The flying skiff touched down in the plaza before the Crimson Pavilion just as the sun slid past the edge of the western peak.
Gold bled into shadow.
The steward elder stowed his artifact and waved the group away. Disciples who had gained something clustered together in animated knots, voices buzzing with excitement. The wounded were half-carried by their companions, hurrying toward Pill Cauldron Peak before the light fully died.
Jiang Muchen helped Liu Zhen down the gangplank.
Lu Hanshan and Wang Duobao followed, arms full—jade cases and oil-wrapped bundles packed tight with Cold Spring Water, Frost-Tear Vine sap, and Moonlight Lingzhi.
"Junior Brother Jiang… this time—"
Liu Zhen stopped, turned, then swallowed the rest of his words.
"Focus on healing first," Jiang Muchen said evenly. "The Moonlight Grass can wait."
Liu Zhen nodded. From his robes, he pulled out a blood-stained cloth bundle and pressed it into Jiang Muchen's hands.
"Take these. Without you, I'd be dead."
Jiang Muchen didn't refuse. He weighed the bundle in his palm—seven or eight stalks, fifty-year growth at least. Their veins glimmered faintly in the dying light.
"Recover well," he said. "I'll visit in a few days."
Liu Zhen met his gaze for a long moment, clasped his fists, and turned away.
Only after the limping figure disappeared did Wang Duobao lean closer, lowering his voice.
"Brother Jiang… can he be trusted?"
"At least more than the Qingming Sword Sect lot," Jiang Muchen replied, tucking the herbs away.
"Come. We're heading to the Forging Hall."
They crossed the plaza.
Plenty of disciples were returning from Medicine Valley as well—but their eyes clung to Jiang Muchen. More precisely, to the dark short sword at his waist.
Ink-patterned Blacksteel.
The glow was subdued, but anyone who knew weapons could tell its weight at a glance.
Several scions from noble clans slowed, eyes bright with curiosity… and jealousy they couldn't quite hide.
"Jiang Muchen."
The voice came from beneath a tree lining the path.
Chen Song stood there in violet robes, a small cloth sack slung over his shoulder. Charred wood jutted from the opening—Thunderstrike Timber.
"Senior Brother Chen." Jiang Muchen bowed.
Chen Song approached, frowning slightly as he looked him over.
"You're injured?"
"Minor."
"You went into Cold Mist Ravine."
"I did. Got the Cold Spring Water and Frost-Tear Vine."
Chen Song fell silent. After a moment, he reached into his robes and tossed over another pouch.
"Thunder-Pattern Grass. What you asked for."
The weight told Jiang Muchen there were at least a dozen stalks inside.
"Thank you, Senior Brother."
He paused. "How was Scorchedwood Forest?"
"Acceptable," Chen Song said curtly.
"I lured the Thunder Ape away. Took the best two logs. Your intel was right—the lightning intent is pure."
He turned to leave, then stopped.
"Jiang Muchen."
"Yes?"
"The debt from Medicine Valley is settled today," Chen Song said.
"But if you need help later—come find me at the Hall of Thunder. As long as it doesn't cross my principles."
Then the violet robes flickered, and he vanished into the deepening dusk.
Wang Duobao smacked his lips.
"Are people from the Hall of Thunder all this… efficient?"
"Efficient is good," Jiang Muchen said.
"At least they keep their word."
By the time they reached the Forging Hall, night had fallen.
The lamps were still lit. Hammer strikes rang out in steady rhythm—solid, deliberate, like a heartbeat.
Jiang Muchen told the others to wait outside and stepped in alone.
Elder Huoyun was pounding a block of glowing iron. Each strike sent sparks spraying. Bare-chested, sweat streamed down his back, shining in the furnace light.
"Elder," Jiang Muchen bowed.
Without looking up, Huoyun said, "You get the materials?"
"Yes."
Two jade cases were placed on the stone anvil. "Three jin of Cold Spring Water. One box of Frost-Tear Vine sap."
The hammer stopped.
Huoyun opened the first case. Cold mist spilled out, frost racing across the stone surface.
"Authentic," he nodded. He dabbed the sap, inhaled. "Good age."
He closed the cases and looked up.
"Trouble?"
"Two Ice-Scale Serpents guarding the spring. One young, one old—at least fifty years of cultivation."
Huoyun's brows rose.
"How did you survive?"
Jiang Muchen lifted the Qingming Dragon-Calling Flute.
Huoyun took it, examining it closely. When his eyes caught the dark-gold lines along its body, his pupils shrank.
"…Dragon markings?"
"You recognize it?"
"I do." His voice dropped.
"The ancient Qingming Sect's Dragon-Calling Flute. Forged to commune with dragonkind. Where did you get it?"
"By chance," Jiang Muchen said, as always.
"It saved my life in the valley."
Huoyun stared at him for a long time, then handed it back.
"Child… some fortunes are blessings and curses both. Keep this hidden. Do not display it lightly."
"I understand."
Jiang Muchen hesitated, then spoke.
"Elder… in Cold Mist Ravine, I encountered Ancestor Stonefool."
—
The hammer fell from Huoyun's hand and struck the floor with a thunderous clang.
He whirled around and grabbed Jiang Muchen by the shoulder.
"What did you say?!"
"Ancestor Stonefool," Jiang Muchen said, enduring the pain.
"He was bound beneath the cold pool, nailed to a Dragon-Suppressing Pillar. Forty years."
Huoyun's hands trembled.
"He… he was still alive?"
"When I found him, yes," Jiang Muchen said.
"But his soul had been largely eroded by a dragon's remnant spirit. He was… at the end."
Silence.
"I helped him find release."
Huoyun let go and staggered back, collapsing onto the anvil.
The famously hot-tempered forging elder seemed to age a decade in a breath. He covered his face, shoulders shaking—no sobs, just quiet weight.
Jiang Muchen waited.
After a long while, Huoyun lowered his hands. His eyes were red, dry.
"Did he suffer… at the end?"
"No," Jiang Muchen said.
"He said release before death was a mercy."
Huoyun drew a deep breath, walked to the furnace, and took a long swig from his wine gourd.
"Good. Good…" he murmured.
"Forty years. At least there is an answer now. Even a bad one… is better than none."
He turned back.
"Thank you, child. Thank you for freeing him."
"I only did what I should."
Huoyun shook his head, reached into his robes, and tossed over a black iron token.
Palm-sized. Matte dark.
A single character etched on the front: Fire.
"Guest Artificer's Token," Huoyun said.
"With this, you may freely enter the Forging Hall and borrow basic tools and materials. Officially you're still a menial—but here, you're half my disciple."
Jiang Muchen's breath caught.
This was enormous.
Many outer disciples would kill for such access.
"Thank you, Elder!" He bowed deeply.
"Don't thank me yet," Huoyun said.
"You borrow—don't waste. Don't steal. Each month, forge three basic artifact blanks for me. That's your rent."
"I understand."
"And this," Huoyun gestured to a lump of Crimsonfire Essence Metal in the corner.
"Process it for me. I'll use part of the Cold Spring Water and Frost-Tear powder. What's left—yours."
Processed properly, its value would double.
Another heavy gift.
"Elder, that's too much—"
Huoyun laughed.
"You gave my uncle peace. This is nothing."
He waved a hand.
"Go. Starting tomorrow, come every evening. I'll teach you the basics."
Outside, the others rushed him.
"Well?" Wang Duobao asked.
"It's done." Jiang Muchen lifted the token.
"From today on, I'm a guest artificer."
"Guest?!" Wang Duobao gaped.
"That's basically—half a Forging Hall disciple!"
"Close enough."
They headed back toward the menial quarters.
On the way, Jiang Muchen briefly explained Stonefool's fate. The others listened, stunned.
"So you didn't just finish the task," Wang Duobao muttered.
"You helped Elder Huoyun close a forty-year wound."
"That's why he was generous," Jiang Muchen said.
"For him, closure matters more than materials."
Night had fully fallen when they returned.
The courtyard was quiet—everyone else asleep.
But someone stood outside Jiang Muchen's room.
A young maid, fifteen or sixteen, holding a food box.
She bowed when she saw him.
"Master Jiang, my lady sent this."
"Your lady?"
"Miss Su Qingwu," she said.
"She heard you were injured returning from Medicine Valley. She sends Hundred Blossom Jade Salve and a Nourishing Spirit Pill."
Inside the box: two jade bottles, plus delicate pastries.
Warmth stirred in Jiang Muchen's chest.
"She remembered."
"Please thank Senior Sister Su for me," he said.
"How is she lately?"
"She's well," the maid replied, then added softly,
"She said… you were impressive."
After she left, Wang Duobao whistled.
"Hundred Blossom Jade Salve—twenty spirit stones a box! Nourishing Spirit Pills are even pricier! Senior Sister Su is generous."
Jiang Muchen said nothing.
He opened the jade bottle, inhaled. Pure. Potent.
He would remember this kindness.
Inside, he lit the oil lamp and laid everything out:
Moonlight Lingzhi.
Moonlight Grass.
Thunder-Pattern Grass.
Crimsonfire Essence Metal.
Forging Hall Token.
Inkjade Sword.
Qingming Dragon-Calling Flute.
"This haul is substantial," he said.
"But we can't keep it all. Some must be liquidated—spirit stones, pills, techniques."
Assignments were given.
Then he swallowed the Nourishing Spirit Pill.
Warmth flowed through his body, soothing frayed spirit. Fatigue receded. His thoughts sharpened.
The greatest gain from Medicine Valley wasn't material.
It was connections.
Liu Zhen owed him his life.
Chen Song owed him a favor.
Elder Huoyun treated him as half a disciple.
Su Qingwu looked at him differently.
Invisible wealth—worth more than spirit stones.
Moonlight washed the room.
Jiang Muchen drew the Inkjade Sword.
Dark metal shimmered. When he fed in a trace of spiritual power, faint gold lines surfaced—matching the flute's markings.
Dragon resonance.
These two artifacts were now bound by the fused dragon remnant.
He reached into the flute with his consciousness—
A void.
A coiled dark-gold dragon shadow.
Three feet long. Sleeping.
It opened its eyes.
Hunger.
Not words—instinct.
Jiang Muchen withdrew, smiling wryly.
So now he had to feed a dragon.
—
A knock came, light but urgent.
"Senior Brother Jiang?" Zhou Xiaohuan whispered.
She entered pale-faced, holding a letter.
"Someone slipped this under the door."
He read:
Tomorrow at Chen Hour. Outer Discipline Hall.
You are accused of privately seizing Medicine Valley spoils and causing a fellow disciple's death.
— An informed party
Jiang Muchen burned the letter without hesitation.
"So fast," he murmured.
He looked toward the dark silhouette of the Discipline Hall.
"Good," he said softly.
"I'd like to know who's moving behind the curtain."
The night was far from over.
Tomorrow would not be peaceful.