Chapter 7: A Disaster of Bleeding Light?
Gold bars—thick as a warrior’s thumb.
Not just one. Not ten.
A whole pile.
Chen Yan’s eyes nearly froze in place.
The Old Madam… was this wealthy?
A sudden memory surged forth—years ago, when he was but a reckless youth, the Old Madam had once half-jokingly offered to teach him the arts. He had scoffed, dismissing it as mere superstition.
And then… for years, he had struggled just to buy a few issues of laborer comics, pinching every coin. Even when spending the night at an internet café, he would hesitate before buying a single bottle of nutrient drink.
[I was… I was a damn fool!]
Chen Yan couldn’t help but slap himself across the face.
If only he had known back then…
Internet café overnights? He could’ve just bought the entire damn café!
No—he could’ve outright bought the boss lady herself!
Wait… so all those years of poverty, every hardship, had been of his own making?
His mind churned with a storm of thoughts—shock, regret, self-mockery. A cacophony of emotions clashed within him, like the gongs and drums of a battle formation.
It took him several minutes to calm down. Once his thoughts settled, reason returned, and a realization struck—
This was bad.
An entire vault of gold bars. Valuable? Yes. But turning them into usable wealth? A nightmare.
Suppressing his rising excitement, Chen Yan roughly estimated the hoard’s worth.
Each gold bar bore a stamp—100 grams.
Multiply that by the sheer number present.
Then multiply again by the current price of gold…
Chen Yan sucked in a breath of Lanzhou noodles.
In Dragon Nation’s currency, the value hovered just above ten million.
Ten million!
A third of this wealth alone would be enough to buy a three-bedroom house in Jin Ling Prefecture, with a car to match. The rest? Deposited into a bank, invested conservatively—it could yield an easy hundred to two hundred thousand annually.
A single man, owning property, a car, and an income of over a hundred thousand per year?
That was the path of the reclined tiger, living in leisure.
But…
Chen Yan remained cautious. Converting so much gold into liquid currency would be troublesome.
Fortunately, the vault held not just gold but also cash.
Stacks of old, green-inked M-Nation dollars, along with two thick bundles of Harbor City banknotes.
The M-Nation bills were all in hundred-dollar denominations.
The Harbor City bills, all thousand-dollar notes.
After counting, Chen Yan found himself holding around 160,000 M-Nation dollars and 50,000 Harbor City dollars.
Converted to Dragon Nation’s currency? Just over a million.
A million—no small sum. Enough to purchase a cozy apartment in Jin Ling Prefecture.
These small, private banks might not deal with gold exchanges, but surely, they could at least manage a bank transfer.
Chen Yan surveyed the vault one last time.
Besides the gold and the half-box of foreign bills, there were also some jade carvings.
Their worth? Unknown. But certainly, they weren’t cheap.
One jade thumb ring, in particular, caught his eye.
Vivid, deep green—like a forest’s heart, vibrant and mesmerizing.
Chen Yan wasn’t knowledgeable about jade, but the color alone drew him in, filling his heart with a strange delight.
To an untrained eye, the green was so rich, so pure… it almost looked fake.
[Could this be the legendary Imperial Green?]
He liked it. Truly liked it.
So, into his pocket it went.
Not that he intended to sell it. He’d simply wear it back.
For border checks? He’d just string a cord through it and wear it around his neck. If questioned, he’d claim it was an acrylic trinket from a craft store.
Chen Yan steadied his breath, pondered for a moment, and made his decision.
The gold and jade would stay for now. He would return when he had a secure way to handle them.
The world outside was no haven. A foreigner walking in with millions worth of gold and trying to exchange it?
Official banks would question the source.
Underground dealers? The kind of people who’d see you dead before you knew you were being hunted.
Better to wait. Plan carefully.
—
Chen Yan left the bank empty-handed.
The cash? He had opened an account, deposited the money, and wired it straight to his mainland bank.
Now, his personal assets had officially crossed into the seven-figure range.
[Rich!]
Such a moment called for a feast!
—
Meanwhile…
A girl named Gu emerged from the forest near the railway tracks, her coal-dusted black clothing making her stick out like a lone shadow in daylight.
Her stomach let out a feeble growl.
“…Hungry.”
She pouted, looking pitiful.
Emerging from the woods, she stopped to ask for directions. Though her soot-covered attire drew stares, at least she found her way.
After a half-day’s journey on foot, she arrived at the entrance of a village.
She strode southward, weaving between the quiet homes, until she stood before a particular courtyard.
Inside, a small well sat at the center.
A strange sight surrounded it—trenches had been dug in a full circle around the well.
Gu frowned.
[What kind of idiot digs ditches around a well?]
She leapt over, landing lightly within the courtyard.
Her eyes swept the odd sight.
[Is this some kind of ritual?]
She walked forward, pushing against a large brass lock on the door.
With a casual flick of her fingers, the metal snapped in two.
She stepped inside.
The moment she entered the main hall, she froze.
A black-and-white portrait hung upon the wall.
An elderly woman sat framed in its depths, a spirited smile on her face, filled with unshakable confidence.
Gu’s posture straightened immediately. Dusting off the soot from her clothes, she turned to the cabinet, rummaging through its drawers until she found a box of incense.
Lighting three sticks, she placed them before the portrait, bowing deeply.
Softly, she whispered, “Respect to the honored one. May you rest in peace, Elder.”
She then searched the rooms one by one.
In a drawer inside the inner chamber, she found two courier receipts.
Both listed the same address.
Jin Ling Prefecture.
The recipient? A man named Chen Yan.
Old Madam had sent him dried meat and snacks from the countryside in recent months.
Typical of elderly folk—reluctant to discard anything, hoarding small tokens in a drawer.
Gu’s eyes gleamed.
[So, a Chen family member?]
[The old one hid him well.]
She memorized the address and turned to leave.
Then hesitated.
She glanced back.
After a brief search, she pulled a black, slightly old-fashioned winter jacket from the wardrobe.
It was new. Sent by Chen Yan from Jin Ling Prefecture last month for the Old Madam to wear in winter.
A bit old-fashioned, but otherwise, it had no issues.
At the very least, after the young girl shed her old garments and donned fresh attire, she no longer seemed like someone who had stepped out of a bygone era.
Standing before the mirror, she scrutinized herself carefully. After a moment, a satisfied nod confirmed her approval.
As her stomach rumbled, she did not hesitate. Striding into the kitchen, she discovered half a sack of rice and a small portion of preserved vegetables.
Nothing more remained—before Chen Yan had left home, there had been some cured meat, but he had given it all to the neighbors before departing.
With practiced ease, the girl kindled a fire and prepared a pot of steaming rice, eating it with the preserved vegetables.
Mia—Mia—Mia—
The fullness spread through her, bringing a contented smile to her lips.
Yet, before long, her brows furrowed once more.
She still needed to board a freight train to Jin Ling Prefecture.
·
Meanwhile, Chen Yan sat within the grand hall of Harbor City Airport, his expression restrained yet tinged with excitement. His gaze flitted restlessly about, searching for something unseen.
In truth, he was seeking the presence of the malevolent entities.
The previous night, idle in his hotel room, he had attempted a simple technique recorded within an ancient sect’s secret manual—a technique called Heaven’s Eye.
The name carried grandeur, but in reality, it was merely a method of Qi Observation.
The process involved soaking fresh willow leaves and peeled young branches in water for an hour. Once the infusion was ready, one had to wash their eyes with it, then chant the incantation written in the manual, guiding primordial Qi through the meridians to nourish the eyes.
Upon success, one would be able to perceive malevolent entities hidden from ordinary sight. Furthermore, when gazing at people, one could discern their fortune and misfortune, their rise and fall.
This was the only mystical art within the manual that Chen Yan, at his current level, could feasibly attempt.
They said that upon opening Heaven’s Eye, one could see the hidden specters of the world, peer into the veiled mysteries of fate.
Curiosity gripped him, and he could not resist testing it out.
It was like a child who had just received a new toy—eager, restless, filled with anticipation.
·
Yet…
Since stepping out of his hotel with his Heaven’s Eye opened, traveling all the way to the airport, Chen Yan had seen nothing.
Not a single specter, no lurking spirits, no unseen forces shifting the tides of fate.
Did the movies not depict those born with Yin-Yang Eyes, who could see ghosts that others could not?
Then why had he not spotted even one?
Could it be that the spell was ineffective?
When the time arrived for boarding, Chen Yan, of course—
Chose first class!
Now that he had wealth, he would naturally indulge himself.
Having spent twenty years in poverty, the allure of first class was still somewhat novel to him.
After all, he had read online articles detailing methods to charm flight attendants, often concluding with a key phrase:
“These techniques work best in first class.”
Wasn’t that just stating the obvious?
Once seated in first class, Chen Yan spent some time fiddling with the luxurious seat’s various functions. Then, with an air of nonchalance, he requested a drink, attempting to appear at ease.
However, he refrained from striking up conversations with the flight attendants—after all, he prided himself on being a gentleman.
Besides, the media in the Dragon Nation often circulated scandals involving flight attendants, making it difficult for Chen Yan to hold a particularly favorable impression of the profession.
As the plane took off, Chen Yan donned his eye mask and settled in for some rest.
The night before, he had been engrossed in the study of mystical arts, brimming with excitement over his first foray into the arcane. He had been too stimulated to sleep.
Now, drowsiness finally crept in.
He drifted off.
But barely an hour had passed before his body jolted awake, his entire being seized by an ominous sensation!
It was akin to the moment in a dream when one missteps into the void—an instant of vertigo, a shuddering chill, a suffocating pressure upon the chest.
Something was terribly wrong.
Peeling off his eye mask, Chen Yan’s mind whirred. Then, realization struck like a blade to the gut.
Since he had already taken primordial Qi into his body and begun practicing the Qi Circulation Method, his senses had sharpened beyond those of ordinary men.
Especially when it came to shifts in the external world—forebodings, premonitions—his awareness had grown keener.
With this in mind, he quickly steadied his breathing and performed a calculation using the Fate Circulation Technique.
The results turned his expression to stone.
“How is this possible?”
His fortune for this journey was catastrophic.
A calamity of blood and death awaited him!
·
(End of Today’s Two Updates. Please follow, recommend, and add to your library!)
·
(Apologies, but I must vent.)
(Before turning in for the night, I skimmed today’s comment section—I make a habit of reading every comment.)
(But some pests truly tested my patience.)
(Apologies to my readers, but I must take a moment to scold some fools.)
(My long-time readers know my temper—I do not tolerate provocation. If an idiot challenges me, I will strike back.)
(To the select few: Yes, I am addressing you, Ke Xian Yu, and a couple of others I do not even know.)
(To those insignificant, self-proclaimed writers whose works struggle in utter obscurity, what arrogance grants you the audacity to come here and mock my skills?)
(Is it your pitiful subscription count, which never even reaches fifty?)
(Is it your inability to secure even the lowest of publishing contracts?)
(Is it your utterly abysmal grasp of storytelling?)
(I remember, Ke Xian Yu—half a year ago, you were still humbly seeking advice on a certain platform, to which I generously responded, giving your work some exposure.)
(To this day, your most prominent reviews remain those generated by my assistance.)
(And now, you dare slander my craft?)
Under the boundless sky of the martial world, where words cut deeper than blades and honor stands as the bedrock of one’s name, I find myself confronted by a most peculiar adversary.
Time and again, you tread into my domain, leaving behind trails of disdain—words not wielded like the refined strokes of a master’s blade, but flung carelessly like the dirt beneath one’s boots. “How laughable! How absurd! This is unbearable! What nonsense! If this is the level of skill in the dance of words, then truly, one’s soul weeps!” And so it goes, your voice echoing through the corridors of my work, your presence lingering like an uninvited guest at a grand feast.
Oh, and how considerate you are! Leaving generous reminders for others—cautioning them, whispering words of doubt, urging them to turn away from my humble abode, all because I once faltered on the path, left my journey incomplete for a time.
Magnificent! Your skill in such arts is unparalleled! But tell me, does your heart emerge from the depths of a latrine pit? For it reeks of filth most foul.
You question my craft? You deem me unworthy? I ask in return: from whence comes your courage? What grand feat of literature stands beneath your banner? Have the gates of the Sect of Signed Authors ever opened their doors to you? Or do you stand forever at the threshold, unable to step across?
And yet, here you are, parading before my hall, casting judgment upon my blade—when your own remains rusted and brittle, unable to withstand even the gentlest of strikes. Have you forgotten the past? Was it not mere months ago that you, with the air of a humble supplicant, knelt at the gates of knowledge, seeking wisdom with reverence in your voice? Were you possessed then? Or are you possessed now?
To say that my words do not sing, that my technique is flawed—this is a right granted to all who walk the land of literature. Readers, noble and humble alike, may speak their mind, for the scrolls of storytelling belong to those who cherish them. A single utterance—“This is unworthy, I do not care for it”—and then one moves on. This is the way of the honorable, the courtesy among wanderers in the vast expanse of tales.
But you? You and your ilk? Like flies drawn to a feast, you return again and again, latching onto each chapter, each verse, and there, like a specter of discontent, you unleash your venom. “Ah, this moment is unbearable!” “Ah, such absurdity cannot stand!” “Ah, the steps of this dance falter most shamefully!” And so you sneer, so you prattle.
Who are you, I wondered? And upon turning the pages of fate, I find—ah, a fellow wanderer of this path! And beyond that, a familiar name.
How curious.
Yesterday, I deemed you unworthy of my time. I swept away your filth like fallen leaves upon the temple steps. But today, here you stand once more, undeterred, as though it were your sacred duty to soil my path. And you, Ke Xian Yu—did you not learn from yesterday’s silence? Yet here you are, defecating across my scrolls, bit by bit, line by line, with your endless chorus of disdain.
Then allow me to speak without the veil of courtesy: if you truly possessed the wisdom to discern what is worthy and what is not, you would not be drowning in the depths of mediocrity, your own works gasping for breath with each passing day. You are but a blind man critiquing the dance of dragons, a bald man boasting of flowing locks. Have you never gazed upon your own reflection?
Ah, but let us not forget the most fascinating revelation of all!
First, when you knelt upon the grounds of knowledge, I extended my hand—I answered your pleas, guided your steps, even lent the light of my lantern to illuminate your path.
Second, you have never set foot within my halls as a patron. Not once have you offered even the smallest token of acknowledgment.
Third, your own works lie abandoned, forsaking your readers with promises shattered like brittle ice. And yet, when my new scroll unfurls, you appear—returning, not with the reverence of a fellow traveler, but with the hands of a saboteur, eager to defile what you could not create.
Not once, not twice, but over and over again.
And with what spirit? What drives such malice? If a reader speaks of my past failures, I accept it as their right. But you—what twisted thoughts fester in your heart, compelling you to scorn, to belittle, to whisper venom into the ears of others?
Ah, I see now. This is why fate has been unkind to you. Why you stumble where others rise. Why the path before you is shrouded in shadow. For your craft is weak, your judgment poorer, your soul tainted.
You are destined for failure.
To all those who walk this land—I am not one to turn away from a challenge. If a fool seeks to strike, I will not stand idle. Let it be known: when provoked, I will answer in kind.
And now? I am content. The poison has been expelled, the burden lifted.
I shall rest well tonight.
Thus concludes this matter.
This novel is translated and hosted on Bcatranslation