Immortality Starts With Face

The Jiang Compound was a statement of audacious wealth: a bold declaration, etched in stone and spirit wood, that occupied an entire city block within Yuhang City's prestigious Golden Mandate Quarter. Here, at the very political and economic heart of Azure Province, nestled between the imposing fortress-like structures of the Provincial Governor's administrative complex and the ancient, self-contained compound of the Azure Cloud Sect with its pagoda roofs and picturesque courtyards, the Jiang estate shared the rarefied air.

However, unlike its venerable neighbors – whose aged stone walls were worn smooth with the passage of dynasties – the Jiang estate was not a monument to ancient stability, but to recent, explosive, and almost violent prosperity. Its gleaming red and white walls, punctuated by watchtowers manned by experienced martial artists, and its grand pavilions with their heavy, swooping roofs of brand new, dark-glazed tile, were a testament to a meteoric rise.

While currently respected, and – perhaps – even feared, the Jiangs were still considered relative newcomers by the older families, having only cemented their position as one of the city's so-called "three pillars" some sixty years ago: -- a long time for mortals whose lives are but fleeting sparks, but a mere blink of an eye for the true powers of the cultivation world, for whom a century is but a season.

The imposing Main Manor, a sprawling edifice of interconnected halls and courtyards, was but one building within this vast complex. Tended by a small army of mortal servants, it was surrounded by meticulously raked gardens; deep ponds where slumbering, golden-scaled carp the size of small children drifted like living jewels; and ancient, gnarled Spirit Pines (transplanted from the nearby Whispering Peaks at great cost – all in the name of face).

The very air here seemed different: imbued with the scent of new construction; of damp, rich earth; and the almost perceptible aroma of freshly-minted coin.

For the past sixty years, the commerce of Yuhang City, the capital of the Azure Province, had rested upon a stable, three-legged stool of power, an ecosystem of mutual – if sometimes grudging – dependence.

The Jiang Clan was the foundation, having risen with astonishing speed to become the wealthiest of the "three pillars" through their quasi-monopoly on the production of raw spiritual materials. From their mines came the steady, reliable supply of low-grade spirit stones and spirit ores that fueled the city's lesser industries. From their spirit forestry activities came the expensive spirit woods necessary for construction and artifact refining activities. And from the agricultural activities by their contracted business partners and vassal families came the supplies of expensive herbs crucial to martial and – more recently – even low-level spiritual cultivation.

The Chen Clan, a family of artisans led by their shrewd and elegant Matriarch, were the transformers. They took the raw materials and refined them in their forges, herbalism and alchemy workshops, and talismanic scriptoriums – turning naked ores and herbs into the tools and pills that were the lifeblood of martial and spirit cultivation.

And the Zhao Clan, masters of the road, were the movers. Their land-based caravans and guards were the sinews of trade, the arteries that carried Yuhang's (admittedly meager) wealth to the richer provinces of the North and East… and brought back the goods the city craved in turn.

It was a balance that had held for decades.

Predictable.

Profitable.

Understood.

It was a game whose rules, though unwritten, were known to all the major players.

…

But now, a tremor had run through the very foundations of that understanding, a seismic shock that originated from the most unlikely of sources: the supposedly worthless backwater of Qingshan Town. Whispers of an Imperial contract, of a direct patronage from Eighth Princess Xueyue herself, had clung to the Jiang name like the scent of ozone after a lightning strike.

And the other great families, the other two legs of the stool of power, found the ground beneath them suddenly unsteady.

Their positions precarious.

Their understanding of the world thrown into chaos.

Now, in a private, sun-drenched reception hall in the heart of the Jiang Manor, two men sat opposite each other at a low table of polished, thousand-year-old ironwood. Said wood was a deep, lustrous black, its surface cool to the touch, its grain so dense it felt more like stone than timber.

The air in the room was still, fragrant with the steam rising from two exquisite porcelain cups of Silver Needle Peak tea, a gift from a vassal family that cost more per cup than a common mortal farmer earned in a year.

Sunlight, filtered through intricately latticed screens, painted shifting patterns of light and shadow on the hsi floor, illuminating motes of dust that danced like tiny, silent spirits in the golden shafts.

Patriarch Jiang Hongji sat with the solid, immovable presence of a mountain. He was a man in the full power of his prime, his face broad and impassive, his shoulders thick with the latent power of a Late Foundation Establishment cultivator. His robes were of a deep, conservative blue, the fabric heavy and unadorned, save for a simple silver clasp in the shape of the Jiang family crest at his collar.

He held his teacup with three fingers, his movements deliberate, economical, radiating an aura of absolute, unshakeable control within his own domain. Every line of his body, every controlled breath, proclaimed him the master of this house, a man who believed himself to be the master of his own destiny.

Across from him, Patriarch Zhao Tianba presented a study in restless, pragmatic contrast. He, too, was a Foundation Establishment expert, his cultivation honed to its very peak… yet it was a ceiling he had long ago accepted, with a deep and abiding bitterness, that he would never break. That quiet, internal failure had, over the years, channeled his immense energy and ambition away from the ethereal pursuit of the Dao and into the more tangible, more satisfying acquisition of wealth and power. He was built like a bull, his neck thick, his hands large and calloused despite his station, and his fine silk robes seemed to constantly struggle to contain his robust frame, as if the very fabric were straining against the force of his personality. His every gesture, from the way he set his cup down to the slight shift of his weight on the cushion, was filled with a restless, pragmatic energy, the energy of a man who saw the world as a series of transactions to be mastered.

"Patriarch Jiang," Zhao Tianba began, his voice a low, amiable rumble that seemed to fill the room, a sound calibrated for both respect and negotiation. He placed his teacup down with a soft, respectful click, a gesture of deference that cost him nothing.

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"My deepest congratulations. The success of your… Qingshan enterprises is the talk of all the merchant guilds in town! Truly astonishing."

He leaned forward slightly, his body entering Jiang Hongji's personal space by a calculated inch, his eyes, small and shrewd as a moneylender's, glinting with professional admiration.

"My informants, you understand, keep their ears to the ground. They hear the whispers before they become shouts. And regarding your family's Qingshan enterprises… they report unprecedented demand for your novelties!"

He leaned back once again, his tone contemplative.

"That… savory flatbread with the melted cheese and red sauce… the 'pizza,' I believe it was called? And the exotic spices that make even common fare taste like an imperial banquet! Patriarch, you have created an entirely new market overnight!"

Jiang Hongji's hand, the one holding his teacup poised halfway to his lips, froze for a fraction of a second. It was a micro-expression, a neurological lapse so fleeting that a mortal man would have missed it entirely, but in the heightened senses of this room, it was a silent thunderclap. His mind, which had been calmly contemplating the soaring prices of mundane steel ingots and the quarterly reports from his mines, was suddenly a blank, echoing void.

Pizza?

The word sounded alien.

It felt clumsy and foreign on the tongue, a nonsensical utterance from some barbarian land.

Cheese? A red sauce? What in the nine hells is this old fool talking about?

A sudden, cold dread, sharp and sickening, pierced the calm facade of his thoughts.

Is this some new kind of code? Some veiled threat disguised in the ramblings of a madman?

We sell ores.

We dig rocks out of the ground.

Has he completely lost his senses?

As Zhao Tianba continued – his voice now filled with a genuine, almost breathless enthusiasm about profit margins, about queues of eager customers that stretched for blocks in Qingshan, about the potential for expansion and partnerships – a cold serpent of realization began to creep up Jiang Hongji's spine.

This wasn't a code.

Zhao Tianba, a man whose entire life revolved around tangible goods and hard numbers – a man who would not waste a single breath on fantasy – believed this to be real.

Which meant… that somewhere in Qingshan, somehow, a massively successful—and apparently delicious—business venture was operating under the Jiang family name… and he, the patriarch, the master of the house, had absolutely no clue that it even existed.

The immediate, overwhelming fear was not about the business itself, not about the profits he had not seen.

It was about the face he stood to lose, a loss so catastrophic, so irreversible, that it was unthinkable.

If he were to so much as blink in confusion, Zhao Tianba would instantly see him not as a powerful patriarch, but as a clueless, impotent figurehead whose own failure of a son was running rogue operations under his very nose.

He would look weak.

Incompetent.

Not in control of his own house.

And, in the silent, predatory calculus of power that governed their world, such a moment of weakness was an invitation to be devoured.

His family's reputation in Yuhang City, decades in the making, would be irrevocably damaged in the space of a single, foolish statement.

He could not afford to show his ignorance.

He would not.

Jiang Hongji brought the teacup to his lips with an unshaking hand. The movement was a masterpiece of practiced, patriarchal grace, a fluid arc of motion that seemed to take an eternity. He could feel a single bead of cold sweat tracing a path down his spine, a stark contrast to the scalding liquid he was about to consume.

He took a long, slow, deliberate sip, the fragrant steam warming his face, the intense heat of the Silver Needle tea a welcome, grounding sensation that centered his roiling thoughts.

He held the exquisite porcelain for a moment, appearing to admire its translucence against the light, using the seconds to construct a fortress of absolute composure around his thundering heart.

Finally, he placed the cup back down with a soft, definitive click, his expression a mask of thoughtful, almost bored, paternal wisdom.

He gave a slow, knowing nod, a gesture that conveyed both perfect understanding and a hint of weary dismissal.

"Ah," he said, his voice a low, dismissive rumble that betrayed nothing of the hurricane of panic raging within him.

"The Qingshan project."

The name came to him from the void, a suitably vague and official-sounding placeholder that felt blessedly solid on his tongue.

"A small side venture, Patriarch Zhao. My son, Li, has been… amusing himself with it. We see some minor potential for growth, perhaps. A way to keep him occupied."

He masterfully reframed the situation to reassert his absolute control, to place himself at the top of this new, terrifying pyramid of information. His thoughts, however, told a different story.

Gods above, what am I saying? What project?

I'm trying to sound like a master strategist, but I sound like a bloody provincial bean-counter.

Outwardly calm and in control, Jiang Hongji continued:

"We are still in the preliminary testing phase, of course," he waved a magnanimous, dismissive hand, a gesture of a man brushing aside a triviality, "gauging the market's… appetite before considering a full-scale rollout. That is why your esteemed Zhao Clan has not yet been formally approached. It is still premature, you understand."

Zhao Tianba's shrewd eyes widened slightly.

It was not with a flicker of suspicion, but with a sudden, profound respect.

He saw not a man bluffing in a desperate panic, but a terrifyingly powerful strategist at work.

He interpreted Jiang Hongji's calm, dismissive attitude as a sign of incredible confidence.

By the ancestors, Zhao Tianba thought, his own heart giving a nervous flutter, the restless energy in his limbs momentarily stilled.

He speaks of it as if it is nothing. He considers a business that has an entire city buzzing a mere 'side venture'?

'Minor potential'?

What, then, are the real ventures?

The profits from the rumored Imperial contract must be vast indeed.

This realization did not deter Zhao Tianba. It only made him more determined to lash his family's fortunes to the rising, unstoppable star of the Jiang clan. After all, someone would have to move the Jiang family's mundane goods – and so, there was no reason why the Zhao clan couldn't get a piece of the pie.

…

The meeting concluded with Jiang Hongji magnanimously agreeing to "consider" the Zhao Clan's generous proposal to become the exclusive land-based distributor, once the "preliminary testing phase" in Qingshan was complete.

Zhao Tianba departed with a deep, respectful bows, more impressed and far more intimidated than when he had arrived.

The moment the heavy ironwood door clicked shut, sealing Jiang Hongji in the silent, sunlit room, his mask of calm composure – slowly, agonizingly – began to crumble from within.

He did not bellow.

He did not smash his cup.

He simply sat there, his ramrod-straight posture slumping ever so slightly, a subtle deflation of the immense will it had taken to maintain his performance.

He pressed the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes against the dancing motes of dust in the sunbeams.

A dull, throbbing ache began to pulse behind his temples, a headache of profound, world-altering confusion. It was not a physical pain, but a spiritual one – a dissonance that shook the very foundations of his reality.

What, in the name of all the Ancestors… is a Pizza?

His internal spiral was soon interrupted by a soft, respectful knock on the door.

"Enter," he commanded, his voice rough with a weariness that went far beyond the physical. He straightened his back, the mask of the Patriarch settling back over his features, though his eyes, when he opened them, remained shadowed and haunted.

A mortal servant entered, bowing low, his movements silent and practiced. "Patriarch," the servant said, his voice a respectful murmur. "A delegation from the Chen Clan has arrived. Matriarch Chen Ming-xia sends her regards. They say they have come to discuss a potential partnership for the fulfillment of the Imperial contract."

Jiang Hongji stared at the servant, the throbbing in his temples intensifying into a painful, rhythmic hammering.

The Chens.

Now them.

The local artisans, coming to offer their "expertise" for processing materials they weren't even qualified to look at, to a family whose true capabilities were now a mystery – even to its own elders.

But, once again, he couldn't exactly come out and say those things outright…

He took a slow, deep breath, forcing the subtle tremor from his hands.

"Show them in," he said, his voice a low, tired growl.

"And… bring more tea."