The heat inside the Inner Alchemy Hall was suffocating.
Dozens of pill furnaces blazed in unison, each releasing faint streams of colored smoke that danced lazily toward the rafters.
The scent of scorched herbs and bitter ash filled the air—a mixture that made most servant disciples gag.
But Wan Long barely noticed.
His robe was drenched in sweat, his arms aching, yet his movements were steady and precise.
Bucket after bucket of discarded pill waste was lifted, carried out, and emptied into the disposal yard.
Each motion was practiced, efficient—almost mechanical.
The nearby disciples whispered among themselves as they watched him work.
"That's the servant who cleaned the southern yard yesterday."
"He's been at it since dawn… and he's still going."
"How is he not fainting from exhaustion?"
A few shook their heads, impressed despite themselves.
Even some first-tier alchemists, who normally ignored servant disciples entirely, found their gazes drawn to the quiet figure moving tirelessly between furnaces.
"His stamina is abnormal," one muttered.
"He's still a mortal, isn't he?"
"Either a fool or someone who doesn't value his life."
Their tone carried faint mockery—but also a trace of respect.
Wan Long, however, heard every word.
He simply smiled inwardly, pretending not to care.
Let them talk.
He was already doing calculations in his head.
Each furnace produces about half a bucket of waste a day… there are 60 furnaces here… that's 30 full buckets daily.
If I recycle all of it… that should easily give me enough points to enhance my spiritual root.
His heart stirred with anticipation.
Every scoop of filth, every lump of half-melted residue, was no longer a burden—it was currency.
The heat licked at his skin, the stench burned his nostrils, but he didn't slow down.
If anything, he moved faster, as though chasing something invisible only he could see.
By now, it was well past noon.
Most disciples had already gone to eat.
Only a few remained to tend their cauldrons or record the results of their refinements.
Wan Long was still there—sweeping, lifting, clearing, hauling.
His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it completely.
A faint grin touched his lips as he straightened up and wiped the sweat from his brow.
The corner of the hall he had been assigned to was spotless.
The air even smelled cleaner now that the stale waste had been removed.
Several disciples passing by stopped to glance at him.
"Still not done?" one of them called, half amused.
"You'll drop dead before evening if you keep this up."
Wan Long looked up, smiled faintly, and bowed slightly. "Thank you for the concern, Senior Brother."
Then he turned back to his work.
Behind that calm expression, however, his thoughts were burning bright.
No, I won't die.
When this is over… I'll be reborn again.
He could already imagine it—
the system's cool voice echoing in his mind,
the rush of spiritual energy flooding his meridians,
the long-cursed "Mixed Element" line on his panel finally changing to something greater.
He could almost see it now—
the moment his spiritual roots evolved,
the first true step away from mediocrity.
To the disciples around him, he was just another servant doing dirty work.
But to Wan Long—
this was cultivation.
This was his path to immortality.
....
The third day came to an end under a dim, amber sky.
The Inner Alchemy Hall gleamed like a mirror.
Every bench had been scrubbed, every cauldron polished. Even the faint residue of burnt herbs that usually lingered in the air had vanished.
It wasn't that the disciples with cultivation couldn't do it—they simply wouldn't.
Menial chores were beneath their pride.
But Wan Long had done it all, alone.
He staggered out from the back doors, dragging the last of the waste buckets.
His breath came in rough bursts, and his arms trembled from fatigue. Sweat dripped from his chin, mixing with the pungent stench of scorched medicine that clung to him like oil.
Forty-five buckets.
Each one filled with the failed experiments of inner sect alchemists—wastes from furnaces that refined high-tier pills beyond the reach of ordinary disciples.
His back screamed in pain, but his lips curved faintly as he reached the dumping grounds.
The crimson glow of sunset bled across the mountains, casting long shadows over the valley.
He looked at the piles of pill dregs that shimmered faintly in the dying light—beautiful in their own strange way.
No one else would dare touch them.
But to him, they were treasure.
He took a slow, deep breath and whispered,
"System—recycle all waste."
[Recycling failed pill residue…]
[Recycling complete.]
[Obtained: 3,500 Days of Spiritual Energy.]
[Obtained: 10 High-Grade Tier 3 Core Foundation Pills.]
[Obtained: 50 High-Grade Tier 2 Marrow Cleansing Pills.]
[Obtained: 50 High-Grade Tier 1 Qi Nourishment Pills.]
[Obtained: 20 Perfect-Grade Tier 1 Body Tempering Pills.]
[Recycle Points + 10,000.]
For a heartbeat, Wan Long just stared at the glowing panel, unable to breathe.
"...Ten thousand recycle points?" he whispered.
The number pulsed softly in front of him, unreal yet absolute.
The night breeze brushed past, cool against his feverish skin. His legs almost gave out—not from exhaustion this time, but from the sheer rush of disbelief.
He had done it.
After three days of sweat and back-breaking labor,
after enduring heat, stench, and humiliation—
he had finally gathered enough.
His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists.
Every failure, every insult he had swallowed since waking in this world, felt lighter.
...
Wan Long's fingers trembled as the glowing panel faded from view.
For a long moment, he could only stare at his hands—calloused, stained with soot and sweat—hands that had just unearthed a fortune greater than any servant could dream of.
"A… Core Foundation Pill?" he muttered under his breath, voice trembling.
His heart pounded so hard it hurt.
Those words alone were enough to make even an inner disciple's eyes turn crimson with envy.
In the inner sect, such pills were priceless treasures.
Only direct disciples of elders—or the most promising core disciples—had the right to receive them.
And this wasn't just a common Core Foundation Pill.
It was high-grade.
A pill that increased the chance of breaking through to the Core Foundation Realm by seventy percent.
Wan Long swallowed hard.
He had heard whispers before—of disciples who had been stuck at the Spiritual Realm for ten years, even twenty, their foundations crumbling with age… all because they lacked this very pill.
And now, ten of them sat quietly inside his system inventory.
Obtained not through luck or favor, but through his own hands.
He scrolled further, eyes widening again.
Twenty perfect-grade Tier 1 Body Tempering Pills.
A perfect-grade pill—free of pill poison, pure essence, smooth absorption.
The kind of medicine that sect elders used to temper their descendants' bodies before formal cultivation began.
It was a treasure of a different sort—one that could refine his foundation to perfection.
He drew in a slow, shaky breath.
This… this was his richest haul yet.
Not even outer disciples could dream of this kind of fortune.
Yet as he thought deeper, another realization struck him like lightning.
Every bucket he had recycled came from the outer edge of the Inner Hall—from the low-ranked disciples still refining Tier 1 and Tier 2 pills.
That meant...
He hadn't even touched the core chambers.
Where Tier 3, 4, even Tier 5 alchemy was performed.
If this was what the periphery gave him…
Wan Long's eyes slowly narrowed, a faint gleam lighting within them.
"What would the heart of the Inner Hall* give me?" he whispered, his voice low and charged with hunger.
The night wind stirred his hair as he stared toward the faintly glowing towers deeper within the Alchemy Peak—where true masters refined divine elixirs that could shift destinies.
A soft smile curved his lips.
He had found his direction.
If he could reach that place—even just to clean—it would change everything.