In the Tianyuan Continent, cultivation defined the shape of the world.
Mountains were split by sword intent, rivers diverted by palm techniques, and cities rose and fell at the whims of cultivators whose names were recorded in stone tablets and ancestral halls. To be strong was to be respected. To be weak was to be forgotten.
Lin Yuan had been forgotten long before he understood what strength meant.
He did not know the exact day his parents died. Memory had a way of softening sharp edges when survival became more important than grief. What he remembered instead were sensations: hunger that burned behind the ribs, cold nights wrapped in straw, and the weight of silence when no one called his name.
By the time he was brought to the Azure River Sect, he was already used to being overlooked.
The sect stood at the foot of the Blue Mist Mountains, its outer walls ancient and worn, its inner peaks veiled by spirit fog year-round. Hundreds of children were tested every few years. Those with spiritual roots were accepted as outer disciples. Those without were still allowed to stay—but only as laborers.
Servants.
Lin Yuan tested negative.
No spiritual roots.No special physique.No destiny worth recording.
He was given a gray robe, a wooden token marked Servant – Alchemy Hall, and instructions that boiled down to one sentence:
Do not touch what does not belong to you.
At sixteen, Lin Yuan had spent six years in the alchemy hall.
The hall was never quiet.
Even at dawn, when the sky was still dark and the sect bells had not rung, furnaces glowed like sleeping beasts. Heat seeped into the stone floor. The air was thick with layered scents—medicinal bitterness, burnt residue, and something faintly metallic that clung to the throat.
Servants entered through a side passage, heads lowered, footsteps light.
Lin Yuan moved among them without drawing attention.
He cleaned ash trays, wiped furnace walls, sorted discarded herbs, and prepared firewood bundles according to lists posted by elders who never explained their reasoning. His hands were rough, his fingers permanently stained a dull brown-green from years of contact with medicinal waste.
If a pill failed, servants were blamed.
If a pill succeeded, servants were invisible.
This was not resentment. It was simply how things were.
Yet Lin Yuan noticed things others didn't.
He noticed that Furnace Seven cracked pills more often in the winter.He noticed that firewood dried too long burned hotter but less evenly.He noticed that on humid days, elders unconsciously adjusted flame strength without realizing why.
No one taught him these things.
He learned them because he watched.
That evening, Furnace Seven failed again.
An outer disciple refining Body Refinement Pills slammed the furnace lid shut, cursed loudly, and stormed out of the hall.
"Worthless furnace," the disciple spat.
Lin Yuan waited until the footsteps faded before approaching.
Inside the furnace lay the remains of failure—collapsed medicinal mass, blackened around the edges, its internal structure completely broken. To most servants, it was just trash.
Lin Yuan crouched and stared.
"The flame wasn't unstable," he murmured quietly. Speaking aloud helped him think. "The sequence was correct too."
He pressed his palm briefly against the furnace wall and withdrew it at once.
Too dry.
The inner wall had lost its moisture-retaining layer. Medicinal vapor would have escaped too quickly during the shaping phase.
No elder had ever explained this.
No manual mentioned it.
Lin Yuan exhaled slowly and began cleaning.
By the time he finished, the hall was empty. Oil lamps flickered weakly. The warmth that never truly left the alchemy hall felt heavier tonight, pressing down on his shoulders.
He leaned against Furnace Seven, intending to rest for just a moment.
Exhaustion pulled him under.
He did not dream of heaven or immortals.
He found himself standing in a vast, colorless space that felt older than time.
Before him rose shelves—countless shelves—formed from pale stone veined with faint light. They stretched upward and outward until distance lost meaning. Each shelf bore carved characters, ancient and heavy with intent.
Alchemy.
Arrays.
Spirit Planting.
Talismans.
Forging.
Lin Yuan took a step forward, heart pounding.
A calm voice echoed—not loud, not soft, but impossible to ignore.
[Heavenly Profound Dao Archive – Initializing]
He stiffened.
The voice continued, unhurried.
[Host Identified: Lin Yuan]
[Cultivation Base: None]
[Spiritual Roots: Undetected]
There was no mockery in the words. Only fact.
[This Archive does not grant strength.]
[This Archive does not alter fate.]
[This Archive records the Dao as it is walked.]
The shelves trembled faintly, as if responding.
[Understanding cannot be bestowed.]
[Only observation, repetition, and failure may be preserved.]
Lin Yuan felt something settle into his chest—not excitement, not fear, but a strange sense of weight.
"Then what do you do?" he asked quietly.
The Archive did not answer directly.
Instead, a new line appeared, carved into empty air:
[All failures will be recorded.]
[All contradictions will be preserved.]
[No solution will be provided.]
A beam of soft light descended and touched his forehead.
There was no pain.
Only the sensation of something opening.
Lin Yuan woke with a sharp breath.
The alchemy hall was silent. Furnace Seven had gone cold.
For a heartbeat, he thought it had all been imagination.
Then he looked at the furnace.
Information surfaced—not as commands, but as awareness.
[Observation Recorded: Furnace Seven][Condition: Structural wear]
[Contradiction Detected: Flame stability vs pill collapse]
No explanation followed.
No solution.
Only the contradiction.
Lin Yuan stared for a long time.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
Not because he had gained power.
But because, for the first time in his life, something had noticed what he noticed.
Deep within the unseen Archive, a single scar was etched.
[Scar Record Created: Pill Collapse – Moisture Loss]
The Dao had not given him answers.
It had given him permission to seek them.