Gu Hao did not think about profit first.
He thought about stones.
Spirit stones were cultivation, time, and authority compressed into a single shape. Without them, strength stagnated. Without strength, everything he was building would eventually be taken.
And right now, the Gu Clan had no clean way to acquire them.
Grain kept people alive.
It did not yet make them rich.
Gu Hao closed the ledger and looked up.
"If we want stones," he said quietly, "we need to move beyond the gates."
He did not announce this to the clan.
He called four people instead.
Two cultivators.
Two mortals.
Gu Jian watched as they gathered in the side hall, curiosity written plainly on their faces.
The cultivators were both at early Qi Condensation. Not strong. But disciplined.
The mortals were different.
One was the salt-boiler's wife. Sharp-eyed, unafraid to speak.
The other was a former caravan clerk who had lost his position when trade routes tightened.
Gu Hao did not stand above them.
He sat.
"You're not warriors," he said calmly. "You're not merchants either."
The mortals shifted uneasily.
"But," Gu Hao continued, "you're observant. And you're trusted."
That mattered more.
He placed a small sack on the table.
Steady Grain.
Carefully measured.
"You'll take this to nearby markets," Gu Hao said. "Not cities. Not sect towns. Places where cultivators don't linger."
The former clerk frowned. "They'll ask for price."
"Yes," Gu Hao replied. "And you won't give one immediately."
The man blinked. "Then what do we say?"
Gu Hao leaned forward.
"You let them taste," he said. "Then you ask them why they want it."
Silence.
"Negotiation," Gu Hao continued, "is not about convincing someone to buy. It's about understanding what problem they think they have."
He looked at the cultivators next.
"You will not threaten," he said. "You will not display power unless your lives are at risk."
Gu Jian raised an eyebrow.
Gu Hao met his gaze calmly.
"If they remember us as strong," he said, "they'll remember us as dangerous. If they remember us as useful, they'll remember us again."
Over the next days, Gu Hao trained them.
Not in cultivation.
In language.
"What do you say if they call it cheap?"
"You agree."
"What if they laugh at mortals buying grain?"
"You ask how many mortals work their fields."
"What if they demand exclusivity?"
"You ask what they're willing to risk for it."
The salt-boiler's wife asked quietly, "What if they refuse?"
Gu Hao smiled faintly.
"Then we've learned something without paying for it."
Before they left, Gu Hao handed each of them a small pouch.
Not spirit stones.
Copper coin. Enough for food, lodging, and return.
"No debt," he said. "No pressure. Come back whether you sell or not."
The caravan clerk hesitated. "Patriarch… what if we fail?"
Gu Hao looked at him steadily.
"Then you come back alive," he said. "That's not failure."
They departed at dawn.
No banners.
No insignia.
Just people carrying sacks and ideas.
Gu Hao watched until the road swallowed them.
He did not activate the simulator.
This was not a moment for numbers.
This was a moment for trust.
That evening, Gu Jian stood beside him on the wall.
"You're sending mortals to negotiate value," Gu Jian said. "Most clans would laugh."
Gu Hao nodded.
"Most clans," he replied, "don't understand markets."
He turned back toward the compound.
"If this works," he said quietly, "we don't just gain stones."
Gu Jian waited.
"We gain people who know how to create them."
That night, Gu Hao finally sat alone.
He opened the ledger and wrote a single line, careful and deliberate:
Strength begins where value can travel without force.
Outside, the Gu Clan slept.
Somewhere on the road, four people carried grain, words, and the quiet beginning of leverage.
Not fast.
But forward.
The road remained empty.
Gu Hao reminded himself that this meant nothing.
Three days passed.
Then five.
The clan continued its routines. Fields were tended. Grain was milled and weighed. Mortals lined up quietly for Steady Grain, receiving their portions without complaint. Guards trained in the mornings and rested in the afternoons, their movements steady but restrained.
Life went on.
Still, the absence pressed in.
Gu Yuan found Gu Hao near the ledgers on the sixth day.
"They should have returned by now," the elder said, voice low.
Gu Hao did not look up. "They will."
Gu Yuan hesitated. "And if they don't?"
Gu Hao paused, brush hovering above the page.
"Then we will mourn them," he said. "And adjust."
The elder studied him, searching for something — doubt, perhaps — but found none. He left without another word.
On the seventh day, the whispers began.
"They were fools to go."
"Markets don't care about grain."
"We should have sent stronger cultivators."
Gu Hao heard it all.
He corrected no one.
On Earth, he had learned that reassurance offered too early felt like weakness. People trusted results, not promises.
That night, Gu Hao stood alone by the gates, watching lanterns flicker in the distance. Hamlets settled into sleep, unaware of how closely their future brushed against this place.
Gu Jian joined him, leaning against the stone.
"You're calm," Gu Jian said.
"I'm waiting," Gu Hao replied.
"For what?"
"For proof," Gu Hao said. "Either way."
Gu Jian nodded once and said nothing more.
On the tenth day, the guards stirred.
Movement on the road.
Four figures emerged from the dust, slower than when they had left. Their shoulders were heavier, their steps cautious, but they walked upright.
Alive.
The gates opened.
The salt-boiler's wife bowed deeply.
"We sold some," she said.
Not excitement.
Not triumph.
Just fact.
They gathered in the side hall. Gu Hao sat with them, not above them.
"Tell me everything," he said.
The former caravan clerk spoke first.
"They laughed," he said. "At first. Called it peasant food."
"And then?" Gu Hao asked.
"They tasted it."
The man swallowed.
"One market owner bought three sacks," he continued. "Not for resale. For his workers."
"How did he pay?" Gu Hao asked.
The clerk placed a small pouch on the table.
Spirit stones clinked softly.
Not many.
But real.
"He said," the clerk added, "that if it keeps his workers standing longer, he'll come back."
Gu Hao nodded slowly.
"And the others?"
The salt-boiler's wife spoke. "Some didn't buy. But they asked where it came from."
"That's good," Gu Hao said.
They looked at him, surprised.
"It means they're thinking," he explained.
The cultivators spoke next.
"No trouble," one said. "We kept our heads down."
"But we were warned," the other added. "If this grain spreads, some clans won't like it."
Gu Hao acknowledged this with a slight nod.
"They don't have to like it yet," he said.
That night, Gu Hao sat alone in his room.
He placed the small pouch of spirit stones on the table.
Not as a victory.
As a measure.
He closed his eyes, steadying his breath, and weighed a decision no one else could see or share. When he was ready, he paid the price in silence.
The future unfolded briefly in his mind.
Not salvation.
But confirmation.
When he opened his eyes, dawn was beginning to soften the edges of the world.
Gu Hao rose and returned the stones to the clan treasury.
"Double their rations for a week," he told the steward. "They earned it."
The four stared at him.
"We just did what you asked," the clerk said.
Gu Hao shook his head.
"You came back," he replied. "That matters."
Outside, the clan stirred awake.
In distant markets, a few workers ate better than usual and wondered why their bodies did not ache as much the next day.
Gu Hao opened the ledger and wrote a single line, careful and restrained:
Consistency builds trust. Trust builds return.
He closed the book.
Slowly, quietly, the Gu Clan was learning how to wait — and how to endure without shouting its strength.