Flashback
The room was dim, lit only by the wavering glow of an oil lamp.
The air was thick with the bitter scent of herbs and the sour fragrance of spilled alcohol.
On the floor, a young boy lay sprawled, his body trembling, jars of wine scattered around him like broken memories.
Slowly, his eyelids fluttered open. His lips were pale, his voice hoarse as he whispered,
"Master… why? Why did you do this? If you had not forced the transfer of your entire Knowledge Sea into me… you could have lived at least another year…"
His fingers clawed weakly at the ground, as though trying to hold on to something that was no longer there.
Tears blurred his vision, but in the haze he saw the image of his master—stern yet gentle, eyes as deep as an ancient cauldron—standing before him as if still alive.
Fragments of memory rose unbidden.
His master in youth, kneeling before her master, enduring the same sacrifice.
A cycle passed down through generations, each master giving up life to preserve the flame of alchemy's pursuit.
And then came the echo of the final words he had heard only hours before, spoken with calm resolve:
> "Disciple… with this inheritance, I believe one day you—or those who come after you—will succeed where we have failed.
To refine pills with a success rate beyond ninety percent…
That will be the day our path of alchemy reaches its true peak.
My only wish is that our art will not wither, but rise."
The boy's body shook, his nails digging into his palms.
"Master…" he choked, his voice breaking into the silent room, "You don't need to worry! Even if I must burn my life away, I will not let your wish fall into dust. One day, whether it is me… or my descendants… we will stand at that peak!"
The memory grew sharper—
He saw his master's smile, faint yet filled with pride.
He remembered how her hand had rested on his shoulder, trembling from exhaustion but steady in determination.
> "Child," she had said softly, "to tread this path is to walk with loneliness and failure.
But remember… every cauldron lit, every herb tested, every failure endured, is a step toward the summit.
Do not curse me for this burden—I give it to you because I believe in you."
The boy wept silently, his forehead pressing against the cold wooden floor.
The jars of wine toppled, spilling their last drops, mingling with his tears.
"…Master… even if the heavens themselves mock me, I will not stop."
He closed his eyes, and in the darkness of his mind, the image of his master's back slowly faded into the void.
*****
Inside the boundless sea of consciousness, waves of soul-light surged and fell like storms.
Medicine King's soul, long dormant, stirred with a flicker of remembrance—
the faint memory of his master's, of sacrifice, of a lineage passed down in sorrow.
That flicker hardened into power. His essence surged forth, condensing into a sharp tide of soul force.
Bai Xuan's soul clone, standing within the sea, had just pieced together the elusive secret.
The phantom memory dissolved, leaving behind a key—a method, etched in ancient runes.
"So… the opening method of the Marid Dragon Pond… I had thought another path might exist,
but it seems fate clings stubbornly to the same road the novel described."
Just as he turned to seek deeper truths, the ocean of knowledge shook violently.
Medicine King, eyes blazing with wrath, struck at him with a force like thunder splitting the sky.
The soul array Bai Xuan had so carefully woven began to unravel, crumbling like brittle glass.
His expression darkened.
"What!? He broke free ten minutes earlier than my calculations!"
For the first time in that encounter, Bai Xuan's calm cracked into sharp anger.
His voice echoed across the soul sea, cold and merciless:
"Old man, I had thought to let you live quietly within this prison.
But you—truly—you have disappointed me.
Very well… if you crave death, then I shall grant it to you."
From his divine sense he shaped a weapon, a sword of pure will.
The blade gleamed brighter than lightning, sharper than vengeance.
With one decisive stroke, he cleaved toward Medicine King's soul.
A scream split the ocean.
The old man's essence fractured, scattering into countless shards of light.
Yet the vast sea of knowledge shuddered violently, threatening to collapse upon itself.
Bai Xuan withdrew instantly, soul slamming back into his body.
His eyes snapped open, dark as abyssal pools.
The world outside was chaos.
The protective array he had set earlier had already been triggered—
bloodstains marked the ground, and several figures staggered at its edge, injured and pale.
Their gazes, however, were not weakened.
They burned with fury, sharp enough to pierce bone.
Among them, Bai Xuan's eyes lingered on a man in heavy robes—
the Dong Family Patriarch, his aura fierce despite his wounds.
Beside him stood disciples clad in the colors of Medicine King Valley,
their hands trembling not from fear but from rage.
One disciple pointed at Bai Xuan, voice cracking with grief:
"You… what have you done to our Medicine King!?"
Another followed, his words thick with venom,
"If even a hair of him is harmed, we will tear you apart, limb by limb!
We will torment your soul until you beg for death!"
Their killing intent surged like a tide, pressing against the air.
The Patriarch of the Dong Family narrowed his eyes,
his spiritual pressure weighing heavily upon the chamber.
"Boy," he growled, "I do not know who you are, nor why you dare touch Medicine King's inheritance…
but if he is lost because of you, then not even the heavens will shelter you."
Bai Xuan sat silently, back straight, face expressionless.
His cold gaze swept across them like frost crawling over stone.
He did not answer, nor defend himself—
for explanation was weakness, and weakness was something he never allowed.
The silence deepened.
Only the crackle of shattered runes from the broken array echoed between them.
One disciple, trembling with hatred, shouted again,
"Speak! What did you do with him!? Where is our master's soul!?"
Bai Xuan's lips curved faintly—neither smile nor scorn,
but a dangerous line that promised only blood.
His silence itself became a blade.
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