Several days after his profound conversation with Old Liu, Shen Jietian completely overhauled his approach to the market.
He didn’t stop producing his informational bulletins, nor did he cease gathering intelligence or selling copies whenever a stray customer came along.
However, the core of his focus had undergone a fundamental shift.
Old Liu’s poignant words remained lodged firmly in his mind like an immovable boulder:
“The problem isn’t information.
The problem is trust.”
Initially, Shen Jietian had pondered how to fabricate a facade that would make people blindly trust him.
But as he ruminated on the mechanics of human nature in this dog-eat-dog cultivation world, he realized he had been asking the wrong question entirely.
Trust wasn’t a commodity that people simply handed out out of charity.
Trust was a currency earned through proven results.
And before he could even begin to earn that currency, he first needed to make people notice his existence.
The East Market of the city bustled with an almost suffocating amount of life.
Mortal and low-level merchant shouts filled the air, blending with the fierce bargaining of rogue cultivators and the endless, rhythmic ringing of blacksmith hammers.
The rich aroma of roasted spiritual beast meat intermingled heavily with acrid charcoal smoke and the bitter tang of medicinal herbs.
Everywhere Shen Jietian looked, people were desperately straining every sinew to scrape together a living.
It was a stark reminder of reality.
The cultivation world might be a place where high and mighty immortals soared through the clouds, but ninety-nine percent of the population consisted of ordinary people and low-level cultivators simply trying to survive another day.
Recognizing this, Shen Jietian spent the next several days ignoring the flashing arrays and glittering spiritual products on display.
Instead, he turned his absolute attention to observing the people themselves.
He carefully scanned the crowds to identify those who looked frustrated, those who seemed desperate, and those who were actively searching for something specific.
He wanted to find the exact demographic of people who were so plagued by a problem that they would be willing to part with their hard-earned spirit stones just to find a solution.
That was when his gaze naturally fell upon the forge district.
The forge district occupied a massive, smog-choked section of the East Market.
Long before one even crossed its threshold, the continuous, deafening rhythm of hammer strikes would reverberate through the soles of one’s feet.
Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
The metallic symphony echoed through the cobblestone streets from the first light of dawn until the final rays of sunset.
Among the numerous establishments, one particular blacksmith’s shop caught his eye.
It wasn’t exceptionally large, and the weather-beaten wooden sign hanging above the entrance simply read: Iron River Forge.
There was nothing fancy or spiritually impressive about its exterior, yet its business appeared surprisingly robust.
Customers constantly flowed in and out of the storefront, indicating a high demand for the smith’s craftsmanship.
The master blacksmith himself was an imposing figure who was utterly impossible to miss.
He was a massive man with shoulders as broad as a city gate and muscular, soot-blackened arms that looked as dense as ironwood.
His thick beard seemed permanently dusted with charcoal flakes, and several jagged, pale burn scars crossed his forearms—honorable marks left behind by years of standing beside raging, high-temperature furnaces.
The first time Shen Jietian noticed him, the giant of a man was locked in a heated argument with a traveling merchant.
“What do you mean you have no Spirit Copper Ore?!” the blacksmith roared, his chest heaving.
“The supply lines are tight, Master Forge-master, there’s truly none to be had,” the merchant replied defensively.
The blacksmith spat on the ground and cursed loudly, his face contorting in frustration.
Intrigued, Shen Jietian kept watch.
The second time he observed the shop, the blacksmith was arguing with a completely different supplier.
“What do you mean I have to wait another week?!” the blacksmith bellowed, slamming a fist onto a nearby counter.
The supplier could only offer a helpless shrug, murmuring platitudes about logistics.
By the third time, the blacksmith looked as though he might spontaneously combust from sheer rage.
“Three weeks!
Three weeks, and not a single incompetent dog in this entire market can provide enough Spirit Copper to fulfill my orders?!”
His booming voice echoed down half the street, causing the terrified supplier to beat a hasty retreat.
Interesting, Shen Jietian thought, his eyes narrowing as he watched the supplier flee.
His analytical mind immediately went to work.
A master blacksmith with a steady stream of orders was suddenly facing a critical supply shortage of a foundational material like Spirit Copper Ore.
In a market as fluid as the East Market, such a sudden and absolute drought was highly unusual.
Curiosity, as it often did in his line of work, promised to lead to valuable information.
For the next two days, Shen Jietian investigated the matter.
He moved carefully and quietly, ensuring he left no traceable ripples behind him.
He frequented the low-end tea houses where gossip flowed freely, spoke with the weary laborers responsible for unloading incoming merchant caravans, and listened intently to the disgruntled complaints of warehouse workers.
He even spent a few pieces of Spirit Sand to buy cheap, refreshing tea for a low-ranking caravan clerk.
He asked casual, seemingly disconnected questions—never pressing too hard, and never asking enough to attract the suspicion of the market overseers.
Eventually, the scattered pieces of the puzzle began to coalesce in his mind.
Through a synthesis of the laborers’ complaints and the clerk’s drunken grumblings, Shen Jietian discovered that a large caravan originating from the mineral-rich Iron Ridge had actually arrived in the city a few days ago.
Furthermore, the shipment explicitly included a massive quantity of high-grade Spirit Copper Ore.
However, instead of liquidating the asset to the local smiths immediately, a wealthy merchant had privately bought up the entire stock and quietly moved it into a secluded warehouse.
Shen Jietian instantly deduced the merchant’s strategy.
The man was intentionally hoarding the supply, artificializing a scarcity.
He was waiting for the market’s desperation to peak and the prices to skyrocket before releasing the ore to maximize his profits.
Because the transaction had been handled under the table before the caravan formally processed through the main market registry, ninety-nine percent of the local blacksmiths remained completely in the dark, assuming the shortage was due to mining difficulties at Iron Ridge.
Most people didn’t know the truth.
But Shen Jietian did.
The following morning, Shen Jietian adjusted his robes and walked directly toward Iron River Forge.
The moment he stepped through the entrance, a suffocating wave of intense heat blasted against his face.
The interior of the forge felt like an entirely different realm.
Massively constructed furnaces glowed a fierce, blinding orange, casting dancing firelight across the soot-stained black stone walls.
Brilliant sparks flew through the air with every heavy hammer strike, and the thick atmosphere smelled strongly of iron, charcoal, sweat, and the pungent tang of molten ore.
Three young apprentices were working themselves to the bone inside.
One was pumping a massive set of leather bellows with furious intensity, another was rhythmically hammering a glowing sword blank atop a heavy anvil, while the youngest boy was diligently polishing a stack of iron spearheads against a wall.
None of them so much as glanced up when Shen Jietian entered; they were far too busy keeping up with the relentless pace of production.
At the center of this chaotic symphony stood the master blacksmith.
His heavy iron hammer came down with such immense force that the entire anvil trembled violently beneath the impact.
Clang!
The half-forged blade glowed a brilliant, angry red beneath the strike.
Clang!
Another flawless strike rained down, showering the floor in sparks.
Only after completing his current cycle of strikes did the blacksmith finally notice Shen Jietian standing quietly in the corner.
Wiping a thick layer of sweat from his charcoal-dusted forehead with the back of his scarred forearm, the man grunted,
“What do you want?” His tone was neither hostile nor friendly; it was simply the direct, no-nonsense speech of a craftsman who hated having his time wasted.
Shen Jietian didn’t beat around the bush.
He answered immediately, “You’re looking for Spirit Copper Ore.”
The blacksmith’s eyes instantly narrowed into sharp slits, his grip tightening slightly on the handle of his hammer.
“You have some on hand?”
“No,” Shen Jietian replied calmly.
The blacksmith’s expression darkened visibly, a flash of irritation flitting across his rugged features.
“Then why the hell are you standing in my shop wasting my breath?”
The heavy hammer stopped mid-air.
The sudden cessation of the master’s rhythm caused one of the apprentices to glance over in surprise.
The blacksmith stared at Shen Jietian for several agonizing seconds, evaluating the young man’s unblinking posture, before suddenly throwing his head back and laughing.
It was a loud, booming laugh that reverberated off the stone walls.
Hearing their master laugh, the apprentices naturally joined in, assuming the stranger was a fool.
“Another one?” The blacksmith shook his head, looking at Shen Jietian with a mixture of pity and amusement.
“Every time there’s a market shortage, a flock of desperate scavengers comes crawling out of the woodwork trying to scam a few spirit stones.”
He extended a massive, soot-stained finger toward the exit.
“If you’re trying to middleman some nonexistent ore to get a deposit out of me, leave.”
“I’m not here to sell you ore,” Shen Jietian stated, his voice steady and devoid of panic.
The booming laughter died down instantly.
Shen Jietian seized the silence, continuing smoothly, “I’m selling information.”
An abrupt silence descended upon the room.
The blacksmith stared at him, processing the words, before barking out another short, mocking laugh.
“Information?
You expect a practical man like me to pay good spirit stones for mere words?”
“No,” Shen Jietian replied.
The unexpected answer visibly caught the blacksmith off guard.
“No?”
Shen Jietian shook his head.
“If the information I provide turns out to be false or yields no results, you don’t owe me a single copper.
You don’t pay me a thing.”
The forge suddenly became deathly quiet.
Even the apprentices instinctively slowed their movements, sensing a shift in the atmosphere.
The blacksmith folded his massive arms across his chest, the skepticism in his eyes giving way to a calculating gleam.
“And if your words turn out to be absolutely right?”
“Then you pay me what you deem the information was worth, afterward.”
The giant studied Shen Jietian with renewed intensity.
For the first time since entering the shop, Shen Jietian sensed a genuine, business-oriented interest radiating from the man.
From the blacksmith’s perspective, there was absolutely zero risk.
If this young man was a fraud, he would waste five minutes of time; if he was telling the truth, the forge’s supply crisis would be resolved.
Eventually, the blacksmith let out a low grunt.
“Talk.”
Shen Jietian explained the situation clearly.
He didn’t reveal his entire information network or the identities of his sources, choosing to disclose only what was strictly necessary to verify the claim.
He detailed the greedy merchant’s identity, the hidden warehouse where the Iron Ridge shipment was being stored, and the exact logistical layout of the operation.
There was no theatrical exaggeration in his voice, nor any dramatic claims of grand conspiracies.
He presented nothing but cold, hard, verifiable facts.
When he finished, the blacksmith nodded slowly, his expression growing grim as he realized how perfectly the pieces fit together.
He didn’t thank Shen Jietian immediately; instead, he simply pointed a thick finger toward the exit.
“We’ll see.”
Understanding the unspoken rules of engagement, Shen Jietian turned and left without pushing for a guarantee.
Three days later, Shen Jietian was sitting at his usual spot near the market square, methodically updating his intelligence notes, when a large, imposing shadow suddenly fell across his table, blocking out the morning sun.
He looked up to find the massive frame of the master blacksmith standing before him.
Without uttering a single word, the giant dropped a heavy leather pouch onto the table right beside Shen Jietian’s papers.
Clink.
The distinct, heavy sound of shifting grains echoed softly.
Shen Jietian peeked inside and realized it was filled to the brim with high-quality Spirit Sand—significantly more than what he would have normally charged for a basic intelligence bulletin.
“The information was dead on,” the blacksmith said, sitting down heavily on a wooden stool that creaked precariously beneath his weight.
A fierce, satisfied grin broke through his charcoal-dusted beard.
“The bastard was hiding the entire Iron Ridge shipment in the back district, just waiting to squeeze us dry.
Let’s just say…
he was very reasonable about selling it all to me after we had a direct conversation.”
His rough tone heavily suggested that several highly unpleasant, physically intimidating conversations had occurred between the forge-master and the hoarding merchant.
Shen Jietian smiled slightly, picking up the pouch.
The blacksmith snorted, leaning back.
“You’re lucky, kid.”
But despite his gruff words, there was no hostility left in his demeanor.
It had been entirely replaced by the genuine respect that cultivators and craftsmen reserved for capable individuals.
As the massive man stood up to return to his forge, he paused for a moment and looked back over his shoulder.
“If you happen to hear about any ore shipments or supply disruptions again…” He locked eyes with the young intelligence broker.
“Come find me first.”
Then, he turned and strode away into the crowded marketplace.
Watching his retreating figure, Shen Jietian felt a surge of quiet satisfaction.
For the first time, he hadn’t made money by merely peddling static information to uninterested passersby.
He had earned it by identifying a specific pain point and actively solving a critical problem.
This was the blueprint for building true trust.
A week later, another prime opportunity presented itself.
This time, the stage was set within a bustling, multi-storied tea house.
The tea house was packed to the gills with people.
Loose rogue cultivators filled most of the tables, drinking and boasting, while harried servants expertly carried steaming trays of beverages and snacks between the dense crowds.
The ambient noise of conversations rose and fell like chaotic waves on an ocean.
Shen Jietian sat quietly in a secluded corner near a window, sipping from a cheap porcelain cup.
The tea was of the lowest grade, costing a mere two pieces of Spirit Sand.
It tasted weak and remarkably bitter, but it was highly affordable, and more importantly, it granted him a valid excuse to sit undisturbed for hours.
As always, his ears were finely tuned to the background noise.
His mind acted like a spiritual array, filtering through the useless chatter to catch specific keywords.
At one table, an anxious merchant was loudly complaining to his associates about a series of severely delayed caravans that were threatening his contract deadlines.
At another table across the room, an independent transport leader mentioned that several of his colleagues had reported missing cargo crates along the regional borders.
Meanwhile, near the entrance, a weary beast hunter spoke in hushed, nervous tones about discovering several completely abandoned merchant camps deep in the wilderness.
To an ordinary listener, these were just the standard, unfortunate complaints of people doing business in a dangerous world.
The incidents seemed entirely unrelated, scattered across different dates and involving different victims.
However, as Shen Jietian mapped out the geographic locations of these occurrences in his mind, he immediately noticed a glaring pattern.
Every single one of these disparate incidents had occurred along the exact same vital trade route: the Western Stone Pass.
For the next three days, he quietly launched a targeted investigation into the pass.
The deeper he dug into the local registry archives and the more whispered rumors he collected, the more alarming the picture became.
Caravans were vanishing entirely.
Wealthy cargo was disappearing without a trace.
Yet, strangely, there were absolutely no bodies ever recovered by the local constabulary, no signs of chaotic spiritual beast attacks on the foliage, and completely zero survivors.
This is too clean, Shen Jietian reasoned, staring at a mental map of the pass.
If it were the work of territorial spirit beasts, the attack sites would be a bloody mess of torn flesh, shattered wagons, and scattered, uneaten goods.
Beasts didn’t care about refined silks or packaged spiritual herbs; they cared about meat.
Furthermore, if it were ordinary bandits, they would never have the tactical capability to wipe out entire armed caravan escorts without letting a single runner escape to sound the alarm.
Synthesizing these anomalies, Shen Jietian arrived at a firm, chilling conclusion:
a newly established, highly organized group of rogue cultivators had set up an ambush operation.
They were likely using cloaking arrays or specialized formations to trap and systematically liquidate targeted caravans right within the blind spots of the Western Stone Pass, ensuring no evidence leaked out.
The next challenge, however, was finding someone who would actually value this information enough to act on it.
Shen Jietian walked out of the tea house and observed the open square where caravan guards typically gathered while waiting to sign escort contracts.
Most of them looked impatient, flicking through their talismans.
Some looked visibly drunk, drowning their anxieties in cheap wine, while others were loudly boasting about their mediocre cultivation bases to impress potential employers.
To Shen Jietian’s trained eye, these men were mere cannon fodder.
If he gave them the warning, they would either ignore it or foolishly rush to their deaths.
Then, his eyes locked onto a solitary man sitting on a stone bench near the edge of the square.
The man was middle-aged, with a calm, unhurried aura radiating from his posture.
Instead of participating in the loud boasting or drinking, he was quietly sipping a cup of untouched, cooling tea, his sharp eyes constantly scanning the movements of the crowd.
Shen Jietian noticed that the man’s hand never strayed more than a few inches away from the hilt of the longsword strapped to his waist, and his body was positioned in a way that allowed him to react to an ambush from any direction instantly.
An experienced veteran, Shen Jietian assessed.
This was a man who understood the lethal reality of the wilderness.
Decision made, Shen Jietian walked straight over to the stone bench.
As he approached, the middle-aged man’s eyes instantly locked onto him, tracking his hands and posture with practiced caution.
“What do you need, friend?” the man asked.
His tone wasn’t overtly hostile, but it possessed the hard, unyielding edge of someone who didn’t tolerate nonsense.
“I have critical information regarding the safety of the Western Stone Pass,” Shen Jietian said, keeping his voice low enough to avoid carrying.
The man’s calm expression shifted slightly, a spark of sharp intensity flashing deep within his pupils.
He gestured to the empty space on the bench beside him.
“Sit.” He raised a finger to a passing tea servant, and a fresh cup of hot tea was quickly brought to the table.
Neither of them touched their cups immediately, allowing the steam to rise between them as they evaluated one another.
The man took the initiative to introduce himself first.
“Zhao Qian.
I lead an independent caravan escort group.”
“Shen Jietian.
I deal in information.”
Zhao Qian gave a slow, measured nod of acknowledgment.
“Talk.”
Shen Jietian didn’t waste time with a theatrical pitch.
He laid out his analytical observations one by one, presenting them in a logical sequence.
He detailed the specific timeline of the missing caravans, the exact nature of the missing high-value goods, the correlation of the dates, and the identical geographic coordinates where the trails grew cold.
Zhao Qian listened in absolute silence, his face an unreadable mask as his mind processed the data.
When Shen Jietian paused, Zhao Qian leaned forward, testing the validity of the young man’s intellect.
“Why are you so sure it isn’t just a sudden surge of organized bandits?
The pass has always been a haven for outlaws.”
“Bandits thrive on fear,” Shen Jietian countered smoothly, meeting his gaze.
“They deliberately leave mutilated witnesses or clear signs of destruction to terrorize future merchants into paying protection fees without a fight.”
“These incidents, however, are utterly silent.
The victims vanish from the face of the earth.”
Zhao Qian nodded slowly, acknowledging the psychological accuracy of the point.
“Then why not a powerful, migratory spirit beast that recently settled in the pass?”
“Too selective,” Shen Jietian replied, pointing a finger toward a heavily laden merchant wagon passing by the square outside.
“A wild spirit beast attacks indiscriminately based on hunger or territorial aggression.
It would smash the wagons, consume the beasts of burden, and leave the refined, inedible merchandise scattered all over the dirt.”
“But according to the warehouse manifests, the incidents specifically target caravans carrying lightweight, high-value spiritual commodities.
Beasts don’t have a preference for currency.”
Once again, Zhao Qian found himself nodding.
The logic was airtight.
The conversation continued in this manner for some time.
Zhao Qian threw out sharp, practical questions born of years of survival on the road, and Shen Jietian answered each one calmly, providing analytical evidence for every deduction.
Neither rushed the process, treating the exchange with the gravity it deserved.
Eventually, Zhao Qian leaned back against the stone bench, his fingers rhythmically tapping against his kneecap.
“Your final conclusion?”
Shen Jietian looked directly into the veteran’s eyes.
“An organized band of rogue cultivators.”
Zhao Qian’s tapping finger froze.
“How strong do you estimate them to be?”
“At least middle-stage Qi Refinement,” Shen Jietian analyzed, drawing from the clean efficiency of the ambushes.
“To suppress an entire caravan guard unit without allowing a single distress talisman to be ignited requires absolute dominance.”
“At least?” Zhao Qian pressed, his brow furrowing.
Shen Jietian nodded grimly.
“The leaders are highly likely to be in the late-stage Qi Refinement realm.”
For the first time since the start of their conversation, Zhao Qian’s expression became profoundly serious.
A late-stage Qi Refinement cultivator was a formidable force in this region; if such an expert chose to turn to banditry and ambush tactics, they could easily slaughter ordinary caravan guards like sheep.
If his escort group blindly took a contract through the pass without this knowledge, they would be marching straight into a meat grinder.
A heavy silence stretched between the two men as the weight of the intelligence settled.
Then, Zhao Qian finally looked up, his eyes boring into Shen Jietian.
“An incredibly valuable warning.
What exactly do you want as payment for this information?”
Shen Jietian smiled faintly, a look of calm confidence on his face as he delivered the exact same answer that had won over the blacksmith.
“Nothing.”
Zhao Qian raised a thick eyebrow in sheer disbelief.
“Nothing?
You’re giving away a life-saving warning for free?”
“If my deductions turn out to be completely wrong and the pass is perfectly safe, then you can simply forget this conversation ever happened.
I won’t take a single stone for false alarms,”
Shen Jietian said, finally reaching down to pick up his lukewarm cup of tea.
He took a slow sip before looking back up at the veteran guard.
“And if it turns out I am completely right…
then you can buy me a significantly better cup of tea the next time we meet.”
For the first time, the stern, cautious mask completely melted off Zhao Qian’s face, and he let out a genuine, booming laugh that echoed across the square.
End of Chapter 15
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