"Alchemy."
The single word left his lips without flourish or hesitation, landing cleanly on the table between them. It wasn't a declaration of ambition so much as an acceptance of risk.
Xuanyan leaned back slightly, his expression calm even as his thoughts churned.
If I'm going to change the story, he thought dryly, I might as well do it where the fire burns hottest.
"Brother Xuanyan," Ye Qingfeng said slowly, his tone careful rather than discouraging, "you probably know how costly alchemy can be."
It wasn't a warning born of jealousy. It was a reminder rooted in experience. Alchemy demanded either overwhelming talent or overwhelming resources, and lacking both was a fast way to burn through spirit stones, time, and patience without result.
He wasn't wrong.
Even in the original novel, the protagonist himself had struggled. It had taken Ye Qingfeng nearly a full year before he made any meaningful progress in alchemy, stalled by insufficient materials and limited access. His true rise only began after he obtained a particular opportunity—an exchange that provided him with the resources he desperately needed.
The same opportunity.
The same technique.
The one Xuanyan had already stolen during his first mission.
In the original timeline, Ye Qingfeng would have encountered that chance much earlier, during the Outer Sect Competition. But he hadn't taken it then. Newly arrived in the sect, stuck at Qi Condensation Stage Four, and with no backing to speak of, he had chosen caution over ambition, maintaining as low a profile as possible.
After that, their paths never crossed for an entire year.
Xuanyan understood all of this with uncomfortable clarity.
Which was why he smiled faintly now, unbothered by the warning, his expression calm in a way that didn't quite match his situation. He didn't explain himself. He didn't argue.
"Brother Qi," I called out calmly.
Then I reached into my pouch—at least, that's what it looked like from the outside. In reality, the bottle slid smoothly into my hand from system storage, summoned with practiced ease that betrayed none of the trick behind it.
I placed a small jade bottle on the table.
"These," I said evenly, fingers resting lightly against the cool surface, "are cultivation pills. I refined them myself."
The lie came out clean.
Shameless.
He took full credit for his sister's refined pills without the slightest hint of guilt, his expression steady as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
The bottle was small, but the pressure it carried was not.
The pill inside was dense with spiritual energy, clearly suited for Qi Condensation cultivators. On the surface, it resembled something common enough to be found on the market—but anyone with even basic alchemical knowledge could tell the difference immediately. A faint, lingering fragrance clung to the air, subtle yet persistent, unmistakably marking it as high-grade.
Ye Qingfeng stiffened.
Qingyue's breath caught.
Even the quiet stranger beside us paused mid-bite, chopsticks hovering in the air as his gaze slid, uninvited, toward the bottle.
Silence spread across the table.
Refining pills was not easy. Not even the most ordinary kind. It required precise control, refined perception, and a temperament suited for long hours of failure. And high-grade pills—those were a different matter entirely. They demanded skill layered atop experience, consistency forged through years of repetition.
In a lower-rank sect, anyone capable of refining pills at that level would instantly qualify as an Inner Sect elder, regardless of their actual cultivation realm. Alchemy followed different rules than brute force. To reach such attainment usually demanded the sacrifice of at least a decade—years spent surrounded by furnaces, failures, and endless refinement, with little room for anything else.
Xuanyan rested his chin against his hand, studying the reactions around the table with mild curiosity rather than pride.
"To reach this stage," he said evenly, as if stating a simple fact, "requires at least ten years of focused effort. What do you think?"
Ye Qingfeng finally snapped out of his daze.
"You…" he whispered, his voice unsteady despite himself. "You have… master-level attainment in alchemy."
His gaze flicked back to Xuanyan, disbelief warring with reassessment. This good-for-nothing senior—someone he had unconsciously categorized as harmless, even mediocre—actually possessed this kind of talent? This level of alchemical ability?
Carefully, Ye Qingfeng inspected the pill again, probing it with his spiritual sense, verifying its structure, its purity, the subtle harmony within its energy. There was no deception. No trick.
When he finally withdrew his consciousness, the tension in his shoulders eased, and a rare brightness surfaced in his expression.
"Alright, Brother Xuanyan," he said slowly, excitement threading through his voice despite his attempt at restraint. "You can be the alchemist of our group."
Qingyue's mood shifted as well.
The guarded stiffness in her eyes softened, just slightly, as she looked toward Xuanyan. There was no fear there. No unease. Only a quiet, unfamiliar sense of relief she couldn't quite put into words.
Perhaps—
For the first time in years—
She felt that she might finally have a real friend.
At that point, the stranger who had been quietly sharing the table with us finally spoke.
"Hey," he said casually, as if he were commenting on the weather rather than inserting himself into a newly formed power structure, "can I also join your group?"
The audacity
Ye Qingfeng didn't even hesitate.
"We can't," he replied flatly, shutting the suggestion down before it had a chance to grow legs. His tone carried finality, the kind meant to end conversations rather than invite debate.
I didn't argue.
Not yet.
The stranger, however, didn't react the way most people did when dismissed so cleanly. He didn't bristle, didn't scoff, didn't retreat in embarrassment. Instead, he slowly lifted his head, his expression calm, unbothered, almost irritatingly composed, as if refusal had been an expected outcome rather than an insult.
"You can refuse," he said quietly, meeting Ye Qingfeng's gaze without challenge or submission, "after hearing my proposal."
Before anyone could respond, the food finally arrived.
Steaming bowls were set down with hurried clatters, releasing waves of questionable aromas into the already chaotic hall. There was a stir-fry heavy with unidentified spiritual herbs, a mound of rice that looked overworked and under-seasoned, and a soup whose smell suggested it was one incorrect ingredient away from poisoning half the cafeteria.
I raised a hand lightly, stopping Ye Qingfeng before he could dismiss the man outright.
"Let's hear him out," I said calmly.
It wasn't kindness.
It was practicality.
People who approached out of nowhere always did so for a reason, and in a sect like this, reasons often came wrapped in either opportunity or disaster. With our luck, there was a fair chance it might be both.