The path to the Saint Alchemy Branch curled through a narrow canyon, it's walls layered with ancient sedimentation, natural striations tinted by ages of wind and rain—like history itself had imprinted its lessons into stone. Feiyin and Shen Mu walked side by side, the scent of scorched metal and herbal smoke thick in the air. The mountain groaned faintly beneath their feet, not with threat—but with heat.

  They passed under a wide stone arch at the canyon's mouth, where two towering braziers burned with blue-green fire. Beyond that, the ground shifted—no longer natural, but paved in hexagonal tiles of blackened bronze, each step ringing faintly with a hollow echo.

  Unlike the crowded chaos of the menial section, the testing grounds here were composed of several small buildings, each designed for focused, solitary work. As Feiyin and Shen Mu approached the entrance to the compound, a tall woman stepped out from one of the buildings.

  She wore the robe of a second-class outer disciple, marked by two fine threads of silver running down each sleeve. Her features were sharp and angular, hair tied into a high bun streaked with soot, and her eyes gleamed with the calm fire of someone who had long since mastered the basics. The emblem of the Saint Alchemy Branch rested on her chest—both a cauldron and a flame, stitched in silver thread.

  "You two," she said, arms crossed as she looked them over. "Names, and which test you’ve come to take."

  "Feiyin," he replied, voice calm. "Both pill and artifact."

  "Shen Mu," the other said. "Pill alchemy."

  The woman gave a curt nod, taking a longer look at Bai Yu, who was still sleeping around Feiyin's shoulders, before turning around. "I’m Yan Xue. I’ll be your overseer. Follow me."

  As they trailed behind her deeper into the compound, Feiyin noticed colorful smoke trails rising from slitted chimneys—pale green, lavender, crimson, even silver—all signs of others refining their products in silence, hidden behind thick stone walls. The air smelled of mixed herbs, ash, and faint mineral heat.

  Yan Xue led them to a squat building near the edge of the slope. The stone door was thick and warded, muffling the occasional hissing of heated cauldrons from within. She pushed it open, revealing a clean chamber with two modest cauldrons spaced apart—crafted from reinforced iron alloy, each with etched stabilizing grooves around their bases and a tri-ring locking lid that helped regulate internal pressure. Their surfaces were worn smooth from repeated use, slightly stained from years of alchemical flame, and each stood atop a carved stone pedestal to reduce vibration during refinement.

  "Here," she said simply. "This room’s shielded for stability. You’ll each work in isolation, but I’ll observe from the glass slit above."

  She gestured up to a narrow viewing panel embedded in the wall. "Remember: this is tier-one alchemy. Only your control, timing, and inner strength will determine the outcome."

  She glanced toward Shen Mu. "You first."

  Shen Mu nodded and walked to the left cauldron, pulling a satchel of personally selected herbs from his robe. Yan Xue said, arms folded. "You will receive a single attempt. Your success rate, stability, and control will determine your eligibility."

  She looked at Feiyin. "If you're also testing artifact forging, you'll proceed to the forge after."

  Feiyin gave a nod. He wasn’t trying to seem extraordinary—just competent enough to be marked as a worthy investment.

  Shen Mu stepped forward first, selecting his ingredients with deft precision. His eyes narrowed as he measured powdered Nightshade, Bitterroot extract, and a drop of Violet Widow sap. Yan Xue’s gaze flicked toward the table.

  "Poison?"

  "Of course," Shen Mu replied mildly. "And a painful one"

  Feiyin smiled faintly as Shen Mu’s cauldron ignited. He poured in the ingredients in calculated layers, channeling a steady stream of inner strength beneath the basin. The mixture thickened and bubbled, turning a deep violet as Shen Mu carefully guided the reaction. Without access to essence, he used only his inner strength—steady, precise pulses directed beneath the cauldron—to regulate the temperature and maintain balance between volatile compounds. The violet hue was not from any spiritual glow, but a true chemical reaction, sharpened by delicate control and subtle timing.

  Yan Xue observed silently. Shen Mu’s posture never wavered, even as the cauldron hissed and bucked beneath him. At the final moment, he snapped the lid closed and tapped the side—three times, sharp and even.

  The reaction sealed.

  Moments later, a single pale violet pill rolled from the spout, shimmering with potency.

  Yan Xue picked it up, examined it. "Ninety-five percent purity. Very stable. A good pill. You pass."

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Shen Mu exhaled softly, stepping back.

  Now it was Feiyin’s turn. After gently handing Bai Yu to Shen Mu, Feiyin went to the adjacent wall, where shelves stocked with regular ingredients were available for the test takers.

  He selected his ingredients from a nearby shelf with practiced ease. Not too fast—but confident. For the pill, he chose a basic Vitality Recovery formula, something any alchemist could attempt, but few could perfect on the first try. His hands moved smoothly, placing in Red Lotus Root, Wild Ginseng, and Silver Sprig leaf.

  The flame beneath his cauldron sparked to life at a mere flick of his fingers. He used a slightly slower technique—less flashy, but more methodical.

  As the herbs liquefied, he kept a steady grip on the sides of the cauldron, controlling the temperature by channeling careful bursts of inner strength at its base. He guided the bubbling mixture into a smooth, clockwise swirl, then reversed it, stabilizing the volatile components. His control came from a measured rhythm—pulse, rest, pulse again—until the viscosity and hue aligned with the ideal balance. At the final stage, he increased the inner pressure just enough to seal the medicinal qualities into shape, holding the cauldron steady until the mixture compressed and began to solidify.

  A clear pop signaled the pill's emergence.

  Yan Xue picked it up, sniffed, and frowned slightly. "Ninety-nine percent purity. Perfect formation. Not bad."

  Feiyin only bowed slightly.

  Yan Xue stepped toward Shen Mu, pulling a neatly folded robe from a wooden shelf beside the wall. She handed it to him—a crisp white robe with three thin silver streaks embroidered along the sleeves, signifying third-class outer disciple status. A cauldron emblem marked the chest in silver thread.

  "Welcome to your new cage," she said dryly. "You’re a pill specialist of the Saint Alchemy Branch now—like it or not."

  Shen Mu accepted it with both hands, his expression calm, though his gaze darkened slightly at her words. Even so, he slipped the robe over his shoulders without protest.

  Feiyin raised a brow, glancing between her and Shen Mu. "That’s an odd way to welcome someone."

  Yan Xue snorted. "Honest, not odd. You’re outer disciples now. Yes, you have privileges—access to resources, techniques, and a better bed. But don’t let that fool you. If you don’t step into the inner sect within fifteen years, the sect reclaims its investment. You’ll be 'repurposed' as nourishment—body and soul."

  Shen Mu stiffened slightly. "Nourishment?"

  "Fodder," she said bluntly. "There are cultivators who specialize in drawing strength from others—failed disciples become their fuel."

  Feiyin’s jaw tightened, then he smiled. "So we’re racing a new clock."

  "We all are," she replied with a shrug. "You’ll find most outer disciples here tend toward extremes. Some grow depressed, others numb. Some become sadists, and others throw themselves into danger for the thrill. The pressure doesn’t always make people stronger. Oftentimes, it reveals who they truly are."

  She looked at them both. "I wonder which one you’ll end up being."

  Neither of them answered.

  Yan Xue turned, her boots crunching against the bronze-tiled ground. "Follow me."

  She led them across the compound to the artifact forge. Here, the heat was heavier, but more focused. The ringing of hammers echoed faintly from deeper workshops.

  "Refine an item of your choice," she said. "Same rules. One attempt."

  Feiyin nodded, stepping toward the nearest station.

  He chose a small blade—dagger-length, practical. His materials were simple: iron sand, a shred of Windsteel, and a shard of Black Obsidian. Yet as he laid them out, his gaze lingered for a breath too long on the obsidian shard. It shimmered faintly under the forge's heat, and in that reflection, he imagined Hui’s smile, the warmth of her laughter while seasoning a dish by the fire.

  The forge roared to life not through power, but through perseverance—a mirror to the ache in his chest.

  He let the iron sand melt first, then slowly introduced the Windsteel—binding it through continuous stirring, pacing each rotation by heartbeats that felt heavier than they should. He added the obsidian last, letting it soak until the metal began to darken at the edges.

  As he worked, grief curled like smoke in his chest, each strike of the hammer a muted scream. He hammered once—for her voice. Twice—for the promise left unfulfilled. A third time—for the future that could have been.

  The shape began to form, lean and curved, but the blade carried an edge of malice that hadn’t been intended. The obsidian had warped slightly, not from impurity, but from the sorrow imprinted through the inner strength he used. What emerged was no longer a clean, practical dagger—it was a pain-wrought thing, with sharper ridges and a darker sheen.

  He quenched it without ceremony. The final hiss rose like a whisper through tears—raw, fleeting, and full of the ache left behind.

  Feiyin stood motionless for a breath, the cooling air wrapping around him as if recognizing the finality of the blade’s creation. He stepped forward and handed the weapon to Yan Xue, silent and composed, though the slight tremble in his fingers betrayed the storm beneath.

  She took the blade, her brow furrowing slightly as she tested its weight and balance. The edge shimmered faintly under the light, reflecting not only craftsmanship—but grief.

  "Fast formation," she murmured, eyes narrowed. "Harmonized materials. The obsidian—sharper than it should be. That's a painful edge for sure."

  She looked up at him, expression unreadable. "Not many can do both to this level. That blade’s going to haunt someone."

  She handed him a robe.

  The white of the outer sect. Trimmed in silver along the seams. A single emblem was stitched over his chest—both a cauldron and a flame, intertwined in silver thread, marking him as one of the rare dual-discipline alchemists.

  Feiyin accepted it with quiet resolve.

  Shen Mu stepped beside him, already robed, Bai Yu still sleeping in his arms. They exchanged a glance—wordless, but understood.

  Yan Xue gave a brief smile. "Welcome to the Saint Alchemy Branch, outer disciples. Your work begins now."

  Feiyin felt the weight of the robe settle on his shoulders—and with it, the memory of Hui’s grave.

  He would wear it.

  And one day, he would ensure that same fire would scorch the heart of the sect, burning away its filth and corruption until nothing remained but ash and her memory—untouched, eternal.