Lin Tian reached into his storage ring and produced a lacquered wooden case, its surface scorched and reforged so many times that the grain had fused into something closer to stone than wood.

  When he opened it, heat spilled into the cave.

  Inside lay six herbs, arranged with care despite their battered appearance. Each radiated Qi—some sharp, some heavy, some strangely restrained, as if caged by force.

  The Spirit stirred immediately.

  “…Interesting,” it murmured. “Very interesting.”

  Mingzhi leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “You recognize them?”

  “Yes,” the Spirit replied. “And more importantly, I recognize why he nearly died gathering them.”

  “These herbs… are pretty rare“ said Mingzhi.

  Lin Tian smiled faintly. “Then you know they weren’t easy to obtain.”

  The Spirit began its analysis, voice slipping into its old, instructive cadence.

  “The first is Blazing Heart Grass—approximately one hundred and twenty years old. Fire-aligned, violent in nature. Used improperly, it will incinerate meridians.”

  Mingzhi nodded. “That’s the backbone of the pill?”

  “Yes. The second is Ash Vein Root, around ninety years. Earth–Fire dual attribute. Stabilizes combustion, prevents runaway reactions.”

  The Spirit paused at the third herb.

  “…Hm. Frostbound Reed. One hundred fifty years at least. Rare. Cold-aspected. This is what balances the Blood Rot Poison’s corrosive advance.”

  Mingzhi repeated what the Spirit said.

  Lin Tian’s brows rose slightly. “You identified them faster than most alchemists.”

  “That’s because,” the Spirit said dryly, “most alchemists would already be dead.”

  The remaining three followed: Scorchleaf Petal, Emberfruit Core, and a brittle spiral of Charred Spirit Vine, each between eighty and one hundred years old—potent, but not quite enough on their own to counter a Blood Yin Sect elder’s poison.

  Mingzhi exhaled slowly. “Tier Two herbs… but barely.”

  Lin Tian nodded. “I gathered them before my condition worsened. At the time, I hoped to refine the pill myself.”

  The Spirit cut in. “At full potency, this combination would overwhelm his current state. Even refined perfectly, the backlash could finish what the poison started.”

  Mingzhi looked at the herbs again. “We need to reduce their potency.”

  Lin Tian’s eyes sharpened. “You mean—”

  “Cut them,” Mingzhi said simply. “In half.”

  Silence followed.

  Lin Tian frowned. “That would reduce potency, yes—but also destabilize the formula.”

  “Not if we rebalance the ratios,” Mingzhi replied. “We don’t need the pill to cure you. We just need it to force the poison into retreat long enough for you to break through.”

  The Spirit hummed thoughtfully. “…Crude. Inelegant.”

  Mingzhi smiled faintly. “But possible.”

  “…Yes,” the Spirit admitted. “It is.”

  Lin Tian stared at Mingzhi for a long moment, then laughed quietly. “You really don’t think like an alchemist.”

  “I’m only one when I can afford it, but now,” Mingzhi said. “I just need results.”

  They began carefully.

  Each herb was halved with surgical precision, Mingzhi using a thin blade of condensed Earth Qi to avoid triggering premature reactions. The cut surfaces were immediately sealed with controlled Qi to prevent leakage.

  The Spirit supervised every step.

  “Good. That portion is still viable.”

  “Careful—Blazing Heart Grass bleeds Qi when exposed too long.”

  “Enough. This balance will hold.”

  “I need to plan the process now.” said Mingzhi.

  When the herbs were prepared, he closed his eyes.

  The world shifted.

  The Eye Space unfolded.

  He simulated the refinement once.

  Failure.

  Again.

  Failure.

  The third time, the Fire Qi surged too fast. Explosion.

  The seventh—imbalance. Poison simulated backlash.

  The fifteenth—pill cracked during condensation.

  By the thirtieth, Mingzhi’s breathing had grown shallow, sweat soaking his robes despite the illusionary environment.

  Finally—on the forty-sixth attempt—the process stabilized.

  The pill formed.

  Not perfectly.

  But intact.

  Mingzhi opened his eyes back in the cave, exhaustion crashing down on him all at once.

  “…Forty-six,” he muttered.

  The Spirit didn’t mock him this time. “Rest. A few hours. Your mind won’t hold steady otherwise.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Lin Tian watched in silence as Mingzhi leaned back against the stone and closed his eyes, Rou still guarding the cave entrance.

  When Mingzhi rose again, his expression was calm—but sharpened.

  They began.

  The cauldron heated gradually, Fire Qi guided through Earth layer to prevent flare. Herbs were added not by sequence, but by response, Mingzhi adjusting timing based on how the Qi reacted rather than following fixed doctrine.

  The Spirit murmured constant corrections.

  “Slower.”

  “Now.”

  “Seal it.”

  At the critical moment, Mingzhi produced a vial.

  Clear.

  Luminous.

  A drop of Life Liquid slid into the cauldron.

  The reaction changed instantly.

  The violent Fire Qi softened. The pill matrix stopped resisting condensation and instead… accepted it.

  Lin Tian’s eyes widened slightly.

  “…That liquid,” he said quietly. “What did you add?”

  “A little extra,” Mingzhi replied without looking up. “To help with recovery.”

  Two pills formed.

  Not blazing.

  Not cold.

  They radiated a deep, restrained warmth—like coals buried under ash.

  Lin Tian took one without hesitation.

  He swallowed.

  An hour passed.

  The cave remained silent.

  Then Lin Tian’s eyes opened.

  He exhaled slowly, steady.

  “This should hold,” he said at last. “One month. Perhaps a little more.”

  Mingzhi relaxed fractionally.

  “And the liquid?” Lin Tian continued. “It was… remarkably effective.”

  “It will help restore your foundation,” Mingzhi said. “With steady cultivation, you should be near your peak again in one to two weeks.”

  Lin Tian nodded. “Then I have roughly a month and a half. The second pill will be my chance to break through.”

  He paused.

  “…But I can’t do it here. There’s a Tier Two beast nearby, it would be bad if it bothered me,” Lin Tian said.

  Mingzhi stiffened. “Uhm, There was… but it’s dead,” Mingzhi replied.

  Lin Tian stared.

  “…What?”

  “The tremors you must’ve felt earlier,” Mingzhi added. “That was it.”

  Lin Tian shook his head. “Don’t tell me you killed it. I won’t believe it.”

  Mingzhi scratched his cheek. “I didn’t.”

  “…Your master?” Lin Tian asked slowly.

  Mingzhi paused.

  Ah. That’s convenient.

  “No,” he said after a beat. “it wasn’t him or me.”

  Lin Tian thought, satisfied. “That explains a lot.”

  Inside, the Spirit snorted. “So that’s why he didn’t silence you earlier.”

  Mingzhi coughed. “Anyway—it wasn’t just one beast. There were two.”

  Lin Tian frowned.

  “I just helped them kill each other,” Mingzhi finished.

  Lin Tian laughed incredulously. “…You’re insane. It’s blind luck you survived.”

  “Yes,” Mingzhi agreed easily. “Pure luck.”

  The Spirit went quiet.

  Lin Tian sobered. “Even so, their deaths will draw attention. Cultivators. Scavengers. Perhaps worse.”

  “I know,” Mingzhi said. “Which is why relocating is still the wisest.”

  “But before that,” he continued, “we should talk about the sect.”

  Lin Tian’s gaze sharpened. “Go on.”

  “We should be able to hold the spies back for two months,” Mingzhi said. “But after you break through, I’d advise against returning immediately.”

  Lin Tian frowned. “Why?”

  “If you had solid evidence,” Mingzhi said calmly, “you’d have already killed the spies.”

  Lin Tian went still.

  Then his lips curled slowly upward.

  “…I see.”

  “Let them grow careless,” Lin Tian murmured. “Lure them into the open.”

  “And then,” Mingzhi finished, “cut the grass—remove the roots.”

  Lin Tian met his gaze.

  For the first time, there was no trace of dismissal in his eyes.

  Only recognition.

  The cave was quiet again.

  Not the fragile stillness from before—when death lingered in every breath—but a steadier calm, anchored by control rather than desperation. Lin Tian sat upright now, his back straight against the stone wall, Fire Qi circulating in slow, disciplined cycles. The poison remained, dormant but present, like a coiled serpent forced into sleep.

  He opened his eyes and looked at Mingzhi.

  “Do you already have a plan?” Lin Tian asked.

  Mingzhi nodded. “More or less.”

  Lin Tian gestured for him to continue.

  “After about two months,” Mingzhi said, choosing his words carefully, “Qingyu will convene an elder council. She’ll announce that new clues regarding your whereabouts have been discovered.”

  Lin Tian’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Clues?”

  “I’ll need proof,” Mingzhi said. “Something convincing. A torn piece of your robe would suffice. Enough to suggest you survived—but not enough to confirm your condition.”

  Lin Tian immediately understood where this was going.

  “Elder Zhang will volunteer,” he said flatly.

  “Yes,” Mingzhi replied. “He won’t be able to resist.”

  Lin Tian exhaled through his nose. “There are only two possibilities, from his perspective. One—he finds me still wounded and finishes the job himself. Two—he senses that I’ve advanced and leaves before I can return to the sect.”

  “And we’ll make sure it’s the second,” Mingzhi said.

  Lin Tian leaned back slightly, thoughtful. “You want him to run.”

  “Exactly,” Mingzhi said. “You won’t confront him directly. When he approaches, you’ll only release a subtle aura. Just enough to suggest that you’ve just broken through.”

  Lin Tian’s lips curled faintly. “The worst possible timing.”

  “He’ll panic,” Mingzhi continued. “If he stays, he risks death. If he delays, he risks being sealed in the sect. His only option will be to return immediately and gather his people.”

  “And flee,” Lin Tian finished.

  “Yes,” Mingzhi said. “Every spy, every collaborator—he’ll pull them out in one move. They won’t dare linger.”

  Lin Tian’s gaze sharpened. “And I intercept them.”

  “In one sweep,” Mingzhi confirmed.

  Silence stretched.

  Then Lin Tian laughed quietly.

  “It should work,” he said. “Simple. Brutal. Clean.”

  “There will be losses,” Mingzhi said calmly. “Some may escape. But the spine of the problem will be exposed.”

  Lin Tian nodded slowly. “After I break through, I’ll seek you out and hand over the evidence personally. That will be the signal for Qingyu to move.”

  He paused, then added more softly, “I just hope I can advance successfully.”

  “Maybe I can help a little with that.”Mingzhi turned inward. “Spirit.”

  “Yes,” the Spirit replied, already attentive.

  “Can you help him?” Mingzhi asked. “Even a little.”

  The Spirit sounded almost amused. “Of course. This level is nothing.”

  Lin Tian frowned. “Help me… how?”

  Mingzhi hesitated for half a breath, then spoke plainly. “Uncle, I can guide you through the breakthrough.”

  Lin Tian stared at him.

  “You?” he asked incredulously. “You’re not even at the Heart Seed realm.”

  “I know,” Mingzhi said evenly. “But I understand the process. And more importantly—I understand where yours went wrong.”

  That caught Lin Tian’s attention.

  “…Explain.”

  Mingzhi sat down across from him, posture straightening as his tone shifted—no longer tentative, no longer deferential.

  “Pearl Condensing Realm,” Mingzhi said, “is not simply compressing liquid Qi into solid cores. That’s the mistake most cultivators make.”

  Lin Tian’s brows furrowed.

  “You’ve been condensing too aggressively,” Mingzhi continued. “Your Fire Qi is dominant, but your meridians were tempered unevenly. That’s why the Blood Rot Poison had such an effect—it exploited the imbalance.”

  Lin Tian inhaled sharply.

  “When condensing,” Mingzhi went on, “the Qi shouldn’t collapse inward all at once. It must circulate in layered cycles—compression, release, stabilization. Think of it not as forging steel, but annealing it.”

  The Spirit explained slowly as Mingzhi spoke—precise, unhesitating, correcting small but critical errors Lin Tian had internalized decades ago.

  “Your biggest problem,” Mingzhi said, “is that you treat resistance as something to overpower. At the breakthrough stage, resistance is feedback. Ignore it, and the foundation cracks.”

  Time passed.

  An hour slipped by unnoticed.

  Lin Tian asked questions—sharp ones. Mingzhi answered each, sometimes pausing only to consult the Spirit for confirmation. Together, they mapped out Lin Tian’s cultivation like engineers examining a flawed structure.

  By the end, Lin Tian sat utterly still.

  Then he laughed—long and unrestrained.

  “…Incredible,” he said. “I have taught disciples for half my life. Yet no one has ever explained it this way.”

  He looked at Mingzhi with open amazement.

  “This alone increases my chances of breaking through.”

  Mingzhi shook his head. “It only corrects the path. You still have to walk it.”

  Lin Tian’s expression turned solemn. “That’s enough.”

  He rose to his feet slowly. His movements were steadier now, controlled.

  “I will prepare,” he said. “If all goes well… I will see you again in two months.”

  Mingzhi nodded. “I’ll remain here a few days to recuperate before returning to the sect. I’ll be waiting for your good news. And one last question before the bloodbath. Is the war surely inevitable?”

  “Our story goes a long way back… ” he said. “blood feud and greed.”

  Mingzhi nodded, crossing out the possibility in his head.

  Lin Tian turned toward the cave entrance, then paused.

  “Mingzhi,” he said without looking back. “Whatever happens next… you have already done more for the Azure Cloud Sect than most who wear its name.”

  Mingzhi didn’t respond.

  He didn’t need to.

  Lin Tian stepped into the forest and vanished, his presence carefully concealed.

  The cave fell silent once more.

  The Spirit finally spoke.

  “You are interfering with fate far beyond your cultivation.”

  Mingzhi exhaled slowly. “I know.”

  “And you are comfortable with that?”

  “If we don’t act,” he said quietly, “then everything stays rotten. Sometimes… you have to break the pattern.”

  The Spirit said nothing.

  But deep within, it adjusted its calculations again.

  This was no longer a cultivator reacting to danger.

  This was someone setting traps for the future—and walking into them willingly.