Tian Lei reported to the Outer Alchemy Hall shortly after, where the process of induction was... surprisingly bureaucratic.
An attendant in pale green robes guided him through the formalities with the speed and precision of soone who had done this a thousand tis before. Scrolls were signed, seals were impressed, and before long, Tian Lei found himself standing in a long corridor lined with storage rooms and faintly glowing formations.
"This will be your starter kit as an Outer Disciple," the attendant said, handing over a small jade ring. "One standard robe, a basic alchemy fla license, five portions of common spirit herbs, and an Earth-grade cultivation manual—Spirit Refinent Art. Don’t lose it, or you’ll be charged for replacent."
Tian Lei accepted the items politely, though his expression remained calm. "Thank you."
When he returned to his new quarters—a modest stone chamber overlooking a courtyard of young alchemists—he sat cross-legged and examined the materials.
The robe was standard issue: pale gray with a faint green trim symbolizing the lowest tier of alchemy disciples. The Earth-grade manual was serviceable, but when he flipped through its pages, it felt hollow—structured, efficient, but lacking spirit.
He sighed softly. "Compared to what Elder handed ... this is a child’s prir."
Indeed, the Nine Mists of Morning Dew radiated a warmth that pulsed with life itself, its every rune alive with rhythm and intent. The Heaven-rank art wasn’t sothing that taught technique—it invited comprehension.
Tian Lei closed his eyes, aligning his breath. The faint hum of the Heaven-rank scripture resonated with his dantian, rging subtly with the essence of his fla.
He chose not to switch techniques. Instead, he continued cultivating the elder’s gift, allowing its deeper anings to intertwine with his Spirit Rebirth Technique. Each ditation refined his understanding of alchemy—not rely as the act of transmutation, but as the conversation between life and essence.
Days turned into weeks. His room often slled faintly of dew and herbs, the scent escaping through the windows as his cauldron flared with silvery light. Occasionally, passing disciples would pause, glancing curiously at the soft radiance that pulsed from within.
"Who’s in that room? I’ve never seen a fla like that before.""New Outer Disciple, I think. Supposedly ca from the Middle Garden.""The Middle Garden? Hah. What’s a farr doing with a Heaven-grade cauldron glow?"
The whispers never reached Tian Lei’s mind—nor would they have mattered.
Every night, he could still recall the elder’s words: Alchemy is not the art of fire and cauldron. It is the art of purification and transformation.
And so, he purified. Transford.
Each herb he refined beca clearer, each pill more stable. Even his fla began to show traits unseen among the Outer Disciples—soft, steady, yet capable of washing away impurity with gentle authority.
Underneath that tranquil progress, a quiet montum was building.
The faint hum that once filled his chamber was now resonating through the courtyard itself—unseen, yet undeniable.
The next phase, it seed, wasn’t waiting for him to find it.
It was coming to him.
A week later, a deep gong reverberated through the Outer Alchemy Hall—three slow strikes that rolled through the courtyard like thunder wrapped in silk. Every disciple paused mid-refinent, heads lifting toward the sound.
Monts later, a voice—aged, calm, and layered with authority—echoed through the sect’s spiritual formation.
"All Outer Alchemy Disciples, assemble at the Grand Square."
Tian Lei extinguished his cauldron fla with a light flick of his wrist. The silvery radiance folded inward and vanished like mist returning to morning dew. He stood, adjusted his robe, and joined the steady stream of disciples flowing toward the square.
The Grand Square lay at the heart of the Outer Court—a vast expanse of polished white stone engraved with ancient runic sigils that shimred faintly under sunlight. Thousands of disciples stood in formation, their robes forming orderly lines like waves of color.
At the forefront stood several elders in deep gold robes, each exuding tranquil might. The leading elder—stern but composed—stepped forward, his voice carrying through the vast expanse.
"Six months have passed since the last Alchemy Selection. By decree of the Sect Master, it is ti to determine which of you possess the qualifications to ascend."
A murmur rippled through the disciples.
"Those who prove their mastery will be permitted entry into the Inner Alchemy Grounds," the elder continued. "There, you will be recognized as true alchemists of the sect. The unqualified shall remain as Outer Disciples until the next cycle."
His gaze swept across the rows, sharp as lightning and heavy as stone.
"The trial begins in three days. Prepare your materials, refine your spirits, and rember—alchemy reveals the heart before it reveals the hand."
With that, the formation dispersed.
As the crowd thinned, Tian Lei lingered at the edge of the square. The faint lines of light from the runes below flickered once, reflecting in his eyes. So the selection cos after six months...
His lips quirked. "Then this must be it—the next phase."
He returned to his quarters, his mind sharper than ever. The mont he entered, his cauldron responded instinctively—its surface shimring, as though it too sensed the shift in the air.
He didn’t rush. Instead, he sat cross-legged, pulling the Nine Mists of Morning Dew to his lap. His hands rested on the worn cover, and for a long mont, he simply breathed.
He could feel it now—his cultivation had quietly advanced to Tier III Alchemist, a level that would usually grant one the right to serve as an Inner Disciple. Yet the trial realm remained sealed. The world did not yield its way out so easily.
"This isn’t about rank," he murmured. "It’s about completion."
Alchemy wasn’t rely refining herbs into pills—it was refining self through patience, essence, and transformation. The elder’s words echoed again: Alchemy is the art of purification and transformation.
So Tian Lei didn’t rest. He refined tirelessly through day and night—each pill a mirror of his evolving understanding, each failure another layer of refinent on his heart.
Outside, the disciples speculated and whispered. Inside, his fla danced between gold and white, purifying not only the herbs before him but the very air.
By the ti the three days passed, his courtyard no longer slled of dew—it radiated clarity.
And as the sun rose on the day of the Alchemy Selection, Tian Lei opened his eyes, silver-gold fla swirling within them like two worlds colliding.
"Let’s see," he said softly, standing, "what the sect calls true alchemy."
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