Three days after the announcement of the Heirs' Competition.
The hall was empty. The echo of the patriarch's voice still seemed trapped in the walls, like a sentence too heavy to forget.
Arata walked alone through the stone courtyard, hands behind his back and his gaze lost in the cloudy sky.
"Three months... In three months, I have to defeat Seok, Hyun... and still carry the burden of everything I've done."
He stopped before an ancient tree, its leaves swaying slowly in the wind.
"But how? I can't cultivate. I can't use formations. My body remains the same. I am just... me."
For a moment, the idea of giving up passed like a shadow. But it was soon suffocated by a silent flame — the same that had guided him since exile.
"No... I can't keep being weak. Useless. Exiled. I was already called a plague, a shame. Enough is enough."
He clenched his fists.
"If I can't win with what everyone uses... then I need something no one would dare seek."
Then he remembered. An old tale he had read in the forgotten records of the Low Mist Sect: a recluse alchemist whose pills could strengthen a mortal's body enough to rival cultivators. A madman, they said... but a genius, to those who understood the hidden art of internal transformation.
"The master of the black pills..."
Arata lifted his eyes, his breath quickening, as if the weight of doubt had been swept away by a single breath of clarity.
— Finally... I have found the answer to become stronger.
---
In the ancestral hall, he knelt before the patriarch. The eyes of the elders upon him weighed like stones.
— I need to leave. To the Low Mist Sect.
The patriarch raised an eyebrow, drumming his fingers on the throne.
— Again? It's been barely a month since you returned. If you were going to go again, you might as well have stayed there.
Arata kept his head low.
— I wasn't strong enough when I returned. But I will come back with what's needed to win.
Silence. Then the patriarch sighed.
— Go. If you're going to lose, at least do it with some dignity.
Arata bowed in reverence.
"I will not lose."
---
Six days later.
Arata crossed the stone gates of the Low Mist Sect. The scent of herbs — fresh, bitter, and comforting — wrapped around him like an old blanket. The valley was serene, untouched by the tension that gripped the Jaegal Clan.
"I already miss this place... As if the weight of my clan's expectations simply doesn't exist here."
The narrow corridors, moss-covered walls, and lanterns flickering in the wind felt welcoming. The competition was indeed approaching. But something inside Arata blossomed: a thread of hope.
Without hesitation, he went to the library.
Li Yoon was there, as always, surrounded by manuscripts.
— Ah... Arata. I was just wondering when you'd return.
— I need your advice, Master Li. I want to learn alchemy.
Li Yoon closed the book calmly.
— Alchemy? You don't just want pills, you want power.
— I want to win the competition. It's the only chance to change my fate.
The old master sighed.
— Alchemy isn't like martial arts. It's a lonely path, demanding precision... patience... and sacrifice. And it doesn't always lead to the strength you hope to find.
— Even so... I am determined. If there is a way, I will follow it.
Li Yoon placed his hand on his shoulder, seriously.
— Then find Daiki.
— The gardener?
— Yes. He was the disciple of the disciple of the master of the black pills. But he abandoned that path. Today he only tends plants.
— Will he teach me?
— I don't know. He avoids talking about alchemy. You'll have to do more than ask. You'll have to make him remember... why he left it all behind.
— Where can I find him?
— In the southern greenhouses. He speaks more to flowers than to people. But maybe... he'll speak with you.
— Be careful, Arata. The deadliest poisons also come from the most beautiful plants.
---
In the southern greenhouse, wrapped in the strong scent of rare flowers and herbs with forgotten names, there he was.
Daiki.
As always, kneeling among the plants, fingers stained with earth, caring for a flower with black petals that shouldn't exist at that altitude.
Without raising his eyes:
— And you, Arata... I haven't seen you in a long time.
Arata hesitated before stepping inside.
— Hello, gardener. I want to learn alche—
In the blink of an eye, Daiki grabbed him by the neck and pushed him against the wall. Vases fell, shattering.
— Who told you? — he growled. — Who told you I ever practiced alchemy?
— It was... Li Yoon... my master...
Daiki released him. Arata fell to his knees, coughing. The gardener took two steps back, breathing deeply.
— Go away. And never speak of this to me again.
Arata stood up, massaging his neck.
— Please... I have to learn, Daiki.
The punch was sharp. Arata fell again, gasping. Daiki approached, furious.
— You're lucky to be Li Yoon's disciple. If you were anyone else, you'd be dead by now.
Arata said nothing. He knelt completely and pressed his forehead to the ground, among broken pottery and fallen petals.
— Please... there's nothing left for me.
Silence. The black-petaled flower swayed. Then:
— Get up.
Arata obeyed. Daiki's eyes no longer held only fury — there was a trace of remembrance.
— Don't think I've accepted you as a disciple. — he said, turning back to the plants. — Come back tomorrow.
---
The next morning, the greenhouse seemed transformed. The air was denser, saturated with subtle heat emanating from an ancient bronze cauldron placed in the center. The darkened metal vibrated lightly, as if holding a dormant power within.
— Alchemy begins here — said Daiki, voice calm but heavy. — Before formulas, there's the essential: qi.
He turned to Arata, with a serious look.
— You need to cultivate. Refine the qi inside you. Only then can you inject it into the cauldron.
Arata took a deep breath, eyes fixed on the cauldron.
— I... can't cultivate.
Daiki frowned.
— What do you mean?
— I have an illness. I can't store a drop of qi inside me.
The gardener was silent for a moment. Then he stepped forward, looking him up and down with an expression between shock and disbelief.
— You must be joking.
— No. But I thought of something. — Arata swallowed hard. — What if... instead of cultivating qi, I just gather qi from nature and direct it straight into the cauldron?
Daiki opened his mouth but didn't respond immediately. His gaze drifted for a moment, as if searching some distant memory for a forgotten idea.
— Many have tried that. — he said finally, voice softer. — All failed. The pure qi of nature is too strong, untamable. That's why we cultivate it: we make it weaker, yes, but also more manageable.
Arata clenched his fists.
— But for me, cultivation is impossible. Even if I wanted... I can't. Maybe, precisely because of that, I can do what others couldn't. I have no choice. And maybe... maybe that's what will allow me to guide this wild qi.
Daiki lowered his eyes. He muttered almost to himself:
— Could that be... the answer?
The silence between them was broken only by the soft tinkling of a drop of water falling from a leaf.
Daiki's gaze wavered for a moment — as if distant memories and old sorrow had surfaced.