Chapter 133: Names are too much trouble

Gao Moyue sat tall at the head of the long, polished stone table, his sleeves folded neatly over each other as his cold eyes swept across the elders gathered before him. One by one, they stood and reported.

Progress on training.

List of promising disciples.

Recent deaths.

Trouble from the insectoids.

Minor treasures discovered near the borders.

The words flowed through the chamber like a dull chant, but to Gao Moyue, it was all noise. He found some of them meaningless, just sprouting for the sake of routine, and predictable.

He had heard it all before.

Darkmoon Sect had existed for nearly three hundred years, and for over a hundred of those, he had ruled it from the top. Nothing surprised him anymore. The only time in recent memory when he had truly paid attention was seventy years ago, when the Empire had gone to war with the insectoids—after one of those monstrous things had actually formed a domain.

That battle had stirred something in him. But the thing had died, the threat passed, and since then, the world had returned to its slow, suffocating pace. The sect had continued to grow. Wealth had increased. His Cultivation had deepened.

Now?

Now he simply nodded politely as each elder took their turn. He stroked his long goatee with practiced grace, maintaining an emotionless face though his mind wandered.

How much longer would this drag on?

Unfortunately, there were always a few matters that forced him to speak.

One of the elders stepped forward, bowing slightly. His robes marked his standing as an outer sect elder. “Sect Leader Gao Moyue… There's a matter that requires your guidance. We've received a number of complaints from the outer sect disciples.”

At that, Gao Moyue squinted slightly—not in anger, but in thought. What was this elder’s name again?

He frowned inwardly. He couldn’t remember. Too much had changed in a century. Elders rose and fell like grass in the wind, especially out here at the Empire’s edge, where the wilds ate cultivators faster than time ever could.

Still, it would be rude to ask.

“Why the complaints?”

The elder visibly relaxed at not being rebuked. “It’s about the missions, Sect Leader. They claim the risk is too high, and the compensation is too low. Many have lost their lives hunting outside the city’s protection, especially since the insectoid numbers have started growing again.

“Recently, three dozen outer sect disciples had gone missing after taking a mission in the deeper regions of the insectoid lands. Word came back that they had been massacred—nearly all of them—by a peak-tier three insectoid. Only three managed to return, bloodied, broken, and shaken.”

He shook his head in lament and added, “Even though we sent everything those disciples owned back to their families—their savings, their robes, whatever they earned here—others in the sect feel it’s not enough. They’re demanding more compensation. And I believe there's merit in their words.”

Gao Moyue didn’t react immediately. He simply stroked his goatee in silence for a few seconds, then spoke calmly, reciting the same words his master had once said to him many decades ago:

“Cultivation is a long journey filled with endless trials. Each of them can take your life. To become immortal… one must learn to clash with mortality. Those who die have simply failed in that path. No one forced them to become cultivators. They chose this path. They must carry its weight.”

He watched the elder’s face. He didn’t look pleased. But the man nodded. That was the benefit of being the sect leader. No one openly opposed you. Gao Moyue had always liked that part of the job.

Then, one of the other elders, an inner sect one—he didn’t know his name either—gave a respectful nod and said, “Sect Leader is wise. These disciples should think twice before calling themselves cultivators. If they can’t handle the risks, they shouldn’t be out there.”

Before anyone else could comment, the elder who had started the topic frowned and said, “Of course you’d say that. Your great-grandson was the one who led them into the wilds chasing stronger beasts. And he was the first to run when they faced danger.”

The elder who had just spoken turned red and snapped, “And what’s wrong with knowing when to run? It’s why he survived. That’s wisdom.”

“He ran because he had an Earth-grade movement technique! The others didn’t. They didn’t choose to stay and fight—they had no way to escape!”

The room grew tense as the two glared at each other.

Gao Moyue wanted to stand up and leave the meeting then and there. This wasn’t new. He’d seen it many times before—outer sect elders clashing with inner sect elders, usually because of nepotism. Recently, it was growing more frequent, and it was getting boring.

Many elders had started pushing their descendants through the ranks. Gao Moyue had allowed it. After all, most of those descendants did have decent talent. But their personalities? That was another matter.

They were selfish and arrogant, living as though the heavens had blessed them and them alone. Still, he didn’t need to step in. As always, the argument defused on its own, ending with vague mentions of some future duel between their disciples.

And the meeting went on. More reports. More routine problems.

Gao Moyue listened without interest, nodding occasionally, offering short replies when needed.

He might be the oldest one in the hall, but these men were elders for a reason. They didn’t need his help to solve every little squabble.

At the end of the meeting, just as the elders began filing out of the hall, one of them lingered behind. Gao Moyue noticed it immediately. It was the same outer sect elder who had earlier brought up the complaints about disciple compensation.

He didn’t speak at first, just stood there with his hands tucked into his sleeves, a hesitant look in his eyes.

Gao Moyue raised an eyebrow. “Is there something else?”

The elder hesitated, then gave a slight nod. “I don’t know if it’s worth bringing to your attention, Sect Leader, but… I thought you should know.”

“What is it?” Gao Moyue asked, already expecting something trivial. “Another disciple trying to sneak pills out of the storage hall?”

The elder shook his head. “No. Not that. It’s about Jadefire Hall Sect.”

At that, Gao Moyue narrowed his eyes slightly. The name was familiar, but it took him a moment to place it. Jadefire Hall… one of those minor sects that had tried to make a name in the city but failed due to the competition. A promising one, if he remembered right, before they crashed and burned under pressure from the market. And little scheming from their side.

“What about them?”

“They’ve been bought out.”

“Bought out?” Gao Moyue repeated. “What does that mean?”

“Their sect grounds and city shop are taken over by someone else,” the elder explained. “Even the debt they owed has been transferred. All under the name of someone called Chen Ren. He’s from a sect called Divine Coin Sect. Not from around here—seems to be new in the city. I heard about it from the moneylender himself.”

“Divine Coin Sect?” Gao Moyue frowned. “Never heard of them.”

“They’re new,” the elder said, nodding. “But they seem to be awfully confident. From what I hear, they’re trying to make a move in the pill market. Planning to restart production in the Jadefire Hall sect building.”

There was a brief silence. Then Gao Moyue leaned back in his seat and gave a soft laugh.

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“An Emerging sect trying to compete in the pill market? We see a few of those every two-three years.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Still, good you reported it. But I don’t think they’ll be much of a threat.”

“I think so too, Sect Leader,” the outer sect elder said quickly. “I just felt like you should know.”

Gao Moyue stroked his goatee and slowly rose from his seat. “It’s good you did,” he said with a nod. “But don’t worry. They won’t even be able to sell ten pills a day. Just focus on our own production.” He turned his gaze toward the elder, eyes sharp. “I heard in the meeting that sales dropped by five hundred spirit stones this month. You can do better.”

The elder bowed slightly. “We will. Thank you, Sect Leader Gao Moyue.”

With that, Gao Moyue gave a small nod and walked out of the room, hands clasped behind his back.

Another sect trying their luck. Another fool with dreams of taking over a piece of the market. He didn’t need to know who Chen Ren was. In a few months, the man would be just another name added to the list of sect leaders who tried and failed.

Everyone came to Broken Ridge thinking it was a treasure trove. And it was—but only if you had the power to control it.

And Gao Moyue knew, with the certainty of someone who had ruled for over a century, that Broken Ridge belonged to the Darkmoon Sect. No one else.

***

Chen Ren walked through the shop slowly as his eyes traced every corner of the space that would, in a few days, mark his official entry into the immortal market.

It was modest in size, but laid out well. Wooden shelves lined the walls, polished clean, with fresh lacquer still gleaming under the lamplight. Each row was now being filled by his mortal disciples—trainees from the Divine Coin Sect who had arrived just two days ago—working with quiet diligence. The air smelled faintly of mint, spirit herbs, and the dusty warmth of freshly cleaned floors.

This had once belonged to Jadefire Hall, and Chen Ren could see why it was so valuable. The location was ideal—just off the main street near the heart of Broken Ridge City, where crowds passed by from dawn till dusk. It wasn't tucked in a hidden alley or overshadowed by louder businesses. No, this spot saw foot traffic. And not just any foot traffic—Cultivators. The lifeblood of his future customer base.

There were other shops on the street, of course. One even bore the banner of the Darkmoon Sect, with its cold and towering presence. But Chen Ren spared it only a glance when he passed. They were dominant now, sure, but all he needed was a few weeks. Just a few weeks, and the cracks would start to show.

His gaze shifted to the shelves. Though he was starting with only three basic pills, the arrangement was deliberate. Qing He had helped him refine the process further, and now the pills could be produced in multiple purities through adjustments in the mixing method. That alone gave him variety.

But the shelves weren’t just split by purity—no, they had something else that would draw attention. Flavor.

Thanks to tweaking the binding agent, they’d managed to infuse two flavor profiles so far—cool mint and sweet honeyfruit. The moment he’d tasted the mint one, he knew it would leave a mark.

Even so, there was one thing nagging at the back of his mind: quantity.

They had enough pills for four days, maybe a week—but if demand rose too fast, they’d need to ramp up quickly. They had the production capacity, sure, but the logistics, the storage, the consistency of quality—it all needed attention.

Even now, as Chen Ren moved through the aisles, his gaze kept drifting to the empty shelves that lined the shop walls. Most were still bare, and he knew that wouldn’t change in a week. The plan was simple: fill the gaps with wooden bottles—emptied, sealed, and stacked—to give the illusion of stock abundance. A trick, yes, but a necessary one. Perception mattered in business, especially in a city where appearances sold trust.

In truth, their production couldn’t keep up with the look of a full shop. Jadefire Hall had adopted his pill-making method, but there was only so much they could create each day. And Chen Ren didn’t want to risk overproducing either—not until he saw the demand firsthand. Once he did, then he’d scale. Supply should follow demand, not the other way around.

Still, as he looked around the shop—at the rows of neatly arranged pill jars, at the young mortal workers who called him Sect Leader without a hint of hesitation—Chen Ren couldn’t help the small smile that touched his lips.

And as he passed by a shelf being dusted down by a mortal disciple, the shop door creaked open behind him.

Chen Ren turned to see Anji and Tang Boming entering. Both gave him a respectful bow before approaching.

“So, how’s it going?” Chen Ren asked, keeping his tone light but expectant.

Tang Boming was the first to speak. He had just returned from Jadefire Hall, and his robes still smelled faintly of spirit herbs and furnace smoke.

“Production’s going smoothly,” he said. “A few disciples made a face at the process, said it felt… ridiculous. I mean, I get it. Seeing mortals do what most cultivators train for years to do can be jarring.”

He gave a sheepish shrug before continuing, “But Tau Liu accepted the method early on, so the rest didn’t have much room to protest. And honestly, most of them seem relieved. I told them they can spend their time working on their own alchemy instead of basic pills, and that shut down any real complaints.”

Chen Ren nodded in approval. “Good. And what about Hun Tianzhi?”

Tang Boming gave a small grin. “He took to it better than I expected. Right now, he’s in his quarters, poring over the technique—probably trying to figure out how it works from an alchemical theory standpoint. He looked intrigued. Like it woke something up in him.”

Chen Ren smiled faintly, folding his arms. “Let’s hope he finds a way to make even more pills using our method.”

Then he turned to Anji, his gaze steady. “And what about you?”

She sighed, brushing some dust off her sleeve. “I handed out every pamphlet we printed. Stuck them at inns, talked to some vendors, even tried to stop a few passing cultivators near the southern plaza... but most weren’t interested. I’m worried. Marketing here might be harder than we thought.”

Chen Ren didn’t look surprised. “Marketing is hard everywhere,” he said simply. “But we still have to do it. If no one knows we exist, they definitely won’t buy from us.”

“Yeah, but the problem is... Cultivators around here have been buying from Darkmoon Sect for years. They’re used to their pills. Comfortable. Loyal, even. It’s going to be hard to break that habit.”

”We can change that—that habit.”

Anji looked at him, brows pinched. “How?”

Chen Ren didn’t reply immediately.

Instead, his thoughts shifted. Anji had made a good point—one that lingered. Marketing was something he could adapt in many places across this world, but marketing to cultivators… that was an entirely different beast.

They were proud. Sensitive. The kind who took offense at the tone of a greeting, let alone being handed a pamphlet. Even the wrong look could spark a duel.

But as his gaze swept across the shop—the neatly arranged shelves, the rows of bottles being filled, the faint scent of herbs in the air—an idea flickered to life. One that burned a little brighter with each breath.

“There’s one thing we can do,” he said at last, voice calm but certain. “One way to make sure cultivators notice us.”

***

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