Chapter 4: I Bankrupted a Cultivation Clan by Sleeping

There comes a point in every transmigrator’s life where they have to stop and ask:

“Am I the hero of this story… or the financial crisis?”

For me, that moment came when I accidentally asked about the clan’s treasury.

I didn’t mean to. It just slipped out. Like a casual “how’s the weather?” except apparently the weather was shame, poverty, and medicinal debt.

It started at breakfast.

I was sitting with the clan’s department heads at a long stone table, pretending to enjoy boiled roots. Aunt Mei insisted they were “cleansing.”

If by cleansing she meant “tastes like regret,” then yes. Very cleansing.

Across from me sat Elder Zhang and several others, who kept sneaking side-glances at me like I might explode if questioned directly.

“Patriarch,” Elder Zhang said cautiously, “the cultivation grounds will be repaired soon. The… erosion was unfortunate.”

“Oh?” I asked, sipping bland soup. “Due to weather?”

A pause.

“…Your grandfather sneezed.”

Ah. Of course.

As the meeting dragged on—mostly ceremonial nonsense and subtle avoidance of real issues—I decided to try my luck.

“So,” I said, “how are our finances?”

They all froze.

Completely. Totally. Like someone had slapped pause on a drama mid-slap.

Even the wind seemed to stop blowing.

“…Pardon, Patriarch?” Elder Zhang asked, voice a little higher than before.

“Our financials,” I repeated slowly. “You know. Silver, gold, assets, trade income. That sort of thing.”

There was a noise. I couldn’t tell if it was someone choking on tea or trying to suppress a scream.

“…Do you mean the clan’s treasury?” one brave soul finally asked.

“Yes. How much do we have?”

Another long silence.

Then Elder Zhang coughed and pulled a scroll from his sleeve like a magician revealing a dead rabbit.

“This is… the latest accounting report, Patriarch.”

He handed it to me with the reverence usually reserved for cursed artifacts.

I unrolled it.

Then immediately wished I hadn’t.

Current Liquid Reserves: 43 silver, 7 copper.

Medicinal Expenses (Patriarch’s Recovery Fund): 19 years of accumulated debt to various alchemists, apothecaries, and rogue Pill Masters

Outstanding Payments: All of them.

I stared at the numbers, hoping they would rearrange themselves into something less suicidal.

They did not.

“Forty-three silver?” I said aloud.

Elder Zhang cleared his throat. “Yes, Patriarch. A… considerable sum, all things considered.”

“Considered what? A lemonade stand?”

Nobody laughed.

Possibly because they thought I was serious.

Apparently, the Shen Clan—once an allegedly fearsome sect of mountain warriors—was now operating on the spiritual equivalent of pocket lint.

Why?

Because of me.

Because I’d spent ten years in a coma and no one dared say, “Maybe we shouldn’t sell our entire inventory of spirit ores to buy three more pills that don’t work.”

Why?

Because Grandpa.

“Patriarch,” Elder Zhang said delicately, “your condition required the finest, rarest medicines. Sacred herbs. Forbidden concoctions. The Bone-Breaking Reversal Powder alone cost—”

“Wait. Bone-Breaking? Why would I need that?!”

He hesitated. “The apothecary insisted it would stimulate cellular memory.”

I slapped my own forehead.

No wonder I woke up with migraines. I probably had six livers by now.

“And no one,” I said slowly, “thought to… stop this? Pause? Suggest we try something less financially apocalyptic?”

Another elder spoke up, older and shakier. “Your grandfather was very insistent. He once broke a merchant’s cart because they tried to haggle.”

Of course he did.

“Did anyone try to say no?”

The silence was deafening.

Aunt Mei, sitting at the far end of the table, gently refilled my tea.

“Your grandfather,” she said sweetly, “once punched an invoice.”

So now the picture was clear:

• Shen Clan was secluded, yes.
  
  
• Powerful? Not exactly.
  
  
• Respected? Only in the way one respects a loaded cannon.
  
  
• Wealthy? No.
  
  
• Ranking among the top clans of the continent? Not even in the top fifty.
  
  

We were a mid-tier hermit clan with more medicinal debt than battle strength.

All because the last ten years had been one long, desperate attempt to keep a sleeping teenage time-bomb alive, just in case Shen Wuji came back and asked:

“How’s my grandson?”

And no one wanted to answer with:

“Well, he died. But we saved a lot on ginseng!”

That afternoon, I took a long walk up the stone steps behind the main hall, thinking about all the books I’d read.

Stories about transmigrators building powerful sects, restoring ancient bloodlines, creating spiritual banks.

I, on the other hand, had inherited a broke mountain cult powered by fear, rice crackers, and trauma.

And worst of all?

I bankrupted them by doing absolutely nothing.

I stared out over the misty range as the sun dipped below the peaks.

“Maybe I’m the villain,” I muttered.

The clouds didn’t argue.

[End of Chapter 4]