The Golden Snake Pavilion still roared with chaos. Disciples scrambled like hornets, elders barked orders, and the wards pulsed green with venomous light. But amidst the frenzy, Lu Mao walked slowly, calmly, his back bent in the guise of an old servant. His steps were uneven, his breathing ragged—not from fear, but as part of the mask. The Doppelgänger skill wrapped him like a veil, skin shifting, aura suppressed.
Guards rushed past him, chasing shadows. Disciples pointed toward smoke trails left by Bao Fu's explosions. Elders stormed down halls, searching, cursing, demanding answers.
Lu Mao blended in.
Step slow, look down. Servants are invisible. No one notices the hand that sweeps their floors.
The Doppelgänger flickered. His qi bled faster than he wanted. Too many layers—Phantom Veil, Shadow Step, Doppelgänger—draining him thin. He grimaced, weaving into the crowd of rushing disciples. The skill shifted again. Wrinkles vanished. His back straightened. Now he wore the face of a nervous young guard, sweat on his brow, clutching a spear.
Two elders swept past him, their spiritual sense blazing like suns. His heart thudded as their gaze brushed him, but he lowered his head, let the panic in his borrowed face sell the act. They ignored him.
He slipped out of the inner halls, deeper into the crush of fleeing disciples and mobilized patrols. The crowd itself became his shield. Another flicker—his form rippled into a lanky clerk with scrolls under his arm. He blended, dissolved, vanished into panic.
Behind him, Wei Qing stood in the chamber, his flames burning blue-gold as he examined the shelves. The prodigy's face was calm, but his eyes seethed. His master, Zuo Han, an austere man with robes dark as ink, entered silently. His gaze cut across the room with quiet authority.
"The pill remains," Zuo Han murmured, glancing at the still-glowing case. "But the book and jars…"
Wei Qing's fists clenched. "Those were not perfected. Flawed pills, dangerous even for masters. Without my flames, refining them is impossible. Anyone who swallows them will die—even a Saint realm cultivator." His voice dripped with contempt, but beneath it, anger seethed. "Still… the manual. My formulations. The techniques. They cannot replicate my success without my fire, but even so—they were mine."
Zuo Han's expression didn't change. "Then what troubles you?"
Wei Qing's eyes burned hotter. "The poison ward was triggered. No one below Saint realm could survive that. And yet… they lived. The poison should have left a trace, an aura. Even if concealed with a treasure, I would have felt it. But there was nothing. They vanished."
Zuo Han stroked his beard. "Then it was no ordinary thief." His gaze sharpened. "Still. The Spirit Transcendence Pill remains. The auction will go on. Guests from every corner of the world are arriving. We will not tear down our face before them."
Wei Qing's jaw tightened. His blue-gold flames licked higher, his voice low and seething. "Whoever it was… I'll find them. If it takes me a lifetime, I'll burn their bones to ash."
Zuo Han placed a hand on his shoulder, calm but firm. "Patience. The heavens always reveal the unworthy. For now, we smile. We host. We profit."
⸻
By then, Lu Mao was already gone.
The jungle swallowed him as he slipped past the outer wards in the guise of a tired outer disciple. His Doppelgänger dissolved into smoke once the last gate was behind him. His breath rasped in his throat, sweat streaking his back.
Only then did he allow himself a grin.
Not caught. Not sensed. Not even a shadow left behind. Old man, you'd call me reckless… but this time, luck followed skill.
For half a day he pushed through thorny undergrowth and rocky hills until the mountains rose around him—jagged peaks like fangs, valleys dark and narrow. He found a cave hidden in the spine of stone, cool and damp, safe from pursuit. Inside, the faint snort of breath greeted him. His Firedrake rose, ember eyes glowing, tail lashing once before it nuzzled his shoulder.
"You waited. Good beast," Lu Mao whispered, stroking its scaled hide. But he wasn't ready to rejoin his team. Not yet. The jar weighed on his mind. The book burned in his vault. The poison pulsed faintly, sealed in gold.
He sat cross-legged, letting his consciousness sink inward.
The inner world stretched before him—vast, empty skies, a ground of black-golden mist. All around it floated his vaults, silent and heavy, each one pulsing with faint light. Three remained open, though some now thrummed with new power which were shut tight, emanating distinct auras.
One pulsed darkly—poison sealed within.
One glowed faint with jade light—the stolen martial book.
The third shimmered with soft white and faint gold—the jar of flawed pills.
Lu Mao approached the second. He willed it open. The martial book emerged, weightless in his hands. He flipped it open—and at once the golden vein running through his inner world thrummed violently.
The pages dissolved. Words flared into golden fire, writing themselves across the air in a thousand blazing strokes. His world shook as the fire inscribed every line, every technique, burning it into reality. The sky trembled, then collapsed inward. The words imploded, devoured by the vault like a black hole swallowing suns.
Pain ripped through his head. Knowledge slammed into his mind, raw and merciless. He gasped, clutching his temples, veins bulging, sweat dripping.
Then clarity.
The pathways of pill refinement. The balance of herbs. The merging of flames and qi. The poisons, their counters, their deadly harmonies. He could see it all—but not yet wield it.
So this is what true alchemists carry. A world of fire and talent. Knowledge without skill is only weight. Still… I've taken his notes. His legacy, even if I can't use it yet. Father, I'm walking paths too high for me. But I won't stop.
Before he could steady himself, the third vault pulsed.
The jar of flawed pills trembled, then vanished into the vault's mouth. Light rippled. The vault shut tight, humming.
Lu Mao froze.
Wait… I didn't—!
A deep vibration coursed through the inner world. Golden veins throbbed, sending ripples through the misty ground. The vault glowed brighter, brighter still, until beams of light shot into the sky. It thrummed like a beating heart.
Then silence.
He swallowed, approached cautiously. "Well?"
The vault cracked open.
A pill floated into his palm. Blue, flawless, its surface gleaming with crystalline clarity. But unlike Wei Qing's, its aura was not yellow flame—it burned golden, radiant, like sunlight condensed into a spark.
Lu Mao's lips parted. His body trembled.
He laughed. First a chuckle. Then a wild, unstoppable roar. His voice filled the cave, bouncing against stone.
"HA! Jackpot! Jackpot! The heavens bless the bold!"
The jar was gone, consumed. But he knew—inside, every flawed pill had been reborn. Not one, not ten, but more than a hundred gleaming miracles waiting in his vault. His fortune. His rise. His secret.
Breath still heaving, he closed the vaults. He did not dare open the poison one yet. Not tonight.
Mounting his Firedrake, he urged it through the night. The beast raced over rock and brush, its ember scales streaking light in the darkness. Hours passed before the sprawl of High Palm City rose ahead, lanterns glowing, the cavernous alleys alive with whispers.
In a back alley, beneath crumbling roofs and damp stone, shadows waited. Li Xian leaned against a wall, arms folded, expression calm but eyes sharp. Bao Fu fidgeted on a crate, nervous energy buzzing. Chen Yuan stood silent, face unreadable. Yan Mei perched above, silent as the night, watching every flicker of movement.
The air shifted.
A hooded figure stepped into the alley. Slow. Measured.
Yan Mei dropped down soundlessly, her eyes fixed on him. Lu Mao raised his hand. His palm opened.
A pill sat there, glowing blue with golden flames curling around it like a crown.
The alley froze.
Yan Mei's eyes widened. Li Xian's mask cracked, pupils tightening. Bao Fu's jaw fell open. Even Chen Yuan let out a sharp breath.
The golden light spilled into the shadows, searing the silence of High Palm City.
The Black Dragon team stared at Lu Mao's prize, their cries breaking the night.