A Song For The Ages

Feiyin stood quietly at the center of his room, the morning light filtering through the half-drawn curtain, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The pulse of his essence qi had long settled, cycling smoothly through his three dantians like steady tides. Now that his breakthrough had fully stabilized, it was time to return to the world and hide what he had achieved.

He closed his eyes, focused inward, and began to draw his oscillation sense around him like a tight net. He subtly dampened the fluctuations of power, letting his essence qi fade into the background of his physical body. Then, using the same sewing method he had perfected for years, directing hard threads of inner strength to lead softer currents, he simulated his previous level of power, precisely adjusting the amount of inner strength projected through his body.

His muscles relaxed. His aura flattened.

To any observer, he was no different from the day before.

Feiyin opened his eyes and nodded. That would do.

The sooner he learned to conceal his growth, the longer he could remain underestimated, and underestimated enemies lived longer.

He stepped out of his room, letting the fresh morning air meet him. The stone corridor was quiet, save for the distant hum of refining rooms in use. He walked over to Shen Mu's door and found a small slip of parchment pinned to the frame.

Cultivating.

A small smile tugged at Feiyin's lips. That was just like Shen Mu. Quiet resolve, burning without spectacle.

"Good," he murmured. "We'll need it."

Because the next phase of his journey, of their revenge, wasn't just about strength.

It was about people.

His mother's teachings echoed in his mind. Personal strength is the foundation. But if you want to control any group, be it a clan or a kingdom, you'll need more than your blade.

Alchemists were different. Respected. Revered.

Feiyin had already experienced it in the menial section. The subtle way disciples looked at the apprentice alchemists. The deference. The quiet envy.

Pills had the power to make someone break through a wall they'd been stuck at for years. Or cleanse the poison eating their organs. Or boost their progeny's potential.

That power bought loyalty. Fear. Protection.

And once his name carried enough weight, that power would build a web of connections.

That was how you built a faction.

Yan Xue was already a starting point. A second-class disciple with roots in the branch and some personal quirks, but not without influence. If he nurtured that bond, others might come with it.

Smile, establish rapport, link interests, develop trust.

His mother's words. She had taught him how to hold a conversation, how to read the flicker of someone's eyes, how to keep secrets close but offer just enough to form a bridge.

He would use it all.

But first, he needed resources. Pills to sell, points to accumulate and reputation to build.

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He headed for the Ingredient Exchange Hall.

The hall stood tall near the center of the outer section, shaped like a rounded spiral tower with wide open arches, its outer walls covered in climbing vines of silvery flame-leaf, a type of herb with minor warming properties. Inside, polished counters gleamed with labeled jars and wooden drawers filled with dried roots, powdered minerals, and sealed bottles of refined liquids. Behind the counters, a few attendants in pale robes handled the transactions, entering prices into glowing jade slips.

Feiyin approached the nearest one, showing his certification token. After a polite exchange, he selected several sets of tier 1 ingredients, primarily focused on recovery-type pills. Healing, internal recovery, and a few energy restoratives. Enough for a dozen batches.

He paid his due, 12 points in total, and left the hall with a small sealed box of ingredients and a lighter points balance.

After a quick meal in the Spilled Cauldron, he returned to his room, carefully storing the food he'd saved for Bai Yu in the corner where the snake liked to rest. Bai Yu, still resting from her recent shedding, gave a small flick of her tongue in acknowledgment.

Then Feiyin stepped into his pill refining chamber.

It was small, but it carried a weight of tradition. A round, enclosed space with noise-dampening stone built into the walls. An embedded ventilation funnel to direct smoke through the ceiling, and a reinforced, mid-grade cauldron sat at the center atop a fire pit fueled by controlled combustion stones. The smell of herbs lingered faintly in the air, and the side table held a clean set of weighing instruments, jade bowls, and a few empty vials.

He breathed in slowly.

Here, there was no distraction. No noise. Only creation.

Feiyin placed the cauldron lid aside and sat cross-legged in front of it. He carefully fed a piece of ignition paper into the burner below and watched as it sparked and settled into a warm, steady heat. He placed the first batch of ingredients beside him, Woundroot, Goldenmoss, and Nightshade Extract.

A basic healing formula.

He added the first herb into the cauldron, using his spiritual sense to track how it began to disintegrate. He infused a thread of spiritual sense through his hand, manipulating the temperature more precisely than ever before. Unlike before, when he had to rely solely on oscillation to gauge changes, now he could feel the reaction directly.

The Nightshade turned bitter faster than usual. He adjusted.

The Goldenmoss threatened to clump. He altered the flow, allowing the spiritual sense to stir it gently like a spoon in a pot.

His spiritual sense hovered over the process, guiding his timing like a conductor before an orchestra.

The cauldron's interior glowed faintly as the herbs reacted. Feiyin watched intently, using a blend of spiritual sense and oscillation to control the rhythm of the concoction, managing its shifts in texture and tone.

When the essence of the final herb bloomed into the liquid, he lowered the heat slightly, and extended his palm above the cauldron.

With a long breath, he channeled spiritual sense through his fingers in a rotating spiral, pulling the bubbling mass into shape.

The pill began to form.

One… then two… then three.

Round, smooth, with a faint herbal fragrance. Pale green and warm to the touch.

He lifted them into a cooled jade bowl and smiled.

Much easier than before.

Not only was his spiritual sense sharp, but the essence qi felt like a second set of hands. A craftsman's dream.

He moved on to the next batch.

Hour after hour passed. The rhythm was calming. Rejuvenating. The scent of herbs filled the room, trailing out through the chimney flue in faint plumes of color.

By dusk, he had a small stack of bowls arranged neatly on the shelf, each containing three perfectly formed pills, thirty-six in total, all refined to 100% purity. Given that a typical batch of tier-1 ingredients could yield between one to three pills, and that the monthly quota for a third-class di apprentice alchemist usually required around twenty batches, averaging two pills per batch, he had nearly completed an entire quota in a single day.

Most apprentice alchemists lacked the success rate, precision, or stamina to maintain such output, making Feiyin's feat stand out starkly. It was not just about the numbers, it was the ease, the fluidity, the quiet control with which he performed. And it was only the beginning.

The first step toward wealth. The first step toward reputation. The first step toward building the power and influence he would need.

To protect what mattered.

To destroy what must fall.

Feiyin let out a quiet breath and stood, rolling his shoulders. The room smelled like medicine and ash, but his heart felt clear.

Tomorrow, he would sell them.

And the real game would begin.