My Years as a Menace in the Sect

The night before his quarterfinal match against Xu Baocai, Wei Pingan huddled on that hard wooden bed that could break his back, tossing and turning all night.

Not excited.

He was genuinely terrified.

Those images just wouldn't leave my mind. Zhao Feng's face covered in chili powder, Deacon Sun's dark, menacing gaze, and the sword at Xu Baochai's waist, its movement so fast it was almost invisible as it was drawn from its sheath.

The worst scenarios kept flashing before his eyes, and by the middle of the night, he had mentally rehearsed them three times.

A bruised and swollen face would be the least of his worries; losing an arm was not out of the question. The more he thought about it, the clearer his mind became, and the clearer his mind became, the more frightened he became. In the end, he simply hugged the black iron pot to his chest, like a drowning person clinging to a piece of driftwood, his fingers repeatedly touching the notch that Zhao Feng had cut into the edge of the pot.

"It's over, it's over, I'm probably going to be in big trouble this time." He pressed his face against the cold pot, his lips moving as he muttered, his voice so soft that only he could hear it.

As he turned over, his thigh bumped into something hard under the pillow. He reached in and rummaged around, pulling out three items: half a low-grade spirit stone, its edges chipped and uneven, like it had been chewed by a dog—a reward he'd earned for finishing in the top eight; two bottles of Qi Gathering Powder, the labels crooked and the ink almost smeared together, clearly the cheapest kind; and a crumpled slip for selecting scraps from the outer edge of the pill storehouse, the paper slightly warm from his body heat.

The food wasn't much; among outer disciples, it was barely enough to make ends meet. But it was something he had earned through sheer hard work. Every scratch on the pot was a testament to his skill.

He held the spirit stone in his hand, turned it over, and examined the cracks on it by the little moonlight coming in from the window, starting to think of a way to save face.

He was an expert at setting up steps, and he did it in no time: So what if I lost? There are rewards for the top eight, much better than those who were eliminated in the first round. At worst, I can go up tomorrow, have a couple of rounds, and then admit defeat. It's better than stubbornly holding on until the end and being carried off. It's not worth the risk of losing an arm or a leg, and you can't eat your pride.

Thinking this, his heart finally calmed down a little. He stuffed the spirit stone back under his pillow, flattened the selection slip, folded it into a small square, and carefully kept it close to his body. Finally, he turned over, hugging the black iron pot, facing the wall, and forced himself to close his eyes.

I don't know how long I slept, but when I opened my eyes again, the window paper was already bluish-white. It was just beginning to get light.

Wei Ping'an sat up, feeling as if his eyelids were weighed down by two weights.

He rubbed his face vigorously, took out the antidote pill Zhou Yan had given him yesterday from under his pillow and put it in his pocket, then slung the black iron pot over his back and tied the straps.

The bottom of the pot hit his spine, and the coolness seeped into his skin through his clothes, which actually made him a little more awake.

He pushed open the door, and the morning breeze, carrying the dampness of dew, rushed in. The leaves of the crooked jujube tree in the yard rustled in the wind. He stood at the doorway and took two deep breaths, feeling that his calves were still weak, as if he were walking on cotton.

"It's okay, it's okay, I can just admit defeat." He recited the mantra to himself again before reluctantly walking towards the arena.

The distance from the medicine testing hall to the competition arena was only half a cup of tea's worth of walking, but he took the time it takes for an incense stick to burn to make it. With each step, he pondered how to gracefully admit defeat. Should he endure a couple of moves first, or simply raise his hand as soon as the gong sounds? The latter option was too humiliating, so he rejected it in his mind. He had to withstand at least three to five moves; as long as he could save face, that would be enough.

Before even reaching the edge of the ring, a round figure could be seen spinning in circles like a top.

As soon as Zhang Erpang looked up and saw him, he immediately jogged over to meet him, his fat face jiggling with each step, and his forehead covered in sweat.

"Brother Wei, you're finally here! I've been so worried!" Zhang Erpang said in a low voice, his voice urgent and fast. "Do you know how Xu Baochai won yesterday? Ten moves! Just ten moves! His opponent didn't even have time to draw his sword before his wrist was severed, and blood spurted three feet away! I saw it with my own eyes, and I'm still feeling uneasy."

Wei Ping'an listened, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

"Understood, Brother Zhang," he forced a smile, though he himself felt his lips were stiff. "If you can't beat them, you admit defeat without hesitation."

Before Zhang Erpang could say anything more, the gong sounded. The referee's booming voice pierced through the noisy crowd: "Eighth match, Wei Ping'an from the Medicine Testing Hall versus Xu Baocai from Danfeng!"

All eyes immediately turned to him. Wei Ping'an felt a thin layer of sweat instantly break out on his back, the fabric sticking coolly to his skin.

He took a deep breath, gripped the pot strap tightly, and climbed onto the ring.

There were nine steps in total. He counted them as he went up, and when he got to the seventh step, he slipped and almost tripped. Several snickers immediately rose from the audience.

He wasn't annoyed. He steadied himself and continued climbing until he finally stood on the platform.

Xu Baocai was already waiting on the other side.

This person stood out from the crowd. His white clothes were clean and neat, the material wasn't particularly fine but it was pressed so well that there wasn't a single wrinkle. The scabbard at his waist was made of dark leather with copper trim, and the knot on the hilt of the sword was tied neatly.

He stood ramrod straight, shoulders level and back ramrod straight, like a long spear stuck in the ground, which made people feel intimidated.

When Xu Baochai saw him climb up, his eyebrows twitched slightly. His expression wasn't exactly contemptuous, but it did carry a hint of surprise: "I thought you would forfeit."

Wei Ping'an grinned, revealing a set of white teeth: "How could that be? Come up and learn a few moves from Senior Brother Xu. Even if I lose, it won't be a loss."

He spoke eloquently, but only he knew that his calves were still trembling. He took the black iron pot off his back and held it in his hand, the pot facing away from him, assuming a defensive starting stance.

The gong rang out again, and the competition began.

Xu Baocai didn't stand on ceremony with him. With a flick of his wrist, the movement was so fast it was almost invisible, and the longsword was already drawn, its blade gleaming with a cold, bluish light in the morning glow.

With a light touch of his feet, he slid across the platform, the sword tip whistling through the air as it aimed straight for his chest, much faster than when they fought one-on-one in the back mountain last time.

Wei Ping'an was prepared. He didn't dodge or flinch, but instead lowered his body, gripped the edge of the pot with both hands, and raised it upwards. With a crisp "ding," the tip of the sword struck the bottom of the pot squarely, and sparks flew out, burning the back of his hand.

But Xu Baochai had indeed learned his lesson. Last time when they were sparring in the back mountain, this guy was still foolishly hacking and slashing, but this time the tip of his sword touched the pot and then withdrew, like a dragonfly skimming the water, and the force had already changed direction before it even reached the pot.

The sword slid along the edge of the pot, its blade turning at a tricky angle, heading straight for his fingers gripping the pot's edge, as fast as a snake flicking its tongue.

Wei Ping'an's pupils contracted, and he reflexively pulled his hand back, taking two steps backward. His heel hit the edge of the ring, and he swayed, almost falling off. He quickly braced himself against the ground with the pot to regain his balance.

He was inwardly groaning. This person learned too quickly, always targeting the places the pot couldn't block – wrists, elbows, shoulders, the sides of knees – every strike aimed at joints and gaps, at angles so cunning it made his scalp tingle.

He had no other choice but to rely on the agility he had honed in the drug testing hall to dodge left and right. When he couldn't dodge, he would use the pot to block the blows. The pot surface was poked by the sword tip, making a series of crisp, clanging sounds, like someone was hammering an anvil with a fast and rapid rhythm.

The murmurs from the audience grew louder and louder. He heard a few comments like, "Isn't this just a coward?" and "What's the use of just hiding?" Some people were even counting the moves, and by the fifteenth move, their tone had become gloating.

He heard it but wasn't angry; his expression didn't even change. So what if he hid? Hiding could save his life. He came to compete, not to die.

The first rule the drug testing center taught him was: staying alive is more important than anything else.

Gritting his teeth and enduring the pain, he focused all his attention on the tip of his opponent's sword. Xu Baochai's sword was indeed fast, but his style was unpretentious; every strike was a direct attack, without any feints. This allowed him to barely predict the sword's trajectory, although even if he did, his body might not be able to keep up.

He was half a step slow when he reached the twenty-second move. Xu Baocai swept his sword diagonally, at a low and skewed angle, the blade grazing under the pot. He didn't have time to lower the pot, and only felt a cool sensation on his left upper arm. His clothes were torn open, and his skin was grazed by the sword. The pain felt like a thin line of fire shooting up his arm.

Before the pain had fully subsided, Wei Ping'an had already jumped back a large step, using the pot as a shield, and raised his other hand high above his head with his five fingers spread wide, his voice loud and clear: "I surrender! I can't beat Senior Brother Xu!"

The entire room fell silent for a moment, as if everyone was stunned by the sudden and decisive turn of events. Then, laughter erupted like a floodgate had been opened. Some people slapped their thighs with laughter, some shouted, "That was too fast!", and others imitated his tone of surrender in a high-pitched voice.

Wei Ping'an remained expressionless, lowering his raised hand to cover the wound on his arm, a sticky, warm substance seeping from between his fingers.

Xu Baochai stood there, stunned, his sword still in a sweeping, angled position. He frowned, his lips twitching as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he simply sheathed his sword, his tone tinged with reluctance and regret: "You could hold out a few more moves."

"I can't take it anymore, I can't take it anymore," Wei Ping'an said, clutching his arm and backing away with a smile on his face. "If I keep going, I'll get hurt. It's not worth it. Senior Brother Xu is amazing, I'm truly impressed."

That's no exaggeration. Xu Baochai is indeed formidable; every single one of those twenty-two moves was overwhelming. He had already used every ounce of strength he had. If he had taken another move, it might not have been as simple as just a scratch.

The referee glanced at him, a look of amusement and disbelief in his eyes, but still raised his hand: "Eighth match, Xu Baocai of Danfeng wins!"

Wei Ping'an bowed swiftly and then dashed off the stage. His steps were much lighter than when he came up; the heavy weight on his heart had finally been lifted. Losing was fine; the mission was complete, the reward was in hand, and he only got a minor scrape on his arm—it was a huge win.

He pushed through the crowd, found a quiet corner, and squatted down, pulling up his torn sleeve to check his injury. A shallow bloodstain, about two inches long, ran across the outside of his forearm. It wasn't deep, and the bleeding had stopped on its own, with a layer of dark red scab forming at the edges. He took out the ointment Zhou Yan had given him, scooped out a small piece, and applied it to the wound. The cool sensation seeped into his skin, and the pain subsided considerably.

Before the coolness of the ointment had even dissipated, he looked up and was met with a gloomy gaze.

Deacon Sun stood a dozen steps away by a pillar in the corridor. It was unclear when he had arrived or how long he had been watching. His eyes, sunken in the shadows of his brow bone, resembled two bottomless dry wells. His gaze slowly slid from his face to the wound on his arm, then to the black iron pot on his back, and finally settled on the newly added sword mark on the rim of the pot.

He paused for about two breaths. Then, he snorted a cold breath from his nostrils. The sound wasn't loud, but it felt like a needle pricking the back of Wei Ping'an's neck. Deacon Sun flicked his sleeves, turned, and walked away. His steps were slow, but each one was extremely steady, as if he were measuring something.

Wei Ping'an remained crouched, watching the figure disappear around the corner of the corridor before slowly standing up. He touched the back of his neck; his hand was covered in cold sweat.

The competition has come to an end.

Life didn't change much because of the title of "top eight". The medicine testing hall was still the same medicine testing hall, the courtyard was still piled with endless dregs of medicine and endless firewood, and the air was always filled with a bitter smell of herbs mixed with the smoke from the stove.

Wei Ping'an's daily life was not much different from before: he would get up in the morning to help Old Man Zheng test new medicines, spend the afternoon practicing his half-baked Qi-inducing technique in the backyard, and chop wood, fetch water, and do chores in the evening.

Things seemed to have calmed down, but the flame in his heart burned even brighter.

There are too few proper pills left. There's only one and a half bottles of Qi Gathering Powder left, and that'll be all. There's only half a low-grade spirit stone, not even enough to buy the cheapest pill in the market.

The spiritual energy he absorbed through meditation was pitifully thin. The threshold of the third level of Qi Induction was right in front of him. He could feel that the Qi in his dantian was thicker than before, but he was just one step away from breaking through.

That afternoon, he squatted beside the pile of waste in the backyard of the drug testing hall, holding a handful of things in each hand.

In his left hand were the dregs of failed alchemy, a dark brown powder mixed with some grayish-white particles. These were the dregs from failed alchemy, which should have been collected and destroyed.

On the right is the slag of the fire-controlling stone. This stuff is the refractory material laid at the bottom of the alchemy furnace. It will break after burning for a long time, and the waste material is piled up in the pit on the back mountain, exposed to the wind and sun and no one cares about it.

He had been staring at these two things for several days. At first, he was just squatting by the waste pile in a daze when he casually picked up a pinch of waste pill residue and rubbed it. The powder remaining on his fingertips gave him a flash of inspiration. Although the medicinal properties of this stuff had mostly dissipated, it was still a spiritual herb at its core, unlike the mud on the roadside.

Since it's all waste material anyway, and I might as well throw it away, I might as well try making some small dumplings myself. Maybe it will work?

Without further ado, Wei Ping'an packed the two types of waste materials into two cloth bags and carried them back to his small, dilapidated hut. He found a chipped stone mortar and half a blue brick used as a paperweight. He poured the waste pill residue into the mortar, held the blue brick as a pestle, and ground it bit by bit.

The dregs of the waste pills were harder than he had imagined. His palms turned red after grinding for a short while, so he switched hands and continued grinding until both hands were burning with pain. Finally, he managed to grind the dregs into a coarse powder that was barely usable.

Breaking the firestone fragments was even more difficult. The material itself was fire-resistant, and after smashing it with a brick for a long time, he only managed to break a small portion; the rest was impossible to break. He thought for a moment, then wrapped the fragments in two layers of coarse cloth, placed it on the ground, and smashed it with the bottom of a pot. After a dozen or so thuds, the fragments in the cloth finally gave in, turning into a pile of grayish-white fine powder.

Add water, knead into balls, and place on the windowsill to dry.

The results of the first three days were disastrous. Too much water made the dough balls too soft and mushy, and they turned into a small puddle of mud in less than an hour when left on the windowsill.

If you add too little water, it won't hold together; it will break into several pieces as soon as you let go.

After finally managing to get the proportions just right for the meatballs to take shape, they were left to dry for half a day, and then several cracks appeared on the surface of the meatballs, making them look like a dried-up riverbed.

The most dangerous incident occurred on the evening of the fourth day. As he was kneading the waste pill residue and fire-controlling stone powder together, he suddenly felt a slight heat in his palm. Looking down, he saw a wisp of extremely thin white smoke rising from the half-kneaded pill, carrying a pungent burnt smell.

He was so frightened that he threw the meatballs on the ground and ran away. In his panic, he kicked the spatula far away, and it rolled to the corner of the wall with a clatter.

The man crouched behind the threshold for a long time, only peeking out with half his head, staring at the smoking thing on the ground, his heart pounding in his chest.

After waiting for almost the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, the white smoke dissipated on its own, and the pill lay quietly on the ground, neither exploding nor burning. He waited another half a cup of tea before daring to slowly inch over, poked it with a spatula, and discovered that it was just a little bit of fire-attribute medicinal power remaining in the waste pill residue that reacted with the fire-controlling stone, and the sweat on his palms caused it to smoke.

It was a false alarm.

He let out a long sigh and plopped down on the ground, his back soaked with cold sweat. Covered in dust, he picked up the pills from the ground and kneaded them again. This time, he dared not knead too much at once, taking only a small pinch of powder each time and adding water with precision, using chopsticks to drip it in.

After seven or eight days of effort, a few formed balls finally appeared on the windowsill. They varied in size and color, some grayish and some brownish, but at least they wouldn't break at the slightest touch.

That evening, Wei Ping'an squatted by the wall in the courtyard, holding a small pill that had been drying for two days in his hand, and looked at it over and over a dozen times.

The meatballs were about the size of a fingernail, with a rough and uneven surface. They were dark grayish-brown in color and looked like they were made of mud, so they didn't look very appealing.

He lightly scraped the surface of the pill with his fingernail, removing a very thin layer of powder, and brought it to his nose to smell. It had a strong earthy smell, the smell of the waste pill residue itself, but beneath the earthy smell was a faint, almost imperceptible coolness, so subtle it was practically undetectable unless you smelled it carefully. This was quite different from any other medicinal powder he had tried before.

"This is interesting..." he muttered, tucking the meatballs into his pocket and standing up to dust off his hands.

The sun was setting, and a large patch of fiery clouds burned across the horizon, casting long shadows from the courtyard wall. He looked up at the sky, deciding to make another trip to the back mountain before it got completely dark.

The fire-controlling stone he brought back last time was intact, and there should be other scraps at the bottom of the pit. Maybe he could find something useful if he was lucky. He slung the black iron pot over his shoulder, tied it securely, and crouched down to slip out through the back door of the medicine testing hall, walking close to the wall. He took one step, stopped, looked left and right before taking the next step, like a thief.

The back door of the drug testing hall leads to a narrow alley with high walls on both sides and slippery moss covering the ground. He walked along the base of the wall for about half a cup of tea's time, then turned a corner, and the earthen pit where the waste was piled up came into view.

The pit was about two zhang square, not very deep, only about half a person's height. The bottom was covered with a layer of gravel mixed with dark gray waste, and the sides were overgrown with waist-high weeds. Last time, he found the fire-controlling stone on the east side of the pit.

He had just crouched down to slide into the pit when a whooshing sound suddenly exploded behind him.

The sound was shrill and thin, like something tearing through the air. It was so fast that the moment the ears caught the sound, the scalp tingled. Wei Ping'an reacted faster than his brain. The instant he heard the sound, his body lunged to the side, tumbling and scrambling into the nearby bushes. The black iron pot on his back slammed against a protruding rock, the impact sending shivers down his spine.

A streak of blue light grazed past his head. He lay on the ground, watching helplessly as the light embedded itself deeply into the trunk of a nearby old pine tree, its tip still humming. It was a short sword. The blade was less than two feet long, engraved with fine patterns, gleaming coldly in the twilight. A blue tassel was tied to the end of the hilt, swaying from side to side with the aftershock.

Wei Ping'an lay prone in the mud, his face pressed against the grass, barely daring to breathe. His heart pounded in his chest like a drum, so hard he suspected someone could hear it through the bottom of a pot. Several breaths passed, and all that could be heard was the sound of the wind, footsteps, and a second whooshing sound. Only then did he slowly raise his head and look in the direction from which the short sword had come.

A person was squatting on a branch that stretched out horizontally from the old pine tree.

Dusk had fallen, and the light was dim, but he could still make out a general outline. A girl about his age was wearing a short, moon-white robe with narrow sleeves tied at the wrists, paired with matching leggings and dark ankle boots. Her hair was tied in a high ponytail, revealing her smooth forehead and bright eyes. Her right hand remained in the posture of throwing a short sword, fingers slightly spread and suspended in mid-air, a casual gesture as if she had merely tossed a pebble.

The girl looked down at the short sword nailed to the tree trunk, then turned to look at Wei Ping'an, who was sprawled out in the mud. Her brows furrowed slightly, but her tone was surprisingly calm: "What are you doing lying there?"

Her voice was clear and crisp, but the meaning behind her words didn't sound like concern at all.

Wei Ping'an scrambled to his feet, looking utterly disheveled. His trousers were covered in wet mud and bits of grass, his left sleeve was torn, and a few dry grass leaves clung to his face. He straightened the pot he was carrying, looked down at the rim, and saw another thin white mark, standing out starkly against the old scratches.

"I was walking," he swallowed the muddy taste in his mouth, trying to make his voice sound less shaky, "you almost chopped my head off."

The girl leaped down from the tree branch. The branch was at least seven or eight feet off the ground, yet her landing was light and airy; her shoes barely made a sound as they stepped on the pebbles. She walked to the old pine tree, reached for the hilt of her short sword, twisted her wrist, and pulled it outwards, sending wood shavings scattering. She casually flicked the sword to remove the wood shavings, then deftly sheathed it at her waist.

Only when she got closer could you see clearly that she was half a head shorter than Wei Ping'an, with a slender figure, but she stood very steadily with her back straight and her chin slightly raised. When she looked at people, her gaze carried a natural sense of scrutiny, as if she was used to examining everything around her from a critical perspective.

"Which hall are you from?" She looked him up and down.

"Drug Testing Center"

"What are the people from the drug testing center doing in the back mountain after dark?" The question was asked slowly and deliberately, but the scrutiny in his eyes was even stronger.

Wei Ping'an's mind raced. He couldn't say he was scavenging for scrap, although scavenging itself wasn't a major crime, but Deacon Sun had been keeping a close eye on things lately, and it would cause trouble if word got out. He put on a simple, honest smile: "I'm looking for a kind of grass. I saw a purple-backed grass next to the scrap heap during the day, and I only remembered to dig it up when it was getting dark."

The girl stared at him for a couple of seconds.

Those two breaths felt as long as the burning of two incense sticks. Her gaze fell on his face, quiet and not fierce, yet making him feel utterly exposed.

"Purple-backed grass grows on sunny slopes," she began, her tone as flat as if reciting a pharmacopoeia. "It won't grow near a waste dump, where it's damp and infested with insects. You don't even know that, yet you pretend to be a herbalist?"

Wei Ping'an choked. He opened his mouth and closed it again, feeling like his toes were digging a hole in the sole of his shoe. He wasn't exactly thin-skinned, but being called out to this extent was still a bit much for him. His ears burned slightly, and his gaze unconsciously drifted to the side.

The girl's lips twitched slightly. The movement was so subtle that it was almost imperceptible unless you looked closely. It wasn't a smile, but it certainly wasn't expressionless either. It was more like she had seen something somewhat funny but not quite enough to make her laugh out loud.

"My name is Shen Qingyao," she said, "from Danfeng."

Danfeng.

Wei Ping'an quickly recalled information about Danfeng, a place specializing in alchemy. Any disciple there was far superior to him, a menial outer disciple of the Medicine Testing Hall.

The surname is Shen... He seemed to have vaguely heard Zhang Erpang mention it before. It seemed that there was a female disciple in Danfeng with the surname Shen who was extremely talented. She could independently refine mid-grade pills when she was just over 10 years old, and she was a well-known figure in the inner sect.

Shen Qingyao ignored the changing expressions on his face, her gaze passing over his shoulder and landing on the pot on his back, her eyes filled with curiosity: "Your pot is quite interesting."

She paused, then added, "That sword strike missed by two inches, just grazing the edge of the pot. If it had hit directly, it probably would have punched a hole in it."

Wei Ping'an subconsciously reached out and touched the edge of the pot. The white mark was still there, and he could feel a shallow indentation when he touched it with his fingertips. A wave of fear washed over him, and at the same time, a strong sense of vigilance rose within him. This girl was too reckless, casually swinging her sword. The longer he stayed, the greater the risk of being struck. No, he had to get out of there quickly.

He took two steps back, forcing a smile that looked both naive and fake: "Well, it's getting late, I'll be going now."

Halfway through turning around, before I could even take a step, a voice drifted from behind me.

"That bag in your pants pocket is showing."

Wei Ping'an paused in his steps.

Looking down, I noticed that the side pocket of my pants had a tear at some point, and grayish-white powder was leaking out of the hole, leaving a shallow mark on the muddy ground behind me, which was glaringly white in the twilight.

Shen Qingyao walked over slowly, squatted down behind him, dipped her index finger into the mud, rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger, and then brought it to her nose to smell it.

"A fire control stone," she said with certainty, "the kind that's been burned."

She stood up, brushed the powder off her fingers, and looked at the bulging cloth bag in his pocket: "What are you planning to do with the fire control stones you picked up from the junkyard?"

Wei Ping'an's mind raced. He wanted to lie, but he felt that whatever he said in front of this person would be exposed. For a moment, he didn't know how to respond.

Shen Qingyao didn't wait for his reply and continued, "The medicinal properties of things made from fire-controlling stones are unstable and need to be stabilized with a catalyst. It is a refractory material, and its structure changes after high-temperature calcination. Many tiny active sites will form on its surface, which can absorb the medicinal power but also easily cause the medicinal power to be released violently in a short period of time, which has a great impact on the body. If you want to use fire-controlling stones to make things, it is best to first find some white atractylodes root powder to make a base."

Wei Pingan was stunned.

This was the problem he'd been pondering for the past few days. How to make the fire-controlling stone and the waste pill residue fuse together perfectly, how to ensure the pills wouldn't fall apart or crack after forming, and how to prevent the medicinal properties from dissipating. He'd tried for seven or eight days, changing the proportions seven or eight times, but he always felt something was missing. He could make the pills, but the medicinal properties always seemed to float on the surface, not solid enough. Shen Qingyao casually pointed out Bletilla striata root.

"Baiji root?" he repeated subconsciously.

Shen Qingyao had already turned and taken two steps forward when she heard him ask. She paused and turned her head to the side. In the twilight, the last rays of light outlined the contours of her profile, her ponytail hanging over her shoulder, the ends of her hair swaying slightly in the evening breeze.

"The root of Sanguisorba officinalis," she said, "is processed and ground into powder, which, when mixed with fire-controlling stone, increases its viscosity and stability. The root of Bletilla striata itself is neutral in nature, neither cold nor hot, and can neutralize the residual heat after the fire-controlling stone has burned, thus slowing down the release of the medicinal properties."

After she finished speaking, she continued walking forward, took two steps, and then stopped. This time, she didn't turn around, but simply said one last sentence with her back to him: "You don't need to thank me. I just can't stand seeing someone blow themselves up with half-baked stuff. If the drug testing hall loses a test subject, Danfeng's drug property records will have to be rewritten, which is troublesome."

Her ponytail swayed in the twilight, soon disappearing into the depths of the forest. Her moon-white robes faded into the darkening woods, finally melting into the shadows like a wisp of smoke.

Wei Ping'an stood still for a while before squatting down. He picked up the fire-controlling stone powder that had leaked out of the ground with his fingers, wrapped it back into the cloth bag, and tore off a strip of cloth from the corner of his clothes to tie the hole in the pocket tightly.

It was completely dark when he returned to the medicine testing hall. The jujube trees in the courtyard rustled in the night wind, and there was still a dim light in the kitchen, probably from the night watchman boiling water. He tiptoed back to his room, closed the door, lit the oil lamp, and went to the medicine cabinet to rummage through it.

The medicine cabinet was an old one that Old Zheng had discarded; the drawers were crooked, and the labels were long since faded and illegible. He pulled open the bottom drawer, which was piled with various scraps of medicinal herbs, like withered branches and leaves—things he rarely used and was too lazy to throw away. After rummaging through it for a while, he found a packet of grayish-white, dried roots at the very back. He picked it up and examined it under the oil lamp, then brought it to his nose to smell it. The aroma was very faint, neither bitter nor astringent, with a very subtle, clean herbal scent. He licked it on his tongue; it felt slightly sticky.

It should be Bletilla striata root.

He brought out the stone mortar, rolled up his sleeves above his elbows, and began grinding. The roots of the Bletilla striata were much harder than the waste residue, and his wrists ached after only a short while. He shook his hands and continued grinding, resting occasionally, sweat dripping down his temples and onto the mortar. He worked until late into the night, the crescent moon already past its zenith, before finally grinding the small packet of roots into a fine powder. He sifted it twice and carefully stored it in a clean earthenware jar.

He woke up at dawn the next day. He didn't wake up naturally; he was preoccupied with the recipe, and once he opened his eyes, he couldn't lie still. He got up, washed up quickly, and then squatted in the yard with the earthenware pot to start testing the new recipe.

He divided the powdered Bletilla striata root, the powdered fire-controlling stone, and the coarse powdered waste cinnabar residue into three different proportions, placing them in three broken bowls and labeling them. The first portion of Bletilla striata root powder was small, probably less than half of the total; the second portion was increased to one-tenth; and the third portion to one and a half percent. He added water to each portion and kneaded them into small balls, arranging them in a row on the windowsill, from largest to smallest and from darkest to lightest, like a crooked line of soldiers.

The sun rose from the east, making the courtyard bright and shiny. He squatted in front of the window, staring at the meatballs, touching them every now and then with the back of his hand to check how dry they were. After squatting for almost an hour, his legs went numb. He stood up, leaning against the wall, and stamped his feet. Looking up, he saw someone standing at the gate of the courtyard.

She wore a moon-white short robe, her hair in a high ponytail, and was whittling a tree branch with a short sword. Wood shavings fell with the movement of the blade, accumulating in a small pile at her feet. Shen Qingyao had arrived at some point, and it was unclear how long she had been standing there; her face remained expressionless, as if she had simply stopped to take a look while passing by.

"Senior Sister Shen?" Wei Ping'an was startled, almost dropping the broken bowl in his hand. "When did you get here?"

"Did you try it?" She didn't answer his question, but raised her chin to indicate the dumplings on the windowsill.

"Ah, I tried it. I just finished kneading it and it's drying now."

She walked into the courtyard at a leisurely pace, bent down in front of the window, and glanced at the three rows of meatballs. She reached out and gently touched the outermost one with her fingertip, tapped it lightly with her fingernail, and then withdrew her hand.

"There wasn't enough Bletilla striata root," she said with certainty. "This one will crack from the middle outwards after it dries. The third one is in a better proportion."

After speaking, she straightened up, turned around, and left. She casually stuck the sharpened branch into the soil by the wall, and it stood firmly, thin and straight, as if it were a casual insertion or a deliberate act.

Wei Ping'an stared at the tree branch for a while in a daze. After coming back to his senses, he turned around and went back into the house, took another handful of Bletilla striata root powder, added a small half spoonful to the first and second bowls, kneaded it well again, and placed it back on the windowsill.

Around noon, Old Zheng passed by the courtyard. He was wearing his ever-present gray long gown, his hands behind his back, walking slowly as if taking a stroll.

As he passed the windowsill, he paused for a moment, glancing down at the charcoal drawing on the ground. Wei Ping'an had squatted there that morning, drawing a large area of ​​circles and markings, all to record the different proportions of the dumplings. The dense scribbles looked like scribbles.

The old man stared for a couple of moments, said nothing, and slowly walked away with his hands behind his back.

Wei Ping'an has been extremely busy lately. During the day, he continues his drug trials as usual, fulfilling all the tasks assigned by Old Man Zheng. In the afternoons, he practices his Qi-inducing exercise without fail. The Qi in his dantian is now significantly stronger than before, and he's just one step away from reaching the third level of Qi-inducing, but he just can't seem to get it going. In the evenings, he starts working on his new formula, repeatedly adjusting the proportions and recording the changes in the state of each batch of pills.

That evening, he was squatting in the backyard grinding white atractylodes root again. Halfway through, he suddenly remembered the meatballs that had been drying on the windowsill for two days. He got up, went over, picked one up, and examined it against the twilight. The surface of the meatball was slightly shiny, as if a very thin film was seeping out, giving it a moist sheen in the light. He rotated it and examined it repeatedly, vaguely feeling that this batch was better than any previous batch, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

When I picked up the third one, a glint of light suddenly flashed from a certain angle.

It was golden, extremely faint, extremely fine, like someone had drawn a golden line on the surface of the dumpling with the finest needle, flashing and disappearing in an instant. Wei Ping'an's fingers froze. He thought he was seeing things, so he turned the dumpling back to find the right angle, slowly rotating it little by little. It flashed again.

This time he saw it clearly. It wasn't the surface reflecting light; it was something inside the dumpling that was shining through in the twilight, like a wisp of gold thread wrapped in a grayish-brown shell, faintly visible.

He almost screamed.

He covered his mouth with his hand, turning his entire face red, and let out a suppressed groan.

His heart was pounding in his chest, and only one thought kept echoing in his mind: if it wasn't just ordinary oil seepage, if that golden light was a characteristic of some kind of medicinal crystallization, then the value of the row of pills in his hand might be much higher than he had previously thought.

It was so high that he, an outer gate servant, simply couldn't handle it.

He took a deep breath, then another, forcing himself to calm down. He picked up the small, golden pill separately, placed it in a clean earthenware jar, tied the jar tightly with a strip of cloth, and placed a piece of paper at the bottom with the date and recipe proportions written on it. Then he put the jar in the deepest part of the cupboard, placing two old pieces of clothing on top of it.

That evening, he roughly divided the remaining pills according to their potency, took the one that looked the most stable, wrapped it in oil paper, and carefully kept it close to his body. He planned to find a place to test it. The open space behind the medicinal kitchen was the most suitable; it was a wide-open area with a good view, and he could see anyone coming in advance without worrying about being caught.

In the evening, while everyone was busy with dinner and the kitchen was filled with the clanging of pots and pans, he quietly slipped to the open space, carrying meatballs and a pot on his back. He first circled the perimeter of the open space, parted the grass to look around, and then stood on tiptoe to peer into the distance for a while, making sure there was no one in sight within a radius of several dozen feet, before finding a clean rock to sit on.

The black iron pot is placed within easy reach.

The antidote pill was pressed under his tongue; Zhou Yan had given it to him to hold in his mouth as a precaution when testing medicine. The water pouch lay at his feet. He took the pill out of the oiled paper, examined it again in his palm, then crushed it on a stone with the bottom of a pot, added water, and stirred it well.

I took a small sip first, holding it in my mouth for a while, with the antidote pill and the diluted medicine on either side of my tongue. I didn't feel any numbness, tingling, or any unusual burning or stinging sensation before slowly swallowing it.

I waited for about the time it takes for an incense stick to burn. My stomach felt warm, like I had drunk a sip of water that was neither too hot nor too cold. The warm sensation went down my esophagus and stayed in my stomach, then slowly spread throughout my body. I felt no pain, no dizziness, no cramps, my heartbeat was steady, and my vision was clear.

He waited another half cup of tea, making sure his body didn't have any adverse reactions, before drinking the rest of the bowl. Then he squatted back down next to the stone, closed his eyes, and focused all his attention on his dantian (lower abdomen).

The Qi in his dantian remained quiet for a while. Then it slowly began to move. It wasn't the kind of wild, chaotic movement induced by strong medicine; it wasn't that fierce, you could even say it was rather gentle, like a stream on a winter morning, flowing slowly and steadily along its course. But its path was more stable than ever before.

In the past, when I tried to draw in the airflow, there were always a few bottlenecks, like pebbles blocking a riverbed. The airflow would get stuck there and I would have to try several times before I could barely get through. This time it's different. The gentle, slow airflow pushed me past those bottlenecks smoothly and effortlessly.

He opened his eyes, his pupils reflecting the last rays of twilight, which were astonishingly bright.

It became.

Although its potency is far inferior to that of a proper Qi-gathering powder, taking one feels like someone pouring a mouthful of strong liquor into your dantian—intense and pungent. This little pill is more like warmed rice wine, smooth on the palate and with a mild aftereffect, but its strength lies in one word: stability. It doesn't target specific meridians, doesn't wander aimlessly, and doesn't play mind games with you; it's perfect for someone like him with an unstable foundation and mediocre talent.

Moreover, it's made from waste materials, so it doesn't cost any spirit stones. Waste pill residue is free, fire-controlling stones are free, and the white atractylodes root was found at the bottom of the medicine cabinet, so that's also free. The cost is zero.

As I stood up and walked back, my steps were lighter than when I came. I couldn't suppress the smile on my face; I walked alone in the twilight, grinning foolishly. If someone passed by, they would probably think I had found some money.

A few days later, as he was squatting in the courtyard grinding white atractylodes roots, he heard footsteps outside the gate. A disciple in a gray robe peeked inside, saw him, and quickly walked in, carrying a scroll in his hand.

"Wei Ping'an from the Medicine Testing Hall, right?" The disciple handed over the item. "Senior Sister Shen from the West Courtyard of Danfeng asked me to pass this on. She said you must accept it and give her a reply after you've read it."

Wei Ping'an took it and found a roll of paper tied with a thin hemp rope. Untying the rope and unfolding it, he saw that it was densely covered with writing. The handwriting was neat and clean, with each stroke clean and without any cursive. It was clear that the person was used to writing prescriptions.

The paper listed the names of about ten medicinal herbs, with the processing method and dosage ratio noted after each herb. Some herbs also had simple icons next to them indicating their characteristics.

She signed her name with three words at the end: Shen Qingyao.

He stood in the courtyard and looked at it over and over again. What was written inside was basically consistent with the direction he had figured out over the past few days, but it was much more systematic than what he had figured out. In several places where he had taken a detour, the paper directly gave the optimal solution.

That very evening, he modified the recipe according to what was written on the paper, and wrote down the effects on the back of the paper. He used sharpened charcoal to write, and the crooked handwriting contrasted sharply with the neat characters on the front of the paper.

The next day, she sent a message back: "Thank you for your guidance, Senior Sister Shen. I have remixed it according to the instructions."

The next day, he went to the back mountain again. This time, he wasn't going to collect fire-controlling stones; he had already collected enough. He wanted to rummage through the scrap heap to see if there were any other scraps that could complete the list of auxiliary medicines on the paper. As he walked to the edge of the scrap heap, he suddenly stopped.

A short sword was nailed to the trunk of the old pine tree again. The tassel on the hilt was dark blue, not the green tassel of the last one, and it swayed gently in the wind, as if greeting him.

He looked around; no one was there. He tiptoed over, grasped the hilt, and pulled the sword out. The blade made a slight scraping sound as it emerged from the wood. Turning it over, he saw a folded strip of paper pressed against the hilt, a deep dent in the middle from the weight of the hilt. Unfolded, it contained seven characters, the handwriting as neat as the paper: "Don't move, I'll get it."

Just as I made out those seven characters, I heard footsteps behind me. The steps were light, making a soft rustling sound on the gravel, the pace neither too fast nor too slow.

Shen Qingyao circled around from the other side of the woods, still wearing the same moon-white short robe, her ponytail swaying behind her shoulder. She saw Wei Ping'an holding her short sword, a thin layer of impatience appearing on her face: "I told you to wait for me before drawing it. Why did you draw it yourself?"

"I thought you forgot it here, so I put it away for you." Wei Ping'an said matter-of-factly, his expression so sincere that it was hard to doubt him.

She swiftly pulled the short sword from his hand, sheathing it at her waist with a crisp metallic scraping sound. "You don't even fly on a sword, what do you need it for? To use as a woodcutter's axe?"

Wei Ping'an opened his mouth, but swallowed back the rebuttal that was already on the tip of his tongue. Arguing with the genius disciples of Danfeng was not part of his code of conduct for self-preservation.

Shen Qingyao's gaze passed over his shoulder and landed on the trunk of the old pine tree. Several sword holes were densely packed on the bark, all left by her during this time. Her expression didn't change much, but her tone was a bit colder than before: "You've been hanging around the scrap heap a lot lately, aren't you afraid of being caught?"

"I'm not afraid."

"Delegate Sun is investigating people who are illegally collecting scrap metal, didn't you know?"

"I know."

"You came even though you knew?" She turned to look at him, her eyes holding something indescribable, like curiosity mixed with looking at a fool.

"Some things you won't get if you don't come looking for them," Wei Ping'an said. He spoke calmly, without any pretense or complaint, simply stating a fact. As an outer disciple of the Medicine Testing Hall, he had no spirit stones or resources; if he wanted to climb the ranks, he could only scavenge for food from what others didn't want. This was his way of life, and it had nothing to do with being respectable.

Shen Qingyao glanced at him. This glance was different from the scrutinizing and critical looks she had given him before; it lingered for a longer time. Then, without saying anything more, she turned and left.

He walked a few steps and then stopped, not turning back, but tilting his head slightly, the outline of his face flickering in the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees: "The day after tomorrow morning, I'm going to the medicinal cuisine kitchen to pick some fresh purple-backed grass. Don't block my way with your pot then."

After speaking, she had already walked several steps away, her ponytail swayed twice, and she disappeared around the corner of the tree shadows.

Wei Ping'an squatted down and found the branch she had casually stuck into the soil under the old pine tree last time. After so many days, the branch had not withered at all; instead, two tender buds had sprouted near the top. The vibrant green of the buds stood out so brightly against the backdrop of the withered branches and leaves that they seemed unreal.

He replanted the branch in the soil, patted the soil around the roots to tamp it down, stood up, patted the soil off his knees, and walked back.

On the way, he pondered her last words repeatedly. "The day after tomorrow morning, the medicinal kitchen, purple-backed grass." On the surface, it meant she was telling him not to block her way, but upon closer reflection, why would a disciple of Danfeng specifically come to tell a mere janitor from the medicine testing hall where she was going to gather herbs? And why did she even specify the time and place?

The more he thought about it, the more suspicious he became, but he wasn't sure. What if they really just thought his pot was in the way?

Who cares? I'll find out when I go there the day after tomorrow morning. Wei Ping'an touched the black iron pot on his back. The surface of the pot gleamed with a dark luster in the setting sun. The old and new scratches on it were intertwined, like a picture that no one could understand.