Love Burning Amidst the Ashes. - Chapter 14 - The First Pot of Gold

The smell of mold and decay mingled with the stale, metallic tang of dried blood, clinging to every inch of the wooden hut’s air like aged cobwebs, thick and suffocating. Xu Qing Xuan lay curled on the icy plank bed, suppressing the tempest of agony and vertigo raging within his sea of consciousness. His trip to the Alchemy Pavilion last night had been like detonating a storm deep within his soul. The vast, oceanic torrent of graphic and textual information from Hundred Herbs Discernment had been brutally branded onto the icy plains of his mind by the jade pendant’s forcibly awakened “photographic memory,” forming suspended, frozen star charts. Each chart was unnervingly clear, recording the textures of plants, the combinations of pill formulas, the properties of medicines… yet they also scraped against the fragile barriers of his spirit like countless sharp icicles.

Worse was the Yin Malevolence. After its explosive surge last night, the pendant’s power had fallen into dormancy. Unsuppressed, the Yin Malevolence seized the chance to run rampant through his meridians, still raw from the burns. A cold, invasive sensation intertwined with a scorching, piercing pain, as if countless tiny ice needles and fire ants were gnawing and tearing at his marrow. Every breath tugged at the charred wound on his back; fresh blood seeped out, staining the coarse grey cloth, congealing with last night’s cold sweat and gore into a hard scab that grated against his flesh.

Outside, the death-knell clang of a brass gong tore through the stagnant silence of Hundred Herb Valley. The piercing sound waves, like solid needles, stabbed viciously into the chaotic sea of Xu Qing Xuan’s consciousness, bringing a wave of dizzying, world-spinning pain. He grunted, beads of cold sweat instantly sprouting at his temples. Gold spots danced before his eyes, and ominous black shadows crept in from the edges of his vision.

Survive. This thought, like an undercurrent beneath ice, carved the only possible channel through the endless agony. The pendant’s aura was faint as a candle in the wind, yet it clung stubbornly, protecting his heart meridian. He forced himself to sit up, changed into another set of grimy, sweat-soured servant robes. The rough fabric pressed against his wounds, bringing a fresh wave of needle-like pain. At his waist, he tightened the blood-stained leather belt once more, the tough hide biting into his flesh.

Pushing open the slanted wooden door, his face was pale to the point of translucency, lips pressed into a cold, hard line. He merged into the silent, weary river of grey-clad figures, heading towards his assigned area—Plot Ding-Three—the cursed, barren medicinal field.

Foreman Zhao stood with his belly protruding, his rat-like mustache twitching with each venomous reprimand. The vine whip in his hand lashed out like a serpent’s tongue, striking the numb backs of the grey-clad servants with a heart-chilling crack. “Worthless! Look at these Rainnourish Grasses! Wilting, lifeless, their spiritual energy thinner than gutter water! Not even fit for scrapings from a Qi-Gathering Powder! Ding-Three-Seven!” His shrill voice suddenly targeted Xu Qing Xuan. “That patch of yours! If it wilts any further, don’t even think about getting a single Yellow Sprout Pill this month!”

Xu Qing Xuan walked silently to the outermost ridge of the plot. The grey-green leaves of the Rainnourish Grass were curled and withered, the soil at their roots dry and compacted. The air here held a thicker, cloyingly sweet stench of decay. He crouched, pinched a bit of soil between his fingers. Mixed within were fine, black, sand-like granules emitting a familiar, chilling aura—Yin Malevolence. His gaze swept over a few carelessly discarded Rainnourish Grass plants in the corner of the ridge, their roots thick but deliberately broken, then flicked to the center of a distant plot where Foreman Zhao was stowing a jade box of lush, spiritually vibrant Rainnourish Grass into his wide sleeve, handed to him by a trusted lackey.

Deep within his sea of consciousness, amidst the churning pain of the star charts, a faint spark of insight stubbornly flickered—it was the case study on the failed modification of the “Earth-Moistening Technique,” forcibly imprinted last night!

The “Earth-Moistening Technique,” the most basic wood-attributed elementary spell. It channeled faint earth-attribute spiritual energy to loosen compacted soil, aiding spiritual plant roots in absorbing ambient energy. But the original version was crude and direct, force-feeding spiritual energy like a raging bull, easily damaging fragile root systems. More critically, if the spiritual energy frequency didn’t harmonize with the plant’s growth rhythm, it could instead suppress vitality. The recorded failure case involved a practitioner forcibly increasing spiritual energy output, causing a patch of “Goldthread Grass” roots to shatter from the earth-force vibrations, withering completely.

Spiritual energy frequency… Growth rhythm… Xu Qing Xuan’s eyes scanned the wilted Rainnourish Grass at his feet. Their vitality wasn’t completely extinguished, only suppressed by the Yin Malevolence, like seedlings crushed under a weight. If he could find a gentler, more harmonious way to channel earth energy, loosen the compaction, and disperse the malevolence, perhaps…

An idea took shape amidst the vast collisions in his sea of consciousness, like a tender sprout struggling forth from frozen ground. Modify the Earth-Moistening Technique! Not force-feeding, but guided resonance!

He needed a testing ground. This plot, deliberately “abandoned,” this proof of “worthlessness” in Foreman Zhao’s eyes, became his perfect laboratory.

During the brief midday rest, Xu Qing Xuan did not collapse on the ridge to gasp for breath like the others. Avoiding the sightlines of Foreman Zhao and his cronies, he dragged his heavy steps towards a denser patch of “Snake-Slough Vines” at the edge of the field. It was dark and damp here, the air thick with the scent of humus and the vines’ uniquely pungent, slightly acrid odor, effective at masking faint spiritual energy fluctuations.

He sat down cross-legged, leaning against the cold, damp vines. Closing his eyes, enduring the tearing pain in his sea of consciousness and the rampaging Yin Malevolence in his meridians, he focused his mind into those suspended star charts of Hundred Herbs Discernment. Detailed graphics and text on Rainnourish Grass magnified in his mind: preferred cool, damp environments; fine, fragile root systems; highly sensitive to fluctuations in earth-attribute spiritual energy; optimal growth rhythm cycle at… the third mark of the Hour of the Dragon, as yang energy first stirs; the middle of the Hour of the Goat, as yin energy gradually grows…

Time, rhythm, frequency… Countless data fragments were forcibly categorized and deduced with the aid of the pendant’s remaining faint coolness. He extended his right index finger, filthy with mud. At its tip, he gathered a thread of spiritual energy so faint it was almost imperceptible—green-tinged. This was his current limit; the agony in his sea of consciousness and the interference of the Yin Malevolence made his spiritual energy flicker like a candle in the wind, unsteady.

He did not directly and violently force the energy into the soil as the original Earth-Moistening Technique dictated. Instead, he held his fingertip suspended three inches above the compacted earth near the root of the most wilted Rainnourish Grass. A thread of spiritual energy extended, like the most precise string of an instrument, adjusting its own vibration frequency with extreme subtlety and slowness. Simultaneously, he pushed the mysterious perception granted by the pendant to its limit, straining to detect, deep within this lifeless-seeming soil, the faint, nearly severed pulse of vitality belonging to the Rainnourish Grass roots themselves, now clogged by Yin Malevolence.

Agony crashed against his will like tidal waves. The thread of spiritual energy broke several times, going out of control due to the pain in his sea of consciousness, the Yin Malevolence seizing the chance to counterattack. The icy, scorching pain made his fingertip tremble. Sweat mingled with blood trickled from his temple, dripping into the soil. But his gaze remained frozen, the trembling in his finger forcibly suppressed. The adjustment of the spiritual energy thread’s frequency did not stop.

Once… Twice… Ten times…

Just as his spirit teetered on the brink of total collapse, the vibration frequency of that faint, flickering thread of green spiritual energy at his fingertip finally achieved an extremely weak resonance with the faint pulse of vitality his mind had deduced the Rainnourish Grass roots should possess during the third mark of the Hour of the Dragon!

A faint… hum…

Beneath his fingertip, the hardened, stone-like gray-black soil gave an almost imperceptible, incredibly gentle ripple—like the hide of a slumbering beast taking a slow breath. A wisp of barely visible, faint gray-black Yin Malevolence energy, startled like an earthworm, was softly “ejected” from the soil’s crevices by this gentle resonant force, vanishing instantly into the air.

It worked!

A crack abruptly split the frozen lake of Xu Qing Xuan’s heart. Though it was only a minuscule wisp, it proved his deduction correct! The core of the modified Earth-Moistening Technique lay in “guided resonance,” not “forceful infusion”! Using his own faint spiritual energy as a catalyst, he could leverage the earth-attuned spiritual energy inherently present in the soil, aligning its vibrational frequency with the plant’s growth rhythm to loosen compaction and disperse the clogging Yin Malevolence!

The cost was staggering. These brief moments of deduction and experimentation made the pain in his sea of consciousness feel like being pierced by ten thousand steel needles. The Yin Malevolence, now unrestrained, rampaged wildly through his meridians; the icy, scorching agony darkened his vision, nearly causing him to lose consciousness. He bit down hard on his tongue, the potent metallic taste and sharp pain delivering a final jolt of clarity. He swiftly withdrew his finger, gasping raggedly for air.

This technique would be named the “Gentle Breeze Earth-Moistening Art.”

In the following days, Xu Qing Xuan walked as if on the edge of a blade. By day, he remained the silent, numb servant Ding-Three-Seven, tending his “inferior” medicinal plot with clumsy movements, enduring Foreman Zhao’s scolding and the ever-present threat of the vine whip.

Only during the brief, stolen moments of the midday rest, or in the fleeting window between the end of evening duties and the full deployment of the night patrol across the fields, would he drag his nearly broken body to hide within clusters of Snake-Slough Vines or in the shadows of lush Seven-Glow Flowers. Gathering that faint wisp of spiritual energy at his fingertip, he would cautiously execute the “Gentle Breeze Earth-Moistening Art.”

The effective range was minuscule, covering only a palm-sized patch of soil at a time. His spiritual energy output had to be controlled with hair’s-breadth precision. The slightest deviation, a shift in the resonant frequency, would render it not only useless but potentially damaging to the already fragile roots. Each casting was accompanied by the rending agony in his sea of consciousness and the vicious backlash of Yin Malevolence. Sweat mingled with blood soaked through his coarse grey robes. His face remained pale as parchment, his lips cracked and scabbed from constant biting. Only deep within those clear, cold eyes burned a near-obsessive icy flame.

The effects were slow, yet undeniably tangible.

Five days later, at the edge of his medicinal plot closest to the Snake-Slough Vines, a few Rainnourish Grass plants he had repeatedly tended with the art underwent a subtle transformation. The originally grey-green, curled leaves shed their withered yellow edges and began to unfurl slightly. Their surface, once dry and coarse, gained a hint of the moist luster befitting a spiritual plant. More crucially, the soil surrounding their roots was no longer dead and compacted; it had softened somewhat, and the lingering, cloying stench of decay had noticeably diminished.

These few plants stood out like stubborn specks of emerald in a desert amidst the overall wilting, greyish-green field—seemingly insignificant, yet strikingly conspicuous.

It worked! But this was only the beginning. The change in these few plants was like a tiny bonfire lit in utter darkness—it brought a flicker of hope, but also drew danger perceptibly closer. They were too noticeable! In the eyes of Foreman Zhao and his cronies, any “anomaly” could be perceived as a threat.

The excess must be disposed of! A reliable channel must be found! A personal, clandestine “ledger” must be established!

A more intricate and cautious plan rapidly crystallized in his feverishly working mind. He needed to conceal the “yield” from this experimental plot, to covertly “convert” the improved-quality Rainnourish Grass into tangible resources. The key lay with those shadowy “merchants” who navigated the grey margins of the lower ranks. He needed a place to operate beyond Foreman Zhao’s sight, yet accessible to such individuals.

His gaze turned toward the abandoned medicinal dregs accumulation area at the farthest edge of Hundred Herb Valley, near the mountain foot’s garbage dump. The place reeked, a filthy and foul no-man’s-land shunned by both lowly servants and formal disciples alike. Yet, it was precisely such a “shadowy corner” where unsavory, off-the-books transactions occasionally took place.

The opportunity presented itself on the evening of the seventh day. At the border of Xu Qing Xuan’s “tended” plot, the tender leaves of a few Rainnourish Grass plants swayed gently in the twilight breeze, their vitality clearly superior to their neighbors. Seizing the final moments of chaotic dispersal as work ended, while Foreman Zhao was preoccupied tallying jade boxes presented by his lackeys, Xu Qing Xuan moved with lightning speed and absolute stealth. He swiftly uprooted the handful of plants showing the most promise! His fingers, charged with a precise thread of spiritual energy, cleanly severed the finer rootlets to avoid damaging the main stem. In one fluid motion, he tucked the Rainnourish Grass, soil still clinging to their roots, into a crude inner pouch sewn into the lining of his grey robe—a pouch he had earlier fashioned from tough, fibrous grass stems. His expression remained a mask of weary blankness, as if he had merely bent to pick up a stray pebble.

With that done, he fell back into the stream of workers trudging away, dragging his exhausted feet like all the others. Only his trajectory subtly diverged, veering away from the well-trodden path to the servants’ hovels and instead heading toward the valley’s outermost rim, now shrouded in deepening dusk and choked by the pungent stench of decay—the medicinal dregs zone.

This place was like a festering, open sore beneath Hundred Herb Valley’s veneer of order. Heaped mounds of long-rotted medicinal refuse emitted a nauseating miasma—a cacophony of sour acidity, intense bitterness, scorched notes, and a strange, metallic rust-like odor. Thick, black sludge oozed from the bases of the piles, collecting in depressions to form viscous, insect-swarming mires. The air itself felt thick and corrupt; a single breath was enough to turn the stomach.

Gritting his teeth against the overwhelming physical revulsion, Xu Qing Xuan sought out a shadowy recess partially shielded by the colossal, grime-encrusted wreckage of a discarded alchemy furnace. He pressed his body flat against the cold, filthy metal of the furnace wall. Peering through the gathering gloom, his hunter’s gaze meticulously scanned the entrance to this blighted ground, patient and utterly focused.

Time trickled away. Dusk had fully consumed the Hundred Herb Valley, leaving only sporadic lights from distant alchemy halls and disciple quarters. The stinging odor and the restless churn of Yin Malevolence within him sent waves of dizziness through his skull. He was on the verge of doubting his judgment and seeking another opportunity when—

A lean figure, moving with the silence of a gecko blending into the night, slipped in from the valley entrance. Agile and familiar with the terrain, he avoided the murky puddles and headed straight for the abandoned furnace. Dressed in unremarkable grey-brown work clothes, his face was half-hidden by a grimy cloth, revealing only a pair of sharp, shrewd eyes that darted about with a mix of greed and caution. As his sleeves shifted, they revealed a lining stitched with countless small, bulging pockets.

A trader. And not just any trader—a “mole” who dealt exclusively with the bottom-rung laborers and their shadowy, off-the-books business.

Xu Qing Xuan’s pulse quickened. He didn’t reveal himself. Instead, he held his breath and pressed deeper into the shadows, extending the jade pendant’s perceptive power like invisible threads toward the man.

The lean man stopped on a relatively dry patch of earth not far from the furnace and began rummaging in his robes as if to set something down.

Just then, a night wind heavy with the stench of rotting medicinal dregs swept through, violently lifting a corner of the cloth covering the man’s face.

For an instant, a face was exposed—gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a mouth whose corners seemed permanently downturned, etched with a look of perpetual hardship and cunning.

Old Chen Nine?!

Xu Qing Xuan’s pupils contracted as if pierced by an ice spike. This man—who had lurked like a viper in the Blackstone Gully refugee caravan, indirectly causing the rift between him and his sworn brother—was here. In the Celestial Mechanism Pavilion’s Hundred Herb Valley. And from his demeanor, he was no stranger to this place.

A glacial, murderous fury ignited in Xu Qing Xuan’s chest. The bloodstained leather belt at his waist seemed to tighten in response. But with immense force of will, he crushed the surge of emotion. To reveal himself now would be suicide. Foreman Zhao’s threat still loomed; his own wounds were far from healed. And Old Chen Nine’s presence here—what hidden connections did it imply? His killing intent was sealed away by layers of icy calculation, leaving behind only a sharper, colder vigilance.

He drew a slow breath. The foul air scraped his lungs, threatening a coughing fit he forcibly suppressed. Schooling his expression back into the numb exhaustion of a lowly laborer, he smeared a handful of medicinal dregs across his face for good measure. Then, deliberately, he nudged a loose brick near his foot with his toe.

Clatter.

The sound was faint but distinct in the foul, silent space.

“Who’s there?!” Old Chen Nine started like a spooked hare, spinning around. A short dagger with a cold blue gleam slid from his sleeve into his hand, its point aimed unerringly at the source of the noise, his eyes sharp as talons.

Hunched over, one hand pressed to his mouth as if stifling a cough, Xu Qing Xuan stumbled out from the furnace’s shadow, his face a mask of appropriate fear and exhaustion. “It’s… it’s me… a Ding sector laborer…” he rasped, his voice weak and halting. “Cough… just finding a spot… the smell…” Combined with his deathly pallor and the grime caking his clothes, he was the perfect image of a sickly, broken servant pushed to his limit.

The wariness in Old Chen Nine’s eyes didn’t fade; the dagger didn’t lower. His gaze swept over Xu Qing Xuan, weighing this “sick ghost’s” value and threat with merchant-speed calculation. “Ding sector? Under that skinflint Zhao?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly with a street hawker’s accent. “Coming to this cesspit to retch? Got a death wish?”

Xu Qing Xuan sneered inwardly. Outwardly, his expression grew more bitter, with a poorly concealed flicker of “desperation.” Clutching his chest as he gasped, his other hand moved with furtive hesitation toward his inner robe. Then, with thief-like haste, he pulled out a single stalk of Rainnourish Grass, its roots still clumped with fresh, damp soil.

The leaves were full and unfurled, a vibrant green with a healthy sheen. The stem stood straight, and from its clean-cut base, a bead of crystalline sap glistened, exuding a purity of botanical spiritual energy far beyond any ordinary Rainnourish Grass. In that cesspool of decay, it was like a shard of pristine jade—instantly capturing Old Chen Nine’s complete attention.

“This… what is this?!” Old Chen Nine’s beady eyes bulged, a fierce, covetous light blazing in them—a starved wolf spotting meat. He stepped forward swiftly, his nose almost touching the plant as he greedily inhaled its potent aura. The merchant’s caution on his face vanished, replaced by shock and a deeper, ravenous greed. “Rainnourish Grass from the Ding sector?! How can it be this grade?! You steal it?!” His voice rose before he harshly hushed it. The cold edge of the dagger pressed closer to Xu Qing Xuan’s throat.

Xu Qing Xuan’s body gave a convincing shudder; the plant nearly fell. His face showed a complicated mix of terror and a sliver of “hope,” his voice trembling worse. “N-No! Not stolen! It’s… from my plot… a corner… somehow a few grew better… I… pulled them quietly… wanted… to trade… Yellow Sprout Pills… or… something for my wounds…” He spoke in broken phrases, eyes darting fearfully, perfectly playing the desperate, lowly laborer tempted by a sudden chance. At the same time, he shifted his posture just enough for the faint, charred outline and the stain of fresh blood seeping through the fabric on his back to be visible.

Yin Malevolence corrosion. Severely wounded, unhealed. A calculating glint flashed in Old Chen Nine’s eyes. The perceived threat dropped sharply, overtaken by greed. A desperate servant at the end of his rope, who’d stumbled upon a few mysteriously improved plants—this was the perfect mark. The menace on his face melted into an unctuous merchant’s “friendliness.” The dagger had already vanished back into his sleeve.

Ah, little brother, look at you, giving me such a fright!” Chen Lao Jiu rubbed his hands together, a slick merchant’s smile spreading across his face as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “With goods like this, you should’ve spoken up sooner! That skinflint Zhao, he squeezes you lot so dry you can barely survive! This grass… tsk tsk… this spiritual energy, this quality… can’t compare to the top-grade stuff from the central plots, of course, but it’s far better than your ordinary Rainnourish Grass! On the, ahem, outside, this is a hot commodity!” His eyes darted back and forth, rapidly appraising its worth.

“What do you want to trade for? Yellow Sprout Pills? The rubbish they hand out to laborers is no better than mud pellets! Your old brother here, I’ve got the real thing—’irregulars’ that slipped out from the alchemy halls themselves. The effects? Heh heh… ten times better than what you get!” Like a street magician, he produced two pills from an unremarkable pocket in his sleeve. They were visibly more lustrous and potent. He dangled them before Xu Qing Xuan’s eyes; the enticing aroma of alchemy instantly overpowered the surrounding stench.

Xu Qing Xuan’s breathing grew “ragged.” His eyes shone with a flicker of desperate hope, laced with caution. “R-Really? Better than what we get? I… I just want two… No, one! One pill is enough!” He clutched the single stalk of grass tightly, as if it were a lifeline.

“Just one?” Chen Lao Jiu’s exclamation was theatrically loud before he hushed himself again, his tone now dripping with persuasion. “Little brother, you’re selling yourself far too cheap! This grass of yours, a single stalk is worth at least this much!” He held up three fingers, waggling them before Xu Qing Xuan’s face. “And that’s not all—how many do you have? Just this one? If there are more… your old brother here has wide connections. I guarantee I can get you something even better! Medicine for that Yin Malevolence wound on your back? That’s not out of the question!”

Struggle and temptation warred on Xu Qing Xuan’s face. After a moment of feigned hesitation, he seemed to steel himself, gritting his teeth. “There… there are a few more… not many… I’ve hidden them…”

“Excellent!” Chen Lao Jiu slapped his thigh, beaming as if he’d struck gold. “Little brother is a man who understands the world! Alright then, tomorrow at this same time, right here. You bring the grass! Your old brother will bring the real ‘quality goods’! Guaranteed to satisfy!” He swiftly pressed the two “irregular” Yellow Sprout Pills into Xu Qing Xuan’s hand. “Consider these a deposit! Take them!”

Xu Qing Xuan’s hand “trembled” as he accepted the pills. They were slightly warm to the touch, their aroma rich and potent—undeniably superior to the inferior dregs distributed to laborers. A look of tearful gratitude spread across his face as he nodded vigorously.

With the deal struck, Chen Lao Jiu seemed immensely pleased, as if he’d closed a major transaction. After another wary glance around, his figure twisted and he slithered away into the deeper darkness, vanishing like an eel.

All trace of gratitude and excitement vanished from Xu Qing Xuan’s face, replaced by a stillness as cold as frozen lake. He opened his palm, studying the two pills, then glanced in the direction Chen Lao Jiu had disappeared. A simple merchant? Likely not that straightforward. When the man’s sleeve had shifted, he’d caught another fleeting glimpse—the barest hint of a faint, bluish-purple thunder-pattern flash!

He wasted no more time and swiftly left the foul area. Back in his musty wooden hut, using the last sliver of twilight filtering through the window, he began a far more critical operation: his own “ledger management.”

He retrieved the crude, blank ledger issued by Foreman Wang for recording the daily “output” of the Ding sector laborers—the official, surface-level “account book.” From a pile of damp, moldy rags in the corner, he fished out a few relatively smooth pieces of birch bark. Finally, from beneath the bed plank, he retrieved the half-burned stick of charcoal he’d nearly forgotten.

Three separate recording systems took shape in his hands.

The First System: The Surface Ledger. In the blank booklet, he mimicked the sloppy, perfunctory handwriting of the other laborers, recording the daily “tended” count of Rainnourish Grass: Wilting, inferior, low yield. Every entry confirmed Foreman Zhao’s expectation of “worthlessness.”

The Second System: The Hidden Ledger. On the rough inner surface of the birch bark, using the charcoal, he inscribed minuscule symbols and numbers only he could decipher. These recorded the truth: the area he tended each day with the “Gentle Breeze Earth-Moistening Art,” the subtle changes in each plant, the location and condition of those secretly harvested, and—every pill, every potential resource obtained from Chen Lao Jiu. This was the secret archive of his true “enterprise.”

The Third System: The Cipher Marks. On the damp, moss and water-stained wall at the hut’s darkest corner, he mixed the charcoal with a paste made from bitter wormwood leaves (their pungent scent masked the markings). Here, he drew a series of obscure, twisted symbols. Some were fragments of the warehouse sigil he’d copied; others recorded his observations: the times, locations, personnel, and estimated quantities of the jade boxes exchanged between Foreman Zhao and his lackeys! This was an evidentiary chain pointing directly to Zhao’s embezzlement.

The moonlight was miserly, slanting through the crooked window lattice to cast fragmented shadows on the cold dirt floor. Xu Qing Xuan knelt on the damp ground. The scorching pain from the wound on his back and the icy erosion of the Yin Malevolence clung to him like maggots in the bone. His sea of consciousness throbbed and spun from the constant deduction and forced imprinting; each stroke of the charcoal felt like carving a blade into his own spirit. Yet his gaze remained focused and ice-cold. The faint scratch-scratch of charcoal on birch bark was the only sound, like the faint creaking of fate’s gears beginning to turn in the dark.

The night wind moaned through the valley outside, carrying the rustle of distant medicinal fields and the hollow footsteps of the night patrol. Xu Qing Xuan carefully hid the inscribed birch bark deep within the pile of rags and tossed the surface ledger carelessly onto the broken wooden table. He blew out the bean-sized oil lamp in the corner, plunging the hut into ink-black darkness.

He leaned against the cold wall and closed his eyes. In the darkness, the few stalks of Rainnourish Grass traded in the foul medicinal dregs area seemed to transform into faint, flickering sparks of light. And against his chest, through the coarse cloth, the two “irregular” Yellow Sprout Pills from Chen Lao Jiu emitted a faint, comforting warmth and a thread of pure medicinal energy.

The first pot of gold. Stained with blood, mixed with mud, soaked in sweat, dug out from a foul and shadowy corner. Insignificant, yet it was like chiseling the first crack in frozen ground—letting in a sliver of feeble light, a whisper of air.