who had just glimpsed death in the space of a heartbeat was now handed a lot of money.

“Wha—why?”

Chen Ren leaned in and cleared his throat. “Just bring me the strongest alcohol you have and good food—whatever that man likes. Don’t question anything. I’ll cover it, and there’ll be another tip once I’m done.”

The sudden change left the waiter blinking, mouth half open, as though his mind could not catch up. But Chen Ren was already turning away, moving toward the back table where Young Master Yu had planted himself like a lord on a throne.

His gaze wasn’t on the wine, nor the food, but on Yalan. She sat there lazily, tail curling with bored grace, her feline eyes half-lidded as if the world itself wasn’t worth her time.

When Chen Ren slid into his seat, the man's chin tilted. “That cat is yours?”

Chen Ren’s lips curved. “Yes. A spirit beast I bought from a beast master. Just a hobby of mine.”

Yalan’s snort was soft, derisive, but Young master Yu didn’t even notice. His eyes widened instead, surprise and envy mixing on his face. “Must have cost a fortune.”

“A little,” Chen Ren admitted easily, and crossed his arms. “But I’m generous with money. A cultivator measures wealth in years, not coins.”

He lifted a glass and slid it across the table. “Here. Try this. It’s good. I’ve ordered more.”

He accepted it, lifting the drink with both eagerness and vanity. He took a sip, his frown melting into a grin. “Mm. It is good. You’re generous and well studied. Refined, even.”

Chen Ren waved the compliment away smoothly. “I could say the same. You carry yourself with distinction. Strong, dignified.”

The words hit their mark. Young master Yu's face flushed, pride blooming where anger had wilted earlier. “You have a good eye, Renjie. I’m from the Yu clan. Most here aren’t worth my time, but you—” he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret, “—you seem like someone worth knowing.”

Chen Ren returned the smile, his eyes warm, his posture open. “Then I would be honored to know such a personality as yours.”

But behind the mask of courtesy, his thoughts were sharp. He was never taught to not take free food and flattery from a smiling man… a fool who thinks himself clever is really the easiest prey of all.

Dao of money Chapter 174

Chapter 174

Like he had thought, Biyu already had a cluster of sect members packed into his room, each one talking over the other, dangling promises of glory and status. The tournament officials had assigned each participant a room for this exact reason, and sure enough, the recruiters circled like hawks.

Chen Ren stood outside with arms folded, waiting.

One by one, the visitors filed out. He saw the soured faces, as though Biyu had spat in their tea.

Once the last recruiter walked past the doorway, Chen Ren finally stepped inside.

The man on the bed didn’t even bother to look up.

“Get out!”

Chen Ren hadn’t spoken a word. For a moment, he almost smiled. Then, without raising his voice, he let a ripple of qi stir from his body—though it was a ripple, it was strong.

The air grew heavy, and the floorboards gave a low groan.

That finally earned him a glance. Biyu’s shoulders stiffened, and his eyes narrowed, but his tone softened. “What do you want?” he asked, standing up.

“I’m not here to recruit you,” Chen Ren said.

By this point, Chen Ren had realised certain things about cultivators; especially about how there were types of them. Some of them aimed for the heavens, wanting eternal life—freedom from mortal constraints. But there was another group, the ones who just wanted… a better life and money. Of course, they wanted to increase their cultivation, but not more than a better life and money.

And the man in front of him was the second type.

As soon as he said he didn’t want to recruit him, his eyes perked.

“Then… What do you want?” he raked a hand through his blonde hair.

“I’ll be direct, because I know you must’ve been tired by now. There’s a tournament I want you to join. Win or lose, you’ll be paid in spirit stones just for standing in the ring.”

The word spirit stones changed the air. Greed and hesitation flickered across Biyu’s face, and when Chen Ren drew out his sect token, the decision was made. The faint glow from the carved jade, the seal of authority, silenced any doubts of his identity.

“I’ll tell you no more than this,” Chen Ren said, slipping the token back into his sleeve. “Six months from now, be there in Meadow Village if you are interested. It’s not very far from here…” Chen Ren gave the simplest way to reach the village, but by the end of his explanation, the man was frowning.

“And what if it just turned out to be a waste of my time?”

Chen Ren didn't reply and simply flicked his fingers. A single spirit stone arced through the lamplight and landed with a soft thud on the wooden floor between them. Its glow spread faintly across the walls.

Biyu’s hand darted down faster than he meant it to. His thumb ran across the smooth surface, and the greed in his eyes hardened into belief. Spirit stones were rare enough for rogue cultivators; to be given one as a mere promise was something else entirely.

“I’ll be there,” Biyu said at last.

Chen Ren turned without another word.

With the display of a spirit stone and spatial ring, at the very least, Biyu would grow curious enough to seek out Meadow Village when the months had passed. That was all Chen Ren needed.

With that matter settled, he didn’t linger in Xianglu Town. There was little point. The tournament still dragged on, but his interest in watching more hopefuls swing fists and blades was shallow at best. More importantly, if Wang Jun kept lying dormant inside the box, there was no doubt the proud head would raise a storm the moment he was let out. Chen Ren had no patience for that kind of tantrum.

So they set out for Red Peak City.

The roads were undeniably long, dust rising under each roll of their carriage, and Chen Ren let the days fall into rhythm. Mornings, he would call halts at small streams or roadside clearings, tempering flesh and bone with body cultivation drills until his muscles burned and his breathing grew sharp. Afternoons belonged to his mind, Wang Jun’s arrogant voice never failing to cut across his concentration with jabs, boasts, and scorn. Evenings, when the light dimmed and the campfire cracked, Chen Ren sat in silence, forcing himself to dredge up every memory of Red Peak City that the body’s former owner had left behind.

Most of them were like poison.

His predecessor had been careless, a man who treated enemies like weeds that would never grow back. But weeds always returned, and sometimes with sharper thorns. Faces surfaced in his mind: fellow clan members wronged, rivals mocked, alliances shattered.

One memory stood out clearer than the rest. A banquet. His predecessor had smashed a jar of strong liquor across the face of a young master from the Huang clan—glass, blood, and alcohol soaking the man’s eye. He had nearly been blinded. What followed was not a duel, not an apology, but weeks of simmering tension between the clans that could have ignited into bloodshed at any spark.

Chen Ren let out a quiet breath as the fire cracked. No wonder so many wanted him dead. No wonder so many women would rather bury a blade in him than spare a word.

He touched the inside of his sleeve, where Hong Yi’s face-changing mask lay hidden. It was worth more than spirit stones to him now. With it, he could walk into Red Peak City as a stranger, learn the currents of its politics, and move unnoticed. Without it… revealing his face was nothing but an invitation to old grudges and fresh trouble.

Trouble he had no interest in shouldering.

In this era, chastity was important for a woman, one that everyone took very seriously, and Chen Ren’s predecessor had trampled it often with his loose mouth. Rumors, real or imagined, lingered in the mind of others far longer than wine did on the tongue, and Chen Ren had no desire to shoulder that mountain of resentment.

Yet even with all his unease, there was a spark of anticipation burning in him. But more than the city itself, there was the sinkhole that he was excited to see.

He had seen it in his predecessor's memories, but well, the truth was, memories were a poor substitute for sight.

The first glimpse came as they crested the main road through the mountains. The path wound narrow, curling upward through stone passes, until at last the horizon widened.

Red Peak City stood above, even its foundations carved from a mountain peak long ago, the stone flattened by the hands of cultivators whose names were now lost to dust.

From this height, Chen Ren could see far: rolling hills painted green with pine, a silver river winding through the valley, caravans like ants moving beneath the sun.

But none of it mattered.

All eyes, his included, were drawn to the sinkhole.

He inhaled sharply and forgot to exhale for the briefest moment.

The sinkhole dominated the land like a wound in the earth, vast enough to swallow a city whole. The edges were curved downward in perfect darkness, as though the heavens themselves had pressed a thumb into the soil and left behind a void.

It was huge, whole and void.

From its depths, mist coiled upward in slow, endless streams. Not mere fog, Chen Ren could feel it from where he stood. Qi. so dense it had form, curling in pale waves that shimmered faintly in the light.

He narrowed his eyes. Even mortals, dull to the flow of heaven and earth, would see this haze. For a cultivator, it was blinding. He could almost taste it in the air, invigorating, seeping into his pores without effort.

Then he stilled.

Something moved along the sinkhole’s edge. A shadow, broad-winged, gliding in slow circles. Another followed, then a third, wings beating against the rising mist. Beasts. Not ones he knew, their forms strange, part avian yet too large, their cries muffled by distance.

Chen Ren’s grip tightened on the window's edge. If such creatures soared freely along the mouth of the pit, what lurked in the depths below?

The road bent onward toward Red Peak City, but his gaze stayed on that void. He felt as though it watched him back.

Wang Jun’s voice drifted out, lazy but edged with interest.

He was propped up by Luo Feng, his gaze fixed on the sinkhole as well.

“There’s definitely a higher-realm beast down there,” he said. “Maybe more than one. Hibernating.”

Chen Ren turned his head. His eyes narrowed. “You think the qi is coming from the beasts, not some artifact like the clans claim?”

“Both,” Wang Jun replied without hesitation. “I’d wager the beasts are leaking qi without even knowing it, enough to keep weaker creatures away. But this pit… no. Too unnatural. A place like this was carved open for a reason. I wouldn’t be surprised if a cultivator’s entire inheritance slumbers down there. And I doubt anyone’s mapped even half of it.”

Chen Ren nodded slowly. That lined up with his own suspicions. If the local clans had the strength to claim such a prize, the sinkhole would already be theirs. But they didn’t. Even united, they would bleed themselves dry to bring down a single higher-realm beast. Against multiple? Their bloodlines would end in the pit.

His gaze lingered on the void, mist curling upward like breath from some hidden giant.

Then a soft brush against his side drew him back. Yalan had padded close, her paw pressing lightly against his leg, her feline eyes narrowing as if she could read the thoughts forming in his mind.

“You’re not planning to dive in there, are you?” she asked. “Compete with half the clans for whatever artifact might be inside?”

Chen Ren gave her a small smile and shook his head. “I still like living. Jumping into that pit for treasure is just a fast way to make every clan in the region my enemy.”

“Then what are you scheming?” Luo Feng asked.

“I’m reaching the peak of the first step of body cultivation. To temper my bones permanently, I’ll need the blood of a beast. A tier two at least. Preferably at the peak.” His gaze drifted back to the sinkhole. “And I’m wondering if I’ll find one worthy enough down there.”

“Why not hunt around Meadow instead? You know the land. There’ll be a tier-two beast somewhere, and you’ll have home ground advantage.”

“What I need isn’t just blood. I need a beast with strong bones, harder than the ones near our sect. None of them are enough for what I want. Around the edges of the sinkhole, though…” His eyes lingered on the mist-shrouded abyss. “There, I might find one worth the effort, and sharpen my skills in the process.”

Yalan’s tail flicked once. “You can't even use much qi without risking your star space breaking. How do you plan on fighting something like that?”

Chen Ren gave her a half-smile. “The same way I always fight. With tricks. We’ll worry about the beast once we find it.”

Before anyone could answer, Zhou Ping’s voice called from the driver’s bench.

“We’re close to the city, Sect Leader Chen. The gates are in sight.”

Almost on cue, Whiskey stirred from his nap, blinking blearily at the carriage walls before slumping back into his seat with a grunt.

Chen Ren chuckled, then glanced toward Wang Jun. The man’s expression was already sour.

“I’ll let you out once we reach the inn,” Chen Ren said. “At this point, I should just make the box bigger, throw in a book, and leave you there.”

Wang Jun clicked his tongue, though a spark of amusement slipped through.

“Some spatial arrays on it would do nicely.”

“I don’t have the means to carve spatial arrays.”

“I can teach you,” Wang Jun replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Chen Ren narrowed his eyes. “And why is it you always reveal some new piece of knowledge only when it benefits you?”

“To keep myself useful,” Wang Jun said without hesitation.

Chen Ren shook his head with a low laugh, but his mind was already turning, tracing possibilities. Spatial runes. The uses were endless.

Wang Jun probably knew the secrets behind a spatial ring. Chen Ren could feel it—the old head always had that thing about him, the kind that came from walking through eras most people only read about in crumbling jade slips. But knowing was one thing, having the means was another. Even mighty sects couldn’t casually forge such treasures. Spatial rings weren’t like swords or talismans; they were rarities pulled out of ancient tombs, dusted off from forgotten ruins, and passed down like heirlooms.

Anji had once told him that the few rings the Void Blade Sect owned were relics, each older than the sect’s current generation of elders. Some might even date back to Wang Jun’s own youth. Chen Ren tapped his fingers against the box on his lap, eyes narrowing.

Expanding its space with runes wasn’t the same as crafting a ring, but it would be a step in that direction. He could practice, and lay the foundation. A way to dip his feet into the vast river of artificing.

His thoughts spun faster. Maybe the sect really did need its own artificer branch. Hong Yi and Feiyu could use it well… but both were only two people. Runes and treasures ate up time like a beast devoured meat. To grow strong, the sect needed more. More hands, more minds, more cultivators willing to burn incense and nights over spirit ores and runes.

The carriage jolted, slowing to a crawl before finally stopping. Chen Ren leaned out the window. At the gate, Zhou Ping was speaking with the guards. A small line of carriages clogged the entrance, wheels creaking, horses snorting impatiently.

Chen Ren’s gaze lingered on the guards. Different faces than what he remembered from memories. Good. Even so, Zhou Ping had to bargain, give them some coins and nod more than once before the armored men finally waved them through. Chen Ren exhaled softly. Cities never changed; gates were always a wall of obstacles, and guards always enjoyed stretching their authority. Always.

Once past the threshold, the city unfolded. It laid bare, welcoming their caravan.

Red Peak.

There were familiar roofs of dark tiles sloping beneath the afternoon sun, one after another. The streets were alive—hawkers shouting over each other, children weaving through the crowd, and cultivators in robes of every cut and color. Each style marked a different faction, and together they painted the streets with rivalry and uneasy peace.

Chen Ren’s chest tightened. Memories stirred from the predecessor. Years had passed, yet the city looked almost the same, as if time here dared not move too quickly.

Zhou Ping guided the carriage through twisting streets until the tiled roofs gave way to the quieter edges of the city. It all went by so fast yet so slow, he absorbed as much as he could.

When they reached where the lamps grew fewer and the noise of the markets faded, a squat three-story building stood beneath the shadow of old cypress trees.

HEISHU INN

Big, bold letters carved themselves in front of it.

Few people lingered in this district. Most travelers preferred the busy inns near the central square, where rumors and wine flowed freely. Heishu was different—too far, too quiet, the sort of place that only those with something to hide would choose.

Chen Ren stepped down first, his boots crunching against the gravel path. His eyes lingered on the dark windows. Strange… an inn with so few guests should have long gone under. Unless the owner has another way of surviving.

He didn’t think further and moved forward. From behind, Luo Feng grabbed Wang Jun. Zhou Ping, Yalan and Whiskey followed them.

The door creaked open. A man in plain gray robes emerged, his aura faint, but it was there. His eyes swept over Chen Ren and the others, pausing just long enough to make his wariness clear. Rogue cultivator, no doubt. Someone who had learned to survive by watching too much and saying too little.

The man didn’t bow, and didn't offer the usual inn owner’s smile. Instead, he walked around the desk, and silently led them to the first floor, showing them the first set of rooms in the corridor. “Rooms are clean.”

Chen Ren flicked a small spirit stone toward him. The owner caught it, weighing it in his palm. “Don’t disturb us,” Chen Ren said evenly. “And if anyone comes sniffing for news, you’ll let me know.”

The owner tucked the stone away without so much as a raised brow. “Food will come when you call for it. Beyond that, I ask nothing.”

Chen Ren inclined his head. He liked men who knew when to stay quiet.

Without another word. They walked in.

Inside, the room was modest but clean. A low bed, a lacquered table, and shutters that sealed tight against prying eyes. Chen Ren sank onto the mattress, its straw filling rustling under him. Not the most comfortable, but this would do.

He pulled out Wang Jun from the box and placed him on the bed.

“So… what now?” Yalan stretched on the floor.

“Very simple. First, we gather information. We need to know what the clans have been up to, who’s grown fat, who’s grown weak. Only then can we plan.

“If we want the medallion, we don’t need to steal it. That’s just asking for problems. We make ourselves strong enough, valuable enough, that the Chen Clan has no choice but to sit down at the table with us. At that point… we can ask for the medallion in exchange for the business.”

Luo Feng raised two fingers. “That… is assuming they don’t know its worth. If they do, it won’t leave their hands.”

Wang Jun snorted. “They let you walk out of the city with one already. Do you really think they understand what they hold? Hmph. If they had the faintest clue, it would never have left the clan’s ancestral vaults.”

“All right. Let’s say you’re right. How do you plan to get this information? The clans won’t exactly hand it to you,” Yalan looked at him with a huge question in her eyes.

Chen Ren’s smile widened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “That part is even simpler.”

He raised two fingers.

“I need two things. Good alcohol…” He paused, his grin turning sly. “…and a dumb young master.”

Magus Reborn Chapter 282

Chapter 282

Kai walked through the long hallways of his estate, the echo of his boots steady against the polished stone. His subordinates followed a few steps behind, their silence was heavy and their gazes darted between one another as if they could sense what was about to come. Tradition said he should have called for a gathering, a crowd large enough to hear him all at once. That was the proper way, the ceremonial way to announce his bid for the throne. But time was not something they could afford to waste on formality.

The moment the balcony came into view, Kai didn’t hesitate. He lifted his hand, spoke the spell under his breath, and leapt. Wind wrapped around his legs and waist like invisible ropes, holding him aloft as he rose higher. Below, his subordinates rushed to the railing, eyes wide, their mouths parting with surprise.

“Don’t worry,” Kai said. “You will hear everything.”

He climbed higher into the sky, until the whole city spread beneath him like a living map. He saw everything that was happening below him. The streets bustled with movement—merchants calling out from their stalls, workers shouting to one another over the noise of hammers of the forges, wagons rattling over the cobblestones. Near the gates, long lines of travelers streamed inward. Patrols in clean armor marched their rounds, while near the Adventurers’ guild, a group of young hunters dragged carts piled with the carcasses of wolves as proof of their bounty.

Kai hovered there, drinking it all in. His lips curved into a smile. So much time had passed. So much had been built from the dust and the ruin. Now, the city was alive again, its heartbeat strong.

And yet, beneath that pulse, he could feel the tremor of unease. Rumors swirled in taverns and whispered at marketplaces everyday—rumors of civil war, of the throne trembling, of Kai himself stepping into the struggle for the crown. He could see it in the way strangers looked up at his estate, and hear it in the hush that sometimes followed his name.

But soon there would be no guessing, no uncertainty. His next words would strip away all doubt, and the truth would stand firm.

Trade with the rest of the cities in Sylvan Enclave had already been bolstered, and by tomorrow the news would spread like fire through dry grass. And when it did, the city—and the world beyond its gates—would know exactly where he stood.

Hence, it was his duty to make sure that when word spread, the first feeling his people carried wasn’t panic, but confidence. Confidence in him. Confidence in the army that stood behind him.

Kai raised his hands, fingers moving with sharp precision as he wove two spells at once. The runes of light shimmered at his fingertips. Already, people had begun to notice him—figures standing on rooftops, pointing, shouting, their voices carrying faintly through the wind.

Then the first spell burst.

A radiant light bloomed above the city, brighter than day, flooding every street and alley until shadows vanished. For several heartbeats the city glowed, and even beyond the walls the brilliance was seen—travelers on distant roads stopped in their tracks, blinking in awe. Every head turned upward, every mouth paused mid-word.

Chatter erupted like a storm.

Then Kai released the second spell.

A pulse of mana rippled outward from him, soft as breath, yet vast as the sea. It swept through the air and brushed past every soul. Voices stilled, footsteps slowed, and silence rolled through the city like a tide receding. When the wave settled, Kai’s voice filled the ears of every man, woman, and child in Veralt as though he stood beside them.

“Citizens of Veralt,” he said in a steady voice. “I am Arzan Kellius, speaking to you now. I know this is sudden, but I ask for your attention. I want to speak with you about what is happening in the kingdom, and about the rumors that have spread regarding me, and my intentions. Many of those rumors… are true.”

The words struck like a hammer against an anvil. He allowed the silence to linger, and gave them space to grasp the meaning. Rumors could be doubted, twisted by gossip. But words from their lord’s own lips were iron.

“The kingdom,” he continued, “is now caught in a civil war. Prince Thalric Lancephil has struck the first blow, and soon the other two princes will rise to claim their right to the throne. The struggle is no longer a question of if, but when.”

Kai paused again, his gaze sweeping the city below. In the streets, no one moved. His voice alone carried.

“And aside from this civil war,” he said at last, his voice cutting clean through the silence, “I must tell you something else. By right of the medallion granted to my mother by King Sullivan himself, I too have entered the contest for the throne of this kingdom.”

Murmurs washed through the crowd. Kai let them roll, then cut through them with steady words.

“And I plan to use that right,” he said. “I will enter this war. But you do not need to fear for your homes. No blood will fall on Veralt, Veridis, Veyrin, or anywhere in the Sylvan Enclave. I will see to that.”

A few people shouted back—half relief, half disbelief. Kai did not soften his next line.

“That is not to say this will be easy. It will be hard. It will be bloody. It will reshape the kingdom.” He spoke each word as though setting stones into place. “I will not pretend to justify war. I would never have joined if I believed any of the princes could lead us to a better future.”

Faces tilted up at him.

His eyes caught a few reactions. On a low rooftop, a little boy clutched his mother’s sleeve. An old woman pressed her hand to her mouth. But he didn’t stop.

“These princes watched while the land starved. When the beast wave came, they did not move. If I had not carried my own men into Vanderfall, the palace would have done nothing while our streets drowned in the plague. I will fight against that!”

At that, cheers broke out from several blocks. Some climbed onto rooftops and bowed, smiling at one another as if the whole thing were a festival announcement.

The reactions came in fragments: a drum of approval in a tavern, a woman whispering a prayer, a child pointing and laughing.

Kai watched each fragment the way a smith watches a blade being heated. He knew an old truth about speeches: people moved most by what they felt, not what they heard. Anger at neglect, grief for lost kin, hope for safety—those were the cords he could pluck. The royal family had left those cords taut and exposed; it was not cruel to use them, he thought. It was duty.

He lowered his voice, letting the city lean in. “I will not let the throne forget us again,” he said. “If you stand with me, I will protect your homes. I will end the hunger that took our children. I will make sure no lord above us forgets the faces of those he rules over.”

Silence held, heavy and expectant. From below, someone began to chant his name. It spread, first in one block, then another, steady as a growing drumbeat. Kai kept his face calm.

“I will not force this on you. There will be no forced conscriptions,” he said and meant it. “We have been taking more people into the army, but it is not mandatory. I would never ask that of you.”
He watched faces upturned toward him. “War is dangerous. If you feel you cannot fight, you may stay. I promise your home will be safe.”

A murmur ran through the crowd like a low current. Some heads nodded; some mouths pressed thin with worry. Kai raised a hand to quiet them and went on.

“For those who wish to stand with me,” he said, “the estate will take you in. We will give you armor and train you for what comes next. If you do not want to fight at the front, there are other ways to help. We will build workshops to make armor. We will form logistics and supply units to keep our forces moving. We need tailors, blacksmiths, wagon drivers, cooks — men and women who can keep a city and an army fed and clothed. You can be guards who patrol the streets and keep the peace.”

He named jobs like a captain laying out a plan: short, clear, practical. The crowd listened and small conversations began.

“All of those who join me will be rewarded,” Kai promised. “Land, coin, respect, glory. I only ask one thing: understand why I do this. It is for the kingdom. It is for our future. It is for your fellow citizens!”

He let the idea sink in and spoke again. “A bad lord leaves the people to rot. History is full of kingdoms that fell because one man above them did not know how to rule. If a leader is weak or blind, those under him grow careless. I will not be that kind of lord. I will learn. I will fight. I will win and then I will bind this land together again.”

At the last words, something in the crowd shifted. The fear that had tightened faces loosened into hope. Then the city answered.

From street to street the cry spread until the whole valley echoed with it.

“Glory to Lord Arzan!” they shouted.

“Long live Arzan!”

The applause was deafening. It washed over Kai like a tide, fierce and warm. He looked down at the sea of bowed heads and raised his hand once, not in command this time but in thanks.

For a moment he let himself share in the noise, and then he turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the war waited, and the work truly began.

Kai smiled, but the smile had a weight to it. He knew war would touch them all. It might not burn through Veralt, but even one family member gone to the frontlines would change a household forever. He could not pretend otherwise. He was not strong enough to win this war alone. Some choices simply had to be made to keep peace, and this was one of them.

For a long moment he let the cheers wash over him, floating above the city while the wind cooled the heat on his face. He looked down: the neat rows of houses, the dark green sweep of the Vasper Forest, the distant line of the border walls. All he could do was end the fighting as quickly as he could. It would be the hardest thing since he woke up as Arzan, but hard would not stop him. It had to be done.

When he drifted back toward the estate, the place was alive with movement—people lingering in the gardens, servants whispering in knots, and banners still shaking from the shout of the crowd. He settled before the balcony where his men waited; Amara was also there, looking up at him, and Killian stood with his arms folded.

“Looks like the whole kingdom will know where I stand soon enough,” Kai said.

Killian nodded once. “It will. But some people won’t be happy about it.”

Kai let out a short, rueful sound. “They’re never happy with what I do,” he said. “Still, it's a pity I won’t be there to watch their reactions when they hear I have formally entered the war.”

Amara’s eyes flashed at that, half worry, half pride. A few of the men exchanged glances.

Kai folded his hands behind his back and turned to look back at the city. The city hummed below, alive and fragile. He had given his word to protect it. Now he had to keep it.

***

Thalric watched the chaos with a strange calm. Another slab of stone tore loose from the ruined wall of Fort Minith and came crashing down, crushing men beneath its weight. Screams split the air, mingled with the wet crunch of bone and the metallic tang of blood that stung his nose. Enemy soldiers fell. A handful of his own did too. Yet a smile stretched across his face.

They were winning.

Soon Fort Minith would fall, and with it the keys to three major ports in the region. From there, his campaign could spread like fire, one step closer to the throne.

His men swarmed the battlefield. Infantry clashed steel on the courtyard stones. Archers picked off defenders from half-collapsed walls. By the shattered gate, soldiers pressed forward, cutting down the last desperate defenders. Beyond, the interior of the fort lay open, a bleeding prize waiting to be claimed.

Even the duel of Mages above was hollow theater. He could see it in the way their spells flickered, in the hesitation of their movements. Most of the fort’s sorcerers had already fled at the first word of his charge, throwing their lot in with his brothers instead. What remained were the loyal greenhorns that were as stupid as they came.

Thalric’s smile cooled into a frown as he thought about that. Men and women who could have served him elsewhere now lay broken in their foolish loyalty. They had clung to old allegiances, blind to the truth—that he was the kingdom’s only hope.

He sighed, shaking his head as though at children who refused to learn. Then he looked to the circle of Knights around him—five men armored in steel, shields polished and raised, and one lone Mage, robes darkened with soot. Their faces were grim as if they were waiting.

“Let’s go,” Thalric said and commanded. “We’ll end this bloodshed. I’ll take the lead.”

The Knights tightened their grip on their shields, ready to catch the next strike meant for him. Not that he expected they’d need to.

He strode forward and entered the ruined gate. A squad of enemy soldiers spotted him at once. They broke from cover with a desperate shout, blades flashing in the smoke.

Thalric only grinned and stepped forward.

The first swung high, steel whistling toward his throat. He bent low, smooth as water, the blade missing by inches. His sword hissed upward, slicing clean through the slit of the man’s visor. The soldier’s scream died in a gurgle as he collapsed, and Thalric stepped over the body without breaking stride.

The second soldier faltered, stumbling back at the sight of his comrade crumpled to the ground. Before he could flee, one of Thalric’s Knights surged forward, shield raised, sword plunging. The man’s scream cut through the din of battle, but Thalric paid it no mind. His boots carried him onward, steady and unhurried, toward the stairway that led to the walls.

The fighting above was all but finished. Clusters of men still hacked at one another with the stubborn rage of cornered beasts, but the outcome was clear. The fort belonged to him now.

Thalric’s gaze swept the carnage, but all the noise and blood blurred together until his eyes fixed on one man. Captain Rurik Leinfort. The commander of the fort. He fought like a wolf, his blade driving into one of his men, his boot kicking another from the parapet. For a moment, it almost impressed Thalric until the Captain turned and saw him.

Their eyes met. The Captain faltered.

“Captain,” Thalric called and lifted his free hand. “Stop the resistance. I have already won.”

The man straightened, jaw clenched. “Prince Thalric,” he shouted back. “You cannot betray your father. You need to understand—”

He never finished.

Thalric’s fingers twitched, and a bolt of lightning cracked through the air. It slammed into the Captain’s chest, hurling him backwards. Smoke curled from his armor as he writhed on the stones.

“Kill him,” Thalric said, turning away before the man had even stopped twitching. His words were directed at the nearest Knight. “And put his head on a stake for everyone to see.”

The Knight bowed sharply. “At once, Your Highness.” He strode forward with precise, practiced movements, sword already sliding free of its sheath.

Thalric smiled, pulling off his helm. The cool air kissed his damp brow as he looked over the conquered fort. Smoke rose in lazy trails. Corpses lay sprawled in the mud. The cries of the wounded mixed with the cheers of his own men. It was a song he enjoyed.

He turned to the Knights who remained by his side. “Get everyone of age trained for the battles ahead. The girls can take support roles. And if they’re pretty…” He let the word linger, a cruel gleam in his eyes. “…use them to give the men incentive to work harder. We have many battles coming.”

The nearest Knight lowered his head. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

Thalric stepped forward and leaned casually on the blood-slick railing, overlooking the field beyond. The last scattered skirmishes of resistance raged below, but he ignored them. They no longer mattered.

Beyond the fort’s broken gates, he suddenly saw a rider galloping hard, cloak whipping behind. Dust clouded the horse’s hooves. Even from this distance, Thalric recognized the bearing and the urgency. He was a messenger and there was only one reason why a messenger would come looking for him.

His grin returned feeling eager than ever.

“So,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as the rider drew closer. “The other players have finally made their move.”

Magus Reborn Chapter 281

Chapter 281

Kai moved with Claire up the stone stairs toward the meeting room. The morning sun had only just climbed over the horizon, yet a heaviness already pressed on him. With the list of duties waiting, he felt as if the day would blur past and vanish into evening before he had even caught his breath.

Training as an Enforcer, keeping up with his own mana cultivation, sorting through stacks of recruitment files—that alone was enough to fill his hours. But there was more. He still had to meet Balen and Tharnok in the workshop to hear how the weapons and golems were coming along, not to mention a hundred other tasks that clawed for his attention. Contesting for the throne was no simple ambition. In fact, it was probably the hardest challenge he’d ever taken, especially when most of the people working under him didn’t even realize what he was aiming for until not long ago.

And now this—another report from the Watchers. It had pulled him from the rhythm of his morning, and though he tried to keep his focus steady, his mind wandered. His agents had been restless shadows in every corner of the kingdom, moving even while Ansel was away in Ashari. And he was sure that they were the one of the first people to know the news about Thalric’s coronation.

But they hadn’t sent any big news after that. For once, he hoped that the silence meant stability rather than storm. He could only hope that the situation hadn’t worsened.

The stairs curved, and the hall narrowed toward the council chamber. Kai glanced sideways at Claire, her boots soft against the stone steps. “Do you know what this is about?” he asked.

Claire shook her head, her braid swaying slightly. “No, Lord Arzan. Knight Killian only said to bring you.”

Kai gave a small nod. His jaw tightened at all the possibilities that ran through his mind and he lengthened his stride. Whatever it was, it couldn’t wait.

With that, they reached the heavy oak doors of the meeting room, tall enough to dwarf both of them.

Without pausing, without so much as a knock, Kai pushed them open.

Every gaze inside turned toward him. He immediately realised that the seats were already full. He had arrived last.

Inside the chamber, the gathered faces reminded Kai of just how much weight now sat on his shoulders; how serious the matter at hand were. Francis and Killian—his most trusted supporters—were at the front. Alongside them sat Feroy, Gareth, Orion, Klan, and Jack from the Sorcerer’s Tower. A handful of others filled the remaining seats, and all of them were men and women he had pulled back to Veralt after the Assembly.

Only Balen and Tharnok were absent, buried in the depths of the workshop, too busy forging steel and stone into weapons and golems. And he didn’t blame them, they were needed there, and that was exactly what they were doing.

All of them stood up when he entered the room in unison.

Kai nodded and crossed to the head of the table. Behind him, Claire followed silently, taking her own place as a member of the council.

He didn’t bother with greetings; just sat on his chair.

Time was too precious for pleasantries. Once they were all seated, Kai swept his gaze across the chamber before settling on Francis.

“What did the Watchers say?”

Francis drew a slow breath. His hands rested against the table, but his jaw was tight, and his eyes betrayed strain. “A lot, my lord. We gathered much about Thalric’s movements, even if we failed to place a proper spy inside his inner circle. And we’ve learned details on the other two princes as well.”

Kai studied him for a heartbeat, then leaned forward slightly. “And I’m guessing none of it is good.”

A grim smile flickered across Francis’s face before vanishing. “No, Lord Arzan. If I had my way, I’d ask Goddess Lumaris herself to sweep the princes from the world, so no blood need spill on the earth. But reality is far grimmer.” He sighed loud.

“Prince Thalric has begun to move on his own. He’s striking at forts he couldn’t secure completely through his followers and forcing them under his banner. Many of those garrisons are already divided, their loyalties split. That inner strife is making it easier for him to claim them. His army grows with every passing sunrise—several hundred recruits a day, most of them conscripts chasing illusions of honor and glory. The momentum is his, and it is building.”

“That sounds just like Thalric,” Kai said at last. “We already know his ideology is to take everything he needs and wants without a regard to anyone else.”

Francis inclined his head. “The Watchers believe—and I share their view—that his pace will slow before long. Logistics will catch up with him. But by then, he’ll already have locked down a wide stretch of territory.”

That got Kai thinking. His eyes narrowed as a certain line of thought crossed his mind. He spoke out loud, “It’ll take time before he can stabilize it enough that he won’t need to keep looking over his shoulder. Until then, he’s vulnerable.”

“Precisely,” Francis agreed. “That, I suspect, is why the other two princes remain quieter. They’re waiting and watching. But well, we should make no mistake because they, too, are setting their pieces on the board and making their moves.”

“What… kind of moves?” Gareth asked from the side.

“According to the Watchers, the second prince, Aldrin, has been reaching out to the Alparca Kingdom’s royal family. He has sent delegations laden with gold and promises, you know, offering them influence if they back his claim. Not only them, he’d extended his hand to every neighboring realm capable of sending aid.”

Kai’s face darkened at the thought—he looked around only to realise that several faces mirrored his expression.

“It’s reckless and stupid!” Feroy spoke. “He’s dragging outsiders into our civil war.” He made eye contact with Kai and frowned.

“Stupid, yes,” Francis said with a shake of his head. “But the Watcher who managed to secure reliable intelligence insists Aldrin is confident. He believes the foreign crowns won’t try to seize the kingdom outright. Still, as you know, there are no guarantees. A King’s nature is to expand his borders. And what better chance than another realm tearing itself apart? A civil war in another country is the best way to go at it.”

Murmur swept through the people, heads nodding at that.

“And what of Eldric and Regina?” Kai’s question halted the murmurs.

Truthfully, he cared the most about the two of them.

Compared to Regina, the other claimants felt almost trivial. Mortals, really. They could muster soldiers, lean on old Dukes, play their little games of power, but in the end, Kai was confident he could crush their efforts with his own strength and the tricks he’d honed. Regina, though… She was different. A thorn lodged deep, impossible to ignore.

Her ties to Maleficia gave her reach he couldn’t measure, and that gnawed at him. The alliance she represented was a shadow he barely understood, one with claws hidden beyond his sight. More than the princes, she was the one he wanted to track, the one whose every move mattered.

So when Francis finally spoke again, his words caught Kai off guard. “First Prince Eldric is barely doing anything.”

“Huh? It’s all quiet?”

“Yes,” Francis confirmed. “Hermil is very, very quiet. None of the royal family has been seen. And King Sullivan… it seems he hasn’t left his chambers.”

A crease formed on Kai’s brow. “Do you think he is—”

Before the sentence was finished, Killian cut in.

“We don’t know that yet, Lord Arzan. But if anything had happened to the king, Regina would be the first to announce it. She’d put Eldric on the throne the very next day.”

Kai let the words settle, then gave a slow nod. That much was true. Regina wouldn’t waste such an opportunity. But if the king still lived, why hadn’t she moved? Was she biding her time, watching the chaos as Thalric and Aldrin pushed their pieces forward? Or waiting for the perfect moment to strike, when every move she made would force the others into check? It could be anything.

At least the first two princes behaved as expected—Thalric with his reckless hunger, Aldrin with his slippery deals. Regina’s silence was the most dangerous sound of all.

As Kai mulled this over, Francis spoke again. “There’s also a word from the nobles we’ve been working to bring into our faction. They’ve lost favor with the princes after the Assembly, since you were named a candidate for the throne. But…” He hesitated, glancing around the table. “Not all of them are eager to join us. Some hold back. They’re cautious. Testing the wind before they commit.”

“They’re uncertain?”

“Yes, my lord. More than half have pledged their support, but the rest… they wait. They want to see you move first. Since the Assembly, we’ve kept quiet. We haven't even announced formally that we would be fighting the princes in the civil war. King Sullivan allowed you to contest for the throne, lord arzan, but you didn't say you would outright because of the commotion the decision caused.”

“It’s true, Lord Arzan,” Killain pronounced. “Thalric has already begun the civil war. The other princes will soon make formal moves, throwing more fuel into the fire. But us? We haven’t declared our intentions. Everything is still smoke and whispers. We need something solid, something to show them.”

Kai didn’t argue. He knew it was the truth. Some of the silence had been his command, holding the army in preparation, ensuring their strength was sharpened and ready. Some of it had been his own need to recover, to make sure he was at the peak of his powers. And part of it had been deliberate—watching, measuring, trying to see how the other princes would act.

But that time was thinning out. He had known from the moment Aldrin and Thalric left the capital right after the Assembly that they’d abandoned any chance of prying the crown from King Sullivan’s hands. They had chosen their own paths to power. Now, if Kai remained still, they would seize too much ground too quickly. Every fortress, every loyal city taken would only make his road harder.

“Are all the nobles in the Sylvan Enclave with us?” Kai asked, needing to know the answer for one last time. The more support he would receive meant extra hands against the opposing parties.

“Yes, my lord. They’ve all agreed to support us, but we’re not sure how many men they’ll commit when called.”

Kai’s fingers tapped the table involuntarily.

Although the men who led the houses had all been punished by King Sullivan—Baron Idrin receiving the death penalty and the others heavy compensation and even imprisonment in some cases—they must have realized it was better to support him than to gamble on one of the princes.

Of course, he wasn’t stupid or naive to blindly believe that every single one of those nobles would support him.

Because in reality, his trust in the Sylvan Enclave nobles was thin, especially in the houses of Vensar and Kairnso, who had always been the loudest in their opposition. But Kai knew war left little room for choosing allies.

Better to keep them under his banner, even if reluctantly, than to leave them lurking behind, waiting for a chance to strike at his back. His Watchers already had their eyes on those two houses, and that was enough for now.

“Then it’s decided,” Kai broke the silence. “I’ll be formally announcing my bid for the throne. We march against Thalric, Aldrin, Eldric and whoever stands in our way. Francis, send word to the nobles who have declared support for us—there will be a meeting soon, at a place most convenient for them. I will attend it personally. And together, we will discuss the plan to take the kingdom in its entirety.”

The room shifted as his words sank in. His men glanced at one another, and smiles began to spread across their faces. The air felt lighter, sharpened by anticipation. This was what they had been waiting for—not hesitation, not caution, but the first real step into the campaign they knew had always been coming.

Francis bowed slightly in his chair. “I will see to it at once. Will you be declaring your intentions through a messenger? Should I send it to announce it on the square and establishments?”

Kai shook his head slowly, the thought rolling in his mind before he answered. “No. I’ll do it myself. Veralt needs to hear it from me directly. The citizens must see my resolve, and know beyond doubt that I have full confidence in defeating the princes. Words through another’s lips won’t be enough.”

Francis opened his mouth as if to ask more, but Kai was already rising. His chair scraped against the stone floor, the sound sharp in the quiet chamber. Without waiting, he started for the door, his cloak brushing behind him.

Dao of money Chapter 173

Chapter 173

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pasture or pigsty,” Yalan retorted.

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

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

Yalan saw it too. She snickered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can we leave already?”

Chen Ren shook his head.
“No. I want to see the competitors at least. There might be someone worth watching.”

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

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

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

The crowd stirred, leaning forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Interesting,” he thought.

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

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

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

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

The moment his back disappeared, both fighters moved.

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

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

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

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

But then it happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Surrender.”

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

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

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

Anger is the end of a cultivator.

The match was already decided then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fist after fist.

There were cracking sounds one after another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He walked extremely calmly for a man who had pulped his opponent to a thin sheet.
He has a presence, Chen Ren thought. That much is clear.

Beside him, Yalan’s voice slipped into his mind.
“I believe we should move now. Unless you truly want to waste time watching more of this backwater tournament.”

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

Yalan’s thought curled with amusement.
“Why? Do you want to recruit him to the sect?”
“No. Someone like him would have already been claimed long ago, even with poor spirit roots. If he isn’t, it means he isn’t willing. My interests are different. I just have a business proposal for him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But still, this was worth planting the seed.

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

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

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

But he doubted that.

Magus Reborn Chapter 280

Chapter 280

The prince looked down from his castle at the thousands of people gathered below. The square was packed from gate to well. A part of his heart filled as he saw the banners people had prepared for him. When Thalric lifted his hand, they bowed as one. He felt the weight of the crown on his head. It pressed on his brow, cool and a little sharp at the edges.

His crafters had made this crown for today. New gold, tight-fit, stones that caught the sun and threw it back. It was fine work, but it was not the one he wanted. He wanted the old crown, the one his father had worn for years. He would take that one soon enough. This one would do until then.

He let his hand fall and looked past the roofs and walls. Kaelgrim lay wide and strong, the fort city held the roads like a fist. From here the river ran like a silver blade through the fields. Bridges stood like teeth across it. Warehouses shouldered one another by the river docks. He could feel the shape of what would come, the way a man can feel a storm in his bones before the first drop falls. Starting here, he would build an empire people would speak of for centuries. He did not need to say it. He knew it the way he knew his own name.

Faces below turned up to him. There were kids, too many kids for his liking but he saw others too. Old men, young men, old women, young women breathing, shifting, pressing closer to the steps. They all had one thing in common—that their cheers struck the stone and came back twice as loud. They would help him turn the picture in his mind into a world under his feet.

He raised his hand again. The wave of sound rose. Drums boomed in time with his heart. He settled it with a touch that looked like he was brushing his hair.

A voice to his left pulled at him. He turned his head.

Duke Roan Raktor stood there, straight as a spear despite his years. His hair was iron grey, tied back with a plain leather thong. He wore a small bird pin at his collar, the kestrel of his house.

“They love you, Your Majesty,” Duke Raktor said, not loud, but the words carried. “I’m sure many would sign their names today to join the resistance army.”

Your Majesty. Thalric had longed to hear that since he was a boy with a wooden sword and bruised knuckles. The word warmed his chest like a swallow of strong wine. He did not show it. His face stayed calm. The corners of his mouth did not move.

“As they should,” he said. “They are all my subjects, and my will should be their will.”

The old man nodded once, as if setting a seal. “We have already begun to take down forts and garrisons under us,” Raktor said. “Especially in this region. Small posts change their banners by dawn. Larger ones bend after a short press. With the conscriptions, we will soon have an army to march out.”

“How many are they?”

The old man fell quiet and looked down. He leaned on the stick he always kept in his hand. Once he had been a general in the field—fast with orders, sharper than most men—but age had taken him. His back bent a little. Still, he was the most efficient man in Thalric’s faction and the Duke’s eyes held a steady, old sharpness. He was Thalric’s first supporter, the man who made plans work.

Raktor thought for a moment, fingers tightening on the stick. Then he nodded slowly. “Seven garrisons,” he said. “And two forts besides this one.”

Thalric raised an eyebrow. A frown crossed his face. “Why so few?” he asked. “I thought the army would take every fort in the kingdom.”

Raktor’s mouth made a thin line. He looked toward the square, toward the moving crowd, as if the answer might be written in the people below. “I have told you this,” he said. “Many forts have whole communities built around them. Not everyone will drop what they have and join a resistance, no matter how you speak. People listen to rumors and to their neighbors. They worry about hearth and home.”

He paused and pressed his thumb along the head of the stick. “Some of those forts are useful. They hold borders. They keep raids back. If we strip them all too fast, the kingdom’s edges will fall open. The other princes will use that against us. They will cry for safety and for kingship. They will rally men to their banners.”

Thalric’s anger burned under his skin, hot and quick. He wanted things fast. He wanted to sweep across the land and take every post by dusk. The logic of the Duke, however, settled into him. He breathed out and let the heat go down. Patience was a ruler’s hard lesson. He had to practice it, at least until the wind was at his back.

He turned his face back to Raktor and kept his voice even. “Send a brief to punish anyone who resists the levy,” he said. “Make the example quick and public.” He did not soften the words. “If there are Mages among them, try to recruit them. If they refuse, threaten their Mana hearts. Make them answer.”

Raktor’s eyes flicked at Thalric then away. The old man measured the meaning behind the prince’s voice. He had heard harsher orders in war, but the bite here was real. “And if there are non-humans?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

Thalric’s jaw tightened. The crown shone at his temple. “Show no mercy,” he said. “They do not belong in Lancephil.”

The Duke did not flinch at the venom in Thalric’s words. He only inclined his head and answered. “As you wish. We will make sure they see it is best to follow King Thalric and no one else.”

Thalric nodded and looked down at the crowd again. He lifted his hand and the square answered with a fresh cheer. He watched the faces. So many young men and women stared up at him with bright eyes. Some had mud on their boots. Some had new mittens. A few wore bits of armor that had been passed down. Their faces were open and eager. Hunting with them in Kaelgrim had done more than a title. It had given him something like a name in their mouths. They called him one of their own when the smoke of a campfire curled around them. They trusted him because he had shared blood and cold with them, not because a paper said he was prince.

Now they wanted to work for him. They wanted to sign, to march, to be part of the story he was building. Thalric felt that pull. It filled him with warmth. But he also saw the truth.

On a battlefield, these folk would be brave. They might kill one man, two men. If a few were very good, maybe more. Still, they would die in numbers. Men were needed. Men were good. But men alone were not enough. He wanted more than courage. He wanted something that could break walls and shatter shields. He wanted power that did not tire.

He turned to Raktor. “Have you gotten closer to getting more mana cannons?” he asked. “Or to copying them?”

Raktor’s brow knit. “Replicating them is far harder than we thought,” he said. “The craft is... stubborn. The law of the art, the ore, the rune sequences—many parts refuse imitation and they have failsafes, so they explode if we try to get them apart. But we can buy. A dozen more can be had from nobles who bought them in the last year.”

A dozen. Thalric let the number sit. Dozens more sounded good and bad at once. Good because metal and fire meant lasting force. Bad because he knew who made them and who would have the most number of them.

He thought of Arzan Kellius—the manufacturer. Arzan had the workshops and the original design. Arzan would laugh at a dozen. He would have ten times that number if he wished. The thought pressed like a stone at the base of Thalric’s skull. If Thalric had seen what would happen in the Assembly from the start, he would have moved differently. He would have bought, begged, stolen—anything to keep those cannons.

Regret warmed him.

He had hoped to copy them. Or at least to buy them straight from the maker. If Arzan Kellius had not stood between him and the world he wanted, Thalric could have paid a coin that would have made his brothers curse and beg. He had imagined rows of metal beasts that did not tire, that did not need bread. He had imagined them answering only to his hand.

Now he stood with a handful of devices that fought like Mages but weren't enough. He could feel the future bending toward machines. The next wars would be won by iron and runes as much as by men and banners.

He gripped the stone railing until his fingers hurt. The rough cuts bit his palm.

“We need more of those,” he said. “The coming war will be more about machines than men, Duke Raktor. War has changed in recent years.”

Raktor did not blink. He had seen many wars. He had seen men blown into shapes that no healer could put back together. “War has always been about Mages fighting in the lead while the common soldiers take ground,” the Duke said. “We must not forget that, Your Majesty.”

Thalric looked straight at him. “You were at the Assembly,” he said. “You heard the lower nobles speak of their armies crushed. Arzan Kellius has tricks. He builds Knights that stand against Mages. He fights as a man who has swallowed the art itself. He will be a stronger foe than any of my brothers. He will not wait for us at the border. He will strike in the open. We must find a way to kill him before we march on the Sylvan Enclave. That is our only chance.”

Raktor went quiet. He closed his lips and turned the words over like a man turning a gem in his hand. The square below sang and cheered without knowing the shapes of their lives were being weighed above them. Finally the Duke nodded. His face held a hard line. “I will make sure Arzan is dead before our armies meet,” he said.

Thalric let that land. He did not answer with thanks. He only said, “Do that.”

He let his gaze move once more across Kaelgrim. The river flashed like a knife.

“We have much to do,” he said, turning away from the crowd.

***

Kai hunched over the battleboard, staring down at the wooden pieces spread out. He breathed slowly. The room smelled of cold tea and oiled wood and his nostrils filled with their scent. Light from the tall window cut the board in half. With everything happening in the kingdom, playing helped calm his head. Usually he would have already won by now.

Killian wasn’t much of an opponent anymore. The man always looked like he wanted to leave and go train. Duke Blackwood had been beaten by him before, and Francis wasn’t free enough to sit here long. So Kai had brought a different opponent to Veralt. Princess Amara had come back with him.

And now, her pieces were shredding his. Her knights hunted down his footsoldiers like hounds. Her king stood firm in the middle of the board from the first move and never let him push it. It felt like she had guessed each plan before he even thought of it. When he paused, she would grin like a fox, as if daring him to move and give her an edge.

Kai pushed a mage forward, trying to break through a line of her knights. He hoped the spell would scatter them. He hoped. But she still looked at her with a daring, bright smile. One of her mages slid across the squares and struck his piece dead. The board thinned: his pieces fell one by one. He was down to a single knight, its paint chipped where his fingers had worried it.

He sighed and lifted his hand. “I concede,” he said in just above a whisper. He set his palm flat on the table and let the knight sit there alone. He glanced at Amara. She only smiled, pleased and unrepentant.

“You know,” he added, a wry edge in his tone, “Duke Blackwood would not like you if you did the same thing to him.”

Amara leaned back in her chair, the corners of her mouth curling as her eyes lingered on the defeated board. “Do you like losing to me?” she asked, her tone teasing but her gaze sharp, watching him closely.

Kai let out a dry laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t like losing to anyone,” he admitted, “but I never realized you were so good at battleboard. Is that why you asked me to play it?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation, still smiling. “But I thought you would win in it too. Honestly, I just saw you running around in meetings, busy with so many things. I thought you’d like a game to… relax.”

“Well,” Kai said, exhaling as he leaned against the chair, “actually I did need a break.”

It was true. Even if he was well into the fourth circle now, his body wasn’t something he could push endlessly. He wasn’t at the level of those Archmages who went months without pause. His bones still ached, his mind still grew tired. And worse, he was still reeling from the battle with Magus Veridia. The wounds of that fight weren’t just on his body, but buried deep in his heart.

That was one of the main reasons he had returned to Veralt as soon as the Assembly ended. He couldn’t afford to linger in Hermil, not with the tide of assassinations that would surely follow. He had been right too. Even here in Veralt, the Watchers had already uncovered spies and assassins sneaking around the estate, their eyes far too sharp and their steps far too careful to be harmless. Each of them had been silenced quickly.

But it was a reminder: running for the throne meant painting a target on his chest. Enemies would keep coming, especially the three princes. And above all of them stood Regina—his greatest nemesis. If he had remained in Hermil for long, he had no doubt one of those attempts would have gotten through eventually. Maybe not to him, but to Amara. That was something he would never risk.

He had even asked King Sullivan to leave Hermil and come with him, secretly. The old king had refused, of course. He would not abandon his garden, his quiet refuge. Kai had pressed, but the man only smiled and shook his head.

At least Hermil was calm now. The city was still licking its wounds from the terrorist attack. Nothing major stirred there since.

Kai glanced across the board again, then at Amara. She still had that smile, bright and almost mischievous, as if she was daring him to play another round. For the first time in weeks, he felt the weight on his shoulders ease just a little.

But it all felt too quiet—unnaturally so. The kind of quiet that came before a storm. Kai could almost sense the pressure in the air, waiting to break.

A snap of fingers pulled him back. Amara leaned over the board, smiling faintly. “Lost you there,” she teased.

Kai blinked, dragging himself out of his thoughts. “Sorry,” he said, rubbing his temple. “I was just… lost in thought. There’s a lot happening, and I know I’ll be at the centre of it soon.”

“I understand. I didn’t expect you to contest for the throne, nor Thalric to be the one to start the civil war. But…” she tilted her head, meeting his gaze firmly, “I believe you’ll do a far better job than my brothers.”

Kai couldn't help but sigh loudly, but even then, the tension in his shoulders didn’t cease. “Only if your brothers leave the kingdom in a good state. Both of them are biding their time before reacting to Thalric, but something should happen soon.”

“Yes,” Amara agreed quietly. “There will be. But you’re not standing alone anymore. You have your own faction now. Even here, I’ve seen lines of people from all over the Sylvan Enclave wanting to join your army.”

Kai nodded at that. He opened his mouth, ready to remind her that his support was still shaky at best—that loyalty built in haste often cracked under fire—but before he could speak, the door opened.

Claire stepped inside. She had returned to Veralt only a week ago from the Ashari, and already she had slipped back into her duties as head maid with the same sharpness as before. Her eyes moved between Kai and Amara, then fell briefly to the board where his lone knight still stood out against Amara’s full ranks.

“Forgive the disturbance, Lord Arzan,” she said with a respectful bow. “But another report from the Watchers has arrived, alongside replies from the nobles.”

Kai straightened at once, his body moving before his mind. “Are Francis and Killian in the meeting room already?”

“They are,” Claire confirmed. “With the others.”

Kai turned to Amara, who gave him a small nod. “We can play another game later,” she said with a gentle smile.

“For sure,” Kai replied, managing a faint smile before he rose and followed Claire out. Curiosity bubbled in his chest, threading with tension. News from the Watchers and the nobles meant something had shifted, and during times this restless, even small shifts could mean storms.

Dao of money Chapter 172

Chapter 172

As soon as Chen Ren heard the word tournament, his first thought was of Cloud Mist City’s grand annual contest—the one he had once claimed victory in. For a breath, he relived the moment he’d won. But he soon shook the thought away. That tournament was far off yet, and besides, it was always tied to the city’s trade season. The Cloud Mist City officials never acted rashly; they used the gathering of cultivators not only to test rising talents but also to draw merchants, treasures, and wealth from every corner of the empire.

To hold something of that scale so soon after the rising… that felt unwise.
Chen Ren’s brows knit as he thought further, until a faint glimmer of understanding flickered in his mind. “Is it some sort of sect tournament?”

Li Xuan, who had been watching him with that patient smile of his, gave a small nod. “Yes. You could say so. But it is not the kind of trial used to accept disciples. This one serves another purpose.”

He paused, then explained slowly. “In our vast empire, sects are scattered like stars in the sky. But only the Guardian sects, and a handful of old Established ones, possess the strength to gather endless spirit stones and attract the brightest talents. The Emerging sects… they are left struggling in the dust.”

Chen Ren nodded at once. He understood this bitter truth well. He had been fortunate enough to stumble upon treasures, fortunate enough to gain resources when needed. But not all were so lucky. More than once he had heard of small sects bending their knees, swearing loyalty to Established sects in exchange for protection and a trickle of cultivation resources. As for talent… Emerging sects often had no choice but to lure the naive, promising them glory and guidance, when in truth they could barely provide scraps.

Luo Feng, who had been silent so far, finally leaned forward, eyes sharp. “So, by holding a tournament, they gather both talent and spirit stones?”

Li Xuan nodded, maintaining a neutral expression. “Yes. Basically, a group of Emerging sects join hands to host a tournament. They open the gates wide for the spectators so even mortals from villages can enter, so long as they pay a few wen. And they set aside enough prizes to draw the attention of rogue cultivators as well.”

He gave a small laugh. “The Cloud Mist City tournament is grand, far too grand. A rogue cultivator without fame will be crushed before they even see the main stage. But in these smaller tournaments, they can shine. They can prove themselves before the watching sects.”

Chen Ren fell silent at that. His mind drifted back to the Cloud Mist City tournament, to the qualification match. So many cultivators had been defeated too quickly in those. There might have been cultivators with skill among them, but they didn't get the chance to display it. A smaller stage might indeed allow them to show their worth more clearly.

Still, one doubt gnawed at him. He turned to Li Xuan, brows furrowed. “Even if the sects host this together, what do they truly gain? A few wen from mortals is nothing to a sect, and there is no guarantee rogue cultivators will actually join them. Yet they spend valuable resources on prizes. I don’t understand… how do they make money from this?”

Li Xuan’s lips curved into a knowing smile. His eyes glittered like a teacher watching a student finally approach the right answer. “I would have thought you’d be able to guess. They earn it all back—and more—through one simple thing. Betting.”

Chen Ren’s eyes widened. He turned his gaze back toward the road, where lines of carriages rattled onward in the distance. Each was laden with crates, silks fluttering, banners painted with merchant crests. His breath caught. “They get the merchants to bet?”

Li Xuan inclined his head. “Exactly. The sects invite merchants wealthy enough to dabble in spirit stones. These men of trade take the risk, placing wagers on the contestants. And with so many watching eyes, so much greed and hope stirred into motion… the sects hardly ever lose.”

The sound of rolling wheels grew louder and Chen Ren imagined such a scene.

Li Xuan paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully before he added, “If the merchants win, their profits rise far higher than the stakes they risked. But if they lose, the sects take their investment back, and often more, especially if those cultivators join under their banners. I believe there’s more to it behind the curtains, but that much I know. These tournaments are quite famous across the empire. They’re held often enough that people always look forward to the next one.”

Chen Ren slowly nodded, his thoughts already wandering. The model was clever—far more clever than he would give the Emerging sects credit for. He remembered the Cloud Mist City tournament, and the way wagers had flown like sparks from a fire. Back then, he had no spirit stones to spare, so he had only placed bets with wen. Even so, he had earned a tidy sum. But he remembered clearly: many others had bet spirit stones instead, and the amounts exchanged had been staggering.

A faint glint appeared in his eyes. Perhaps it wouldn’t be bad to attend one of these smaller tournaments. Even if it was just for entertainment, there was much to learn. And who knows? I can see some exciting cultivators.
The Divine Coin Sect already had decent numbers, but more cultivators would never hurt. Esoteric Daos were fine… but sometimes what a sect needed the most most were straightforward fighters who could stand on the front lines.

The hours that followed slipped away like drifting clouds. Luo Feng and Li Xuan carried the bulk of the conversation, speaking at length of sect tournaments, sect politics, and the looming reputation of the Soaring Sword Sect. Chen Ren added a word here and there, but more often than not, he listened in silence, his mind turning with its own calculations.

Yalan leaned against the side of the carriage, drifting into a quiet nap, her breathing soft and steady. Wang Jun was shifted now and then in Chen Ren’s lap, his tiny body trembling faintly but otherwise still.

And so, time passed.

At last, through the haze of dust and sunlight, the walls of Cloud Mist City revealed themselves in the far distance.

The closer they drew, the stronger the pulse of the city seemed to thrum in the air.

But as the carriages rumbled closer, Chen Ren’s sharp eyes caught something interesting.

The rumours had not lied. If anything, they had been gentle compared to reality.

When the convoy finally halted, he stepped down, boots crunching against gravel and looked up at the walls of the city.

A massive section of the Cloud Mist City wall had been shattered, as though some beast had hurled its entire body against it. Charred stone crumbled in places, dust spilling like ash. Parts of the once-proud barrier leaned at odd angles, blackened and cracked, ready to collapse at any moment.

And on the ground below… carnage.

Dozens of beast corpses sprawled across the earth, their hides stiff, some still leaking foul black blood. Mixed among them were humans, pale and still, their faces twisted in the silence of death. The stench of scorched flesh clung thick in the air.

Chen Ren felt his stomach lurch at the sight of it. A handful of weary men and women carried the fallen toward the inner city. Others loaded beast corpses onto wagons drawn by spirit-beasts, carting them away for dismantling. The scene was chaos trying to claw its way back into order, but all Chen Ren saw was the aftermath of war. His heart sank.

At the front of their convoy, another carriage door swung open. Tang Yuqui stepped down. Behind her, the Lunari slept on in careless silence in the carriage, unbothered by the ruin around them.

Yuqi’s steps slowed as she came closer, her gaze moving over the broken wall and the strewn dead. For a moment, she simply looked, and then a quiet sigh slipped past her lips.

“The Tang Clan is trying to help the injured,” she said softly. “But there are too many. Every alchemist’s chamber is overflowing. Every healer’s hall is the same. No place left to treat them.”

At her words, he saw how Li Xuan’s face tightened. It was colored in conflict, his jaw set and he turned to her.

“The Soaring Sword Sect should have the space. The resources. Enough to tend to all of them.”

Yuqi’s lips curled. “They claim too many of their own disciples are injured. And so they refused the city folk, saying their hands are already full. City Lord Li Baolong agreed with them.” She let out another sigh, her eyes cold. “So now, we are left to take care of everything ourselves.”

Li Xuan’s lips parted as though he meant to argue, but the words caught in his throat. Yuqiu had no reason to deceive him, and her tone carried only weariness, not spite. At last, he bowed his head slightly. “…I’m sorry. The sect… my father and I… we have let the city down.”

Yuqiu shook her head at once, strands of her hair swaying. “No. No, you have already done much. I only wished the elders had come. If they had been here, the casualties would have been far fewer.”

Her words struck Chen Ren. He found his thoughts drifting. The elders of the Soaring Sword Sect—men and women whose strength could shatter mountains—had they intervened, the damage here would not have been so severe. A single elder would have been enough to slay the higher-tier beasts that had breached the walls. Yet none came.

He could guess the reasons. Many elders secluded themselves in closed-door cultivation, unwilling to be disturbed. Others likely deemed it beneath them to descend into the chaos of saving mortals. And besides… he had a feeling that the sect often used the beast rising as a measure of disciples’ worth. To them, perhaps, this was little more than a trial by fire.

But no matter the reasoning, the truth lay before him. Cloud Mist City had suffered greatly. Too greatly.

Li Xuan’s gaze lingered on the ruined walls and the corpses strewn across the ground. His eyes darkened, and then, after a long silence, he turned to Chen Ren. “Thank you. For the hospitality these past few months. I’ve learned much from you and from everyone. But… I’ll be on my way now. If you wish to remain in Cloud Mist City, I can arrange for you to stay at my estate here.”

Yuqui gave a small nod as well. “I still have the room you stayed in before. My father would be glad to see you again, after all these months.”

Chen Ren listened quietly, then shook his head. “Thank you. Truly. But I wish to travel on. Staying here would be good, but I need to reach Red Peak City as soon as possible.”

The disappointment in both their eyes was plain, though neither tried to persuade him further. They simply nodded, the silence between them heavy with words unspoken.

After a few more minutes of idle talk, they parted ways, each turning toward the battered city.

Chen Ren lingered at the edge of the road, his gaze sweeping over the destruction one last time. The fallen walls, the blackened stone, the motionless forms scattered across the earth. He let out a long, quiet sigh.

***

The journey ahead was mostly peaceful, aside from one brief moment. Chen Ren had finally taken Wang Jun out of the box, and in an instant, chaos stirred.

Whiskey’s eyes bulged as though he had just seen a ghost. The Lunari stiffened at once, refusing to come closer, its lips curling into low growls whenever the talking head so much as twitched. Even Luo Feng froze on the spot, stunned speechless at the sight.

But Chen Ren trusted him enough to reveal Wang Jun’s existence. Besides, he had another reason: he didn’t want to hear the endless flood of complaints from the head if he waited until they reached the city.

But still, Wang Jun complained the moment he was free. “Hmph! Hours in a box, as if I’m some tool to be stored away. This is an insult to my dignity!”

On and on he went, his voice sharp and unrelenting. Most of them chose to ignore him, but Luo Feng surprised Chen Ren. Instead of fear, the young man engaged him in conversation, asking questions, laughing lightly at Wang Jun’s tirades. Chen Ren had half expected someone who had spent most of his life as a farm boy to shy away from such a strange, eerie thing. But Luo Feng bore himself like a cultivator from the start.

Other than that, the journey was uneventful. Chen Ren kept their carriage within the steady stream of merchants heading toward the tournament. He did not want distractions before reaching Red Peak City. Still, he could not shake the pull of curiosity. He would not be taking part in the tournament, nor wasting spirit stones or even wen on betting, but he wanted to see how it worked. The idea that had been simmering in the back of his mind since Li Xuan explained the business of small sect tournaments only grew stronger.

And so, at the break of the third day, the convoy slowed. Before them stretched a small town, lively with banners fluttering in the wind, vendors setting up stalls, and crowds already thickening the streets.

The signboard over the eastern gate declared its name in bold, weathered characters: Xianglu Town.

This, it seemed, was where the tournament would be held.

The place wasn’t much. Xianglu Town was barely larger than a village, the kind that only stood out because it had more inns and a few extra stalls lining its streets. The walls were low, the houses looked… plain, and the air smelled of dust mixed with the faint tang of roasted grain. Still, there was life here—life drawn in by the promise of the tournament.

After asking around, Chen Ren learned it would begin the very next morning. That was enough for him. He had no reason to linger long, but watching the start of it would satisfy his curiosity before he continued on to Red Peak City.

The others had no objections. The only voice of protest came, as usual, from Wang Jun.

Back into the box he would not go. He made that much clear, loud enough for half the inn to hear. But he also refused to stay behind alone, complaining that leaving him in the room was no different from locking him up. After much grumbling and back-and-forth, he ended up with them anyway, perched close in Luo Feng’s robes, muttering under his breath about dignity and respect.

And like that, Chen Ren and his companions found themselves seated in the front row of the tournament grounds. The stands were hastily built, wooden planks nailed together, their smell still fresh with resin. Around them, villagers, merchants, and wanderers murmured in excitement. The stage—a wide square of packed dirt and stone—waited at the center, banners of minor sects flapping weakly in the breeze.

Chen Ren got comfortable and crossed his arms as he watched the first participants step forward. His expression remained calm, but as he saw them, he shook his head, disappointment clear in his eyes.

Magus Reborn Volume 5 Chapter 279

Chapter 279

Malden felt a headache brewing in his mind, not because of the state Hermil was in right now, but because of the group of men around him that had already chewed half his mind with their worries and wants. They crowded him like flies on a wound, buzzing with their demands, each man convinced his voice mattered most. They spoke as if he wore their chains, as if he answered to them in some way. The truth was, he did not.

He dragged his eyes away from them and set them on the line of wagons stretched down the road. His workers were working hard—they bent their backs beneath heavy crates, muscles straining—stacking wooden boxes, and sacks of grain. Dates and dried figs clattered faintly within their casks. The wagons stood heavy and patient, wheels sunk deep into yesterday’s ruts. The whole road was theirs; it was too early for any travelers to clog the way. Even the beggars had not yet stirred.

Malden wanted those wheels rolling before the first ray of suns crept over the rooftops. The guards at the gate had already been paid, silver tucked into greedy palms.

“Are you even listening to me?” The harsh voice cut across the noise of loading.

Malden turned his head, jaw tightening. The old man stood at the front of the group like a thorn wedged into soft flesh. Justin. Once, Malden had thought him a partner worth dealing with. Now, he regretted that thought with every word the man spat. Justin’s face was all creased fury, his finger wagging as though he could scold Malden into obedience.

“What you are doing goes against our contract,” Justin barked. “You can’t do this. You said you are an honourable merchant.”

Malden’s frown deepened, and his eyes narrowed into a hard glare. His voice came back low, already tired having to deal with this man’s antics. “Have you ever met any truly honourable merchant? Because I haven’t. And I haven’t broken any contract.”

A younger man from the group stepped forward, puffed up like a lanky rooster about to fight. He even looked the part—unruly hair, skinny appearance. His words were quick and bitter. “That’s a blatant lie. We are going to complain to the Merchant Association. They won’t let you walk free without paying us double for our losses.”

The edge of laughter tugged at Malden’s lips, though he did not give them the satisfaction of hearing it. He almost smiled, almost. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the man and spoke with the weight of iron.

“Section thirty three, clause four,” he said. “In the event of war, I don’t have to sell any grain to the distributors.”

Silence followed, broken only by the thud of another crate dropped into place and the restless snort of a mule. The men’s bluster faltered, their anger grinding against the simple truth carved into the contract they thought to use as a blade.

Malden knew the only reason he had agreed to work with them was because the man already had too many products piled up in his storehouses. The deal had simply cleared space, taken the excess off his hands.

“There’s no war,” Justin said with a huff.

Malden’s temper stirred. He still clings to comfort, even after all this?
“Were you not here, Justin? After the Assembly, dozens of Mages were killed in that explosion.”

Justin gave a shrug that made Malden’s teeth clench. “That doesn’t mean war. It was just a terrorist attack.”

The words rang hollow. Malden dragged in a long breath and let it out through his nose. His chest felt heavy, not with sorrow, but with frustration. Because this man does not seem to get it like he did.

“You’re all idiots,” he said flatly. His eyes swept over the group, catching the blank stares, the restless fidgeting. “No wonder you haven’t gotten anywhere in life.”

Silence pressed down for a moment. Then Malden took a step forward. “Do you even know who every Mage that died belonged to?”

Justin frowned, searching for an answer. “Archine Tower?”

Malden’s jaw tightened. He doesn’t know. He hasn’t even thought about it. “No. The First Prince’s faction. Every single one. Even the injured. It was a deliberate attack.”

The group stirred at that. They hadn’t clearly expected all the Mages who’d died to belong to the First Prince’s faction. Uneasy voices rose in low murmurs, as if the truth itself was something dangerous to speak of. Malden let them whisper, but he wasn’t finished. He straightened.

“And do you not know?” he pressed. “The other two Princes have already left the capital. They left right after the assembly, and after what happened in it.”

Justin cleared his throat loudly. He looked away, then back again, his tone caught between defiance and fear. “We know what happened, and we know they’re gone. But civil war? That’s too much. The king won’t let it happen.”

Malden almost laughed, but the sound never left his throat. The king? He hides in his palace while his sons are ready to carve the kingdom according to their wills.

“If he didn’t want it, then what happened in the Assembly would never have been allowed. You need to wake up. Stop pretending life will stay the same. You cling to your daily comforts, but they’re about to be stripped away.” His eyes narrowed. “I know you’ve made plenty of profit off me. But there are no profits in war.”

The group grew tense, some of the men even avoided his gaze while some stared at the crates being carried, as if hoping the grain would give them answers.
“There’s still no confirmation, Malden. You can’t just walk around with assumptions.”

Even now, they refuse to see. They would rather call it a rumor than face what’s coming.

Just then, Malden noticed movement at the edge of the yard. His workers were loading another wagon, their arms straining as they heaved sacks and crates into place. The steady rhythm of their labor calmed him. At least someone around here knew how to act without hesitation.

He gave them a nod, a quiet approval that needed no words. “Check the warehouse once again,” he called out. “See if the other ones are cleared too.” They acknowledged him with quick nods, then went back to work. Malden turned back to look at the merchants.

“Everything is an assumption in the market,” he said. “That’s how trade works. But merchants are the ones who bleed most in a war. Prices rise, common folk can’t afford a loaf of bread, and we can’t sell at profit. Then the lords step in. They seize what’s left, and in return we get either a pat on the back or a blade in the throat.”

He let the words hang, watching the faces in front of him. The street grew quieter with every sentence. Fear crept in behind their eyes, tightening jaws, twitching hands. Malden felt a grim satisfaction. So they weren't complete idiots. They can smell truth when it stares them down. But whether they have the spine to act on it, that was another matter.

He rubbed at the edge of his chin, suppressing a sigh. I hate wasting breath on speeches. But people cling to me, looking for certainty, for strength. And Arzan… yes, Lord Arzan will want to hear I pressed them. He’ll call it doing a good thing.

“So you’re saying,” Justin spoke up, voice a little thinner than before, “everything we have will just be compensated by the king?”

Malden fixed him with a steady look. “Not the king. Prince Eldric, more likely. The king will be dead or locked away by the looks of it. And I don’t recall Eldric ever having a generous heart.”

A hush fell over the group. One of the men shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “And where are you going to sell all this grain and food then? To other merchants?”

Malden shook his head slowly, as if the question itself missed the obvious. “No good merchant would buy all this in bulk. They see what’s coming as well as I do. Even the association has its bells ringing. Warnings everywhere.”

He let his words sink in, studying their faces. Fear was there now, real and raw, but fear alone meant nothing. Words were wind unless they moved their feet.

A man near the back stomped his foot against the ground. His eyes darted to the wagons being loaded, then back to Malden. “Then what options do we even have?”

Malden held his gaze. The man’s fear was plain, his words echoing what the others dared not say aloud. “There are only a few,” he said.

Justin leaned forward quickly. He had always been the fastest to catch on, even if he wasted that wit on denial. “And what is that?”

“You can sell to the Princes right now. They’re gathering armies, and every grain of food will be worth its weight.”

Justin scoffed, but Malden caught the unease behind it. “They won’t give me the best price. Especially if what you say is true.”

“Obviously they won’t,” Malden replied and almost rolled his eyes. “But it’s better than waiting until soldiers storm your doors and take it all while the city burns.”

Another merchant, a stout one—Grellok opened his mouth. “And are you doing the same thing, Malden?”

At that, Malden chuckled. He let the sound linger, soft but mocking. “No, Grellok. because the first option is for those who can’t live without selling their stock,” he said. “What I’ll do is hand out every bit of my grain myself.”

A stunned silence fell over the group. Faces looked at him with wide eyes, lips parting as if they couldn’t believe their ears. Malden caught the look in each of them—half scorn, half disbelief. He laughed again, sharper this time.

“Hand it out? Just like that? How’s that any better than being ransacked?” Justin asked.

“It’s very simple. Because it’s voluntary. You need to think long term. Civil war is temporary—someone will come out on top. And when they do, what do you think will happen? They’ll reward the ones who stood by them.” He looked around. “Why do you think the nobles stopped licking the king’s boots and turned toward the princes? It's a long-term interest. That’s the only game worth playing.”

Justin’s eyes lit up first, quicker than the rest. Malden saw it—the moment the man finally pieced the plan together. The look spread like a spark through dry hay. One by one, the others followed, their stupid faces shifting from confusion to amazement in seconds.

“Then who are you going to support?” Grellok asked. “The second prince? Or the third?”

Before Malden could answer, another man leaned forward. “It should be the first, right? He has the Archine Tower behind him.”

A third cut in almost at once. “But there are rumours of Veridia’s death. Without her, they’re nothing.”

Soon there were so many voices, the merchants snapping back and forth, each naming the prince they already favored. The names overlapped, the reasons clashed, and none of them matched Malden’s choice.

He let them bicker for a moment, then cut across their noise with a single flat statement. “I am not supporting any of the princes.”

That earned an earful of silence.

“Huh?”

“Then who are you supporting?” Justin asked. His eyes were practically glinting with curiosity and Malden let the question hang for a few more seconds.

“Lord Arzan.”

“The new Duke? Then… is it true? The King allowed him to contest for the throne? I thought that was just a ridiculous rumor.”

Malden shook his head and disagreed with Justin. These men… they know so little. And they pretended so much. “It’s not a rumor, Justin. I won’t go into details, but Lord Arzan is contesting for the throne, and I will be supporting him.”

The group shifted, giving him a mix of looks—skepticism, curiosity, and disbelief. Malden met them all without blinking.

“Why him? I know he’s supported you until now, but can he really become King? He doesn’t have royal blood. The princes have bigger armies and stronger supporters.”

Malden smiled, a thin curl of amusement tugging at his mouth. They never see it. Always the same mistake—underestimating him. Lord Arzan must be grateful every day for how small everyone thinks he is.

“There are ways to get around royal blood,” Malden said at last. “It isn’t the most important thing. What matters is who stands behind you. And the whole of the Sylvan Enclave will support him—I can guarantee that. The princes won’t stand a chance. That’s my prediction. No…” His voice sharpened with a finality. “That’s what’s going to happen.”

“You don’t know that,” Grellok muttered, shaking his head.

Malden only shrugged. He had already wasted more words on them than he cared to. “Believe what you want,” he said flatly. “I’ll do what brings me the most profit.” He let a pause settle, then added, almost casually, “Next time we meet, I might just be a noble myself.”

That earned him wide eyes and whispers, but Malden was already turning away. He walked toward the road, where his carriage stood waiting. The workers had finished loading, the horses restless with the weight behind them. He placed a hand on the polished wood of the step.

The road to Veralt stretched long in his mind. He needed to reach a proper inn before nightfall. He had grown too accustomed to good bedding and warm roofs; the thought of lying out in the open dirt again made his bones ache. Another thing wealth does—it softens you.

Behind him, the merchants broke into noise again, voices rising, some calling after him. Malden didn’t slow. Their words were wind now, empty shouts he had no reason to hear.

But just as his boot touched the first step of the carriage, a voice cut through the clamor. It came from the far side of the street.

He turned his head.

His assistant, Hollis, was running toward him, weaving through the crowd, sweat shining on his forehead, face pale with alarm.

Malden froze on the step, hand tightening on the rail. What now? he thought, his stomach sinking. He waited as the man pushed closer, the look in his eyes telling Malden this was no small matter.

Even the merchants who had been calling after him fell silent. Their footsteps slowed, and soon they were standing behind him, staring at the man rushing through the street.

Hollis stumbled up, chest heaving, face slick with sweat. He tried to speak, but the words tangled in his throat. Nothing came out but a rasp.

“Th–e—thuhh”

Malden narrowed his eyes. “Spit it out, boy!”

At last, the man forced the words free. “The third prince…”

“The third prince what?”

Hollis gulped in air, then managed, “Third Prince Thalric has declared himself king of Lancephil. He’s declared civil war to reclaim the kingdom, and says he’s the most suitable ruler. Many nobles and military officials have already given him their support. He’s taken Kaelgrim and declared it the new capital of Lancephil,” he said in a single breath and sighed loudly.

Malden’s eyes widened. So soon. I thought there would be more time.

A loud gasp came from behind him. He didn’t need to turn to know what the faces of the merchants would be like—wide-eyed, pale, mouths hanging open like children hearing thunder for the first time.

He kept his gaze fixed on Hollis instead. “Get on the carriage,” he said in a calm voice though his mind was already racing.

He placed his boot on the step again and hauled himself up, but halfway he paused. Slowly, he turned his head toward the merchants. His eyes found Justin’s, and he let the silence linger a beat.

“If we meet next time,” Malden said, “I’ll get you lunch.”

With that, he disappeared into the carriage. The doors shut behind him with a heavy thud, cutting off the street, the merchants, and their noise.

Dao of money Chapter 171

Chapter 171

Yalan stretched out lazily, her long body curling with the smooth grace of a predator, though her amber eyes stayed half-closed. As a high-realmed spirit beast, she didn’t really need to sleep. Once a month, maybe twice, a few hours were enough to refresh her body and sharpen her senses. That was what instinct demanded.

But instinct wasn’t everything.

Maybe it was her nature as a great cat, maybe it was just a secret she preferred to keep to herself, but Yalan liked sleeping far more than she would ever admit. And if she had to blame anyone, it wasn’t her fault—she had simply discovered too many excellent napping spots scattered throughout the village.

Her favorite? Chen Ren’s bed.

The man always gave her enough space to stretch out, never pushing her off, and the warmth of the place seeped pleasantly into her fur. Then there was Little Yuze, who had finally learned that when she draped herself across him, it wasn’t permission for him to fidget—it was a privilege. He would go stiff as stone, refusing to move an inch until she shifted first. That, too, had its charms.

But above even those, she cherished the roof of the sect building. The surface was a little rough beneath her, yes, but every time she rose from her nap, the reward was the same: the first light of dawn spilling across the world, washing the land in gold and red. Winter had nearly loosened its grip now. The heavy white clouds that clung to the sky had begun to scatter, leaving the sun to rise unchallenged, bright and blazing. From her perch, Yalan could watch it in all its glory.

And as she basked in that light, it wasn’t just sleep that claimed her. It was meditation. Reflection.

She had been circling a thought for decades now, gnawing at its edges without ever quite piercing its heart. But recently, thanks to one of Chen Ren’s strange lessons, the pieces had begun to fall into place. Her element was fire—not just any fire, but a flame that could burn the world. That was the name of the technique she had walked upon ever since she gained true awareness, a cultivation path that harmonized perfectly with her instincts. Her fire was consuming, fierce and unrelenting in every way and form.

And yet… there was more to fire than just burning.

Beasts didn’t usually bother with cultivation techniques the way humans did. Their bodies were their greatest weapons, and their instincts guided them as naturally as breathing. With sharp senses and the endless wilderness to feed them spirit herbs, cores, and strange minerals, they rarely needed manuals. Growth came from living, fighting, and devouring.

But Yalan was different.

She had served humans long enough to see the value of structure, of logic laid over instinct. A cultivation manual didn’t replace her nature—it sharpened it. In her mind, instinct and logic together made the sharpest claw. That was why she had embraced [A Flame That Could Burn the World], the path she had walked for years now.

Only, she knew she hadn’t tapped into its full potential.

The manual spoke clearly—her flames had to grow hotter, burning hotter and hotter until they reached a level that could reduce the very world itself to ash. But her fire… wasn’t there yet. It was strong, yes, stronger than many spirit beasts of her realm, but not enough. Not yet. Even if breaking through to the next realm promised growth, what she wanted was more than just the usual leap forward. She wanted transformation.

Fortunately, she had been listening.

Chen Ren’s lectures, strange and confusing as they often were, had planted seeds in her mind. In one class, he had spoken of bodies that burned at different temperatures. The concept had eluded her at first—flames were flames, weren’t they? But the way he explained it made her pause. Fire wasn’t equal. There were flames that licked gently, and flames that could consume steel. Temperature was what separated them. Temperature was what made fire truly lethal.

And in that same lesson, he had said something else. Something that lingered in her heart like an ember refusing to die out.

The sun.

A flaming sphere in the sky, burning so hot that anything approaching it would cease to exist. The only reason their world wasn’t already ash was because of the distance, the vast space that kept it at bay.

The human children had gasped and whispered, too young to understand the weight of what he said.

But Yalan… Yalan had thought of something else.

If the sun could burn away anything that drew near, if its very existence was to incinerate without mercy… wasn’t that exactly the same as the cultivation manual she practiced?

Flames that could burn the world.

Yalan let the words roll through her mind like a mantra. If there were ever flames that truly deserved that title, it was the fire of the sun itself. No other blaze could compare. But how was she supposed to use something so distant? She couldn’t leap into the heavens and snatch a wisp of that eternal inferno for herself.

No, if she wanted it, she would have to forge it within.

She breathed in slowly, her chest rising and falling as she sank deeper into meditation. I will make my flames burn as hot as the sun… hot enough that they cease to be mere flames.

Yet, the more she thought about it, the more she realized that fire alone was not what made the sun what it was. The sun did not simply burn, it illuminated. It lit the entire world, driving back shadow, nurturing life even as it scorched. Her fire could light a campfire, yes, but compared to that vast brilliance it was pitiful, small, fleeting.

How can I make my flames not only burn like the sun… but shine like it as well?

Her tail flicked once, and with the movement a lick of fire ran along its length, flickering bright against the dawn air. She didn’t open her eyes. She let it burn, not as power but as thought, holding her mind fixed on the path ahead.

She continued to meditate.

Time slipped past her like water through claws. Minutes, hours—she didn’t know.

But… There was no breakthrough, no sudden spark of enlightenment, but that didn’t bother her. Progress wasn’t measured by leaps. For her, having a direction was enough. Once a cultivator set their feet on a path, reaching its end was only a matter of patience. Years, decades, centuries. It made no difference.

The world slowly crept back to her senses. There were voices and laughter, and she heard the slap of water on stone. She flicked her ears once, then opened her eyes.

Below, Whiskey was spraying arcs of water everywhere, the glittering streams soaking the courtyard as the children shrieked with delight. Xinxin darted in and out among them, her small weasel body weaving through the chaos with surprising speed, as though joining in the game. The lunari, in his youthful ignorance, clearly had no sense of restraint, happily drenching everyone within reach.

Yalan’s brows furrowed. Her tail lashed once, a flicker of disapproval crossing her face. But in the end, she let it go. Whiskey was still young, barely out of infancy by a spirit beast’s reckoning. Mistakes were part of his path. It wasn’t her role to scold him for every misstep.

She stretched languidly, the last warmth of her meditation still clinging to her, and turned her eyes away. She had more pressing matters to attend to than watching over a child who didn’t yet understand his own strength.

And if Yalan was right, today they would be leaving for Red Peak City. It was early, yes, but the journey would take time, and Chen Ren wasn’t one to waste it.

The thought left her conflicted. Red Peak had been her home once, for a long span of years. Going back meant walking into memories she had sealed away, faces she had no interest in seeing again, and burdens she had chosen to shed. Her tail twitched with irritation as she imagined it. Still… she didn’t have much of a choice.

At least Chen Ren would be there. With him, she could finally push through some matters that his predecessor—the careless fool that he was—had never bothered to settle. Closing those loose ends would give her a measure of peace, and that was worth something.

Resolved, she slipped from her perch and padded through the village. The air was cool with the fading touch of night, and villagers were only just beginning to stir. She passed Chief Muyang and a handful of men headed toward the palisade. The beast rising was almost at its end, and there was little real work left there. But habit was hard to break, and for these men, patrolling the wall had become routine.

Yalan’s steps were silent. A few villagers saw her and waved as she passed, and she dipped her head in return. To them, she was nothing more than Chen Ren’s pet, a great white cat trailing after him. She disliked the word—pet—but she let it slide. Better that than for them to know the truth of her strength. Hidden claws had their own advantage.

Moving lightly through the dirt paths, she reached the narrow trail that curved toward the cliffs at the back of the village. And there, just as the horizon brightened with the sun’s first reach, she saw him.

A sweaty Chen Ren.

He was walking back along the path, sweat glistening down his brow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Beside him strode Li Xuan, the young man’s posture upright, eyes still carrying the edge of training. The moment Chen Ren spotted her, his steps quickened, his smile widening as though he had been waiting for her all along.

Her voice brushed into his mind as easily as a whisper of wind. “Training over?”

Chen Ren nodded. “Yes. I’m ready to get in the carriage. Where have you been?”

Yalan stretched languidly, her tail flicking as fire briefly rippled at its tip. “Doing some training of my own.”

***

Chen Ren leaned back against the carriage wall, letting the slow rumble of the wheels and the faint creak of wood set a steady rhythm. His eyes wandered lazily over the faces gathered with him.

Up front, one of the mortal disciples—Zhou Ping, if he remembered correctly—handled the reins.

Inside, it was a stranger mix than he was used to. Luo Feng sat opposite him. Beside him was Li Xuan, back straight, jaw tight, clearly unwilling to waste even a moment in appearing disciplined. Yalan had taken up her usual place against the side, sprawled out with the ease of a predator at rest, her tail flicking now and then.

The oddest piece of baggage, however, wasn’t living.

The box.

It sat at Chen Ren’s side, unassuming save for the faint glow of the silencing array etched over its surface. Inside, Wang Jun’s head was tucked away—mute for now, though Chen Ren had no doubt he was itching to spit curses. The head had insisted on coming along, claiming it was for “soul cultivation training,” though Chen Ren suspected curiosity was the real reason. After their short talk about Red Peak City and his plans, the damn thing probably wanted front-row seats.

In the carriage ahead, Tang Yuqiu rode with her own guard and, to Chen Ren’s faint amusement, Whiskey. The little lunari had apparently refused to share space, sprawling across the seat as though it were a throne. Yuqiu, rather than complain, had only cooed about how cute the beast was. Whiskey had been brought along for training—if opportunity presented itself—but clearly the creature had already carved out his own privileges.

The arrangement was… unusual.

Normally, Chen Ren would’ve brought Zi Wen, Hong Yi, or Feiyu on such a trip. Familiar, reliable, predictable. His ties with both Li Xuan and Luo Feng were thinner. In fact, he had been surprised when Luo Feng requested to join the journey. But when the man explained he had read about certain rare spirit plants growing around Red Peak City, Chen Ren agreed. Luo Feng had been working himself half to death cultivating spirit rice and tending fields for the sect; granting him a chance to broaden his collection was the least Chen Ren could do.

So here they were. A different mix of people, beasts, and… boxes, trundling their way down the road toward Red Peak.

As for Li Xuan, his reasons for tagging along were plain enough. The man was preparing to return to the Soaring Sword Sect. With the beast rising nearly at its end, he had decided he had seen and learned enough. What exactly he had gained from his time in Meadow Village, Chen Ren couldn’t say, but Li Xuan carried himself with a calmness that suggested his stay hadn’t been wasted.

“When I started this journey,” Li Xuan said suddenly, breaking the soft clatter of wheels, “I never thought I would end it in this fashion. These last two months in the village have already opened my eyes to my purpose as a cultivator. They’ve given me insight into my dao.”

Chen Ren inclined his head, lips quirking faintly. “I’m glad you feel that way. You stayed longer than I expected. For a time, I almost thought you would be heading back the moment Cloud Mist City was struck by the rising.”

Li Xuan shook his head. “There were enough cultivators in the Soaring Sword Sect and Cloud Mist City to defend it. Meadow Village only had you all. And I know you are a busy man, Chen Ren. My stay here reminded me of something important, that I must use what I have been given for the sake of mortals. A good sword is wielded for others, not for yourself.”

Chen Ren studied him for a long moment before nodding again. It was a fine sentiment, one that made sense. A sword that lived only for itself would eventually dull. But still… Chen Ren doubted it was quite so simple.

Li Xuan wasn’t just any wandering swordsman—he was an important disciple of the Soaring Sword Sect. Chen Ren could not imagine his master being pleased that he had all but ignored the beast rising. Sect politics were stern. If he knew anything about how sects worked, performing well in the beast rising would have brought Li Xuan no small amount of prestige and resources. To cast that aside…

Either he is very sure of his dao, Chen Ren thought, or very foolish.

But it wasn’t his place to say so, and he let the thought slip into silence.

Li Xuan looked utterly content with himself, like a man who believed he had done a noble deed. Chen Ren didn’t see the point in breaking that illusion, so he let the silence sit.

But then Li Xuan added, “Also, thank you for your insights into body cultivation. It wasn’t something I’d ever considered before, but I believe it will help me.”

Chen Ren raised a brow. “Does the Soaring Sword Sect even have manuals on body cultivation?”

Li Xuan nodded firmly. “It should. We have at least one elder who practices it, and I plan to seek him out once I return.”

At that, Luo Feng let out a quiet chuckle. “It must be nice, having elders for everything. Even here in Meadow Village, the Soaring Sword Sect is held in reverence.”

Li Xuan smiled at the remark, shoulders straightening a little. “The sect is a long-standing one. When you survive for centuries, you naturally attract all kinds of talent. Every path has its place there, in one form or another.”

From there the conversation shifted easily—Luo Feng asked about other elders, Li Xuan indulged him, offering details that were largely public knowledge. Names of sword cultivators, stories of great duels, the usual things that made people revere the Soaring Sword Sect.

Chen Ren, however, let the words wash past him. His thoughts wandered elsewhere. If the Soaring Sword Sect housed such a wide range of cultivators, perhaps other sects did too. Esoteric daos, paths overlooked by the great clans—there was likely a wealth of knowledge hidden behind their gates. Knowledge that might be worth his time.

But before his thoughts could deepen, the carriage jolted slightly as its pace slowed. The rhythm of the wheels softened. Everyone inside noticed it.

Chen Ren narrowed his eyes. A beast attack? Or something else?

He leaned to the side, sliding open the small window. Outside, the road ahead was crowded. Several carriages rolled in front of them, slowing to a crawl. Others surrounded them on both sides, forming a loose cluster.

Luo Feng leaned forward, peering out the same way. “Why are there so many carriages all at once? A merchant caravan?”

Li Xuan considered it, then nodded. “Probably. With the rising nearly at an end, merchants are more willing to take risks. It makes sense for them to travel now.” He paused, his brows furrowing. “Or… it might be because of the tournaments.”

Chen Ren’s gaze sharpened. He turned to face Li Xuan.

“What tournament?”

Magus Reborn Volume 4 Epilogue 2

Epilogue 2

V’aleirith lifted her face to the sky, the corners of her lips turned up to a small smile. The stars were inching into alignment, tracing the patterns she had long waited for. Their slow dance promised a path forward, one that might finally carry the world out of its misery.

The Fatebreaker was moving again. She could feel it, as surely as she could feel the pulse of the Elder Tree’s roots beneath her feet. His thread had once more unraveled those who sought to wound the world, pulling them out of the weave of fate. The stars whispered of it: he had shaken the doomed future off its course, if only for a time, and pushed it toward the brighter one she had prayed for. Toward a world free of the apocalypse that still lingered like a storm cloud on the horizon, a catastrophe he alone had already lived through once.

Yet beneath her smile, worry clung to her heart like a shadow. She did not often let it show, even to herself, but it was there. The future was drifting into the unknown, and even elves feared that most of all. Humans had their short lives, fleeting as sparks. When the unknown pressed close, they could escape into death, return to the cycle, and take another path through reincarnation. But elves could not. They endured. They lived long, too long, to avoid what was coming. Whatever future revealed itself—bright dawn or consuming dark—they would face it whole, until purged or preserved.

The Fatebreaker had spoken of such things before. In one of their talks, he had told her, almost casually, how many races had already died when he had been born. V’aleirith had listened in silence, calm on the surface, though the words had cut deep. She had not asked more. She had not needed to.

For she knew one truth: she would never allow her children to walk that same path. The elves were tied to the Elder Tree, yes, but they were more than roots and branches, more than what the world thought them to be. They were a people with will, with history, with strength. And as long as she lived, she would make certain they endured.

But for now, all V’aleirith could do was wait—to see what kind of fate slowly drifted toward her people. The Fatebreaker was playing his part, step by step unraveling the strands that bound the world to ruin. And she would ensure the elves played theirs as well.

In recent months, hope had begun to stir among her kin. The new generation of Spirit Trainers had bonded with companions stronger and purer than any seen in centuries, a sign many took as a blessing. Yet V’aleirith knew the truth: the path was fragile still, and hope could be broken as easily as glass. It was her duty to strengthen it, to steady it before the winds of change grew too fierce.

She tilted her head back toward the sky once more, but a soft nudge brushed against the back of her mind—warm, familiar, like a hand on her shoulder. She turned her thoughts downward, to the vast glowing trunk and endless boughs of the Elder Tree whose embrace she stood within. Her lips curved into a gentle smile.

“I’m not worrying too much,” she said softly, placing her palm on the bark. “And even if I am… it’s only natural, with what’s coming.”

A gentle voice, like leaves stirring in the wind, whispered through her mind. Soothing, patient, reminding her of the roots that ran deeper than fear.

Her smile deepened, though her eyes glistened faintly. “I know,” she murmured. “I know you hold so many expectations for me, for him. But they do not crush us beneath them. I think he does this not because you asked, not because fate demands it, but because he chooses to. We glimpse the future. He has lived it. That alone makes him want to change it all the more.” She lifted her gaze, eyes tracing the dark weave of branches above. “You felt it, didn’t you, when you touched him last?”

The tree’s limbs shivered, their leaves rustling in a deep affirmative. Along with the movement came a surge of emotion, poured into her mind like water through roots. Fragments of what it had tasted in him: dread so thick it suffocated, the gnawing edge of powerlessness, the hollow ache of helplessness.

And beneath it all, the crushing weight of guilt—guilt for being born in a broken world, guilt for watching it crumble further, guilt for surviving when so much had not.

V’aleirith closed her eyes. The feelings struck her heart as if they were her own, and she drew in a steady breath, steadying herself against them.

“Yes,” she whispered. “He carries all of that inside him.”

V’aleirith’s chest tightened with sorrow as the Elder Tree’s feelings sank into her. To live with such dread, to carry guilt that deep, would break most souls. Yet she also understood, those very scars were what drove the Fatebreaker onward. The pain gave him purpose, the despair hardened into resolve. In a world like theirs, sometimes the most horrible burdens became the wings that carried one higher. Few ever recognized that truth. Most would drown in self-pity and call it fate.

But not him. Not the Fatebreaker.

A slow ripple stirred through her mind again, the Elder Tree whispering not in words but in visions. Images bloomed within her—Arzan standing at the center of a storm, his shadow stretching across the world, making choices that would shape not just the elves but all who remained. Hopes of what he might do. Hopes that burned even brighter than the fear that he might fail.

The Elder Tree had long accepted its own death. It did not cling to its life. What bound it to the world was not itself, but its children, the elves, and the fragile, uncertain future they faced. That was why it still endured, why its roots still drank deep.

V’aleirith opened her mouth to speak, to reassure the tree.

But before the words left her lips, a sharp jolt seared through her mind. Her star spirit flared suddenly, flooding her veins with a rush of unease and danger. At the same instant, the Elder Tree shuddered, its great branches shaking violently, whipping up gusts of wind through the grove. Its voice thrummed inside her like a drumbeat—it was warning her.

Her face tightened, the lines of age and worry sharpening into something harder. Slowly, she turned, her gaze sweeping the shadows beneath the trees.

“Whoever is there,” she called, “you may as well come out.”

For a breath, nothing answered her but the restless stir of leaves, and doubt pricked at her. Was the intruder toying with her, slipping away unseen, or waiting for a better moment to strike?

Then, there was a shift. A silhouette stirred at the edge of the clearing and stepped into the moonlight.

Her star spirit shimmered high above, its silver light gathering and cascading down, wrapping the figure in radiance. The glow lit the man fully, stripping away shadow and giving V’aleirith her first, unflinching look at him.

One look was all it took. V’aleirith’s heart fell, her blood turning cold.

“Xantheus,” she said just above a whisper, unable to believe her own eyes.

The man smiled at the sound of his name. His dark suit shifted with the night breeze, fabric whispering as he lifted a hand to sweep back his hair. “So I am known,” he said lightly, almost amused. “I didn’t realize I’d made enough of a mark for an elf elder to recognize me at a glance. But I suppose if you survive a few hundred years, you do earn yourself a reputation.”

V’aleirith’s eyes narrowed, her tone sharp as steel. “A reputation of blood, carnage and evil.”

Xantheus only grinned wider, his sharp eyes glinting as they flicked past her, peering into the vast body of the Elder Tree as if he could see straight through bark and root. “Not a bad reputation to have,” he said. “Fear is a kind of respect, after all.”

Then his smile flattened, his tone shifting into something colder, more direct. “So let's not waste each other’s time with pleasantries. I don’t enjoy conversations with people I won’t see again. I’ll make it simple.” He raised his hand slightly, as though offering a deal. “Let me finish my work here, and I’ll let you run back to save your little village.”

Her brows furrowed, confusion flickering in her eyes. She opened her mouth to demand what he meant—

A scream cut through the forest like a blade.

V’aleirith’s head whipped toward the sound. Another scream followed, and another, until it seemed as though the entire forest was crying out in pain. Then came the guttural snarls of beasts, the shattering roar of explosions, the crack of fire tearing through wood. The night itself burned with chaos.

Her stomach dropped.

Xantheus’s voice slid back into the silence. “Ahem, the longer you stand here, the more your people suffer. Keep me waiting, and you may return to nothing but a burned village. Stay here, and you won’t see even that. You’ll only drift into darkness.”

Behind her, the Elder Tree trembled, branches shuddering with fury. Winds whipped through the grove, leaves snapping like banners in a storm. Its rage pressed into V’aleirith’s mind, hot and unyielding, urging her to act, to strike, to tear this intruder apart.

But Xantheus did not flinch. His grin returned, sharper now, and his stance shifted ever so slightly. He was inviting the fight, baiting her with false bargains, knowing full well she would never abandon the Elder Tree, never turn her back on the god of her people.

V’aleirith clenched her jaw, her eyes never leaving him. She trusted the other elders. They would defend the village as best they could. Her place was here. She would not leave—

Xantheus clicked his tongue, shaking his head as if disappointed but secretly pleased. “It seems,” he drawled, “that I’m always right about people.”

A pulse of light flared beneath his suit—bright yet tainted, darkness burning inside radiance. V’aleirith braced herself as a summoning circle whirled open across his palms, lines etched in sickly fire. With a sound like tearing chains, something clawed its way out.

The ground trembled as the beast landed.

Her eyes widened at the sight in front of her.

A massive three-headed creature towered before her, each maw dripping with fury. A cerberus—twelve feet tall, its hulking form so broad it blotted out its master behind it. Its three throats growled in unison, the sound shaking leaves from the Elder Tree.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Xantheus’s voice slipped through the beast’s snarls. “Why don’t you play with it?”

The cerberus lunged. Fire roared from one head, wind sliced from another, lightning cracked from the third, the elements braided together into a storm rushing straight at her and the Elder Tree.

V’aleirith did not move. Above, her star spirit flared like a sun among stars, its silver glow falling across her shoulders. The elemental torrent smashed into a shimmering blue barrier that bloomed outward from her hands. The world shook, sparks flying as fire, wind, and lightning hissed against the wall of spirit-forged power until they guttered out.

The cerberus snarled and hurled itself bodily against the barrier, claws raking, teeth gnashing. The impact rippled across her defenses, but the wall held. With a twist of her fingers, she unleashed the barrier’s edge, and the beast was flung back, crashing into the earth with a quake.

“Well, well.”

Xantheus’s voice came again just as his form rose into the air. Great leathery wings, black in color, tore free from his back, spreading wide as they caught the moonlight. His smile curved into something more savage. “Nice trick. Spirit Trainers always are the most entertaining to fight. Sadly…” His eyes narrowed. “…I can’t seem to see your spirit.”

He tilted his head, gaze flicking upward toward the starry canopy where her spirit blazed unseen to him. “No matter. I don’t need to.”

Within seconds, circles of summoning fire spun to life across his body, glowing brighter and brighter through the lines of his suit. One after another, they burst open.

And from them came beasts.

Clawed horrors with bone-plated hides. Winged predators shrieking with the echo of storms. Shadow-born hunters that slithered without form. A tide of monsters spilled out of him like an army unchained, and at his silent command, they hurled themselves against her barrier all at once.

The grove shook with the force. The air filled with the roars of beasts and the grinding crack of claws on spirit-forged light. V’aleirith’s teeth clenched as she pressed more of her spirit’s strength into the shield, veins of silver fire running up her arms. The barrier shimmered, bent, but did not yet break.

Then she saw them.

Among the swarm, a pack of fox-like creatures darted close—small, deceptively quick, their eyes glowing with malice. They flickered in and out of existence, vanishing before a strike could land, reappearing an instant later at the barrier’s edge.

Her eyebrows shot up in alarm. The fox-like creatures didn’t bounce off the barrier like the others. They slipped through it as if it weren’t even there.

Two of them lunged straight for her.

Before their snapping jaws could close around her throat, the Elder Tree roared in her mind. Branches split and snapped, lengthening with unnatural speed. They whipped forward like spears, smashing the beasts mid-air against the inside of the barrier. She heard the sound of bones cracking, and yelps cut short, and within seconds, the fox things lay broken and still.

Xantheus only grinned. “Good tricks. You really are like a treant.”

V’aleirith’s eyes hardened. “Do not compare the great Elder Tree to a mere creature like that.”

“Why not?” His grin widened. “Both are just trees in the end.”

His gaze slid past her, lingering on the massive trunk and writhing branches of the Elder Tree. The grin faded into a thin, cold line. “Not that it matters. It’s going to die either way.”

A spell structure flared across his palm, lines of dark light carving themselves into the air. With a single sweep of his hand, a beam of pure shadow slammed into the barrier.

The impact was immediate. Her star spirit cried out in her mind, its voice raw with strain. V’aleirith spread her hands, pouring more power into the barrier, light flaring so bright it scorched the air. But the cerberus, the winged horrors, the clawed beasts—they were still striking, tearing, gnashing. Every blow splintered her defenses further.

The barrier groaned, trembling, spider-web cracks crawling across its surface.

“Give up,” Xantheus said, his voice louder than the chaos. The beam thickened, pressing harder, grinding through her will. “You are too small. Too weak. The only reason this tree still lives is because it’s buried so deep in these woods. Hard to reach. Hard to touch. That’s all.”

The barrier shrieked like glass under too much strain.

A line split open. One beast slipped through, then another, claws scraping the roots. The blue light faltered, fragments falling away like shards of crystal.

V’aleirith staggered back, her breath shallow, her arms trembling. Above her, her star spirit pulsed desperately, bleeding light into her veins, but it was not enough.

Xantheus’s grin returned, vicious and sharp. He twisted his hand, angling the beam until it pointed straight at her chest.

The beam never struck her.

Another light split the heavens, spearing down from above, clashing against Xantheus’s dark magic midair. The collision erupted with a violent roar. The shockwave tore through the grove, hurling V’aleirith backward. She slammed into the trunk of the Elder Tree, the bark cracking behind her as pain lanced through her body.

Her vision swam, stars flashing in her eyes.

Voices called out in her mind—her star spirit, the Elder Tree—urgent, desperate, but muffled, as if drowned beneath water. She forced her gaze forward, fixing on the dark figure floating calmly above.

Around her, branches whipped and coiled, smashing beasts out of the air, crushing them into the earth. Yet more crawled and leapt, a relentless tide clawing toward the elder tree’s roots.

Xantheus hovered with maddening ease, his arms now folded. He tilted his head, looking skyward, as though addressing something unseen. “So your spirit is there,” he murmured, lips curling in intrigue. “How interesting. I would love to add her to my collection.”

V’aleirith braced her trembling hands against the bark and pushed herself upright. Her breath burned in her chest, but her voice was steady, cold as night. “You won’t live long enough to try.”

Xantheus laughed so loud that it rang in her ears. “My death is centuries away, elder. You are already defeated.”

Her frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

The answer revealed itself before he spoke.

She turned her gaze to the beasts swarming the branches. Something was wrong. Their movements had changed—frenzied, unnatural. And their eyes… their eyes glowed brighter, redder, until the glow was all that remained of them.

A chill pierced her bones. A terrible premonition seized her heart.

The Elder Tree felt it too. Its boughs trembled with unease, its voice crying out in her mind.

Above, Xantheus rose higher, his wings spreading wide against the moonlight. He stretched out his arms as though orchestrating the scene, and the next few moments slowed into eternity.

The beasts threw back their heads. Their howls split the air, a chorus of despair and madness. Their flesh writhed, split, and then erupted with a surge of dead mana, black fire bursting from within.

V’aleirith gasped, clutching her chest. She felt the Elder Tree wail—a cry of agony that tore through her spirit. Its massive branches folded inward, sweeping low in a desperate attempt to shield her.

Her star spirit flared above, but she had nothing left to give. The last embers of her strength guttered out as she raised her hands to form another barrier.

Too weak and too slow.

The world was drowned in light.

The explosion consumed everything. A storm of shadow and fire blotted out sky and ground alike.

The last thing V’aleirith saw was the Elder Tree’s great branches curling protectively around her, enclosing her in its embrace. It was still… protecting her.

And through the roar, one voice reached her mind, gentle and proud.

You did well, the Elder Tree spoke to her in a voice so ancient that she felt like everything in fact was crumbling… coming to an end.

***

Volume end!

Dao of money Chapter 170

Chapter 170

It took a long moment for Tang Yuqiu to realise the truth—he had no idea about any war in Red Peak City. War. The word itself felt heavy, far heavier than anything he remembered. In his memories, Red Peak City had only ever seen small clashes, sparks lit by the pride and arrogance of the younger generation. Fights over face, grudges between peers, the usual mess. They had always burned bright for a while and then been quickly smothered once the elders stepped in. The older cultivators rarely lifted their hands. They knew better. Every strike carried risks, and no one wanted to gamble their standing only to have it bite them later.

But from Tang Yuqiu’s tone, this wasn’t some childish conflict. There was that certain seriousness in her voice, a shadow of something larger. Something that carried the taste of blood.

The middle of her eyebrows knit together, her eyes narrowing on him. “You really didn’t know about it? I thought you did. That’s why I assumed you wanted to go back while there was still the chance.”

He shook his head slowly. “You’re the first person to tell me about this war. Even if I wanted news of Red Peak City or the Chen Clan, I wouldn’t turn my feet in that direction again.” he said without any hesitation in his voice. “I left them behind, and I don’t go back on my choices.”

The thought of stepping into the Chen Clan again felt like stepping into a pit of knives. For the current him, joining them would be nothing short of a nightmare. That clan lived and breathed strength, measuring worth with nothing else. And from what he remembered, behind their proud fronts, most were nothing but scheming wolves, ready to tear each other apart for a scrap of advantage.

If they ever discovered the dragon sealed inside him, he doubted they would hesitate. They would chain him, carve him open if they had to, just to see how far they could push his power.

He drew in a quiet breath. He enjoyed his sect and having businesses, running them and creating brands much more than… raw strength.

Tang Yuqiu saw his expression and lowered her eyes, her expression dimming with guilt.

“…I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just thought so. Even my father was sure of it.”

As Tang Yuqiu’s apology fell into silence, something flickered across her eyes—dark, fleeting, gone before it could be named. He noticed, but he didn’t dwell on it. Whatever storm she carried, it was hers to weather. There were bigger questions now.

“What is this war you speak of?” he asked as calmly as possible, but his voice was edged with curiosity.

She lifted her gaze to him, lips pressing together before she finally spoke. “The major powers of Red Peak City are fighting. The Chen Clan, Yu Clan, and the Huang Clan. All of them are at each other’s throat, and this time, they aren’t holding back. You know as well as I do that our family’s rice shipments run through Red Peak. For years, there have been skirmishes, yes, but always with restraint. They’d pull back their fists—well, their qi, in this case—before things went too far. But not now. Not anymore. Younger cultivators have been crippled… some killed outright.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “The Emperor hasn’t stepped in. And the sect in the nearby mountains—the Rolling Bull Sect—they aren’t willing to say a word. Their ties with all three powers are… complicated.”

From what he remembered, sects like the Rolling Bull Sect were favored by the Emperor, treated as his extra eyes across the Empire. Their duty was to report unrest, because city lords often tangled themselves too deep in local politics and kept the truth buried. But Rolling Bull’s situation was different. Their relationship with the Chen, Yu and the Huang ran deeper than the city lord’s. Too deep. They drew rich offerings from each side, filling their stores with resources in exchange for silence.

He almost smirked at the thought. He knew this because the previous Chen Ren was made to climb up the sect’s mountain himself more than once. Not out of duty, but as punishment. His so-called hedonist lifestyle had often earned him the clan elders’ ire, and hauling bags of offerings up the long stairway was their way of knocking the arrogance out of him.

Funny thing was, he’d never minded. On the contrary, he’d accepted every punishment with a grin. The chance to flirt with the female disciples was a game that man had relished. He’d sweet-talked, boasted, and lied his way through too many encounters to count, leaving behind a trail of annoyed and exasperated disciples who, to this day, probably cursed his name.

His lips curved faintly, but the humor died quickly. Whatever games he once played, Red Peak’s situation was no laughing matter.

“But how did it start? A war like this—surely everyone knows it works against them. They’re burning through resources that should’ve been guarded, not wasted.”

Tang Yuqiu nodded through grave eyes. “It is against their interests. They’re only draining themselves, and the cost will haunt them. But…” She paused, a faint sigh slipping out. “I suppose it was simmering for a long while. Pride, suspicion, grudges. You know it is. It only needed the right spark to erupt. And now, the Chen Clan is hoarding food, buying up supplies, even searching for spiritual ingredients to boost their cultivators’ strength.”

She shook her head. “It isn’t an all-out war yet, but whenever the cultivators of the major powers cross paths, blood is spilled. And all of it… all of it is because of the promise of a ruin.”

Chen Ren raised a brow. “A ruin?”

Yuqiu bit her lip, her eyes flicking away before she forced herself to meet his gaze again. “Yes. It started a few months back. You know about the sinkhole around Red Peak City. It goes deep underground, crawling with spirit beasts. The clans hunt them constantly, drawing strength from the hides, cores, and bones. That sinkhole is one of the reasons Red Peak City’s powers rival even the sects nearby.”

Chen Ren nodded. That much he knew well. The sinkhole had always been a source of envy. Herbs that grew in impossible places, minerals formed under crushing pressure, beasts that no one outside Red Peak City had the right to touch. All of it was tightly monopolised. The sects in the mountains had no say.

“No one has ever understood how the sinkholes formed,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Exactly,” Yuqiu said quickly, seizing on his words. “And this ruin… it might hold the answer.”

Chen Ren leaned forward slightly, his interest caught despite himself. “How?”

“A few months ago, some of the Chen Clan’s men, along with members of the Yu Clan, went into the sinkhole. There was an earthquake. The ground shook so violently they barely escaped with their lives. But when it was over… a whole section of the sinkhole had collapsed.” She swallowed hard. “And what it revealed was a hidden entrance. Something ancient, sealed away for who knows how long. A place no one had ever seen before.”

“I’m guessing that’s the ruin?”

Tang Yuqiu nodded. “Yes, the entrance to it. From the rumours our Tang Clan has managed to gather, there were arrays woven around it, ancient ones, protecting whatever was sealed inside. But when the ground collapsed, those defenses broke. Since then, a surge of qi has been bubbling out, saturating the air. Everyone is desperate to reach the source. They say it’s a treasure… some even whisper it’s a peak sky-grade artifact. If that’s true, whoever claims it could dominate Red Peak City outright, and perhaps even beyond.”

Her words hung in the air like heavy stones. Chen Ren didn’t need her to spell out the rest. He could already see how the fragile balance of Red Peak City had shattered. For years, the three powers had glared at one another but kept their knives sheathed, knowing no side could afford to bleed too much. But with the ruin’s discovery, that balance was gone. If a treasure truly lay at the heart of it, then none of them would ever allow the others to have it. Not without blood.

And if it really is a sky-grade treasure… His thoughts tightened. It must lie deep, beyond easy reach. Otherwise, this war would already be over. Someone would have claimed it by now, and the city would have bent beneath their heel.

He turned his gaze back to Yuqiu. “Where is this treasure inside the ruin?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think anyone does. There are too many new pathways branching underground, and the beasts—more and more of them are being drawn in by the qi that’s been pouring out these past few weeks. It’s changed the whole area. When one of our Tang convoys passed nearby, we even heard an explosion echo from inside. The sinkhole is sturdy and won’t collapse easily. And even if it do… no one cares. Not anymore. This is war. And in war, every risk is worth it.”

That makes sense, Chen Ren thought and nodded slowly, his fingers were in a rhythmic tap against the armrest. The whole situation was a tangled knot. He hadn’t come here for war. All he wanted was to learn more about the economy of Red Peak City, find his way into the markets, make his mark, and then search for the medallion—whether he had to buy it or steal it. Clean, simple, controlled.

But war? War was chaos. A messy stage where blood drowned profit and strength dictated everything. His memories told him clearly. Red Peak City was crawling with cultivators, many of them seasoned, many of them ambitious. Too many were tied to sects scattered across the empire. If he made one wrong move, he wouldn’t just have enemies in Red Peak City, but across different regions he had no wish to cross. If he truly wanted the medallion, he would have to tread very, very carefully.

Even as he thought that, a question surfaced in his mind. He lifted his gaze to Yuqiu. “Why did you say it’s only right for me to take advantage of the war?”

Yuqi finished the last of her tea, setting the cup down with a soft clink before answering. “Oh, that. When you first came to the Tang Clan, you swore in front of everyone that you’d return to your clan one day and prove them all wrong. That you’d trample over them.” Her eyes softened faintly, though her tone was blunt. “I doubt you were anything but delusional back then. But now… you have real power. Resources too. A war feels like the perfect chance for you to get back at them, to force the Chen Clan to recognise how much they’ve lost and how important you truly are—”

“That’s it.”

Chen Ren cut her off as a thought formed in his mind so sharp that he almost sprung out of chair.

And that startled the woman in front of him.

“That’s… it? What’s it? What do you mean”

“That’s the way,” he said quietly. “War. That’s the way.”

A pause followed, his words hanging in the air. Then he tilted his head and asked, “Let me ask you a question, Yuqiu. Do you know who wins in a war?”

Her brows furrowed as she leaned back. “I’m sure my father asked me the same question when I was a child.”

Chen Ren tilted his head slightly, his tone almost teasing. “And what did you reply back then?”

Tang Yuqiu huffed, folding her arms. “I said the one with the longer weapon.”

Chen Ren chuckled at that, the sound low and amused. Yuqiu only glared at him in return, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“If you want my answer now,” she said, her voice sharper, “I’d say the one with the best information. Power, weapons, manpower—they matter, of course. But information is just as important. The one who can control it can turn any battle in their favor.”

Chen Ren nodded, the laughter fading from his face. She wasn’t wrong. Information was the spine of war. Modern nations from Earth had long proven it. Spycraft, intelligence agencies, shadow wars fought in silence; they were often more decisive than the armies on the frontlines.

But Yuqiu had misunderstood the heart of his question.

“You are right,” he said quietly, “yet wrong.”

Her brows drew together. “How so?”

“When I asked who wins in a war, I wasn’t talking about the ones actually fighting it. Even if a side emerges ‘victorious,’ the losses they take can turn that victory into ashes. A pyrrhic victory at best. No, Yuqiu, in many wars, the ones who truly win are the third parties. The ones uninvolved in the battles themselves, who reap the profits from others’ blood.”

Yuqi’s eyes flickered with understanding. “You mean a merchant.”

“A smart merchant,” Chen Ren corrected. “Most merchants wouldn’t dare meddle with war. And wisely so. But the clever ones—the ones who know how to play the board without drawing blades—can come out richer and stronger than anyone holding a sword.”

Yuqi lowered her gaze for a moment, fingers tracing the rim of her empty teacup. Then she spoke, her voice quiet, almost heavy. “A lot of merchants never had a choice.”

Chen Ren narrowed his eyes slightly. “What do you mean?”

She hesitated, silence stretching between them. Her eyes looked anywhere but at him. Though he wanted to push for an answer, he didn’t. He waited patiently until she let out a breath.

Even her shoulders sagged slightly.

“Cloud Mist City was hit hard by the beast rising, you know.”

Chen Ren nodded slowly, not knowing where she was going with this.

“I know. I heard things.”

“So they deployed a lot of cultivators to guard the walls. Beast nests appeared—ones we never even knew existed—and some of them were… very unruly. Those so-called defenders demanded compensation from the commoners, claiming they were risking their lives to protect them. The merchant clans bore the brunt of it, stripped of resources again and again. They called it ‘duty,’ but in truth it was robbery.” Her jaw tightened. “The City Lord promised to reimburse us once everything was over, but I doubt he will. Even if he does, it won’t match what we lost.”

Chen Ren studied her carefully. He didn’t need her to spell out the details. The Tang Clan, with their lifeblood tied to food, must have been hit harder than most. He could picture it all too well—storerooms emptied, food taken, guards overwhelmed. Tang Clan cultivators were competent, yes, but compared to Soaring Sword Sect disciples? Against those blades, they’d be cut down like weeds.

Yuqiu’s worry was plain on her face. Her fingers were clutched into fists at the thought.

But Chen Ren’s thoughts ran in another direction entirely.

“Yuqiu, I know your clan went through a lot. But what I have in mind… it’s different. I don’t think anyone in Red Peak City can touch me.”

Her eyes sharpened instantly, suspicion and curiosity flickering in their depths.

“And what exactly is that?”

Chen Ren let a faint smile curl his lips.

“You’ll see soon enough. But one thing I can tell you now—” he paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “—the Divine Coin Sect is going to make a lot of profit again.”

Magus Reborn Volume 4 Epilogue 1

Epilogue 1

Even after midnight, Hermil buzzed with excitement and chatter.

The city glowed like it was day. Candles blazed behind windows, lanterns hanging from doorways, and the cobblestone streets were packed. Crowds were moving in groups, from one to another—no space to breathe between them; all the while cups and jugs of ale sloshed in their hands.

Laughter rang out.

Not just laughter, but voices overlapped until they became a tide of sound rolling through every alley and square. In every way, no one seemed ready for sleep.

In fact, it was not often that Hermil had reason to be so alive at night. The last time the city had stirred with this much noise, it had been out of misery—plague and famine had dreaded the city making families starve. Those nights, the talk had been heavy. But now, for once, the city had a different kind of tale to chew on.

A battle. A real, bloody, shocking battle.

A noble Mage who had fought against the Archine Tower’s Master herself.

And she had lost.

That defeat alone would have been enough to keep tongues wagging for weeks, but the fire had been stoked higher. The Assembly of Judgment had just ended, called to weigh the same noble’s fate. No one outside the chamber knew for certain what had been decided, yet the streets already buzzed as if the verdict were carved in stone. Rumors carried faster than runners, changing shape with every retelling, and no one cared what was true. Truth was boring. Stories were sweeter.

Everywhere, voices rose with certainty.

“Arzan Kellius is no mere Count anymore,” a man declared, slamming his cup on a tavern counter. He circled his belly with so much pride as if Arzan was his own son. “He’s been made a Duke—mark my words. You’ll see the banners soon enough.”

Two women huddled nearby, their shawls pulled tight against the night air, nodding eagerly. “Not only a Duke,” one whispered, “they say he’s broken the wild tribes to his will. Whole packs of them serve him now, trained like hunting dogs.”

A passing boy with a tray of roasted nuts chimed in without breaking stride, “Better than that! He’s to marry Princess Amara herself.”

Not a soul asked where he had heard it. No one demanded proof. The city was too busy choosing which version they liked best. Some clung to one rumor, others to another, but all spoke with the confidence of scholars and kings. Every time someone added to the story, they grew sharper, brighter and more outrageous, until even those who had once doubted began to nod as if they had seen it with their own eyes.

Hermil had become a stage that night, every street corner its own theatre. Gossip was the play, and everyone wanted a part.

Among the swaying crowds of men chattering in packs and dragging their feet through the lamplit streets, a lone figure moved with care. She hugged the edges of the street with slow and uneven steps, pausing every so often to press a hand against a wall and catch her breath before forcing herself forward again.

A wide robe draped over her from head to toe, the hood pulled low to hide her face. Only the wind betrayed her, lifting stray strands of hair from the shadows of her hood, enough to hint that beneath the fabric was a woman.

Even the smallest task cost her dearly. Crossing from one side of the street to the other felt like a battle, and every step felt… so damn heavy. She raised a waterskin to her lips often, wetting her throat, stealing what little strength she could. Around her, laughter and shouts filled the air—wild rumors of dukes, barbarians, and princesses twisting together like smoke.

She let them pass through her ears without pause, never correcting, never answering, only walking on. She had no time to waste.

But fortune did not walk with her.

As she slipped across a narrow lane, a drunk staggered from the crowd and crashed into her shoulder, nearly sending her back into the wall. His face twisted, eyes bloodshot, and his breath stank of ale. “Who the fuck are you?” he spat, squaring himself in front of her. “Don’t know how to walk, eh?”

She lowered her head and spoke just above a whisper “I’m only passing through.”

Her calmness only stirred him more. He swayed closer, lips curled, hand shooting out to grip her shoulder. But before his fingers found purchase, her hood shifted, and her eyes—just for a breath of a moment—flared with a strange glow.

The man froze. His hand faltered midair. His drunken bravado drained from his face, even all the blood. He paled. He stumbled back one step, mouth open as though to speak, but no words came.

The woman said nothing. She pulled the robe tighter around herself, quickened her pace, and slipped around the corner. The man remained rooted where she left him, his companions too lost in their own shouting and laughter to notice his silence.

Yet as she pressed forward, the streets gave her no kindness. Around every bend, more drunken men clogged the way. Their excitement filled the night like a storm, and she—feeling even smaller—was forced to wade through it, every step a prayer that she would not be stopped again.

But fortunately, her destination was close. That thought alone gave her strength enough to drag her feet forward, one small step at a time, until the streets thinned and the drunken noise dulled into the distance. The crowds bled away behind her, leaving her with the night air and the ache in her chest.

At last, she turned a corner and found him.

In a narrow alley stood a carriage, its dark frame blocking most of the space. The horse pawed at the stones restlessly, its breath steaming in the cold, while a man sat on the driver’s seat, arms crossed, keeping watch.

She stopped, glaring at him from beneath her hood. The man’s eyes flicked up, caught sight of her, and his lip curled.

“Get out, bugger,” he barked, flicking his hand as though shooing a stray. “This alley’s off-limits.”

The words snapped something inside her. Her hand moved sharply, pushing back her hood. A fall of tangled hair spilled free.

“You’ve grown an extra pair of eyes not to recognize your master, Loras?”

The robe slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

The man’s eyes widened. He scrambled down from the carriage, boots thudding against the stones. “Master Veridia,” he breathed, as though naming a ghost. “You look—”

“Pale,” she interrupted. “Dead. A corpse. I know.”

A cough clawed its way up her throat, and her hand shot to her chest as if to cage her own heart. Pain surged under her ribs, but she held herself upright, refusing to let him see her falter.

“Master…” Loras took a cautious step toward her. His voice softened. “Are you—are you truly all right? So it’s true, then? I heard you lost, but are you really—”

“Crippled,” Veridia cut him off again. “Nearly. I can still cast if I pour everything into it. But if I push too far, it will take me with it. One wrong step, and I die.”

Loras’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists. “Then I should hunt him down—Kellius. That bastard deserves—”

“Don’t.” Veridia’s eyes burned as she forced herself forward, step by step, until her hand brushed the side of the carriage. “I understand your anger. I share it. But if you go after him, you’ll be dead before you draw your blade. He’s more ferocious up close than in your mind. I barely survived him, and you are not me.”

She pulled herself up, gripping the carriage for balance. “Don’t let anger rule you, Loras. We have bigger enemies to face than Arzan Kellius.” Her voice dropped low, almost a growl. “Much bigger.”

Loras nodded at last, his anger pressed down beneath obedience. He stepped quickly to the carriage, swung the door open, and offered his hand to steady her. As she climbed up, her body stiff with pain, he muttered low, almost to himself.

“Like Regina.”

Veridia froze, her foot hovering on the carriage step. A shadow cut across her face, and her frown deepened.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s hope she dies with what I’ve planned. Otherwise…” her eyes narrowed, “…we’ll be drowning in assassins for months to come.”

Loras’s jaw tightened. “Let them come. I’ll deal with them, as I’ve dealt with the rest of the Bonewolves.” His voice carried the name of the assassin order like a challenge.

Veridia turned toward him fully, her pale hand gripping the doorframe as though her weight would tear her down otherwise. Her voice dropped lower, each word dragged out by pain that twisted her chest.

“You have courage, Loras… but you are no dragon slayer. You’re more or less a toad at the bottom of a well. I…” She forced air into her lungs, her eyes flashing with defiance. “…I am a bigger toad. And out there, the skies are crawling with dragons. Be careful, or they’ll swallow you before you even look up.”

She pulled herself inside, sinking into the carriage with a harsh breath. “Now go. We need to leave this city.”

Loras nodded once, grabbed her robe from the ground, climbed back onto the driver’s seat, and cracked the reins. The carriage jolted forward, wheels rattling over the cobbles as it slipped from the alley to the main road. He didn’t bother steering aside for the groups of drunkards who clogged the streets. Men cursed and shouted, stumbling out of the way as the horse pushed through, their voices chasing after the carriage like stones thrown into the dark.

Inside, Veridia leaned against the side of the carriage, her gaze fixed on the streets flashing past. The noise, the lamplight, the laughter—all of it pressed against her chest. She might never see Hermil again. Perhaps that was for the best.

This—this flight, this leaving—was still a victory of sorts. A victory pulled from ruin. For it had been a mistake, her mistake, that had cost her everything.

She had thought she could use Arzan Kellius. Even if he won, she had expected him to leash her, to keep her close, and in his shadow she could bide her time, grow stronger, and break free when the moment came. She had always known how to play the waiting game.

But Arzan had no patience for games. He had not trusted her, not for a heartbeat. He had shattered her instead—body, pride, and power alike.

The pain in her chest flared, sharp enough to blur her vision, but she smiled bitterly to herself. Broken or not, crippled or not, she was still Veridia. She had not been idle as the Archine Tower’s master. And even now, with death tugging at her heels, she had pieces yet to play.

But rather than Arzan, her thoughts circled back to Regina.

The woman had always been a viper, smiling with her teeth hidden, striking when least expected. If not for the small vial of poison Veridia kept on her person at all times, she would already be dead. She had slipped it into the cups of the healers sent to “treat” her wounds,, and while they convulsed and died in silence, she had stolen her way out into the night. Had she not, she would have “succumbed to her injuries” by dawn, and Regina would already be weaving her death into a political snare meant to tighten around Arzan Kellius.

The games of courts and daggers, of whispers and feigned grief, Veridia had been forced out of them tonight. But that did not mean she was finished. No, Regina would pay. She would make sure of it.

Her thoughts broke off as the carriage jolted beneath her. It lurched, then came to a full stop. Veridia pressed her hand against the seat to steady herself, the sudden stillness loud after the rattle of the wheels.

The city gates.

Through the narrow slit of the window, she saw lanterns bobbing against the night, steel glinting on helms and spear tips. Several noble carriages were already lined up, inching forward one by one. Of course—they too had chosen to leave Hermil after the Assembly. The delay stretched on, every passing moment twisting tighter in her chest. But they moved. Little by little, the carriage moved forward.

At last, their turn came. A guard stepped forward, raising his hand. His eyes flicked from the horse, to the carriage, to the man seated above it.

“Merchant?” he asked flatly, as if he’d done this a million times before but the suspicion still layered heavily on that one word.

Loras leaned on the reins, giving an easy shrug. “Transportation. I had a full load of wanderers brought in for the Assembly. Everyone wanted to be here, to see it with their own eyes.” He chuckled lightly, masking the tension in his voice. “Now they’ve scattered back to their own inns. I’m just returning home to the east.”

The guard narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. “Transportation, is it? That so?” He stepped closer, circling the carriage, the iron tip of his spear dragging faintly on the stones. “Strange night to be carrying an empty wagon. Who’s inside?”

Veridia’s heart thudded once, loud in her ears. Her hand twitched toward the edge of the curtain, though she knew exposing her face would mean ruin. Moreover, they didn’t have a lot of time. She needed to be out of here soon or things would turn out bad.

“My older sister,” Loras answered smoothly, inclining his head. “Travels with me. We don't have any other family.”

The guard’s gaze slid toward the window. Veridia sat still, her breath locked in her lungs. For a heartbeat she thought he might tug the door open, drag her out, and everything would end here, on this muddy road beneath the torches.

But instead, the man extended a hand, palm open. No words needed.

Loras’s face did not shift. He reached into his cloak, pulled free a coin, and pressed it into the guard’s hand. Gold flashed in the torchlight.

The guard’s grin was sharp and greedy. He closed his hand over the gold, then jerked his head toward the open road. “Get out,” he said, stepping aside.

Loras snapped the reins, and the carriage rolled forward. Veridia slumped back into her seat, a breath of relief slipping past her lips. Her chest still ached, but for the first time tonight, the air felt lighter.

Once they cleared the gates and the cobbles gave way to the smoother stretch of the king’s road, Loras exhaled. “The guards,” he muttered, shaking his head, “always so corrupt.”

Veridia’s eyes narrowed. “Not just the guards. Everyone in this kingdom is corrupt. If the royal family cares for nothing but their own power and gain, then the same sickness trickles down into the marrow of everyone beneath them.” She paused, her gaze turning distant. “And don’t forget, we’re no different. Everyone looks out for themselves, Loras. We’re all the same.”

The driver went silent, the clop of hooves filling the space between them. For a time, there was nothing but the rhythm of wheels and horse-breath in the night. Then, his voice came again, hesitant but curious.

“…So what did you do before meeting me, Master? I know you wouldn’t leave the city without doing something big.”

Veridia’s lips curved into the ghost of a smile. “You’ve gotten smarter.”

Loras chuckled softly. “I’ve just learned to know you. After all the training with you, Master, how could I not?” His voice trailed, then steadied again, sharper this time. “So… what did you do?”

But before Veridia could open her mouth, the night split apart.

A deafening shout rolled over the walls behind them, followed by a blast that shook the earth. The horses shrieked, their hooves striking sparks on the stone, and the carriage jolted wildly as Loras fought to keep them steady. All along the road, other carriages bucked and rattled, noble passengers screaming. One overturned entirely with a crunch of wood, crashing into another and spilling its panicked riders into the dirt.

Veridia’s focus snapped elsewhere. She seized the latch, shoved the carriage window open, and thrust her head into the night air.

Beyond the gates, smoke coiled into the sky like black fingers. Flames licked higher and higher, painting the night with orange light. Screams carried with the wind, loud, piercing, rising over the confusion on the road. The laughter from before—had all turned to screams, cries and grief—loud grief.

Veridia’s heart pounded with pain and satisfaction alike. She smiled faintly, the glow of the fires reflecting in her weary eyes.

“Good,” she whispered to herself. “The explosions have done their job.”

Loras’s voice cut through the din as the carriage ground to a halt. He jumped down from the driver’s seat, boots splashing in the dust and ash as he turned toward the city. His face was pale in the firelight, eyes wide at the pillars of smoke rising behind the walls.

“What… what did you do, Master?” he asked, his voice caught between awe and fear.

Veridia leaned on the window frame, her breath ragged but steady enough to shape words. Her eyes glimmered in the reflection of the flames.

“Just took out some Mages and nobles who pledged themselves to Regina. I don't know if I got her, but just the others would be enough,” she said coldly. “They were the spine of her schemes. Break the spine, and the beast crawls instead of walks.” She drew in a shallow breath, wincing as her chest tightened. “There wasn’t time for more. The royal palace is still untouched. I needed more time to light it up too.”

Her lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. “But time is the one thing I no longer have.”

Loras stared at her, stunned, his mouth working soundlessly as if he wanted to ask more but couldn’t. His gaze darted back to the city once, flames reflected in his eyes, before he turned away with a sharp motion, shoulders stiff.

“I’ll get us out of here,” he said hurriedly, climbing back onto the seat. His hands tightened on the reins. “Where are we headed, Master?”

Veridia sank into her seat, the weight of her exhaustion pressing down heavier than ever. “I’ll tell you… on the way.”

The carriage jerked forward once more, the sounds of fire and screaming fading behind them as the road swallowed them whole.