Arthur had taken to roaming the sect at dawn. It was the only time he was free from the endless concoction of pills and brewing of potions. His stature within the sect had grown, whether he liked it or not. Behind him, two silent figures always followed. Their aura, unreadable. Arthur could not pierce through their cultivation, no matter how hard he tried. He guessed, perhaps, Solar Ascendance Realm… or even higher.
That uncertainty gnawed at him. He still did not know what realms his father or mother had reached. All of it was obscured from him. He hated relying on guesswork.
Do I really want to know, he thought grimly. But now is not the time.
In the memories of Purgatory, Arthur definitely has a way of knowing, but as complex as his life is now, he cannot solve all the problems at once, even with all his knowledge.
For the past month, his favorite retreat had become the last tavern, the one closest to the sect gates. Unlike the rowdy halls deeper inside the sect grounds, this place was always under heavy guard. Patrols of armored disciples circled the streets outside, warding formations shimmered faintly on the gates, and even the shopkeeper's smile was watchful. All this because of him — Qing Tian, the alchemy prodigy. It was protection, but also a cage.
He sat quietly in the corner of the tavern, his two escorts lingering near him. He often watched those who came and went, and among the regulars, one group always caught his eye: the hunter-gatherers. Rugged, sun-darkened, their backs bent with bulging sacks of herbs, pelts, and raw meat. Something about them pulled him back to another life, another world.
Arthur's gaze softened. A memory came vividly.
He was younger and clumsier, following the steady footsteps of his father in a cold forest. They had tracked the elk for hours until Arthur's trembling hands finally loosed the arrow. The beast stumbled, roared, then fell into the snow. His heart raced — his first large kill.
His father's firm hand clapped his shoulder. "Good. But remember, Arthur, every life you take ties you closer to the world. Killing is not just violence; it's also a responsibility. This meat will feed us. Its skin will clothe us. That is life, too."
Together, they had dragged the elk, skinned it carefully, and divided the meat among themselves. His father spoke of politics as he worked, of how survival was not so different from governance. "Even the head of the state is a hunter," he had said. "They dictate, they wait, they strike… and then they must live with what they've taken."
Returning to the tavern's dim light, Arthur smiled faintly at the memory. A hunger stirred in him, not just for food, the wild, and the hunt. He longed to feel the chase again.
But the two guards at his side were not protectors. He was sure of it now. They were watchers. He had no idea how to slip their leash.
Leaving the tavern, Arthur strolled back toward his residence. Yet as he passed the path, something caught his eye: the Inscription Pavilion, its gates carved with glowing runes, its walls humming faintly with power.
Arthur slowed his pace as they neared the glowing gates. The faint hum of the runes stirred his curiosity, and without turning his head, he asked lightly, "So… tell me, how would you rate our sect's level of inscription mastery?"
The guards exchanged a glance. Usually, they were silent as shadows, answering only when necessary. Yet something in his tone, half-idle and half-serious, nudged them to speak.
"It is… decent, young master," one replied after a pause. His jaw tightened, but a hint of yearning slipped into his voice. "The mentionable ones are the Whiteflower Bloom level inscriptionist. We have a man, an Earth-tier inscriptionist in the Whiteflower Bloom realm, who has been invited as a guest member. He is not bound by sect chains, only earning by the runes, inscription, and ink of his craft."
The second guard's lips curled, almost bitter. "They say he takes sixty percent of every sale for himself. No contribution, no duty, no patrols or forced labor. Just freedom. Imagine that."
Arthur caught the flicker of envy in their eyes. He feigned indifference, though inwardly amused.
"One Earth-tier, hm?" he murmured. "And the rest?"
"There are also three Whiteflower bloom Yellow-grade inscriptionists among us," the first answered, his voice lower now as if afraid of being overheard. "Hardworking, but their rank binds them. Even so, they live better than we do. Privileges, resources, and recognition from sect elders. A single scroll they inscribe fetches more than a soldier's monthly stipend."
The second added, almost spitting the words, "Two Whiteflower Xuan-tier inscriptionists as well. They enjoy no small favor. Benefits more than the sect master's personal disciples, and their worth grows with every successful inscription. They might never step into battle, yet their names are sung louder than bladesmen."
Arthur tilted his head, letting their words hang. The bitterness beneath their voices was no longer hidden; it poured out like suppressed steam.
"Inscription does bring the status, freedom, and fortune…" Arthur said softly, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "No wonder the Pavilion shines brighter than the barracks."
"But not all of them are like that; there are many lower realm inscriptionist disciples and elders who are again, graded in their level. They don't earn that well, but still, it is equivalent to our earnings, that too with no life-threatening risks."
Arthur evaluated their words.
The guards fell silent, realizing how much they had revealed. Yet their eyes lingered on the rune-etched walls, burning with envy for a life they could never touch.
Arthur's gaze lingered on the rune-carved gates. He glanced back at the two guards, speaking up casually.
"Tell me, can we go in and have a look?"
The guards stiffened. One of them glanced warily at the towering Pavilion doors and spoke, his voice tight with restraint.
"Young master, I know you are a renowned alchemist… but you must know the hidden truth of Tianyu. Alchemists and inscriptionists — " he hesitated, lowering his tone, " — they do not see eye to eye."
Arthur let out a small laugh, raising his hand. "Don't worry," he assured with confidence, "We're not here to increase the crowd. If I find something that suits me…"
He loosened the cord of his sash, revealing the pouch at his hip. The bag sagged with the dense weight of crimson-hued spirit stones, the faint radiance seeping through its seams.
"…I'll buy."
The guards' eyes widened, the reflection of the pouch's glow burning in their pupils. Whatever suspicion remained melted beneath the weight of wealth. Their expressions softened into a mix of resignation and awe.
The older of the two sighed, lowering his shoulders. "Very well, young master. Since you carry such means… the Pavilion won't turn you away."
Arthur smirked, stepping forward closer to the doors. The towering doors creaked with a low groan, parting on their own accord. When they were opened, the view inside leaked in a dazzling, kaleidoscopic haze.