Lin Qing had not slept. She couldn't. She had spent the rest of the night in the warehouse, sitting on a stool, overseeing her new workers—Mrs. Chen, Old Man Wu, and the three other widows—as they filled the last of the jars.
Five hundred pots of "Morning Dew Ointment" (Low Quality) were now neatly stacked on the shelves, the scent of the herbs Ye Feng had "awakened" filling the air. It was an impossible sight. But it was real.
After Ye Feng had left—vanishing into the night on his insane mission to bluff the Zhao Family—Lin Qing had not stayed idle. She had done her part. She had taken the "information" bag of silver, gone to the shadowy district near the docks, and found Rat, the street urchin.
She had given the orders. She had spread the poison.
She had paid a dozen street urchins—the city's invisible shadow army—to spread the rumors Ye Feng had designed.
"Young Master Zhao was seen at 'The Pit', weeping, after gambling away his house deed." "The grain merchant, Master Li, refused to give the Zhao Family any more credit." "Zhao Senior has fallen gravely ill. He's trying to sell his transport business at a massive loss... to Liu's Medicine Shop?" (This one was Ye Feng's touch of genius; so absurd it had to be true).
Now, all she could do was wait.
She had sent her workers home before dawn, repeating Ye Feng's warning to lock their doors and not speak. She was now alone in the warehouse, with five hundred pots of ointment and a fear so cold it felt like metal in her stomach.
She was afraid of Zhao. She was afraid of Bos Tie. She was afraid of the Golden Dragon Syndicate.
And, perhaps most terrifyingly, she was a little afraid of Ye Feng.
Who was this man who sat in his enemy's chair and offered to buy debts of thousands in gold? Who was this man who walked past four guards without a sound?
The warehouse door creaked open. Lin Qing leaped, grabbing a pestle.
Ye Feng stepped inside. He didn't look tired. He didn't look as though he'd just returned from psychological warfare. He just looked... like Ye Feng. Calm.
"You're back," Lin Qing whispered, relieved. "How...?" "He's bluffing," Ye Feng said. "Old Man Zhao. He pretends to be strong, but he's terrified. I planted the seed. Now we let it grow in the dark."
"So... now we wait?" Lin Qing asked. "Wait for the rumors to work? Wait for him to crumble?"
"You wait," Ye Feng said. "You are the 'Boss'. You need to be here. You need to oversee production. And," he added, "you need to prepare for the 'counter-attack'." "Counter-attack?"
"Zhao won't just give up. He'll try something small. Something desperate. Maybe he'll try to attack you personally. Or the shop. That's what Xiong is for."
Lin Qing shivered, remembering the giant guarding the front of the shop.
"I," Ye Feng said, "have to leave." "Again?!" Lin Qing panicked. "Where are you going? You can't leave me alone! What if..."
"I have to secure our 'Shield'," Ye Feng said. "Madam Wei. The Magistrate's wife. I promised you, I would make her dependent on us. Rumors alone won't stop the Golden Dragon Syndicate. We need a powerful political ally."
"How?" "I am going to make Madam Wei something she cannot refuse," Ye Feng said. "A Special Edition. The 'Golden Ointment' I mentioned. To do that..." "You have to go to the Mist Peak," Lin Qing whispered, remembering his story. "The place with the poisonous fog." "Yes." "Ye Feng, that's suicide! People say no one has ever returned from there!"
Ye Feng looked at Lin Qing. For a moment, the 'menial worker' expression vanished, replaced by the ancient pride of an emperor. "The fog will not harm me," he said softly. He walked to the back window. "Your job today: Sell these five hundred pots." "What?! I thought..." "Sell them!" Ye Feng said. "Today is Day Four. Those noblewomen will be back, and they will bring their friends. Sell at the same price. Two silver. Do not lower it. Empty the stock. We need more capital." He paused. "Rat will report to you about the panic in the city. And Xiong will guard you. I will be back before dusk."
Before Lin Qing could protest again, Ye Feng had vaulted out the window, disappearing into the pre-dawn mist of the docks.
One hour later. Far outside Spring Cloud City. The Cloud Mountains stretched like the spine of a sleeping dragon. The Northern Slope, where they had picked flowers yesterday, was just a lowly foothill. Ye Feng was much higher now, in a place where even the bravest hunters dared not go.
He stood on the edge of a chasm. Across from him, separated by a bottomless gap, rose a single, isolated spire: The Mist Peak.
The peak was shrouded in a strange, milky-white fog. The fog didn't move with the wind. It... lived.
"Poisonous fog," Ye Feng muttered to himself, recalling Lin Qing's description. He, the Immortal Emperor, could see it for what it was. It wasn't poison. It was a natural protective Formation (Array). A massive illusion designed to confuse mortal senses, make their lungs feel like they were freezing, and twist their sense of direction until they walked right off a cliff.
And at the center of the formation... slept a small Mist Spirit. A low-level spiritual entity that had guarded this place for thousands of years.
Ye Feng could have destroyed the formation with a wave of his hand. He could have terrified the Mist Spirit until its soul dissipated.
But that would be... noisy. It would release a wave of pure spiritual energy that could attract unwanted attention from the higher realms.
He would have to do this the "mortal" way. He stepped to the chasm's edge. The gap was a hundred meters wide. Ye Feng leaped.
He didn't fly. He just... fell with style. He landed on the opposite cliff wall, his feet sticking to the vertical rock (no "sticky shoes" excuse this time). He ran straight up the cliff face, faster than a leopard, and in seconds, he was standing at the edge of the Mist Peak.
He stepped into the fog.
Instantly, the world vanished. To a mortal, this was a nightmare. Their senses would scream. North would feel like south. Up would feel like down. The air would feel thick as water, refusing to enter their lungs.
To Ye Feng... it was like walking through a slightly annoying beaded curtain. "A Nine-Direction Illusion Array," he murmured, recognizing the pattern. "Primitive. But clever."
He walked straight. He ignored the illusions—the stone wall that suddenly appeared before him (he walked through it), the chasm that yawned at his feet (he stepped over it)—he just walked toward the weakest node in the energy matrix.
"Who... dares... disturb... my... sleep...?" A voice rustled in his mind. Not words, but feelings. A sense of cold and ancient anger.
The fog in front of him thickened, coalescing into a giant, furious face with swirling eyes. THE MIST SPIRIT. LEAVE... OR... BE... LOST... FOREVER...
Ye Feng stopped in front of the giant face. He didn't release his aura. He didn't threaten. He just... raised his hand, and very gently, he flicked the giant fog-nose.
It wasn't a physical flick. It was a conceptual one. He wasn't attacking the Spirit. He was... editing its formation. He corrected a single, misplaced energy node. He smoothed out a clogged qi flow in the formation's "left shoulder."
He had, in essence, just given the Mist Spirit a much-needed back massage.
The giant, angry face froze. Its expression of rage melted into... confusion. Then... relief. The angry hissing turned into a vibrating, contented purr.
Ooooh... that... feels... better... The giant fog-face dissipated, replaced by a small, kitten-sized wisp of fog that began to happily circle Ye Feng's ankles, rubbing against him.
Ye Feng patted the small fog-wisp's "head." "Good boy."
The illusion array thinned, revealing the heart of the peak. There, in a natural basin of jade-like stone, they grew. The Golden Moon Flowers.
They were nothing like their pale blue cousins. These flowers... glowed. They pulsed with a warm, golden light. Each petal was veined with pure, liquid gold. They throbbed with a mortal qi so dense it was almost visible.
To a low-level cultivator, one of these could advance their cultivation by a decade. To Madam Wei, this would... well, it would make her insane.
Ye Feng carefully picked five flowers. No more. He was not greedy. Just enough for his purpose. The little Mist Spirit zipped around him, pointing out the best blossoms as if to help. "My thanks," Ye Feng said. He turned and walked out of the Mist Peak, leaving behind a purring Mist Spirit and a formation that was now slightly more powerful than before.
While Ye Feng was befriending spirits, Spring Cloud City was on fire.
Not with flames. With rumors. Ye Feng's plan had worked too well.
9:00 AM. Master Li, the city's largest grain merchant, who normally delivered three carts of grain to the Zhao Residence on credit, suddenly appeared at the front gate... demanding cash payment. "What do you mean you don't have it?!" he shouted, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. "I heard your son gambled away the house deed at 'The Pit' last night! Pay me now!"
10:00 AM. Three other, smaller creditors—the silk merchant, the owner of the luxury tavern, and the blacksmith—all showed up at the Zhao Residence at the same time. They heard Master Li shouting. They looked at each other. A collective panic set in. "Zhao Senior, pay your debts!" "We heard you tried to borrow from Liu's Shop!" "You're bankrupt! Pay us while you still can!"
Inside the Zhao Residence, the atmosphere was funereal. Young Master Zhao Feng had been hiding in his room ever since his father confirmed the terrible news—their messenger truly had not returned. The horse had been found that morning at the bottom of a small ravine twenty miles from the city, its leg broken. Just as that demon-youth had said.
Zhao Senior sat in his study. He no longer looked like a powerful patriarch. He looked like a defeated old man. He listened to the shouts of the creditors outside his gate. The rumors had become reality. The bank run had begun. Even if he could survive the Golden Dragon Syndicate (which he couldn't), he would be destroyed by his own peers in the city.
The young man from the shop... Ye Feng... he hadn't just been bluffing. He had unleashed the wolves. He had foreseen this. He had planned this.
"Father!" Young Master Zhao ran in, his face pale with terror. "They're... they're here! Master Li, Master Wang... they're all demanding their money! What do we do?"
Zhao Senior looked at his son—the source of all his ruin. His arrogance. His stupidity. His weakness. He made a decision. The young man, Ye Feng, had offered him... a new noose. A noose controlled by a mysterious local 'investor'. It was a terrible choice. But it was... a choice. The Golden Dragon Syndicate did not offer choices.
"Tell them..." Zhao Senior said, his voice hoarse. "Tell them... the Zhao Family will honor all local debts... the day after tomorrow." "But Father, we don't have..." "SILENCE!" Zhao Senior roared. "Just do it! And... prepare the carriage. Bring me the deeds. The deeds for that wretched street block. All of them." "Where are you going, Father?" "I... am going to negotiate," he said. "With the devil we know."
Noon. Qing's Tea & Medicine Shop. Chaos. Beautiful, profitable chaos.
Ye Feng's plan had worked twofold. The rumor of Zhao's ruin had sent the city into a panic... and the rumor of the 'Morning Dew Ointment' had sent the women of the city into a frenzy.
The line outside the shop (now guarded by the giant, bun-munching Xiong) snaked all the way down the block. Madam Wei, Madam Zhao, and the other noblewomen from yesterday had returned... and they had each brought five friends.
Inside the warehouse—the 'secret factory'—Lin Qing was commanding her operation. She had sold 200 pots before noon. Two silver per pot. Her cash drawer was already overflowing. She had to use a burlap sack to hold the silver coins.
"Mrs. Chen! Faster with the beeswax base!" "Old Man Wu! Pound faster! We need more blue powder!"
She was a general on her own battlefield. Her fear had evaporated, replaced by pure adrenaline. She was shouting, giving orders, filling jars, and taking money with inhuman speed.
"Miss Lin! Miss Lin! Trouble!" Rat ran in, panting. "Old Man Zhao! He's... he's in the front shop! Him and the Young Master! They walked right past Xiong (Xiong let them, 'cause they looked 'important')! They're... they're waiting for you!"
The production line stopped. The workers stared at Lin Qing. This was it. The moment of truth.
Lin Qing wiped the sweat and purple-tinged dust from her forehead. She took off her dirty work apron. "Keep going," she told Old Man Wu. "I'll handle this." She walked out of the warehouse, her heart pounding, but her back was straight.
She entered her shop. Zhao Senior and Zhao Feng stood there, surrounded by the herb jars. They looked exhausted and defeated.
"Miss Lin," Zhao Senior said, his voice like dry paper. All his arrogance was gone. "Master Zhao," Lin Qing replied coolly.
"I... I have considered your... business partner's... offer," Zhao Senior said, unable to bring himself to say Ye Feng's name. "And?" "This..." He placed a thick, rolled-up scroll on the counter. "This... is the deed. For the entire street block. Clean. Already signed."
Lin Qing stared at the scroll. Victory. "In exchange..." Zhao Senior continued, his voice trembling. "Your partner... he promised... he would take over my debt to the Syndicate..."
"He will honor his promise," a calm voice said from the front door. Ye Feng had returned. He stood in the doorway, dusty from his journey, but his eyes were bright. In his hand, he held a single, beautifully carved small ceramic pot (one he had 'borrowed' from a mountain shrine). He walked past the Zhaos and placed the pot in front of Lin Qing.
Zhao Senior looked at Ye Feng with pure terror. "You... you must hurry! The Syndicate... they could arrive at any moment!"
"They won't be coming," Ye Feng said. "What do you mean?" "Your messenger, the one carrying false news..." Ye Feng said, "he met with some 'bandits' on the road. He lost his letter. He lost his horse. He is... walking home now."
Zhao Senior froze. He... he had stopped both messengers? The first and the second? What kind of power did this man command?
"But... the Syndicate... they will still come for my debt!" "Of course," Ye Feng said. "But now... they will be dealing with me." He picked up the land deed scroll and handed it to Lin Qing. "Check this."
"And as for you..." Ye Feng turned to Zhao Senior. "My offer of protection still stands. But the price... has gone up."
"What... what more could you possibly want?" Zhao Senior sighed, completely broken. Ye Feng looked at Young Master Zhao Feng, who was trembling in the corner. "Your son," Ye Feng said. "He spends too much money. He needs a job."
Zhao Feng looked at him in horror. "Our shop... is expanding rapidly," Ye Feng said with a thin smile. "Our factory at the docks needs... an accountant. Someone who knows how to count money."
Zhao Senior looked at his son. Then at Ye Feng. He understood. It wasn't a job. It was... a hostage. "He will start... tomorrow," Zhao Senior said quietly.
That afternoon. After the Zhaos had left, defeated and humiliated, Lin Qing and Ye Feng stood in their shop. Lin Qing held the land deed in her hand. She... she owned this place. She owned the entire block. She had won.
She looked at Ye Feng, her eyes filling with tears. "You... you did it. You actually did it. This... this..." She was speechless.
"We're not finished," Ye Feng said. "We've just removed the local nuisance. The real war..." "The Syndicate," Lin Qing whispered. "You said... the messenger didn't make it. So we're safe?"
"I lied," Ye Feng said. "You... what?" "I didn't stop the second messenger," Ye Feng said. "I didn't have time. He was already too far." Lin Qing dropped the deed. "So... he made it to the Capital? Our rumors..." "Our rumors only slowed them down. But they are coming. They will arrive... probably... tomorrow."
Lin Qing felt sick. So all of this... this joy... was just temporary? "Then... why? Why do all this if they're coming anyway?!"
"Because," Ye Feng said, picking up the small, ornate pot he had brought. "Before, we were a scared sheep. Now..." He opened the lid. An aroma—not of herbs, but of liquid gold, starlight, and pure life-force—exploded into the room, making Lin Qing feel dizzy. Inside was an ointment that pulsed with a soft, golden light. "Now," Ye Feng said. "We have something to bargain with."
He closed the pot. "And I have to deliver this." "To... Madam Wei?" "Yes. Our shield."
Ye Feng walked to the door. "Ye Feng," Lin Qing called out. "When... when do you sleep?" Ye Feng looked at her. "Sleep... is inefficient."
He was just about to step outside when the door burst open. Xiong, the giant doorman, filled the entire frame, his face pale with panic. "Master Feng... Miss Boss..." he growled. "Trouble."
"Are the Zhaos back?" Lin Qing asked. "No," Xiong said, his deep voice shaking. "Bos Tie?" Ye Feng asked.
"Worse," Xiong said. "There's a new carriage at the city gate. A big one. Black. And on the door... there's a flag." Xiong swallowed.
"The flag... it's a Golden Dragon." They had arrived. Thirty hours earlier than Ye Feng had calculated. That 31-hour sandglass... was a lie. Zhao must have had a faster way.
They were here.