The outer gate of the Silver Cloud Sect closed behind Kenji with the dull, final sound of a world sealing itself off. The pure, thin mountain air, heavy with the Qi of cultivators, was instantly replaced by a sensory assault. The air of Golden Carp City was thick, a broth of life and chaos that smelled of fish drying in the sun, fried noodles, sweat, and the undeniable fragrance of opportunity.
For the first time, Kenji didn't feel the weight of desperation, but that of two bags of gold hidden in his robes. One resonated with Xiao Yue's blind trust, a reminder of the determined face that had become the human anchor for his project. The other, heavier, jingled with the cold, calculating ambition of Matriarch Feng. They were his venture capital. The operating budget for the most dangerous phase of his plan to date: Project Cerberus.
His CEO mindset activated. Phase One: Market Penetration and Intelligence Analysis.
He didn't head for the opulent alchemy houses in the commercial district. That would be a direct approach—predictable and stupid. The high-end market was monitored, its prices inflated by reputation and bureaucracy. To find a vulnerability in a system, you never start at the top. You start at the foundations, in the basement cracks where the unregulated resources flow.
His first target was a pair of city guards posted near the lower market gate. One was a burly man with an expression of terminal boredom. The other, younger and thinner, had a restless, greedy look in his eyes. A dual-control system: one lazy, the other opportunistic.
Kenji approached with a quiet purpose that clashed with his cheap clothes.
"Trouble, outsider?" the burly guard growled, not bothering to straighten up.
"A simple risk mitigation inquiry," Kenji replied, his voice flat. "I am evaluating investment opportunities in the local health supplement sector and wish to avoid unforeseen operational disruptions."
The young guard snickered.
"Health supplements? You mean the rat poison they sell in the alleys?"
"Every enterprise has a viable product for its target market," Kenji said, unperturbed. "My interest lies in understanding the informal regulatory fees."
He slid two silver coins onto a nearby crate. It wasn't a clumsy bribe. It was a transactional offer. The young guard glanced at the coins, then at his partner. The burly one shrugged. Easy silver.
"Listen, 'investor'," the young guard said, pocketing the coins with a prestidigitator's speed. "Avoid the Shadow Wharf. The people there don't negotiate; they collect an existence tax with knives. And if you see anyone with a red leaf tattoo on their neck, cross the street. They aren't friendly competitors."
"And the rest of the market?" Kenji pressed.
"The rest is the wild west. As long as your gold talks louder than your problems, nobody cares. Now, move along. Your... vocabulary is giving me a headache."
"Data received. Your consultation has been productive," Kenji concluded, turning away and leaving the two guards staring at each other, confused and slightly richer.
His next stop was "The Whispering Carp," a tavern so dark it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. It smelled of spilled liquor, broken dreams, and boiled cabbage. Kenji approached the bar, a sticky piece of wood that had seen better decades.
"I'm looking for information," he said to the tavernkeeper, a man with arms like tree trunks and a scar that split one of his eyebrows.
"Look in the sect's library. We only serve bitter wine and regrets here," the man grunted.
A dead end. Predictable. Kenji hadn't even expected a different outcome. It was a test to confirm the system's opacity. He left the tavern and approached a beggar huddled by the entrance, a man with a sparse beard and eyes that looked like they had seen everything twice. The man, whom the patrons called Old Fang, wasn't begging for alms; he was observing. A passive information node with a low acquisition cost.
Kenji crouched down. The beggar tensed, expecting a blow. Instead, the thin young man offered him a small piece of dried meat and a silver coin.
"Old Fang," Kenji said, using the name he had heard inside. "I need to hire your services as a local market intelligence analyst."
The old man blinked, incredulous. He looked at the meat, then at the silver. It had been months since he had tasted either.
"Analyst? Kid, you're crazier than a two-headed goat."
"Madness is a subjective variable. Silver is a tangible asset," Kenji replied. "I'm looking for alchemical product distribution networks. Independent operators. Low-profile startups. Not the big guilds. The ones who move in the shadows."
Old Fang devoured the dried meat with animalistic greed. The silver coin vanished into the folds of his clothing. The offer was too good to question.
"You want the ghosts," he rasped. "There's a network. Not the usual charlatans. They call themselves the Rat Pack. Orphans, all of them. They sell healing potions. They say they're good. A mercenary swore to me one of their potions closed a dagger wound overnight."
"A decentralized distribution network using high-mobility, low-visibility assets. Logistically efficient," Kenji murmured. "Where do I find them?"
"You don't find them. They find you if you look like a customer. Loiter around Rotten Fish Plaza. Look for the kids who aren't begging, the ones who look at you like they're calculating what they could get for your boots. That's them."
"Report received. Your compensation has been processed," Kenji said, rising and disappearing into the crowd.
In Rotten Fish Plaza, the stench was almost solid. Kenji sat at an abandoned tea stall and watched. It didn't take him long to spot them. An organic system. A small boy, acting as a lookout, whistled a tune that changed whenever guards approached. An agile girl, the courier, conducted swift, silent transactions. An older boy, the muscle, watched from a rooftop. Impressive. Zero overhead. Maximum flexibility.
He chose his moment and approached the courier, a girl of about ten with messy hair and a wary gaze. He held out two copper coins. The girl, without a word, handed him a small ceramic vial poorly sealed with wax.
Kenji retreated to an alley and analyzed his acquisition. The smell was earthy, simple. But underneath… a high-quality product in deficient packaging.
It was like finding a diamond in a trash heap. This wasn't the work of a charlatan. It was the work of a hidden genius. A master who, for some reason, was operating at the lowest level of the market.
He had to contact them. But a direct approach would be corporate suicide. The network was a closed system; paranoia was its firewall. He needed bait. An offer so specific and tempting that the CEO of this strange corporation would have no choice but to respond.
After acquiring the necessary ingredients, Kenji focused on the final phase of his plan. That night, in a rented room that smelled of dust and loneliness, he drafted his proposal. It wasn't a simple order. It was an intellectual challenge, a message coded in the language of alchemy. A request for proposal (RFP) for a strategic partner.
The next day, he returned to the Rat Pack's territory. This time, he looked for the one who seemed to be the operations manager, a girl of about thirteen with a gaze as sharp as a knife, whom the other children called Sparrow.
He found her in Black Cat Alley, giving instructions to two younger children. Kenji approached with a deliberate authority that put her on guard.
"Sparrow," he said, using the name he had overheard. The surprise in the girl's eyes was fleeting, replaced by an icy hostility.
"I don't know what you're talking about, outsider."
"My analysis suggests you are the operations manager for this sector," Kenji said, ignoring her denial. "I'm not here to buy standard products. I'm here to propose a joint venture."
He held out a lacquered wooden box and the paper with the commission.
"This is a custom order. A prototype. The ingredients are here. The quality is high. The instructions are... precise."
Sparrow looked at him suspiciously.
"And why would we do anything for you?"
"Because your current business model, while efficient in its niche, has limited growth potential," Kenji explained, his monotonous voice disarming the girl's hostility. "I am offering entry into a high-value market. A single premium client who can guarantee stable, higher-magnitude revenue."
He took out the small silk pouch containing the five gold coins. He opened it just enough for the precious metal to gleam in the alley's gloom.
"This is the down payment. Fifty percent upfront."
Sparrow's eyes went wide. The logic of the man's words was strange, but the language of gold was universal. Five gold coins... for a single job. It was insane. It was an opportunity she couldn't ignore. Her boss had to know. This man wasn't just any customer. He was a shark swimming in their small pond.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"I'm an investor who recognizes potential. A catalyst," Kenji replied. "Give this to your alchemist. Tell her the quality of the ingredients demonstrates my seriousness, and the complexity of the order demonstrates my respect for her art. If the prototype meets specifications, I am prepared to negotiate a long-term production contract."
Sparrow took the box, the paper, and the heavy bag of gold. The weight in her hands was that of a decision that would change everything.
"Where do we find you?"
"That won't be necessary. I'll know when it's ready. The market always sends signals."
Nodding sharply, Sparrow turned and vanished into the labyrinth of alleys.
Kenji stood still, the echo of the jingling gold still in his ears. The bait was in the water. An expensive, surgically precise hook.
Project Cerberus progress report, he thought, as he turned to melt back into the shadows. High-potential asset identified. A hostile, veiled takeover bid has been initiated. Now, to wait for the Rat Pack's mysterious CEO to decide whether to accept the merger.