A roar echoed through the mountain canyon, rolling between walls stained deep rust-red by the setting sun and the iron-rich stone. Broken weapons lay scattered across the ground in half-buried drifts. Swords snapped at the hilt. Spearheads rusted into flakes. Old armor plates jutted from the dust, discarded and forgotten, the only reminders of men who had died too far from home and too long ago.
Tom added one more body to the pile as he brought his maul down with both hands.
The massive weapon slammed into the horse-sized armadillo across the top of its copper-colored shell with a thunderous crack. The beast’s beaten-copper carapace dented inward, and the force of the blow rippled through its squat body. Its claws gouged deep furrows into the canyon floor as it released a shrill, pained cry.
Then its legs buckled.
The creature collapsed, dust puffing around its bulk as it struck the ground. It twitched once, gave a final rattling breath, and went still.
Tom stood over it, chest heaving. His wooden armor hung from his frame in splintered layers, several plates cracked clean through. Blood ran from a shallow cut along his temple, matting the hair against the side of his face. His hands ached around the haft of his maul, and every breath scraped hot and raw through his lungs.
He ripped the weapon free and spun, muscles screaming as he turned toward the next threat.
His eyes swept the canyon, wild and searching, ready for another charge. Ready for another copper shell to burst from the dust.
But nothing came.
Tom blinked.
The canyon floor was littered with bodies. Dozens of copper-backed beasts lay sprawled among the broken weapons and rusted armor, their thick shells cracked, scorched, pierced, or split open by axe, spell, and spear. Dust drifted through the gaps between them, carrying the sharp stink of blood and iron. The dark red soil of the Blood River Valley drank its fill and deepened in color once more.
Standing among the carnage was his party, each of them glancing wildly around just as he was.
Mara leaned on her spear with both hands, her braid half-undone and one sleeve torn to ribbons. Old Shen sat on a fallen beast’s shell, muttering curses as he pried his boot free from a muddy patch of blood and dust. Kett had dropped to one knee, shield planted before him, head bowed as he fought to catch his breath. Even Junjie, who always looked like he had energy to spare, had one hand braced against his sword hilt and sweat running down his jaw.
One by one, their eyes met.
For several long breaths, no one spoke.
Then Tom lifted his maul over his head and roared.
The others answered with cries of their own, the sounds blending together into a wordless declaration of victory.
When the echoes faded, Tom dropped backward onto the canyon floor with a heavy thud, arms spread wide, maul clattering beside him. He stared up at the thin strip of sky between the red cliffs and let his breath drag in and out of his lungs.
Around him, the others began the slow work of harvesting the corpses. Swordeater Armadillos were nasty things, and what should have been a herd of only a dozen had turned out to be nearly four times that number, with the oldest and strongest among them reaching mid-Golden Spirit strength.
But their shells sold well. So did their claws, cores, and meat. The glands in their teeth, which secreted an oil capable of dissolving even high-tier metal, were the most valuable component, and also what made the beasts so dangerous.
Tom wanted to help, but as their dedicated bruiser, it had been his job to keep most of the beasts focused on him.
And now he was paying for it.
After a while, he raised one hand and summoned a small vial from his storage ring. Murky brown liquid sloshed inside, thick and unpleasant, the color of dried blood.
He grimaced.
“I hate these things,” he muttered. “Taste like bile and blood.”
Worse, with his level of body cultivation, nearly a step into Shackle Breaking, [Lesser Heal Potions] barely helped anymore. He would need to drink several before recovering enough to help with the harvest. That would cut into their profit, but it was worth it if it got them out of this place sooner rather than later.
The Blood River Valley had a bad reputation.
He lifted his head enough to bite at the cork plugging the vial, when a voice spoke above him.
“Don’t bother.”
Tom looked up.
Junjie walked toward him, brushing dust from one sleeve with a grin far too bright for a man who had nearly been flattened twice.
“You did well today, Tom,” Junjie said. “Take this.”
He flicked his fingers.
A bright red pill appeared between them, its glossy surface catching the canyon light like a drop of fresh lacquer. Junjie tossed it over.
Tom’s eyes went wide. He dropped the potion into the dirt and barely managed to push himself upright, catching the pill before it hit the ground.
The thing gleamed faintly in his palm.
Tom’s jaw fell open.
“In fact,” Junjie said, looking around at the others, “everyone did.”
He waved his hand again. More red pills appeared, drifting toward the stunned party members one by one.
Tom stared at the pill in his palm, then at Junjie.
“Junjie,” he managed, voice cracking slightly, “are you insane? This is a [Flesh-Mending Pill]. Bronze Grade, at least. Even if we sell every beast here, it would barely cover the cost!”
Junjie’s grin only widened.
“Oh, don’t worry about that, old friend.” He folded his arms, looking far too pleased with himself. “Let me tell you what I found…”
——————————————————
“Young Master! Young Master!”
Igor stumbled into the cultivation chamber with none of the grace, silence, or caution expected of anyone permitted within the inner residence.
The chamber was circular and windowless, lit only by the pale glow of formation lines sunk into the floor. Those lines spiraled inward toward the center, where a young man sat in lotus position atop a low jade platform.
Spiritual energy churned around him in slow, controlled currents. It gathered at his shoulders, flowed down his arms, and sank back into his dantian in measured cycles. The air smelled faintly of cold incense and ozone.
Igor made it three frantic steps past the threshold before the young man opened one eye.
The glare stopped him dead.
His legs gave out beneath him, and he skidded across the floor, dropping into a full kowtow as his forehead struck the stone with a dull crack.
“Forgive me, Young Master!”
For several long breaths, the only sound in the chamber was the fading whisper of spiritual energy. Then the young master exhaled through his nose, and the pressure around him eased.
The formation lines dimmed one by one as the gathered energy dispersed into the chamber walls. Only when the last curl of power faded did he lower his hands from their meditative seal.
“What is it, Igor?” he asked.
His voice was calm, but the irritation beneath it made Igor press his forehead harder against the floor.
“I was nearing another breakthrough. This had better be worth my time.”
Igor swallowed, then forced the words out before his courage failed him.
“I found it, sir. I found what you’ve been looking for.”
The last trace of annoyance vanished from the young master’s face.
He straightened from his lotus posture, both eyes opening now, sharp and focused.
“Truly?”
“Yes, Young Master.” Igor lifted his head only enough to move his hands. “This servant would not dare disturb you otherwise.”
Keeping his eyes lowered, Igor reached into his sleeve with trembling fingers and drew out a small, ornate box. Dark lacquer covered its surface, inlaid with thin lines of gold that formed a protective array across the lid. He placed it on the floor before him and pushed it forward with both hands.
The box slid across the stone until it reached the edge of the jade platform.
The young master regarded it for a moment before picking it up.
The array on the lid flashed once beneath his thumb.
He broke the seal with a thin thread of spirit energy and opened the box.
Inside, resting on a cushion of deep red velvet, lay a single pill.
It was nearly transparent, clear as polished crystal, but at its center glowed a small golden core, like a drop of sunlight trapped beneath glass.
The young master’s brows lifted slightly.
“Oh?” he murmured. “What’s this, now?”
He brushed the pill with one finger, sending a pulse of spirit energy into its surface. The golden core brightened at once, pulsing in time with his dantian before settling back into a soft, steady glow.
Igor’s voice carried a note of pride he couldn’t quite suppress.
“That is a [Heart Cleansing Pill], Young Master. A Golden Grade one, at that.”
The young master stilled, his gaze shifting from the pill to Igor.
“Are you certain?”
Igor bowed his head again, but his voice held firm.
“I may be a cripple with no talent for alchemy,” he said, “but as Young Master knows, my family’s secret art allows me to pierce the truth of pills better than even some masters.”
The young master nodded faintly.
The old art of Igor’s ruined family had not died with their status. It remained in him, stubborn and strange. Where the rest of the clan had tossed him aside because he would never reach Bronze Spirit, the young master had seen his value. In fact, Igor’s [Sixty-Four Treasure Eyes] had developed to a level rarely seen among his minor branch, despite, or perhaps because of, his disability.
“I see,” the young master said.
He lifted the pill from its velvet cushion and turned it slowly between two fingers. Even under the chamber’s pale light, not a single impurity showed within its structure.
“And what makes this one different from the others we’ve found?”
For the first time since entering the room, Igor looked up fully.
A faint chuckle escaped him.
“Everything, Young Master.”
The young master’s gaze sharpened.
Igor drew in a breath, excitement slowly overtaking fear.
“Form, density, spiritual resonance, internal aspect alignment; all of it is perfect.” He gestured carefully toward the pill. “The only thing holding it back is the level of ingredients used. Despite the recipe, this pill represents a level of skill and talent no ordinary master could ever hope to achieve.”
His voice lowered.
Igor bowed his head again, but this time his words didn’t waver.
“I have no doubt that whoever made this pill can do what you require.”
The young master held the pill up to the light again and stared into the swirling golden glow at its center.
Slowly, a wide grin spread across his face.
“Good...”
——————————————————
Roy Paracelsus, Third of His Name, stood before the class with one hand tucked into his sleeve and the other tapping a chalk-stained finger against the board.
“Remember,” he said, his voice carrying easily across the lecture hall, “aspect pressure is not heat. Nor is it density or saturation, though under the right conditions, or the wrong ones, they may imitate each other convincingly. If you confuse sympathetic compression with genuine aspect convergence, you won’t end up with a pill. You’ll end up with a very expensive bomb.”
A few nervous chuckles stirred through the room.
Roy smiled brightly, then swept his hand toward the dense web of diagrams behind him. Interlocking circles, reaction curves, stabilizing ratios, and notation strings covered nearly every inch of the chalkboard.
“When refining a strengthening-type pill,” he continued, “the outer shell must stabilize before the internal resonance matures. Too early, and the pill collapses inward or leaks out. Too late, and the core rejects the vessel. That is why crude furnace masters must obsess over flame control, while true alchemists learn to listen to the reaction itself.”
Where other classes might have been filled with idle chatter, whispered complaints, or the occasional brave question, today held nothing but the frantic scratch of quills on paper. Students bent over their desks as though their lives depended on catching every word. Their eyes flicked constantly between Roy and the board, wide with equal parts awe and terror.
After all, it wasn’t often that one of only three Grandmaster Alchemists in Halirosa personally led a class.
Grandmaster Roy was said to be the most sociable of the three, the easiest to approach, and the quickest to smile. That didn’t mean he would hesitate to call out a slacker in front of the entire hall.
He lifted the chalk again, ready to add another line to the already crowded board, when a clear chime rang through the lecture hall. A pale light above the door flashed twice.
Roy stopped mid-gesture.
For a moment, he looked at the light as though considering whether to ignore it. Then he set the chalk down with a soft click and turned back to the class with a sigh.
“How time flies,” he said. “It seems our time is up for today. I hope I have been able to instill in you some measure of knowledge.”
A low groan passed through the students, though none dared complain directly. A few redoubled their note-taking efforts, quills still scratching even as they rose from their seats, desperate to capture a few more lines before the board was wiped clean.
Most stood, however, gathering their things as they gave hurried bows and murmured thanks.
“Thank you, Grandmaster Roy.”
“An honor, Grandmaster.”
“Your lecture was enlightening, Grandmaster.”
“This student is grateful, Grandmaster.”
Roy waved them off with cheerful impatience and a light chuckle.
The students had only just begun to file toward the exit when the door flew open.
A young man strode in with the confidence of someone who knew every eye would turn his way. His robes were deep blue, trimmed in silver thread, neat without being ostentatious. Long dark hair had been tied back with a lacquered clasp, and he moved with polished ease, chin lifted, eyes bright.
Whispers followed in his wake.
“Cael Veyron…”
“Senior Brother Cael?”
“What is he doing here?”
Everyone recognized him. Cael Veyron was one of the college’s most respected young alchemists, Roy’s direct disciple, and the man many expected to become the next true Master produced by the Halirosa Alchemical College.
Roy’s grin widened the moment he saw him.
“My boy! Good morning! How are you?”
Cael stopped several feet away and bowed deeply. “I am well, Master. Forgive the interruption, but I felt this couldn’t wait.”
The young man almost vibrated with excitement.
Roy chuckled. “Think nothing of it, lad. Class was ending anyway. What has you so excited?”
Cael reached into his robe and withdrew a lacquered pillbox.
Roy’s grin widened even further.
“I see! So you finally managed it, did you?” He stepped forward and took the box. “Come, come. Let me see.”
Then he turned toward the students, who had frozen halfway through packing.
“Class! Sit back down. I have a rare treat for you all.”
The students exchanged startled looks, but obeyed.
When everyone had settled back into their seats, Roy gestured proudly toward Cael. “I’m sure many of you recognize my disciple. He is one of the finest alchemists I have ever had the pleasure of teaching.”
The class gave a light round of applause, and Cael’s chest puffed out. His eyes flicked toward several students who stared back with naked envy.
“What you may not know,” Roy continued, “is that for his graduation and elevation to Master, I gave him a single task: produce a Golden Grade [Spirit Gate Pill].”
The room erupted into whispers.
Roy raised one hand, and silence returned.
“Yes, yes, I understand your confusion. [Spirit Gate Pills], while difficult, are hardly the rarest pills under Heaven. But as foundational breakthrough pills, they demand a far tighter margin than most realize. The slightest deviation in gate resonance can mean the difference between a clean breakthrough and catastrophic failure.”
He gave a hearty laugh. “Some of my colleagues might even argue the assignment was too harsh. After all, achieving Golden Grade requires more than talent. It requires restraint, precision, and an alchemist unwilling to settle for good enough.”
Roy turned back to his disciple.
“Let us see how you did, lad.”
Cael folded his arms and smirked.
Roy opened the pillbox.
Inside rested a small, perfectly round golden pill. Its surface gleamed with a deep metallic luster, rich and vibrant as molten sunlight.
The class gasped.
A [Spirit Gate Pill] was one of the few pills whose grade could be judged by color alone. Most prized examples were silver, with faint gold threading through their surface.
None of the students had ever seen one so deeply golden.
Roy lifted the pill between two fingers, his grin spreading. “Oh! Now this is promising.” He turned slightly, angling the pill toward the class. “Observe the uniform color and shape. No visible mottling or warping along the outer shell, either.”
Cael stood a little straighter.
Roy nodded, rotating the pill under the light. “The pattern work is nearly perfect as well. I must say, this is one of the best—”
He paused, the smile frozen on his face.
The shift was small at first. Just a slight tilt of his head. A narrowing of the eyes. Then Roy brought the pill closer, turning it slowly between thumb and forefinger. His other hand rose to his chin as his brow furrowed.
The students went silent as they noticed the change in the Grandmaster’s demeanor.
Slowly, Roy’s smile slipped away.
Cael’s smirk twitched, and a bead of sweat slid down his temple.
His gaze flickered around the room. For a moment, it looked as if he might say something.
He never got the chance.
BOOM!
Cael flew across the classroom as the Grandmaster’s backhand caught him across the face. The young man slammed into the rear wall hard enough to crack the paneling. Students screamed as a storm of peak Elemental Dominance pressure crashed over the room, pinning them to their seats.
“YOU DARE?!” Roy roared.
Cael groaned, struggling upright. “Master, I can—”
Something blurred past his cheek and struck the wall with enough force to shake the room.
Cael froze.
Visibly trembling now, his gaze slid sideways to the pillbox buried in the wall beside his head.
“SILENCE!” Roy commanded.
He held the golden pill aloft, his eyes dark with thunderous fury.
“Do you think me a fool? Did you truly believe that because this pill bears no Master Mark, you could pass it off as your own?” His voice shook chalk dust from the board. “I trained you, boy. I know your hand. I know your limits. How dare you insult my art, my name, and this college in the same breath!”
“Master, please—”
An invisible force struck Cael again and sent him tumbling across the floor.
“Get out of my sight,” Roy said, spitting each word as if it tasted like bile. “I will speak with you again when I am certain whatever excuse you prepare will not end with me killing you where you stand.”
Cael’s face twisted with terror. He scrambled to his feet and fled through the door.
Roy watched the empty doorway for several long moments.
Then he turned back to the class.
“What are you still doing here?” he roared. “Leave. Now!”
The class didn’t need to be told twice. The students bolted for the door, nearly trampling one another in their haste.
Only when the hall stood empty did Roy’s anger settle into a simmer. He returned to his desk and lifted the golden pill once more, eyes narrowed.
He took several moments to confirm what he suspected, running the pill through every test he could manage without specialized equipment.
Finally, a small pulse of spiritual energy sank into the orb.
The pill ignited with the pure, colorless flame of Shackle Breaking Grade.