11. Junior, You Dare Question My Financial Planning?

I descend the mountain with a purse full of spirit stones and a list longer than my arm. The morning sun catches the muddy streets, turning them into a patchwork of brown and gold. The town’s morning market is bustling: farmers hawking vegetables, merchants calling out prices, laborers gathered near the square hoping for work. The usual crowd, going about their usual business.

I move through them with purpose, Gaze flicking across faces and goods as I pass. A bolt of cloth here—good quality, fairly priced. A pile of vegetables there—fresh, but not worth the inflated cost.

First stop: the grain merchant.

Old Zhang’s shop sits at the edge of the market square, a sprawling building of weathered wood that’s served the town for three generations. Grain sacks line the walls. The smell of wheat and rice fills the air. Old Zhang himself is behind the counter, a round man with thin hair and shrewd eyes.

“Old Zhang.” I approach directly, no preamble. “I need bulk supplies. Rice, wheat, vegetables, preserved meat. Enough for twenty people for six months.”

His eyes bug out. “Sect Leader Lu…” He trails off, doing the math in his head. “That’s a lot of food. Your sect only has—”

“Growing. I’m hiring more laborers, taking on more disciples. Can you supply it?”

He blinks. Processes. Then his merchant instincts kick in, overriding his surprise. “I can. I’ll need time to gather everything. Three days, maybe four. But I can do it.”

He can. He does. We haggle briefly, not because I care about the price, but because not haggling would raise questions. Forty low-grade stones later, I have enough food to fill a small room. Rice in hundred-pound sacks. Wheat ground fine for porridge. Dried vegetables that will keep through winter. Preserved meat salted and smoked. Jars of oil, bags of spices, everything a growing sect needs. And more to come over the next few days.

I step into an alley, out of sight, and transfer it all to the spirit food preservation ring—the one from the tomb, still half-empty from the original rice. The ring absorbs it greedily, its storage space yawning wide.

The sect won’t go hungry this winter.

Second stop: the tool merchant.

A smaller shop, cramped and cluttered, but the tools are quality. Iron picks with sharp points. Shovels with sturdy handles. Wheelbarrows that won’t collapse under weight. Ropes, lanterns, buckets, all the equipment a mining operation needs.

The merchant, a wiry man named Huo, no relation to my miner, eyes me curiously as I list my needs. “Doubling your operation, Sect Leader?”

“Expanding. The vein still has some life left. Might as well get it while we can.”

He nods, accepting the explanation without question. Fifteen low-grade stones change hands. I store most of the equipment in the storage ring, leaving out a few picks for show—visible proof of my investment, something for the miners to see and appreciate.

Third stop: the cloth merchant.

Winter is coming. I’ve felt it in the morning chill, seen it in the frost on my windows. My disciples wear robes thin as paper, patched and repatched, inadequate for the cold months ahead. The servants wear even less—rough hemp that barely counts as clothing.

The cloth merchant’s name is Wei. She’s a sharp woman in her fifties, with calloused fingers from decades of sewing and eyes that miss nothing. I spread my requirements across her counter: twenty bolts of thick cotton for everyday wear, ten bolts of wool for winter cloaks, needles, thread, and ready-made winter cloaks for everyone—disciples and servants both.

Wei raises an eyebrow at the quantity but says nothing. Business is business. Twelve low-grade stones later, I have enough fabric to outfit my entire sect twice over.

“Delivery to the mountain?” she asks.

“Tomorrow. I’ll send someone.”

Fourth stop: the medicine shop.

Not the herbalist who sells to mortals for common ailments. The real medicine shop, tucked down a side street, run by a retired cultivator who sells to minor sects and wandering practitioners. A wooden sign with a single character—”Heal”—hangs above the door.

Inside, the air smells of herbs and old qi. The proprietor is a woman named Su, ancient and wrinkled, her cultivation long since faded but her knowledge still sharp. She looks up as I enter, eyes narrowing.

“Sect Leader Lu. You don’t visit often.”

“I don’t often have the resources.” I place a list on her counter. “Basic healing supplies. Qi-regulating herbs. Wound salves. Enough for a year.”

She scans the list, then looks at me. “This is… substantial. Your sect has come into money?”

“Decades of saving. Finally decided to spend it.”

She doesn’t believe me. I can see it in her eyes. But she’s a businesswoman, not an investigator. Ten low-grade stones change hands, and I leave with a sack full of medicines that could save lives.

Fifth stop: the village head.

A necessary evil. The village head—a bureaucrat named Guo, round and oily—has the power to make my life difficult if he chooses. Questions about sudden wealth could reach ears I don’t want listening.

I find him in his office, a modest building near the town center. He’s reviewing tax records, or pretending to. His eyes light up when I enter; cultivators don’t visit him often, and when they do, it usually means trouble or profit.

“Sect Leader Lu! What an honor.” He rises, bowing slightly. “How can I assist the Coiling Dragon Sect today?”

I place two low-grade stones on his desk. Small, gleaming, worth more than he makes in a month.

“A gift,” I say. “For the town. My sect has been saving for years, and we’re finally able to invest in our people. I wanted you to know, in case anyone asks questions.”

He looks at the stones. Looks at me. Smiles.

“I understand completely, Sect Leader. The Coiling Dragon Sect has always been a pillar of this community. Any investments you make are, of course, entirely your own business.”

He believes me. Or pretends to. Either way, the stones buy his silence.

Total Spent: 79 low-grade stones

Remaining: 2,788 low-grade, 432 middle-grade, 17 high-grade

I walk back up the mountain as the sun sets, my storage ring heavy with supplies, my mind already planning the next steps. Food for winter. Tools for expansion. Clothes for warmth. Medicine for emergencies. A bureaucrat bribed into silence.

Worth every stone.

Over the next five days. The sect shifts.

Old Zhao proves invaluable.

Within a day of arriving, he’s mapped the existing tunnels, identifying every twist and turn with the confidence of someone who’s spent decades underground. Within two days, he’s pointed out three promising locations for new shafts—places where the rock sounds different, where his instincts whisper of hidden wealth. Within three days, he’s trained my new laborers in proper technique, correcting their swings, teaching them to read the stone.

The Gaze was right about him. His stone resonance is uncanny. I watch him tap a wall with his pick, ear pressed close, eyes half-closed, listening to echoes that normal ears can’t hear. Then he nods, satisfied, and tells you exactly what’s behind it. Granite. Iron trace. Empty space. Water seepage. He’s never wrong.

Chen Jiang, the miner with trace earth affinity, works beside him like a student with a master. He absorbs everything, asking questions, practicing techniques, his natural talent sharpening under Old Zhao’s guidance. Together, they’re a formidable team: Old Zhao’s experience combined with Chen Jiang’s innate sensitivity.

By the twelfth day, we’ve dug two new side tunnels. Nothing major yet—a few trace minerals, some iron deposits that might be worth extracting eventually. But I’m not here for iron. I’m here for what the Gaze might find.

I wait until the laborers break for lunch, then walk deeper into the new tunnel, out of sight. I activate the Gaze and sweep it across the walls, floor, ceiling.

A C-grade vein. Not rich, not poor. Twenty to thirty stones per month—enough to sustain my sect indefinitely. Enough to cover our basic expenses, to provide for disciples, to build a foundation. Something that just months ago, would’ve been a boon for our declining sect.

But now? It was enough to explain my sudden wealth, if I’m careful.

We found a new vein. We’ve been saving for years. We finally hit paydirt.

The story writes itself. And unlike the tomb wealth, this vein is real. Sustainable. Something I can show, can point to, can use to deflect questions.

I invest in better tools—stronger picks, sharper shovels, more lanterns for the darkness. I hire four more laborers, all vetted by the Gaze for honesty and work ethic, all grateful for steady work. I set Old Zhao to overseeing the excavation, with a bonus promised when they break through.

By the fourteenth day, the tunnel is half-dug. The laborers work in shifts, around the clock, their motivation high. A new vein means prosperity. Means job security. Means bonuses and better lives.

The sect buzzes with quiet excitement.