Around the corner of the stone steps outside the Mission Hall, sunlight never lingered.
Jiang Muchen was carrying the thirty-pound batch of refined charcoal he had just received when he caught it—the sound. *Click, clack, click, clack*—fast, crisp, almost like New Year's firecrackers, yet with a precision rhythm that felt calculated.
He slowed his pace and cast a glance.
In the shadows squatted a round-faced boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, wearing a faded servant's tunic, cuffs fraying. Before him lay an oilcloth with scattered odds and ends: a few sheets of burned-out talisman paper, some blood-stained low-tier beast bones, two rusty broken swords, and a few scraggly "Condensed Dew Herbs."
With his left hand, he held down a cornered ledger, while his right fingers danced across an old wooden abacus. The frame was polished from sweat, beads worn smooth enough to reflect a faint silhouette. His brow furrowed tighter and tighter, eyes that had once seemed cheerful now blazing with anxious focus.
Jiang Muchen paused.
His Insight silently activated.
Information streamed into his consciousness like a river: Wang Duobao, son of a small-time merchant, Qi Stage Two. Insanely sensitive to numbers, capable of memorizing price fluctuations of every low-tier material in the Mission Hall for the past three months. Right now, he was calculating: the burned talisman sheets bought at two fragments each, could sell to talisman apprentices at one fragment each after factoring in errand fees—beast bones of poor quality only good for grinding into powders for alchemy, maxing at five fragments per pound, but he got them at three…
The profit margin was paper-thin.
The deeper need emerged: capital. He had less than twenty fragments on him—barely enough for small-scale trades. A backer. Last time he resold "Fire Crow Feathers" he made a small profit, only to have an outer disciple from Danding Peak swoop in and demand a 30% "site fee." He could neither resist nor complain.
Jiang Muchen had observed him for three days.
Day one: Wang Duobao calculating price differences for recycled alchemy materials.
Day two: tracking the last three points of acquisition for "Soul-Eating Insect Shells."
Day three: now, pounding away at that battered abacus, realizing yet again, today would be "another wasted effort."
"Ugh…"
He sighed, fingers slipping off the beads, his body slumping like a deflated balloon. He grabbed the water pouch at his waist for a swig—though it wasn't water, but diluted, harsh spirit, barely half a pound per fragment. It burned his throat but cleared his mind.
Right then.
Jiang Muchen approached, footsteps neither loud nor soft, but enough for Wang Duobao to notice.
The round-faced boy lifted his head warily, instinctively shielding the abacus—old habits die hard.
"Busy, senior?" Jiang Muchen squatted, casually glancing at the scattered goods as if in idle chatter.
Wang Duobao squinted, sizing up the servant tunic and the unusually calm face: "Something to buy? Or…?" He gestured to the heap of junk. "Three sheets of the talisman paper have lost a third of their spiritual energy, but enough for practicing Fire Control. Beast bones can be powdered into 'Reinforcing Powder' to cut costs. Anything catch your eye?"
Jiang Muchen shook his head, pointing instead toward the row of warehouses on the east side of the Mission Hall. "Today, at the hour of the Dragon, the third East Market warehouse received a batch of 'Jade Pearl Rice.' Manager Chen inspected it and found thirty percent damp—price will drop. Acquisition cost will be thirty percent below market."
The boy's abacus froze.
"By tomorrow noon," Jiang Muchen continued, "at Stove #7, Alchemy House in West Market will brew 'Calm Mind Pills,' requiring seven liang of ten-year-old Calm Mind Grass. Liu, the senior in charge, lost a bet last night and is desperate—price will rise at least fifty percent."
*Click.* One abacus bead moved on its own.
Wang Duobao stared, round cheeks tense. "How… how do you know?" His voice was barely audible, cautious like a merchant calculating margins. "Chen often haggles, but the exact numbers only a few trusted staff know. Liu's gambling… that's not public knowledge."
Jiang Muchen didn't answer. Instead, he asked, "How much capital can you mobilize at most?"
"Twenty-five fragments," Wang Duobao hesitated, inflating the number slightly.
"Enough to scoop up two-thirds of that damp rice, or snatch three liang of Calm Mind Grass," Jiang Muchen said. "But not both at once. And one person can't cover two markets—three hours apart. You can't split yourself."
The boy's breath quickened.
He calculated frantically: the rice, once dried, would lose less than ten percent, flipping a forty-percent profit to the cafeteria; Calm Mind Grass even more profitable—fifty percent acquisition markup, resell to the desperate alchemists, plus an additional twenty percent…
One person, two hands, endless limitations.
"You tell me all this," Wang Duobao licked his parched lips, "what's in it for you? Commission? Or using my hands to resell so you take the bigger cut?"
Jiang Muchen smiled.
Not a greedy smile—calm, collected, like an accountant reviewing a balanced ledger.
"No commission, no using your hands," he said. "I provide information. You analyze, you act. Fifty-fifty on profit. Share risk, share reward."
Wang Duobao's pupils constricted. *Fifty-fifty? That's generous! Typically, info brokers take thirty percent.*
"Why?" he blurted. "You could do this yourself or find someone else."
"Because you can use an abacus." Jiang Muchen pointed to the polished beads. "And because you're poor—poor enough to calculate every risk to the bone. That's exactly the partner I need."
Blunt, almost harsh.
But Wang Duobao understood—it wasn't charity. It was recognition. Recognition of his one unique skill: calculation.
He looked at his callused fingers, then back at Jiang Muchen's calm eyes—no pity, no condescension, just quiet acknowledgment.
"How can I trust the info?" he finally asked.
Jiang Muchen pulled a wooden token from his pocket, laying it on the oilcloth.
A palm-sized token, a Mission Hall pass, with a crudely drawn symbol of three interlocking circles—ripples in water.
"This is the 'Muchen Society' mark," Jiang Muchen said. "If info's wrong, take this to Room C7 in the servant quarters—I'll reimburse double your principal."
Wang Duobao stared at the token, then at Jiang Muchen.
Three breaths later, he gripped Jiang Muchen's hand, sweaty and strong. "Deal. I'm Wang Duobao."
Jiang Muchen mirrored the grip, firm and steady: "Jiang Muchen."
---
That evening, Wang Duobao returned to the servant quarters, tired but exhilarated, a bulging cloth bag under his arm.
He headed straight to Room C7, where Jiang Muchen was alone, polishing the jade flute by lamplight.
"Done!" Wang Duobao dumped the bag on the bed. Forty fragments spilled out, plus two lower-grade spiritual stones. "Took a third of the rice, net twenty-three fragments profit. Snagged four liang of Calm Mind Grass, earned thirty fragments plus two stones! After errand fees and greasing warehouse hands, net forty-seven fragments and two stones!"
Excited, his hands twitched in the air—a leftover tic from the abacus.
Jiang Muchen nodded, counting out twenty-three fragments and one stone from the pile. "Your share."
Wang Duobao blinked. "I thought fifty-fifty?"
"You ran the errand—extra is your labor fee." Jiang Muchen pocketed the rest. "Tomorrow, new info."
"New info?" Wang Duobao's eyes lit up.
"Master Firecloud at the Foundry is refining 'Red Copper,' but purity always falls short," Jiang Muchen said slowly. "It's not skill—he lacks patience. I know a method using 'Gold-Filtering Grass' to improve purity. Grows in the southwest corner of the outer garden, discarded as weed."
Wang Duobao's mind raced. *Almost zero acquisition cost, yet could curry favor with Firecloud Master. Even scraps could feed us for half a year!*
"Not just that," Jiang Muchen continued. "Firecloud is hot-tempered but fair. Help him now, later we have leverage for low-tier equipment or repair."
Wang Duobao inhaled sharply, eyes widening. This wasn't a servant—this was a fox in human disguise.
"How… how do you know all this?"
Jiang Muchen traced the flute holes with his fingers, warm under lamplight. "Observe. Listen. Think. And remember to get Zhou Xiaohuan and Zheng Xiaoqi involved too."
"Zhou Xiaohuan? The little girl always eavesdropping at the Library?" Wang Duobao frowned. "What can she do?"
"She hears things she shouldn't," Jiang Muchen said. "Like Steward Li at the Library, who naps for half an incense stick every noon. Or Senior Sun at Danding Peak secretly collecting Bone-Eroding Flowers, likely brewing some forbidden pill."
Wang Duobao's jaw dropped.
Individually, trivial. Together, a network—windows, opportunities, profits.
"I get it!" Wang Duobao slapped his thigh. "We're not just doing one-off trades—we're weaving a net!"
Jiang Muchen smiled.
The lamp flickered. Outside, night draped the Red Dust Pavilion peak like a starry river—home to inner disciples, true heirs, elders. But in this humble servant's room, two boys sat surrounded by fragments, the echoes of abacus clicks lingering in the air.
Wang Duobao whispered: "Jiang… do you think people like us can really survive in this cutthroat place?"
Jiang Muchen didn't answer. He snuffed the lamp, leaving the room in darkness, only a sliver of moonlight slicing through the window.
"Wang Duobao," he said, voice low, "you know the hardest currency in this world?"
"…Spiritual stones?"
"No. It's being *needed* by others."
Moonlight caught his eyes, bright and piercing. "Stones run out. treasures break. alliances crumble. But if you become a piece no one can replace on someone else's board—even a pawn—you can reach the king."
Wang Duobao sat in stunned silence.
He remembered his father's dying words: *"Duobao, no background, no talent—just this abacus. But the world's toughest accounts aren't numbers—they're people."*
Back then, he hadn't understood. Now… he felt a glimmer of it.
Outside, footsteps approached—the other servants returning. Wang Duobao quickly stashed the fragments and slipped out with a nod.
Jiang Muchen remained in darkness, fingers brushing the flute holes.
Silent, yet alive with sound—the click of beads, the thud of coins, the faint, almost imperceptible *crackling* of human calculation.
The real capital isn't how many fragments you have—it's knowing what others *need* that they don't even realize yet. The essence of being useful on someone's path? Becoming the lever that tips the scales.
---