Finne walked through the familiar, herb-scented corridors of the Alchemist's Pavilion, but his steps were different. The arrogant saunter he had before was gone, replaced by a sharp, focused stride. Alex's words from the day before echoed in his mind, not as an insult, but as a heartfelt message that left only the resolve of a new purpose.
"I need to become someone Alex can rely on."
He was ready to begin. He expected the Pavilion to be a sanctuary of quiet study, the usual gentle hum of controlled fires and the soft scraping of pestles in mortars.
Instead, he walked into chaos.
The entire Guild Hall was a hive of frantic activity. Junior disciples were practically running down the halls, their arms laden with sacks of raw herbs and crates of vials. Senior alchemists, usually sequestered in their private labs, were barking orders in the main foyer, their faces tight with stress. The air, normally a delicate symphony of separate fragrances, was now a clashing, overwhelming cloud of a hundred different ingredients assaulting the senses all at once.
Finne stood frozen for a moment, completely bewildered. When he had left to find Alex this morning, everything had been normal. What could have happened?
He spotted a junior apprentice, a young woman named Li, hurrying past with a stack of scrolls. "Junior Sister Li, a moment!"
She stopped, performing a quick, breathless bow. "Senior Brother Finne! Forgive me, I am in a hurry."
"What in the heavens is going on?" Finne asked, gesturing to the chaos. "Did a beast break in?"
Li's eyes were wide with a mixture of terror and awe. "It's a guild-wide mobilization, Senior Brother. A direct decree came from Elder Ming this morning. He put out an 'all hands' order. We are to produce three months' worth of restorative and Qi-replenishing pills in less than two weeks."
Finne's mind reeled. Such a massive production quota was unheard of, reserved only for times of imminent war. "All of us? But who is overseeing–"
"Master Ming himself," Li whispered, her voice full of reverence. "He is in the Grand Production Hall. Brewing."
The words hit Finne with the force of a physical blow. He had been a member of the Alchemist Guild for a decade, an inner disciple for five years. In all that time, he had never once seen Elder Ming personally brew a single pill. The Master's role was to guide, to teach, to theorize on the Dao of alchemy. His hands were for passing down knowledge, not for grinding herbs. For him to personally stoke a cauldron fire...
This is serious, Finne thought, his heart pounding with a new, cold dread. This is an omen.
"Thank you." Finne didn't hold her up any longer. He raced off, his own personal mission to "get stronger" suddenly feeling small and childish in the face of this emergency production notice. Alex challenged himself to achieve personal worth. This was now Finne's opportunity to do the same.
He arrived at the arched entrance to the Grand Production Hall and stopped, the sheer scale of the operation taking his breath away. The hall was a cavernous chamber, so large that his own workshop could fit in a corner of it. Dozens of rows of identical bronze cauldrons stretched out in a perfect grid, each with its own meticulously organized workstation. The air was a furnace, thick with a hundred different alchemical aromas and the oppressive heat of over two hundred active cauldron fires.
It was packed. Every single station was occupied. Disciples moved with a frantic, desperate energy, their faces slick with sweat, their movements a blur of grinding, measuring, and channeling Qi.
And in the very center of it all, at the Master Cauldron reserved for only the most difficult concoctions, was Elder Ming.
He was a point of absolute calm in the storm. While everyone else rushed, he moved with a slow, deliberate grace. His hands didn't seem to touch the ingredients so much as guide them. A wisp of his Qi would coax a pinch of powder from a bowl; a gentle wave of his hand would adjust the fire's intensity. It wasn't work; it was art.
Finne took a deep breath and approached, bowing respectfully. "Master Ming. Forgive the intrusion. I wish to offer my services."
Ming didn't turn, his eyes still fixed on the gentle hum of his cauldron, but a faint, weary smile touched his lips. "Disciple Finne. Your timing is fortuitous. Your hands are needed."
"What can I do to help?" Finne asked, his voice steady.
"We need Qi-Replenishing Pills," Ming said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of command. "Thousands of them. We are also brewing antidotes for beast venom and high-grade restoratives. Take a list of the required formulas." He gestured to a stack of scrolls on a nearby table. "Find an empty station, if you can. If not, find a disciple who is tiring and relieve them. Focus on quantity, but do not sacrifice quality. An exhausted disciple on a forgotten battlefield will depend on the pill you make today."
The weight of that responsibility settled on Finne's shoulders. This wasn't practice anymore. It was a duty. "I understand, Master. I will not fail."
He took a scroll and began to search for a station. He finally found one in a far corner, where a junior disciple looked ready to collapse from Qi exhaustion. After helping the boy to a rest area, Finne took his place. He looked at the simple, standard-issue cauldron, a far cry from the high-grade one in his private workshop. He looked at the common ingredients laid out before him.
He thought of Alex, who had created a miracle with far less. He thought of his new brother's challenge. He thought of the weight of the disciples that would be depending on what he brewed here today.
He took a deep breath, pushing away his pride, his arrogance, and his need for recognition. He lit the fire, his movements sure and steady. He had come here to get stronger for himself. But now, as he began his work, he realized a profound truth. The path to becoming an ally Alex could rely on, and the path to becoming a pillar the sect could depend on, were the same and he had a lot of work to do if he was going to achieve either.
Finne fell into the grueling rhythm of production. He ground the herbs, managed the fire, and infused the mixture with his Qi, his movements practiced and efficient. His first batch yielded a respectable dozen Low-Grade Qi-Replenishing Pills. They were solid, functional, and completely unremarkable. He set them aside and immediately began the next batch.
Hours bled into one another. The initial rush of purpose began to fade, replaced by the monotonous reality of mass production. The heat of the hall was oppressive, the air thick with the sickenning, intermingled scents of a hundred different concoctions. Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes.
It was then that he started to notice the alchemists at the stations beside him.
To his right was a Senior Sister named Mei, a quiet but famously talented alchemist. She wasn't just producing pills; she was conducting a symphony. Her hands moved in a graceful, flowing dance, and with every batch, she would produce not twelve, but fifteen pills, each one a lustrous, perfect brown with a faint, internal glow that marked them as high-quality. She worked with an effortless, silent grace that made Finne's own careful, deliberate movements feel clumsy and slow.
To his left was a grizzled senior brother he only knew as Borin, an alchemist who specialized in potent but volatile concoctions. Borin's method was the opposite of Mei's. It was a barely controlled chaos of roaring flames and sharp, percussive taps on his cauldron. But from that chaos, he was pulling batches of fiery-red pills that practically vibrated with raw, explosive power. They were mid-grade pills, produced with the speed and consistency of a master craftsman.
And then there was Finne. Grinding, measuring, focusing, and producing batch after batch of plain, standard, utterly average pills. For every two batches Mei or Borin completed, he managed one. Their success was a constant, glaring spotlight on his own mediocrity. The old, familiar poison of inadequacy began to seep into his heart.
'This is pathetic,' he thought, his jaw tightening as he scraped another batch of perfectly average pills from his cauldron. 'Brother Alex can produce flawless pills from common ingredients without a recipe. These masters can churn out high-grade concoctions like they're making rice. And me? I'm just a factory worker.'
His frustration mounted. He started rushing, trying to match their speed. His fire control became sloppy, his Qi infusion a little too forceful. The next batch came out slightly scorched, a few of the pills burned, cracked, and unusable. A low growl of anger escaped his lips.
"Is there a problem, Disciple Finne?"
Finne jumped, startled. Elder Ming stood beside his station, his expression calm and unreadable. He had moved through the chaotic hall without making a sound.
"Master!" Finne bowed hurriedly, his face flushed with shame. "No, Master. No problem. I am... just slow."
Ming didn't respond. He simply reached over and picked up one of Finne's "average" pills. He held it to the light, turning it over in his fingers. He brought it to his nose, inhaling its simple, earthy scent.
"Slow?" Ming said finally. "Perhaps. But this..." he held up the pill, "this is exactly what we need."
Finne looked at him, confused. "But... It's just a standard low-grade pill. Senior Sister Mei is producing high-quality batches. Senior Brother Borin is making mid-grade pills."
"Indeed," Ming agreed with a nod. "And their pills will be given to the team leaders and the formation masters, to be used in moments of dire need. But what of the common disciple, Finne? The one who is merely standing guard for twelve hours, his Qi slowly draining? Does he need a potent mid-grade pill to recover that small amount? What of the disciple who suffers a minor cut from a stray beast's claw? Is it wise for him to use a precious high-grade restorative for a wound a simple salve could close?"
He placed the pill back on Finne's tray. "An alchemist who can only create flawless, priceless masterpieces is not a master alchemist; he is an artist. A true master understands that the purpose of the pill dictates its creation. A flawless pill for a dying elder is a triumph. A simple, reliable pill for an exhausted soldier is a victory. We do not need a thousand masterpieces for this expedition, Finne. We need ten thousand reliable tools."
He looked Finne directly in the eye, his voice soft but clear. "The key to being a great alchemist is not just making the perfect pill. It's about making the right pill for the right situation. And today, your steady, reliable hand is creating exactly what this sect needs most. Do you understand?"
The words washed over Finne, extinguishing the fire of his frustration. He looked from the Elder's wise, patient eyes to the simple, brown pills on his tray. They were no longer a symbol of his inadequacy. They were tools. They were a contribution. They were his duty.
He bowed, deeper and more sincerely than he ever had in his life. "I understand, Master. Thank you."
Elder Ming offered a rare, approving smile and then moved on, a silent point of calm in the bustling hall.
Finne turned back to his cauldron. The envy was gone. The frustration was gone. The arrogant need to be the "best" was gone. All that remained was a clear, quiet purpose. He stoked the fire, his movements sure and steady, his heart calm. He had a lot of work to do.