The stairs spiraled downward, their steps aglow with gentle light. As Darian descended deeper into the Outer Archives, the air grew heavy with the scent of ink, old parchment, and something less tangible — the weight of forgotten knowledge.
He stepped into a vast, circular chamber. Bookshelves towered above him, carved from jade and darkwood, coiling like a dragon's spine around the room's perimeter. Floating lanterns bobbed gently in the air, illuminating titles etched in golden script. Scrolls, jade slips, and stone tablets rested in ordered rows, untouched by time.
A translucent projection shimmered into view — a spirit attendant, its form that of a young man in flowing robes.
"Welcome to the Outer Archives of the Jade Dragon Sect," it said in a serene voice. "Access granted to preliminary manuals, sect histories, foundational cultivation arts, and path selection orbs. May your path be bright, disciple."
Darian blinked. "Just like that?"
The projection tilted its head. "You have been acknowledged. All who stand here must choose a path — or remain lost."
He wandered between the shelves, brushing his fingers along the titles.
'Essence of the Twelve Peaks'
'The Dragon-Soul Foundation Scripture'
'Manual of Pill Flames and Spirit Roots'
'Array Theory of Verdant Wards'
Each title tugged at him in different ways. He paused before a display at the center of the chamber — twelve glowing spheres, each suspended above a stone pedestal. Within each orb danced a different element: fire, metal, mist, sigils, light, and other forces he could barely comprehend.
"Choose," the spirit said. "But know that the path you walk first shall shape your foundation."
He stared at the orbs. Each one represented a Pillar Peak — a sacred tradition preserved by the sect.
His hand drifted to the Verdant Array Orb, glowing with threads of green and gold. But he hesitated. Another orb — flickering with a steady amber flame — pulsed warmly at his presence.
Azure Flame Peak.
Alchemy.
He thought of his father's injuries from battling beasts at the forest's edge… his grandmother's reliance on rare pills to maintain her strength… and how so few in their borderland knew the art of refining medicines.
If he could learn to create spirit pills… it might change everything for his family.
He reached forward. The moment his fingers brushed the flame, a surge of heat rushed through him.
The archives vanished.
The world reshaped itself.
He now stood in a mountain courtyard, beneath skies the color of molten bronze. Pill furnaces lined the stone platforms, glowing with flickering inner fire. Spectral figures — illusions of past disciples — moved through the grounds, refining herbs, tending flames, reading manuals.
A voice spoke again — the same remnant will from before.
"You have chosen the Pill Flame. Then face its test."
A wave of warmth pressed in from all sides. A formation flared beneath his feet, and a bronze cauldron manifested before him — plain, cracked, yet radiating a quiet dignity.
Around him appeared five spirit herbs, each hovering in the air: crimson lotus leaf, frostroot bulb, silvervine blossom, blood cicada husk, and duskberry resin. All unfamiliar — yet somehow known.
"Form the Lesser Vitality Elixir," the voice instructed. "A beginner's trial… but the flame accepts no pretenders."
Darian stepped forward. The cauldron's mouth opened. Heat pulsed upward. A set of instructions echoed in his mind — the process imprinted from the legacy of the sect.
First, prepare the frostroot to cool the qi base. Grind silvervine to release spiritual enzymes. Bind the blood cicada last — too early, and the mixture collapses. Maintain flame below fourth intensity for three breaths, then—
He lit the fire. Spiritual essence coiled upward.
And it all went wrong.
The frostroot melted instead of infusing. The lotus leaf burned instantly. The resin clumped, and the husk shattered before it could be sealed.
The cauldron exploded with a hiss. A puff of blue smoke rose, coating his face.
He coughed, stunned and blinking.
"Failure," said the voice.
Darian gritted his teeth. "Again."
The scene reset.
He started over. And failed again.
And again.
Hours passed. Or perhaps days. The realm obeyed no mortal cycle.
On his sixth attempt, he made it past the mid-stage. On the seventh, the brew ignited violently.
He felt his spiritual essence being drained with each try — not painfully, but persistently. Like the realm demanded sincerity as a toll.
On his ninth attempt, he caught a rhythm — placing ingredients in harmony with their elemental natures, not just their listed sequence.
Spirit flame does not follow logic, he remembered from a scroll. It follows intent.
He calmed his heart. Focused not on success — but on balance.
The herbs danced in the flame, their auras coiling together.
The cauldron pulsed once.
Then, with a faint pop, the elixir settled.
A single pill rolled into the collection tray — pale amber, veined with gold.
Silence.
Then the voice returned, thoughtful.
"A lesser vitality elixir. Crude… but whole. You have succeeded."
The cauldron vanished.
In its place, a jade token floated into view, inscribed with the symbol of the Azure Flame.
"Take this. With it, the inner grounds of Azure Flame Peak will recognize you. You are now an Initiate."
Darian held the token. It felt heavier than it looked — not in weight, but in meaning.
Then the remnant soul appeared again, half-shrouded in mist.
"You have passed the First Trial," it said. "One peak opened. Eleven remain silent. Each path requires both talent and dedication. Choose as many as you dare — but do not forget: true mastery demands sacrifice."
Darian nodded, though a dozen questions swirled in his mind.
"Will I meet other disciples?" he asked. "Or is this kingdom truly empty?"
"There were once thousands," the Monarch said softly. "Their echoes remain. Some as trials. Some… as warnings."
Darian thought of the murals — of the demons, the betrayal.
"What happens if I unlock all twelve peaks?"
For a long moment, the soul did not answer. Then, in a voice tinged with both awe and sorrow:
"Then you will walk the path I could not finish."