The patrol squad returned through Northwatch's iron gates as dusk swallowed the horizon.
Armour cracked.
Clothes torn.
Faces pale from exhaustion and cold.
But there were no corpses.
For the Northern Border, that alone counted as a victory.
Medics rushed forward, hauling wounded recruits onto stretchers, wrapping bandages, and pouring warming qi into trembling limbs. Even veterans with stone-hard expressions let out quiet exhales at the sight of every survivor.
Chu Feng walked among them, blood streaking his clothes, breath heavy, muscles aching. The Ironwind banner pole still rested on his back, upright and untouched. His steps remained steady.
Captain Jiao looked over his shoulder once, muttering something low beneath his breath, before barking orders for debriefing and casualty reports.
Inside the stronghold, life surged with brutal purpose.
Hammer strikes rang from the blacksmith forges.
Captive spirit beasts roared in reinforced cages as handlers subdued them.
Medicinal herbs simmered in cauldrons throughout the Alchemy Quarter.
Formation masters adjusted shimmering arrays that pulsed like beating hearts.
Northwatch Stronghold was a living war machine, forged to hold back the endless threat from the northern beast mountains. Every person here was fighting for something.
Chu Feng took in the sight quietly.
To survive here, resources were indispensable, and every single one was earned.
No handouts, only merit.
The entire stronghold functioned on this brutal but fair system.
Beast tamers wrestled frost-furred wolves into submission to bolster the scout units.
Alchemy teams brewed recovery pills day and night; their work was the thin line between life and death for soldiers on winter raids.
Formation wardens climbed icy walls to repair cracked defensive arrays that kept the beasts at bay.
Blacksmith apprentices forged spearheads, hammering metal until their knuckles bled.
Every role contributed, every contribution was counted, and every count became merit.
Merit was the lifeblood of Northwatch Stronghold.
With enough of it, a soldier could access the Stronghold Library—a vault of rare techniques, ancient battle manuals, forgotten treatises, and cultivation insights gathered from centuries of border war.
Without merit, nothing was free.
No pills, no techniques, nor weapons.
Here, resources were not given. They were earned through sweat and blood.
One morning after the patrol, while others slept off exhaustion or limped toward treatment halls, Chu Feng walked straight to the Alchemy Association.
The building stood out against the cold stone of Northwatch. White walls gave off gentle warmth, and thin curls of steam drifted from high windows. The air smelled of crushed spirit herbs and simmering cauldrons. Practitioners in red-trimmed robes moved with quick, practised steps, their hands stained by powders and tinctures.
At the main counter, an attendant glanced up, expression neutral.
"What do you need?"
Chu Feng set down his identity plate. Then he placed a small bronze emblem beside it.
The attendant's eyes widened.
She inhaled sharply.
"Grade 1… Alchemy Badge?"
Her posture changed at once. She bowed with clear respect.
"Welcome. A recognised alchemist is always valued in Northwatch."
The registration process was smooth. Efficient. No nonsense.
He learned the rules laid out for military alchemists:
• Refining pills for the army granted merit.• Delivering processed herbs granted merit.• Completing posted alchemy tasks granted contribution points.• Higher quality work increased one's rank and privileges.
The attendant handed him a thin manual, its pages filled with locations of alchemy rooms and lists of high-demand military pills.
"You may use any open alchemy room during off-days. Submit your finished products for evaluation. All results will be recorded."
Chu Feng gave a small nod.
He stepped out of the hall with a pouch of herbs.
Days settled into a strict rhythm.
At dawn, he trained with his team using a spear.
The weapon felt unwieldy at first, its length throwing off his balance, its weight refusing to move with the familiarity of a sword. He drilled until his shoulders burned, repeating thrusts and sweeps until the motions no longer felt like borrowed movements but his own. Each morning, the spear shook less in his grip.
At midday, he refined pills.
Success came in flashes. Failure came often. More than once, the cauldron rattled, hissed, or blew its lid off entirely. Yet each attempt clarified the principles recorded in the Alchemy Atlas he had taken from the secret realm. His control grew steadier. His timing, sharper. His instincts, more precise.
In the evenings, he cultivated.
Sitting atop the barrack roof, he inhaled the brutal northern qi that cut like ice through his lungs. Circulation became smoother by the day. Meridians thickened under the environment's pressure, and the spiritual tides inside him began to surge with new strength.
At night, he studied runes.
Under dim lantern light, he carved symbols onto discarded beast bones, adjusting strokes, correcting flaws, learning how each line channelled energy. His fingers ached, but the glow in the bones told him when he had gotten it right.
Little by little, he tempered himself.
Every fortnight, he marched into the frozen wilds with his squad.
Each patrol pushed deeper. Each step north felt like stepping closer to another world entirely.
The beasts changed first.
The ones near the wall were violent but simple. The ones farther out carried thicker hides, quicker instincts, stranger mutations born from the harsh land.
The snowfields hid burrowers that listened for heartbeats. The forests whispered with predators that never showed themselves until their teeth were already at a throat. Windstorms rose without warning, sharp enough to cut exposed skin.
Death hovered over every mission.
More than once, a squadmate slipped, misjudged a movement, or got caught in a beast's blind ambush. More than once, someone was already falling when survival seemed impossible.
And more than once, Chu Feng stepped in.
A quick rune shield to block a fatal swipe.A precise spear thrust that pierced a joint in a beast's armour. A healing pellet slipped into a soldier's mouth before their consciousness faded.
The first time he saved a veteran, the squad stared at him long and hard.
He has gained their trust and really become one of them.
He was no longer the quiet newcomer.
He was someone they could trust.
By the third patrol, they moved around him naturally, coordinating without words.By the fourth, another newcomer who had just joined carried the banner.
The season shifted, and half a year slipped by under the same relentless routine.
During that time, he witnessed more death, and numbness slowly settled into his heart. The snowstorms thickened, howling like beasts, and the beasts themselves grew more violent, stirred by the uneasy pulse of war gathering in the far north.
Inside Chu Feng, changes took root:
His consciousness sharpened and refined.
He could now coordinate with his squad to form a battle formation using the spear with fluidity.
His alchemy skills were also improving, pushing him steadily toward the threshold of Grade Two.
His sword intent grew cold and weighty, shaped by the constant brush with death.
Runes surfaced naturally in his thoughts whenever he cultivated or fought.
The Northern Border was merciless…
And while he never demanded recognition, even Captain Jiao seemed to accept his growth, offering the rare approving grunt that counted as high praise in a place built on survival.