The Alchemist Union Headquarters in the Emerald Capital was not a place of healing; it was a factory of controlled corruption. Built in the shape of a massive, three-tiered cauldron, the architecture pulsed with a rhythmic, green light that mimicked a heartbeat. Here, the "Great Refiners" didn't seek to remove toxins; they sought to stabilize them, creating pills that offered a burst of power at the cost of the user's longevity.
Han Feng stood in the shadow of the Cauldron Gate, dressed in the silver-grey robes of a low-level assistant. Beside him, Yan adjusted his violet hair, his fingers twitching with a mixture of excitement and dread.
"The trial is simple, but lethal," Yan whispered, his voice barely audible over the roar of the massive furnace-fans. "Each participant is given a Noxious Spirit Root—a plant so saturated with Imperial Miasma that it can dissolve stone. You have one hour to refine it into a Stabilizing Essence. If the purity is below 40%, the root explodes. If it's above 70%, you'll draw the attention of the High Alchemists. Stay in the 'Safe Zone,' Han Feng."
"I don't do 'Safe Zones,'" Han Feng replied, his hand brushing the White-Jade Flute tucked into his sash.
They entered the Refining Plaza, a vast obsidian floor divided into hundreds of individual stations. At each station stood an alchemist, sweating under the intense heat of Tainted Earth-Flames. The air was a thick soup of sulfur and bitter medicinal vapors.
High above, seated on a platform of floating jade, was High Alchemist Pil. He was a man who seemed more machine than flesh, his eyes replaced by glowing emerald lenses and his skin shimmering with a metallic, copper hue. He watched the proceedings with the detached hunger of a vulture.
"Begin!" Pil's voice boomed, amplified by the brass resonators lining the hall.
Han Feng looked at the Noxious Spirit Root on his pedestal. It was a twisted, black tuber that hissed, secreting a viscous purple slime. The moment his Qi touched it, he felt the plant's "malice"—it wasn't just a plant; it was a parasite that fed on the spirit.
Instead of using the Tainted Earth-Flame provided by the station, Han Feng placed his hands directly on the root.
"What is he doing?" a nearby apprentice hissed. "Without fire, the rot will consume his hands in seconds!"
Han Feng closed his eyes, activating the Void-Filter Heart. He didn't push his Qi into the root; he invited the root's toxins into himself. To the observers, it looked as if the black slime was crawling up Han Feng's arms, staining his skin a bruised indigo.
Inside his body, the Purification Mirror—even with its jagged crack—began to spin. Han Feng channeled the "Filter" resonance through the White-Jade Flute's vibration, creating a frequency that shattered the molecular bonds of the toxins.
Fiiii—
A high-pitched, near-silent whistle echoed from Han Feng's station. The purple slime on his arms didn't burn; it turned into white mist.
While the other alchemists struggled with their flames, Han Feng's station was a pocket of unnatural calm. The blackened root began to shrink, shedding layers of obsidian bark like a snake shedding skin.
At the forty-minute mark, Han Feng opened his palms. In the center of the pedestal lay a single, translucent drop of liquid. It didn't glow green or purple. It was as clear as a mountain spring, yet it possessed a weight that made the obsidian pedestal groan.
[Item Created: Primordial Dew (Incomplete)]
[Purity: 98%]
"Too high," Han Feng muttered. He quickly tapped the drop with a speck of the discarded black bark, "contaminating" it just enough to dim its luster.
When the hour bell rang, High Alchemist Pil's attendants moved through the rows, measuring the results with Resonance Scales.
"Station 42: 42% Purity. Pass."
"Station 89: 12% Purity. Fail—Guards, remove him."
"Station 102..." The attendant stopped at Han Feng's station. He placed the drop on the scale.
The needle didn't just move; it slammed into the far end of the gauge, vibrating so hard the glass cracked.
"7... 79% Purity?" the attendant stammered, his eyes bulging. "This... this is a Transmutation Grade result. High Alchemist! We have a 'Hidden Dragon'!"
The entire hall went silent. Yan turned deathly pale, his plan to keep Han Feng a secret evaporating instantly.
High Alchemist Pil leaned forward, his emerald lenses zooming in on Han Feng. The pressure of a Core Formation expert's gaze hit Han Feng like a physical hammer.
"Who is your Master, boy?" Pil's voice was like grinding metal. "No apprentice in the Emerald Empire can achieve a 79% refinement without an Earth-Grade Flame. You used your bare hands."
"I have no master," Han Feng said, standing straight despite the crushing pressure. "I only have the dust."
Pil stood up, his copper skin shimmering. "A lie. But a fascinating one. You shall be granted an invitation to the Great Refining Competition. However..."
Pil raised a finger, and a tiny, mechanical spider—the same as the ones Han Feng had seen in the streets—dropped from the ceiling onto Han Feng's shoulder. It didn't bite; it burrowed.
Han Feng felt a cold, needle-like sting in his neck.
"That is a Soul-Link Parasite," Pil sneered. "It is tuned to my own heart. If you try to leave the city, or if you fail to win the competition for my House, it will inject Liquid Miasma directly into your brain. You are no longer just an apprentice, boy. You are my property."
Han Feng's hand twitched toward his sword, but the crack in his Mirror gave a warning throb. He was trapped in the heart of the enemy's lair, poisoned and branded.
But as Pil turned away, Han Feng felt something strange. The Soul-Link Parasite wasn't just an anchor; it was a bridge. Through the mechanical spider, he could feel Pil's internal Qi... and it was a festering swamp of decay, far worse than anything he had ever seen.
"You shouldn't have linked your soul to mine, Old Man," Han Feng thought, a cold, predatory smile hidden by the shadows of his hood. "Because now, I can see your heart. And it's filthy."
Suddenly, the ground beneath the Alchemist Union began to tremble. A distant, earth-shaking roar echoed from the direction of the Imperial Palace.
A messenger burst into the hall, his face covered in blood. "High Alchemist! The Star-Silk Vault! It's been breached! The 'Void-Wraiths' have escaped!"
High Alchemist Pil's green eyes flashed with genuine terror. He looked at Han Feng, then at the palace.
"You," Pil pointed at Han Feng. "If you want to live, you're coming with me. The Star-Silk isn't just a prize anymore. It's the only thing keeping the city from being swallowed by the Void."
Han Feng felt the Mirror against his chest scream in resonance. The Star-Silk was close—but it was being guarded by something that even the Empire feared.