Chapter 6: The Test of Feel
The herbs hung in the air like tiny lanterns.
Dozens of leaves and roots drifted around the great black cauldron, each caught in thin threads of qi that gleamed in Elder Yun He's aura. Heat rippled across the room; the last of the earlier failure still hissed from the furnace mouth—black smoke curling out in thin, stubborn veins.
Lin Tian swallowed. The room smelled of scorched bark and bitter resin. His palms were damp.
"Step closer," Yun He said without looking at him. His voice was flat, distant. "You wished to 'feel' what belongs."
Lin Tian edged forward until the cauldron's warmth kissed his face. He let his eyes wander around the room—the shelves lined with jars, the drawers half-open, the countless herbs floating lazily in the air under Yun He's qi. Roots knotted with age, leaves veined like thin glass, berries glowing faintly red—countless shapes turned slowly before his eyes. As he looked from one to the next, the glow around them shifted—golden lines sliding into place in his vision, mapping invisible currents, drawing faint paths between the herbs themselves, showing which resonated and which clashed.
The Map hummed, then, to his surprise, sounded… nervous. "Umm… boy… no matches here."
Lin Tian's heart knocked. "None?"
"None," the Map snapped, quick and low. "From the process he ran earlier, from what still clings to the cauldron walls—these do not harmonize. Wrong currents. Wrong shape. It's like trying to stitch bone with silk threads."
Sweat trickled behind Lin Tian's ear. He moved along the ring of herbs, pretending to study them one by one. Yun He's gaze followed him—cold, sharp, silent.
"Speak," Yun He said at last, voice soft as a blade. "So, servant—what should I add instead? What did you feel ?"
Lin Tian wet his lips. "Elder… is this all your herbs?"
"Yes."
"I…" He risked a glance at the drifting leaves. Golden lines tangled and slipped, never settling. His stomach dropped. "I don't feel that any of these belong."
Silence. Only the faint crackle of fire.
"What do you mean?" Yun He asked.
"I don't think you have the right herb in your collection," Lin Tian said. He kept his voice steady by will alone. "For the process you ran earlier, none of these will fit."
A long breath left the alchemist's nose, not quite a sigh. He stared at Lin Tian as though peeling him apart, layer by thin layer. Lin Tian fought the urge to step back.
In the quiet, Yun He's lips moved, more to himself than to anyone else. "A boy in servant rags claims my stock is incomplete. Blind luck? Guessing? Or a trick to delay a box of punishment?" His eyes cut to the cauldron; the smoke had thinned to a smear. "If you are toying with me…"
He let the words hang, sharp as hooks.
Then he turned to the cauldron, lifted a hand, and with a crisp wave, swept the remaining smoke aside. "We will test this 'feel' of yours."
Lin Tian's shoulders tightened.
"You say you can sense what belongs," Yun He continued. "Then sense it when I give you no time to think. I will refine a basic pill. Simple, but not common. All the ingredients required are here."
He gestured, and drawers thudded open around the walls. New herbs drifted out, joining the circle—stems with fine hairs, knotted roots, dull-red berries like tiny hearts. The heat in the room rose a fraction; the air trembled.
"If you cannot find the last herb," Yun He said, "then you have wasted my time. And I do not indulge servants who waste my time."
Lin Tian's throat tightened. "What pill will you refine, Elder?"
"Cauldron Bone-Temper Pill," Yun He murmured. "Crude name. Useful when brewed right. Strengthens hairline fractures and hardens the marrow. Bitter side effects. Most dislike it." The barest curl touched his mouth. "Most do not make it well."
Lin Tian's chest fluttered. He whispered to the Map, "Are you sure about what you said? If we're wrong—"
"Wrong?" The Map snorted. "I am never wrong. Your hands, your nerves—that's where wrongness lives. Still your panic and watch."
Yun He drew a deep breath and let it out slow. His palms turned, and his qi flared—not wild, not showy, but tight, precise. The furnace beneath the cauldron bloomed with a disciplined flame. Lin Tian watched the aura peel the soot from the iron, watched the broth within grow clear and bright, like polished amber.
"Begin," the alchemist said.
He didn't look up again.
He moved one hand. A pair of pale roots slipped into the cauldron and dissolved without a sound. He moved his hand again. Thin leaves descended in a neat arc. Powder drifted after, glimmering as it sank. With each addition the Map drew more golden lines in Lin Tian's sight, sketching currents as they settled, new paths as they formed. Most matched. Some wobbled, then healed.
Yun He moved like a man stitching a torn robe he knew by heart—where to pull, where to slacken, where a single hair of force made all the difference. Sweat rolled off his temple in a perfect line and fell, vanishing in the heat before it touched the iron.
"Listen," the Map murmured. "He is balancing dryness with oil, stiffness with trace supple force. He is repairing what marrow craves… but the last piece, the last piece—" The Map's tone sharpened. "It is not among these."
Lin Tian's mouth tasted of metal.
Ten minutes passed in the shape of breath and flame.
Then Yun He's eyes snapped to Lin Tian. "Now. Give me the last ingredient."
The room held its breath.
"Left wall," the Map said, sudden and urgent. "Second drawer from the top. Not the front. Reach deep. It's wrapped in a dull cloth. There's dust on the edge. Hurry."
Lin Tian moved without thinking—two steps, one stretch, the drawer skidding open with a wheeze. His fingers brushed paper, wood, a coil of twine—then a small, soft parcel in dull cloth, warm with a faint thrum.
"Faster," the Map hissed. "Do not stare. Throw."
Lin Tian spun and tossed it.
For half a heartbeat, the little bundle cut through the hot air, cloth twisting. It flashed once in the furnace light, and Yun He saw the edge of what lay inside—a sliver of a shriveled rhizome, color like old honey; a hairline of pale crystal running through its core.
His face changed—shock, then anger, then flat disappointment—too quick for Lin Tian to miss.
"Get out," Yun He said.
Lin Tian froze mid-step. "Elder—"
"Get out. Never come back."
Invisible force seized him like a wave and shoved. He stumbled back, hit the door frame, and spilled into the evening air. The door slammed like a struck shield, inches from his nose.
He stood there, blinking, breath short. Smoke wove up to the eaves and drifted away into pine.
"Wonderful," he muttered under his breath. "We're dead."
"You are overreacting," the Map said, in the tone it used when it wasn't overreacting at all but wanted to sound smug. "Also, your throw was sloppy."
"You told me to hurry!"
"And you obeyed for once. Cherish this minor miracle."
Lin Tian rubbed his ribs, still feeling the ghost of Yun He's qi-push. "He hates me. And if that herb was wrong—"
"If," the Map said dryly, "is for those who cannot see."
"You said it yourself—you don't know herb names."
"I do not need names," the Map replied, impatient. "The cauldron's flow told me what it craved. It was close—dryness stitched to stiffness, a lasting support—but a tiny fracture in the current remained, like grit in a joint. The missing shape was thin and crystalline, not fibrous or oily. The parcel you threw held exactly that. A sliver. It bridged the fracture."
Lin Tian stared at the door. His palms were still sweaty. The sky had begun to bruise with dusk. "But what if—"
"Boy," the Map said. It was all disdain. "Wait."
He sank down on the step, back to the door, and tried to slow his breathing. The warmth of the furnace had soaked into the hut's old wood. Somewhere far above, a hawk cried. Pine needles whispered.
"You should apologize later," the Map added, after a moment. "Not now. Later. When he is forced by truth to listen."
"You sound very sure this is going to work."
The Map sniffed. "Do not project doubt onto my perfection."
"You were nervous a moment ago."
"Your ears are faulty."
Lin Tian almost laughed, then didn't. He was too tired to find it funny.
He pressed his hands together and stared at his scraped knuckles. The sting helped.
"What if he punishes me?" he asked softly.
"Then you endure," the Map said. "And learn faster. Pain is a loud teacher. Inefficient, but loud."
Lin Tian made a face. "I'd prefer a quiet one."
"Too late. You chose me."
He couldn't help it; this time the laugh came out, raw and small. "I don't remember choosing."
"You were chosen," the Map said, then, surprisingly, gentler: "Keep yourself alive."
A long minute passed. Then another.
Inside the hut, the furnace flame dimmed to a steady glow. The sharp hiss of boiling thinned to a steady breath, as if the cauldron itself were sleeping.
Yun He, on the other side of the door, stood with a hand braced against the wall, eyes closed. His shoulders rose and fell; his expression was unreadable.
"A servant," he murmured to the empty room. "A boy in rags and dust, daring to tell me my stock is wrong." His lips pressed, displeasure fading into something thoughtful. "He does not know names. He does not speak of recipes. He speaks of feel."
He drew his hand from the wall and looked at his palm, as if the wood might answer him. "What did you throw, boy?" he asked the door, as if Lin Tian could hear. "How could you find that parcel blind? I keep it at the back. For rare moments. I have not touched it in a year."
Something thumped softly in the cauldron. The faintest ring, like porcelain kissed by water.
He exhaled. "Enough." With a small shake of his head, he doused the flame to embers. He needed air. He needed to wash the bitterness from his tongue. To step into the cool of the pines and let the stubborn heat in his chest drain away.
He lifted the latch and stepped outside.
Lin Tian jerked to his feet automatically. He didn't know whether to bow or run.
Yun He did not look at him.
He turned away and walked down the path, hands behind his back, eyes on the sky that had gone the color of old steel. The scent of smoke followed him partway and then was snatched by the wind.
The door to the hut swung inward on its hinge, left ajar by a hand that hadn't quite closed it.
Inside, the cauldron's surface smoothed to glass. A slow light pulsed from within—a heartbeat of pale gold, then another. The air above the open mouth shivered, and five round shadows rose, perfect spheres covered in the faintest web of pill lines.
They hovered for a breath, humming softly, like bees trapped in a bell.
Five High-grade Cauldron Bone-Temper Pills, gleaming with quiet power, drifted into the world.
No one saw them.
Not yet.
Outside on the step, Lin Tian sat down again. His legs were shaking less.
"Well?" he whispered to the Map. "Do we wait until he throws me into a ditch?"
"Wait," the Map said, pleased with itself in a way it didn't bother to hide. "For once, let truth do the beating for you."
Lin Tian let his head tip back against the wall. The wood was warm; the evening air was cool on his face. For a while he watched the slice of sky between the pines darken from iron to ink.
"Elder," he said quietly, though Yun He was already gone down the path, "I wasn't trying to make a fool of you."
The Map made a soft, unimpressed sound. "You don't owe him explanations yet."
"I owe everyone everything," Lin Tian said. It slipped out before he could stop it. He didn't know why he'd said it. Maybe because his chest ached and he was so tired of being less than nothing.
The Map didn't answer for a breath. When it did, its voice was matter-of-fact. "Irrelevant. What you owe is growth. Drops to streams. Streams to rivers. Rivers to seas. Keep your little stream moving."
He closed his eyes, listening to the furnace's slow, steady breath on the other side of the door. Somewhere behind it, five small suns waited in a pool of cooling amber.
He didn't know that. He only knew his hands had stopped shaking.
"Fine," he murmured. "I'll wait."
"Good," said the Map, almost content. "And try not to say something foolish when he comes back."
"I make no promises."
The Map sighed. "Of course you don't."
They sat with the dusk. Pines whispered. The