Arthur sat cross-legged in his chamber, the glow of moonlight pouring faintly through the windows. His breathing slowed, his seven energy centers harmonizing in rhythm. The tide of Qi surged in his meridians, each cycle faster, deeper, sharper. His dantian swelled as if it would burst, Qi bashing against its boundaries before finally breaking through.
A muffled boom echoed inside his body.
Arthur opened his eyes. He was now a Peak Crimson Furnace Realm.
He exhaled, long and heavy, yet his expression was hardly joyful.
"Two months… from Half-Step Ember Ignition to Peak Crimson Furnace… and still, this speed is nothing before the steps of Immortals," he muttered, shaking his head.
On his table lay an old, weather-worn book. Its leathered cover was cracked, edges frayed like withered bark. He picked it up, running his hand over the ancient texture.
It was taken from Duan Zi Xuan's desk. Zi Xuan had dismissed it as worthless, and it truly was. Nothing special was in its content, shallow. But for Arthur, the book's actual value lay elsewhere — the archaic binding, the fading calligraphy, the centuries-old look clinging to it.
It was precisely what he needed for the problem at hand.
Arthur frowned, recalling the matter weighing on him more than cultivation itself.
His mother's rule was iron. Anyone who earns must contribute to the household's wealth. She had only recently discovered that Arthur was being paid; worse, he had spent nearly all of it. His father bore the consequences in silence, but his mother's fury was still fresh in his ears.
This time, he could not delay. He had to contribute.
The cost had been high. He had given away thirty-five Solar Ascendance Spirit Stones, and from what he knew from Duan Zi Xuan in their conversation, his father and uncle, both core disciples, also received fifty stones each from the sect master as pay.
And now Arthur knew the truth: his father had already stepped into the Solar Ascendance Realm.
"Alchemists… they really do earn much," Arthur sighed. He himself, merely a Crimson Furnace Realm cultivator, had drawn more than enough to live comfortably. Yet he had squandered much in schemes, experiments, and preparations.
"I've slipped away from dinner today, but can't avoid it tomorrow. Twenty stones… but I only have fifteen left."
His gaze returned to the old book.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"One book… two birds with one stone."
The next morning, Arthur slipped out before his parents could call him. The air was cool, and the sect was quiet in the dawn haze.
At the Alchemy Pavilion, he refined with practiced calm. The flames danced, the pill cauldrons rang, and by noon, he had completed far more than required.
Among them were Crimson Spirit Rejuvenation Pills – restoring Qi flow for Crimson Furnace cultivators.
Blazing Vein Tempering Pills – strengthening meridians against fiery backlash.
Verdant Essence Pellets – easing the exhaustion of long cultivation.
Seven-Trace Healing Pills – treating internal injuries.
And, more impressively, a handful of Amber Radiance Realm concoctions.
Aurora Vitality Pills, stabilizing foundations,
Flame-Thread Essence Pills, enhancing fire-aligned Qi,
Marrow Nourishment Pills, which mended bone and marrow.
He handed the batches to Elder Yan, who inspected them with a sharp, approving gaze.
"Qing Tian, you've exceeded the quota. These alone could last the Pavilion a fortnight."
Arthur clasped his hands respectfully. "Elder Yan, I will need time to rest today. I may still refine something today, but it will not be for regular batches."
Elder Yan raised a brow, then gave a small smile. "Rest well, boy. Your hands worked twice, as was asked today."
Arthur bowed, concealing the faint glimmer in his eyes.
Arthur's hand moved with care. Once the old book lay on his working table, he reached for a small vial capped in silver. Within shimmered a pale, moonlit liquid. It was Moonveil Dissolution Nectar; he brewed it from the remains of his alchemy session. Made of Moondew petals, powdered cinnabar, and a single drop of bile harvested from a Crimson Furnace Realm Bone-Melting Serpent. A concoction too deadly even for a skilled alchemist, yet perfectly obedient to the brush of an inscriptionist.
With a sable brush, Arthur dipped its tip and stroked it over the ancient characters. The blackened lines dissolved, then unraveled into dark mist curls, vanishing without a trace. The parchment beneath returned to an immaculate, unstained surface as though no hand had ever written upon it.
The escaping mist coiled upward as a ghostly ink in vapor form. With a practiced motion, Arthur guided it into a small jade vial. He would use this discarded essence to be re-refined into ink.
Once erased, the parchment required tempering. He lifted the clean sheets and dipped them into a basin of Spirit Water, infused with powdered jade dust. As the fibers drank it in, the parchments softened. Spiritual Qi ran faintly beneath their surface. It was again the paper, a vessel ready to cradle the Dao Scriptures.
Arthur withdrew the damp sheets and carried them to a low-grade claudron, which he used as a brazier. There, smoldering pine resin burned slowly. He let the sheets dry upon the smoke. The curling tendrils of resin clung to them, leaving an aged feel. By the time they were dry, they carried an ancient weight, as though they had existed for centuries.
Then came the true work. He prepared his ink, grinding burnt peach bark into powder and the re-refined essence, to lend a faded brown hue. Into this he mixed powdered iron filings, subtle yet potent, giving the ink a living quality that would corrode quickly over time. The result was a liquid black that gleamed sharply when wet. Dipping his brush, Arthur began to write.
The characters flowed crisp and dark across the parchment, strokes clean as sword-edges. Yet, within a day, they would dull, dimming to a brownish hue, feigning the marks of age.
To any unknowing eye, the text would appear as a relic from centuries past. But hidden beneath this ordinary veil was the truth.
Arthur concealed his work with a final ward. Only when the pages were infused with Holy Wood Qi would the scripture awaken. Then, and only then, would the book reveal its true self — radiant runes spiraling outward, shifting diagrams that pulsed with rhythm, cultivation methods unfolding as if whispered by the Dao itself. A scripture alive, yet slumbering to the unworthy.
He did it because this Qi belonged to his father, a physician whose life's essence resonated with wood's nature.
And what Arthur inscribed was no mere artifice. It was the Immortal Lotus Sutra, a cultivation method of the immortal grade. It had growth without end. Renewal that defied rot. Vitality that could mend the broken. And suppression techniques that could strangle an individual with parasites and hostile wood energies.
He also detailed the paths of cultivation across seven energy centers.
This was no mere aid for survival in Tianyu. It was also viable in the Boundless Immortal Firmament.
He wrote the book like a scripture from a forgotten temple, heavy with reverence. On the final page, however, Arthur added something different. He leaned close and channeled his voice and the inscription etcher into the parchment. He made a voice inscription. To change it, he added a weight to the frequency.
The words were etched so that they were not merely heard, but they sank into the marrow, shook the soul. His voice warned —
"This scripture is beyond mortal measure. Mishandled, it brings ruin. Guard it well, for calamity will follow should its knowledge spill into careless hands."
The weighted inscription pulsed faintly once complete, a lingering echo that would trigger only when his father read to the end.
Arthur exhaled slowly, setting the brush aside. His eyes lingered on the scripture, now disguised as a worn, ancient manual.
Only then did he notice the faint stiffness in his wrist, the ache in his back. He had been so consumed in making the Sutra that five whole shichen had slipped unnoticed, and the night had grown deep.
The book would look like a relic too old to matter to others. But to his father, it was a lifeline, perhaps even salvation. And with that final word, Arthur ensured his father would tread carefully, never flaunting what he carried.