Chapter 23: How Should I Name My Price?
As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, Yan Zhao Xing drove Chen Yan back to his dwelling. Before parting, Chen Yan left him with a cryptic remark:
“The matter regarding President Fang requires careful thought. I must weigh my calculations before making a decision. For now, you and your master should wait. If a solution presents itself, I will reach out to you.”
Yan Zhao Xing expressed his gratitude profusely before departing. Once the door was shut, Chen Yan strode into the living hall. From within his robe, he retrieved two neatly folded sheets of A4 parchment, placing them carefully upon the tea table. His eyes darkened with contemplation.
On one sheet lay a stick of sandalwood incense, fractured in transit, now split into two.
On the other—a small heap of incense ash.
A single question now swirled in Chen Yan’s mind:
Should I take this silver… or let it pass?
The answer lay within the incense itself.
Chen Yan had perused the Artifact Appraisal chapter in the Sect’s Secret Manual, where basic methods of identifying enchanted materials were detailed. Among them, he had memorized techniques concerning talismanic components and spellcasting elements.
At first glance, the sandalwood appeared common—its fragrance threads dyed a familiar yellow, much like those found in any merchant’s stall. Yet, through Primordial Qi Sensing, Chen Yan detected a faint wisp of resentful energy lurking within its fibers.
He broke off a sliver, rolling it between his fingers, reducing it to fine dust. Then, he pinched a bit of the incense ash, comparing the two substances side by side.
“Traces of Grudge Bone Powder?”
The manual had touched upon such nefarious substances—bone matter from beings that had perished in anguish, ground into powder and imbued into other materials to release residual grievances.
It was a method both cruel and insidious, straying far from righteous paths. Thus, the Sect’s Secret Manual merely explained how to identify it, leaving its refinement methods unwritten.
This was Grudge Bone Powder—a tool of misfortune.
There were levels to its potency.
The most venomous variant was crafted from the bones of stillborn infants—lives that had failed to reach their destined potential, their grievances condensed into a malice most formidable. Such a concoction could devastate a household, inviting calamities both minor and great, until ruination claimed its victims.
But this was rare. The practice was vile, requiring sinister expertise, a path only the most depraved of Evil Cultivators dared tread.
The more common alternative?
Pig bones.
Swine—oft butchered for mundane feasts, yet rarely recognized for their keen intelligence.
People spoke of dogs as loyal and wise companions, but few knew that pigs were of sharper wit, their spirits more attuned to the world. Their cognition and emotional depth made them uniquely susceptible to distress and lingering grievances.
Thus, pig bones became the substitute of choice for creating Grudge Bone Powder.
The process was simpler, the material abundant. A single pig could yield several pounds of this malevolent dust. Certain charlatans of the Martial World, those who preyed upon the unsuspecting, often employed such methods to cast subtle hexes.
While far weaker than infant-derived powder, the effects remained undeniable.
Lingering exposure could drain vitality, induce sleeplessness, anxiety, and recurrent minor illnesses. A person under its influence would find their spirit waning, misfortune trailing their every step.
The incense in Chen Yan’s possession bore unmistakable traces of such tampering.
Someone had mixed Grudge Bone Powder into the sandalwood incense, then ensured it found its way into President Fang’s hands. A man of wealth and refined tastes, President Fang likely burned these sticks in pursuit of serenity.
Instead, misfortune had been slowly gnawing at him.
The pieces were falling into place—someone sought to harm him.
Chen Yan narrowed his eyes, thoughts coiling like a hidden serpent:
[Should I intervene in this matter?]
The benefits were clear—money.
President Fang had paid handsomely for a mere compass, offering one hundred thousand without hesitation. If Chen Yan could lift this affliction, the reward would be substantial.
Yet, the dangers were just as clear.
To aid President Fang meant inviting enmity.
Whoever was orchestrating these curses was no common trickster. A practitioner capable of such arts likely wielded cultivation beyond the ordinary. Should they trace their defeat back to him…
Chen Yan had no connection to President Fang beyond fleeting business. Was it truly wise to risk making a powerful enemy over coin?
Money was sweet, but at present, he lacked nothing.
As he debated, a sudden thought surfaced—an image from President Fang’s office: a cylinder of incense, its paper tube adorned with ancient swirling cloud motifs.
Chen Yan furrowed his brows.
[Falling Cloud Retreat?]
The following morning, Chen Yan dressed in a thick down coat, deliberately upturned the collar, and donned a face mask. Taking no risks, he called for a hired carriage and set out on his way.
Destination: Qi Xia Mountain.
The mountain lay across the Northern Riverside, its journey requiring passage over the great waters that divided Jin Ling Prefecture. The distance was not insignificant.
Yet, Qi Xia Mountain was worth the effort.
Renowned for its Thousand-Year-Old Temple, the site boasted a legacy steeped in prayer and pilgrimage. Over centuries, its enduring spiritual presence had drawn waves of seekers, nurturing a flourishing trade within the adjacent marketplace.
Here, one could find relics, antiques, and paintings. Here, geomancers whispered secrets of fate, diviners traced celestial paths, and the business of mysticism thrived alongside the scent of incense.
Wherever seekers gathered, commerce followed. Where commerce flourished, sustenance for all forms of trade—both righteous and sinister—was never far behind.
Thus, in time, a bustling market street took root, shadowing the temple’s solemn halls with its lively, unsanctified dealings.
Chen Yan’s destination lay within its winding alleys.
As the year drew to a close, the people of the Dragon Nation followed old traditions—offering prayers, seeking the guidance of deities, and burning incense for blessings. The air in the streets buzzed with life, thick with the scent of sandalwood and the murmur of believers.
Yet Chen Yan did not step into the grand temple. Instead, he spent the morning strolling through the bustling Market Street, observing, listening. At midday, he found his way to a renowned vegetarian hall, a place whispered about with reverence, and enjoyed a simple yet satisfying meal.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, he had already gleaned the information he sought—the location and general details of Falling Cloud Retreat.
The inquiries had not been difficult. This part of the city housed many who claimed mastery over geomancy, fortune-telling, and fate-calculations, but the majority were mere charlatans preying on the superstitions of the gullible. A few, however, had shops with elaborate courtyards and spoke of lineages that traced back through generations. Whether those claims were truth or embellishment, Chen Yan could not yet say. But their establishments bore the guise of legitimacy, adorned with ornate sigils and ancient tomes.
Among these, Falling Cloud Retreat was the most renowned. Rumors painted it as a place of true power. Its protective talismans were said to be potent, its masters unparalleled in their readings of fate. Even merchants of considerable wealth sought their expertise to ward off calamities and invite prosperity.
Chen Yan had heard such claims whispered along the alleyways and through the chatter of tea stalls.
It was ironic, truly. Just beside a flourishing Buddhist temple, where incense smoke curled toward the heavens, here stood a house dedicated to fortune-telling and feng shui—a different path entirely. Yet the people of Dragon Nation had always placed faith in many things, blending traditions as easily as breath.
—
By afternoon, Chen Yan found himself seated on the second floor of a roadside teahouse, a pot of so-called Biluochun before him. Whether the tea was genuine or not mattered little—he lacked the palate to discern its quality. The upper floor was near empty, leaving him undisturbed as he sipped slowly, eyes trained on the building across the street.
Falling Cloud Retreat.
From his vantage, he studied its structure. The front housed a shop, displaying antiques, protective charms, and carvings etched with mystical sigils. Within, figures lingered—some seeking their fortunes, others merely browsing.
Behind the store lay a more private expanse—two courtyards, veiled in deeper mystery.
For nearly an hour, Chen Yan sat in quiet observation, his gaze flickering like an unseen blade, his spirit honed to detect the faintest disturbance.
He invoked the Heavenly Eye Qi-Observing Technique, casting his senses toward the retreat’s halls, sweeping over its structures again and again, probing with meticulous precision.
Yet no trace of Qi stirred within.
He frowned inwardly. Odd.
If this establishment were truly the lair of cultivators, why was there no lingering spiritual energy? Even a mere novice of the path would have left some residual force behind. A domain of mystics should have at least one Qi-Gathering Formation—the simplest of enchantments.
Even in the teahouse where he sat, a nearby incense burner contained a cylinder of sandalwood, identical in packaging to the one he had discovered in President Fang’s office.
A casual inquiry with the server confirmed his suspicions—the incense was purchased from Falling Cloud Retreat.
It was an ordinary variant, devoid of any tampering. But the connection was undeniable.
So, this was their method.
They had sent cursed incense to President Fang, allowing misfortune to take root. Then, when disaster struck, they would be conveniently on hand to offer salvation—for a price.
A most despicable scheme.
Chen Yan shook his head.
Well, well, President Fang, at least I have taken your ten thousand silver.
—
There was a quiet code Chen Yan lived by. He was not a man of boundless kindness nor one prone to senseless charity. Raised by Old Madam Zhang, without family, without ties, he had grown into an island unto himself. Cold, distant.
Yet, even he had lines he would not cross.
Not many. But some.
He did not wish to make enemies on President Fang’s behalf. Yet he had accepted a price, and to offer nothing but an empty compass in return? That would be outright fraud.
No, he would at least put forth an effort.
The old teachings passed down by Old Madam Zhang did not demand that one must always dispel calamities for those who paid. After all, a hunter might accept a commission to capture a beast, but if the beast were beyond his skill, could he be blamed?
Thus, the rule was simple:
One accepts payment, one exerts effort.
Success or failure was another matter entirely.
So today, Chen Yan had come to observe.
If Falling Cloud Retreat housed only deceivers who knew nothing of true cultivation, he would proceed with confidence. The silver would remain his.
But if true masters dwelled within its halls, he would return the ten thousand silver pieces, acknowledge his own shortcomings, and step away from this affair.
His moral compass was not expansive, but it was firm.
—
By the time his teacup was filled a third time, its flavor all but faded, he saw a familiar figure step from the retreat’s door—Luo Qing.
Chen Yan watched in silence as Luo Qing boarded a carriage and vanished into the streets.
Only then did he rise, descending the teahouse steps.
He adjusted the high collar of his winter coat, pulled a mask over his face. On a cold day like this, such attire was common enough to go unnoticed.
Without hesitation, he crossed the street.
His steps were unhurried, but deliberate.
He entered Falling Cloud Retreat.
Feigning the air of a wandering traveler, Chen Yan stepped into the shop, his eyes flitting from one shelf to another as though merely indulging in idle curiosity.
This kind of establishment never attracted many customers. Taking advantage of the sparse crowd, Chen Yan intentionally had the shop attendant show him several talismans—cheap trinkets with no real power, mere decorative charms for the superstitious.
He played the part of a discerning buyer, carefully selecting and hesitating, waiting for the other two customers in the shop to leave.
Soon, only three remained: Chen Yan, the attendant, and a fortune teller seated in a side chamber, waiting for a client. A folding screen separated the fortune teller from the rest of the shop. Through the thin veil of the curtain, faint sounds of fingers tapping against a phone screen reached Chen Yan’s ears.
Feigning interest in a stone-carved Pixiu, Chen Yan haggled with the attendant. Then, just as the man turned to retrieve an item from the shelf, Chen Yan swiftly scanned the room—empty. His moment had come.
His gaze lifted to his chosen target: a wooden plaque hanging on the wall, bearing four grandly inscribed characters—Purple Qi from the East.
In a single motion, he slipped a prepared talisman from his pocket, channeled a thread of his vital energy, and flicked it forward!
Swish!
The object shot through the air, landing precisely behind the plaque, hidden from plain view.
Casually, Chen Yan strolled to the side, tilting his head to inspect the plaque from a discreet angle. There, behind it, nestled in a near-impossible crevice, was the talisman. A placement so precise that no ordinary passerby, unless specifically looking for it, would ever notice.
This was his work from the previous night. A thin wooden plaque, the size of a cigarette case, with a talisman adhered to its surface. A Fate-Severing and Ruination Talisman, drawn on yellow paper with cinnabar ink, using an incantation recorded in the secret manuals.
Its function mirrored that of the Fate Severing Technique Chen Yan had used before.
His skills in talisman crafting were still unrefined. He could only manage to inscribe a few types, and even this single talisman had taken him three attempts to perfect the night before.
Such a talisman had a limited lifespan. Once imbued with vital energy, its effects activated immediately, but they would last no more than two days before dissipating naturally.
Now, standing within the shop, Chen Yan could already sense it working. Behind the plaque, an almost imperceptible aura of decay was slowly diffusing into the air.
Anyone who lingered too long in this shop, absorbing too much of this influence, would inevitably find their fortune waning—minor misfortunes, small ailments, nothing catastrophic, but enough to unsettle the unwary.
It was not a weapon, not a curse, but a test.
Anyone attuned to vital energy, anyone of true cultivation, would immediately perceive this lingering aura. To them, it would be as unmistakable as a single lantern flickering in an abyss of darkness.
But ordinary people? They would notice nothing.
Chen Yan would return in two days.
If the talisman was gone, it meant someone in Falling Cloud Retreat possessed true expertise, someone who had detected the disturbance and removed it. If so, Chen Yan would quietly withdraw from this matter, for there would be little point in pressing further.
But if the talisman remained?
Then there was no master in this establishment—no hidden adept, no threat.
And if that were the case… then there was nothing to fear.
The attendant returned, handing over the requested item. Chen Yan examined it briefly, found fault with its craftsmanship, but to maintain appearances, he did not leave empty-handed. He spent fifty yuan on a cheap protective charm—
A thumb-sized Pixiu, crudely carved from stone.
The attendant boasted that it had been blessed in a grand temple, but Chen Yan dismissed such claims outright. He would not believe a single word of it.
With his task complete, he left Falling Cloud Retreat and returned home.
—
The next day, Chen Yan spent his time in quiet cultivation, refining his vital energy. Bored, he practiced his talisman-drawing techniques in the study.
A call came from Assistant Yan, asking if he wanted to visit President Fang’s residence. Chen Yan, however, claimed that his new compass was not yet prepared, postponing the meeting by two days.
—
On the third day, he returned to Falling Cloud Retreat.
This time, a different attendant was at the counter, yawning languidly. When Chen Yan entered, he barely lifted his head, offering only a lazy greeting.
Chen Yan meandered through the store, feigning interest in the trinkets, weaving his way toward the plaque.
Lifting his gaze slightly, he peered at the hidden crevice.
There it was.
The talisman remained untouched.
Not a single person had noticed.
Chen Yan smirked to himself.
Two full days, and his weakest talisman had gone undetected? Despite their constant presence, despite their daily comings and goings, no one here had even the slightest inkling of its existence?
Then this Falling Cloud Retreat harbored no hidden experts. No one of true ability.
Stepping out of the shop, Chen Yan hailed a car and, settling into the seat, made a call—not to Assistant Yan, but directly to President Fang.
“President Fang, still recuperating in the hospital?” Chen Yan’s voice carried a light chuckle. “There’s something we need to discuss—just the two of us.”
The tone on the other end immediately shifted, growing solemn. “Alright, Master Chen. I’ll be waiting in my hospital room. I assure you, no one else will be present. Not even Assistant Yan.”
“Good. I’ll be there soon.”
Hanging up, Chen Yan tapped his fingers lightly against his knee, thoughts swirling.
Now then…
How much should I charge President Fang for this favor?
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