The Alchemy Peak stood high among clouds, its terraces layered with white pavilions and spiraling mist. The faint scent of spirit herbs, incense, and medicine filled the air, blending into a heady aroma that lingered even at the foot of the mountain.
Wan Long stood at the base of a wide staircase, along with seven other gray-robed servant disciples. Each of them looked pale and uneasy, eyes flickering toward the massive bronze gates ahead.
Beyond those gates lay the Alchemy Hall—a place revered by cultivators… and feared by the weak.
"Move," one of the guards barked.
The eight of them climbed the steps in silence. The gates opened with a deep hum, revealing an enormous courtyard. Rows of pill furnaces stood under open-roofed pavilions, their chimneys breathing faint streams of white smoke. The air shimmered with heat and the faint buzz of spiritual energy.
Within that space, official disciples in crimson and white robes bustled about, each carrying trays of herbs or jade slips. Compared to them, the menial disciples looked like ants crawling at the edge of a battlefield.
A young woman stood near the central furnace platform, her back turned to them. Her long black hair was tied with a jade pin, and her robe bore the insignia of an inner disciple—white silk embroidered with crimson lotus patterns.
Even among the heat and smoke, her figure radiated calm.
When she turned, her eyes were bright and sharp, glimmering like tempered glass.
"Senior Sister Shen Murong," one of the outer disciples announced, bowing respectfully. "The new batch of auxiliary test subjects has arrived."
Shen Murong glanced at them briefly. Her gaze swept across the line of trembling servants, lingering for barely a heartbeat before moving on.
"So few?" she said softly, her tone smooth yet distant.
The outer disciple beside her bowed deeply. "Yes, Senior Sister. Many have been… lost in recent trials. The Task Hall sent only these eight this time."
She nodded faintly, as if that explanation were as ordinary as a change in the weather.
Her beauty was undeniable—elegant, refined, her every movement carrying the grace of someone born for cultivation. But there was something cold beneath it. Her eyes were steady and calm in a way that made even breathing near her feel dangerous.
Wan Long kept his head bowed, but through the corner of his eye, he studied her carefully.
Through the memories of this body, her name stirred recognition.
Shen Murong—an alchemy prodigy who had joined the sect only three years ago. She possessed dual high-grade spiritual roots—wood and fire, the ideal combination for alchemy. The wood nourished, the fire refined.
Within three years, she had become a first-tier alchemist, already capable of refining low-level spiritual pills without guidance. The elders of Alchemy Peak had immediately taken her in as a nominal direct disciple—a cultivator personally nurtured to one day compete for the position of Peak Master.
In the entire Moon Pavilion Holy Sect, that status alone placed her high above most inner disciples.
She wasn't just talented. She was untouchable.
Shen Murong's gaze flicked briefly to a jade slip on the table beside her. "We'll begin the testing by noon," she said lightly. "The formula has been modified since the last batch. Hopefully, the results will be more stable."
A faint tremor ran through one of the servant disciples beside Wan Long. The man's lips moved soundlessly, his eyes filled with dread.
Stable.
That one word meant something terrible here.
Stability referred to how likely the pill was to kill its subject.
The more "unstable" the batch, the faster one died.
Shen Murong gave a few quiet instructions to her assistants before finally addressing the eight kneeling servants. "You will remain in the east dormitory. Eat lightly, do not cultivate, and await orders. When your names are called, you'll enter the testing chamber in sequence. Follow all instructions and do not resist. Understood?"
The eight bowed low in unison. "Y-Yes, Senior Sister!"
Her eyes flickered over them one last time. For an instant, they passed over Wan Long—and he felt an inexplicable chill. Not because of killing intent, but because of indifference.
He wasn't even seen as a living being.
To her, they were ingredients.
They were led away by an assistant disciple, through a long corridor lined with herb racks and locked rooms. Inside one chamber, Wan Long caught a glimpse of shattered cauldrons and burn marks along the walls.
The smell of charred flesh hung faintly in the air.
The dormitory was a narrow row of wooden cells. Each room barely large enough for a single bed.
As they settled inside, one of the other servants—a gaunt man with trembling hands—spoke in a whisper. "Do you know what they're testing this time?"
Another replied, his voice hollow. "They said it's a new version of the Spirit Tempering Pill. The last batch… their bodies swelled and burst before the elixir stabilized."
A weak sob escaped from the corner.
Wan Long said nothing. He sat on the edge of his bed, eyes half-closed, breathing slowly.
The scent of herbs and smoke pressed into his lungs. He could hear the faint humming of furnaces through the walls—like the heartbeat of some massive, unseen beast.
He knew now what kind of place this was.
And what it meant to survive here.
The sect would not protect him. No elder would intervene. No one even knew his name.
In the eyes of this world, Wan Long was already dead.
But he was not the same man who'd once labored silently under the sect's rules.
He had lived once before. He had died once before. And he had no intention of doing it again.
As the day grew brighter and the first furnace roared to life, Shen Murong's voice echoed faintly through the hall beyond:
"Prepare the first cauldron. Begin purification."
And in that instant, Wan Long realized—if he did nothing, his second life would end before it even began.
.....
Time in the dormitory passed slowly, each breath thick with dread.
The eight of them waited in silence, listening to the constant thrum of furnaces and the faint clinking of cauldrons echoing through the stone halls. The air smelled of burning herbs, metal, and something faintly sweet that made the skin crawl.
Then, near midday, a voice echoed through the corridor.
"Bring in the first one."
The door creaked open. A trembling man stood up and shuffled forward. His steps were stiff, like a puppet being dragged by invisible strings.
When the door closed behind him, the rest were left in silence once more.
A minute passed. Then another.
And then—
A muffled thud.
Followed by shouting.
"Quick! Get the cleaners—dispose of the remains!"
Wan Long's breath caught slightly. Through the narrow crack under the door, he saw shadows rush past—servant cleaners carrying blood-stained rags and a wooden stretcher.
The metallic scent of blood drifted faintly through the air.
No one spoke.
"Next," the voice outside commanded.
The second man stood up, pale as paper. He glanced back once, his lips trembling. "If… if I come out alive—"
The door closed before he could finish.
Moments later, another crash echoed. The smell of burnt flesh followed.
A faint scream pierced the air—and then nothing.
Silence.
The sound of footsteps.
And again, that same cold order:
"Dispose of the body."
Wan Long sat perfectly still. His heart beat slowly, deliberately. He didn't let himself shake. But the others did.
The girl beside him—the youngest among them, perhaps sixteen or seventeen—had both hands over her mouth, her shoulders trembling violently.
"They're killing us," she whispered, her voice cracking.
He didn't answer.
Because she wasn't wrong.
Half an hour passed.
"Third."
Then "Fourth."
Then "Fifth."
The result never changed.
Each time, a scream, a crash, a faint burning smell… then silence.
When the fifth was taken, the remaining three sat frozen in the dim light. The air felt heavy, suffocating.
Wan Long's mind, however, was calm. He had already accepted that fear was useless here. Survival demanded clarity.
He began quietly observing—memorizing the rhythm of the footsteps outside, the time between each "test," the sound of the furnaces. Every detail mattered.
Finally, the door creaked open again.
"Next group—three subjects. Bring them in together."
The calloused boy beside Wan Long swallowed hard, his knuckles white. The girl whimpered softly, shaking her head.
"Please… please, I don't want to die…"
Wan Long stood up slowly. His expression was blank, his voice even. "If you want to live, then stay quiet and do as they say."
The boy glanced at him, eyes flickering with something between fear and determination. Together, the three followed the attendant down the corridor.
The passage grew hotter with every step. The air shimmered faintly, filled with the hiss of boiling cauldrons and the hum of spiritual fire.
Finally, they emerged into a wide chamber lined with stone furnaces. A massive bronze cauldron stood at the center, its surface covered in glowing inscriptions. Steam rolled from its mouth, thick with the scent of spirit herbs.
Shen Murong stood beside it, calm and composed, her white robe untouched by the heat. A faint golden flame hovered above her palm as she inscribed formation runes into the air, adjusting the flow of fire beneath the cauldron.
"Senior Sister Shen," said the outer disciple who led them in. "The next three are ready."
Without turning, she replied, "Good. Begin with the girl."
The assistant nodded, motioning toward her.
The young girl froze. Her legs refused to move. "No… please, Senior Sister… I can clean! I can sweep the floors—"
A flicker of annoyance crossed Shen Murong's expression. She didn't even look up. "Hold her down."
Two disciples moved instantly, seizing the girl by her arms.
Her cries echoed through the chamber as they forced a small jade vial between her lips. The liquid inside glowed faintly red.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then her body convulsed violently. Her veins bulged black under her skin, her mouth foamed, and within seconds, she collapsed—eyes wide open, smoke rising from her lips.
The attendants didn't even flinch.
"Dead."
"Next."
Wan Long watched silently, his gaze cold and sharp.
The calloused boy beside him stepped forward shakily. His lips moved in silent prayer before he swallowed the second vial.
For a moment, it seemed he might survive. Then his back arched suddenly, his body trembling as crimson steam poured from his pores. He collapsed in a heap, his skin blistered and cracked.
"Failed again," one of the disciples muttered. "The reaction's still unstable."
Shen Murong frowned slightly, jotting notes onto a jade slip. "Increase the fire element ratio by thirty percent. Prepare the third sample."
Her eyes turned to Wan Long.
For the first time, she looked at him directly.
"Your turn."
The faint smell of blood, smoke, and burning herbs mingled in the air. The heat licked at his skin.
Wan Long stepped forward slowly, his eyes steady, the corner of his mouth tightening just slightly.
So this is how it ends again, huh…?
But deep inside, something in him refused to yield.