After glancing at the Sect Master, Song Wanníng waited until the others dispersed before quickly heading after him.
Not long after, she heard the news that Ye Chuxue would also be refining pills in the camp. However, her skills were still limited. She could only produce basic pills for now.
Other disciples skilled in alchemy had also joined in. Song Wanníng only needed to ensure a supply of higher-grade pills.
"Junior Sister Ye offered on her own. For the sake of the sect disciples, she willingly gave up the chance to fight on the front lines," Lu Nanfeng said, his voice tinged with emotion. As soon as the words left his mouth, he seemed to realize his mistake. His shoulders stiffened, and silence cut him off. He dared not continue. Not in front of her.
Song Wanníng turned her gaze toward him, slow and deliberate. Her expression was unreadable, not cold but empty, like a still lake hiding treacherous depths. The ripple of memory stirred just beneath the surface.
To the others, this beast tide was a calamity. To her, it was more than that. It was a blade. One she had forged patiently, sharpening it with every step she took since returning to this life. A chance, yes, but not for glory. An opportunity, but not for redemption.
It was a stage. The perfect battlefield to destroy Lu Nanfeng.
The echo of his voice from the past clawed at her thoughts, each word as cutting now as it had been then.
"Master, as a cultivator of the human race, how can you stand by and allow yourself to fall into demonic ways?"
"Master, if I were you, I would have already taken my own life!"
"You are a Nascent Soul Zhēnjūn of Wentian Sect, and the future successor of the Song Clan. Shouldn't you have such awareness?"
"How can a cultivator give in to worldly attachments and bring harm to everyone around them?"
"I believe in you, Master. You can give it all up and face death with peace!"
"Master, just surrender already."
Surrender and die?
How easy those words had come to him. How righteous he had sounded.
How convenient.
She had cultivated for over a hundred years, endured storms of spirit and body, suffered through betrayals, war, and the slow death of those she once cared for. She had carried the name of the Song Clan, weathered the collapse of her family, and bled for the sect that later turned its back on her.
And yet, with a few well-chosen words, he had urged her to give it all up. To kneel, surrender, and accept death like a graceful offering.
Song Wanníng had already decided. This time, she would not kill him swiftly. That would be mercy. No, she wanted to return everything he once gave her, word for word, consequence for consequence.
She would let him stand on the same crumbling edge, listen to the same judgment from others, feel the same isolation. She wanted to see if he would still choose death so easily when righteousness came for him.
Her lips curved into a smile. It was faint, but not kind.
Lu Nanfeng lowered his head at once. He couldn't meet her eyes. Not now. Not after seeing what lay behind them.
There it was. Guilt. And fear.
Good.
On the side, Bai Yang stood in silence. The tension between them was heavy, but he didn't speak. His thoughts had drifted elsewhere.
Ye Chuxue was fiercely proud. She placed great value on her own strength. That she would willingly stay in the camp and refine pills... it was unexpected.
He didn't think she feared death. On the contrary, she was always one to charge into danger. She must be doing this for the disciples of Wentian Sect. Bai Yang lowered his gaze, his expression complicated. "Junior Sister Ye still had a kind heart..."
—
"Junior Sister Ye, these are the materials for pill refining. I'll leave them here for you." A disciple stepped into the alchemy room and placed a large storage pouch on the nearby table, the faint clinking of jade bottles and spirit herbs echoing in the quiet space.
"Thank you," Ye Chuxue replied with a bright smile. She waved him off without standing, her tone cheerful but distant. She stood up, sleeves fluttering as she moved around the room with practiced grace. Her fingers traced lightly over the storage pouch, then reached inside.
One by one, she pulled out bundles of neatly tied spirit herbs, crystal bottles containing powdered minerals, and several beast cores marked for refinement. She began arranging them by type and quality, her motions smooth and rhythmic. As she worked, a faint tune escaped her lips—humming quietly, tunelessly, but with unmistakable satisfaction.
She was in a good mood. A very good one.
Taking the initiative to refine pills had been a brilliant decision.
Not only could she avoid the bloodshed and chaos of the front lines, she could earn inner beast cores in exchange for her services—valuable resources that could be traded, refined, or stored. Each batch of pills she crafted added to her name and her worth. It was cultivation, reputation, and security all at once.
Better still, she had full access to the alchemy pavilion. No supervision. No restrictions.
And she had time.
No one could say she was cowardly. She had simply chosen a different battlefield, one no less vital to the sect. Her presence here was both contribution and strategy.
Her fingers moved faster now, separating rare herbs from the common ones, checking the condition of each stalk and leaf.
Behind her calm exterior, thoughts stirred like coals under ash.
Her alchemy lineage came directly from the Medicine King Sect. Her master had praised her often for her success rates and precision. Though she hadn't reached the same height as Song Wanníng, she was no pale shadow.
She never had been.
And this time, she would prove it.
Her lips pressed into a determined line, and her eyes glinted coldly.
To be honest, her motives went beyond duty.
Song Wanníng. That name had weighed on her shoulders for too long. Too revered, too flawless, too untouchable. For years, she had watched the sect elevate her, praise her, defend her—even after her fall. Even now, reborn into this second life, Song Wanníng walked through the sect halls with quiet authority, gathering whispers and silence in equal measure.
Everyone still looked at her as though she were the standard.
Ye Chuxue was tired of it.
She didn't want to just refine pills.
She wanted to refine better pills. More potent. More precise. She wanted to see the elders widen their eyes, to hear the disciples whisper her name for once. She wanted Song Wanníng to stand there, composed and cold, and feel that same subtle pressure of being overlooked.
Let her know what it felt like to be second.
Let her feel, for once, the sting of someone rising to challenge her from below.
Ye Chuxue drew in a slow breath and exhaled. Her hand moved toward the fire-starting talisman beside the furnace.
This was her chance.
She would rise again, not through flattery or brute strength, but through flame and spirit herbs. Through the discipline of her own hands. She would climb without needing anyone's help—and when she stood at the peak, she would do so in full view of Song Wanníng.
Action followed thought.
She struck the talisman, and flame bloomed beneath the furnace.
—
Another wave of crazed beasts struck from the fog-covered forests beyond the border. Their howls tore through the sky like a stormwind, but Wentian Sect's disciples stood unflinching.
Calls to arms echoed through the camp. Blades were drawn, formations activated. Everyone moved with grim determination. Faces were pale, eyes bloodshot, but not a single person hesitated.
Among the rushing cultivators were Bai Yang and Lu Nanfeng, their figures swallowed by the tide of battle-bound disciples. Within moments, the outer camp quieted. Only the injured and a few pill-refining disciples remained behind.
The tension outside seemed to ripple faintly through the alchemy pavilion, but inside, Song Wanníng sat still.
She hadn't moved since the first alarm sounded. Her hands rested on her lap, her posture poised, her expression composed. The scent of herbs lingered in the air, but no furnace had been lit.
She was not here to refine pills. Not yet.
She was waiting.
Waiting for the signal. Waiting for news that the Song Clan had arrived at the battlefield.
An hour later, the message came.
She rose without a word. With a flick of her sleeve, she activated her flying carpet. The artifact shimmered once, then lifted, cloaking itself in spiritual mist as it carried her into the sky, moving swiftly across the southern border.
Wind whipped past her, thick with the scent of blood and spirit beast musk. She didn't slow. Her gaze remained locked on the horizon.
Before long, rows of banners bearing the Song Clan emblem came into view—graceful calligraphy inked upon flowing crimson cloth, planted high above an orderly formation of tents.
She descended.
"Young Lady!"
"Young Miss, greetings!"
"Miss Song!"
The moment her feet touched the ground, disciples of the Song Clan rushed to greet her. Their faces lit with joy and awe, voices layered one after another in uncontained excitement.
To them, Song Wanníng was not just a senior. She was an icon.
An alchemy prodigy. A Nascent Soul Zhēnjūn. The most promising heir the Song Clan had ever produced.
They had admired her from a distance for years, heard stories of her from their elders, but rarely had the chance to see her in person. And now, here she was—returning from seclusion, standing tall beneath the battlefield skies.
She answered their greetings with a gentle nod and soft gaze. Outwardly composed, serene as ever.
But her heart… was heavy.
She didn't linger.
Passing through the crowd, she made her way straight to the central command tent and entered without ceremony.
Inside, Song Qingyun stood over a massive sand table. His robes were slightly rumpled, and spiritual light flickered faintly around his fingertips as he manipulated formation models across the miniature terrain. When she stepped inside, his head snapped up.
"Wanníng." Relief softened his voice. "You came quickly."
He waved her over, gesturing toward the table.
"I've already surveyed the region. Our current station lies along one of the least active stretches of the border. According to the scouts, our casualties have been the lowest out of all nearby camps."
He pointed to a cluster of markers along the east.
"The strongest beasts in this area are only fourth-tier. No overlords, no demon kings. Mostly scattered packs, nothing organized."
Song Wanníng leaned over the table, eyes sweeping across the distribution lines, but her thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.
In her previous life, it had looked like this too.
Back then, the Song Clan had drawn this same position—near the center, shielded on both flanks by high-tier sects. Everyone had sighed in relief. The elder council had even taken it as a sign of good fortune.
And in the early days, that had held true. The beasts that came were weak, uncoordinated. The disciples quickly found their rhythm, treating each skirmish like a training session.
Victories came easily. Morale soared.
No one suspected anything.
Even she, who had been fighting at the front, had felt some measure of pride. Confidence.
Then came that day.
She had still been on the battlefield, blades dripping beast blood, when the message arrived—cold and sharp, like steel plunged through her spine.
The Song Clan had been ambushed.
In less than half an hour, three hundred disciples fell. Half the younger generation was erased in a breath. Talents they had raised for decades, lifelines of the clan's future—all gone.
She had rushed back, desperate, reckless.
And when she arrived, all she saw was chaos.
The camp had been overrun, not just by beasts but by something else. Twisted, frenzied, half-transformed monsters howled as they tore through formation walls. Blood stained the soil. The air shimmered with corrupted qi.
Wentian Sect sent reinforcements, but too late.
In the end, they had pushed the creatures back, but the damage was done.
The Song Clan was never the same.
Without young blood, there could be no future. No succession. No strength to anchor the clan's foundation. Decline came swiftly, like rot beneath a painted surface.
By the time Song Wanníng realized it, it was already too late. And when the clan finally fell… she had been the last one left to watch it burn.
The memory wrapped around her lungs like chains.
Her blood stirred. Beneath her composed exterior, the demonic qi in her sea of consciousness pulsed violently, reacting to her surge of emotion.
A flash of pain shot through her head.
But before it could take root, a thin golden sword spun to life within her soul. Its light pierced the dark, pressing down on the unrest with gentle, unwavering force. Her thoughts cleared.
"Wanníng?" Song Qingyun had stepped closer, worry etched into his face. He reached out and grasped her arm.
She blinked.
"I'm fine," she said softly. She exhaled, long and slow, then turned her gaze back toward the sand table. Her eyes were sharper now.
She could still see the ruined bodies of those disciples in her mind.
"It would not happen again.Not under my watch."
She turned toward Song Qingyun and grabbed his hand, fingers tightening.
"Father," she said, voice low. "Something isn't right here."