The cold from the stone pillar slowly seeped through Aryan's thin shirt, chilling the sweat on his back. His knuckles throbbed with a rhythmic, dull ache. He lifted his right hand into the dim light. The skin over his joints was torn, oozing a mixture of clear fluid and dark blood. He didn't feel like a triumphant hero. He just felt incredibly tired and thirsty.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, relatively clean piece of cloth he used for wiping old books. He wrapped it tightly around his knuckles, using his teeth to pull the knot. A sharp hiss escaped his lips as the rough fabric bit into the raw flesh. There was no magical healing aura, only the harsh, stinging reality of a physical fight.
Aryan closed his eyes, and the golden holographic screen of the Celestial Archive instantly flared in the darkness of his mind. He focused on the newly unlocked 'Alchemy Index (Level 1)'. He expected to see grand recipes requiring the blood of mythical beasts or thousand-year-old spirit herbs. Instead, the glowing list was surprisingly mundane and highly specific.
[Meridian Clearing Paste (Basic)] the golden text read. [Ingredients required: 3 grams of dried ginger root, 2 leaves of the common weeping willow, and half a spoon of crushed black beetle shells. Preparation: Grind with a stone pestle, apply directly to the chest blockages. System Analysis: This exact ratio creates a mild acidic reaction that dissolves calcified Qi blockages.]
Aryan let out a dry, humorless laugh. Dried ginger and beetle shells? The academy's alchemists spent thousands of gold coins on rare Lotus pills to cure broken meridians, and they usually failed. The System didn't rely on rare magic; it relied on the absolute, perfect chemistry of ordinary things. It was a terrifying realization.
He checked his pockets. Three dull copper coins clinked against his thigh. He was completely broke. Even common ginger cost money in the outer market. His stomach gave another loud, empty rumble, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since yesterday's thin bowl of rice gruel. He needed a plan, and he needed it before Lakshay's family found out what had happened.
Aryan stood up, his knees popping in the quiet pavilion. He avoided the main academy roads, slipping through the narrow, unpaved alleys meant for the sweepers and kitchen servants. The evening air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, roasting spices, and damp mud. The sky above was turning a bruised purple.
He reached the outer bazaar, a chaotic mess of wooden stalls and canvas tents clinging to the outer walls of the Starfall Academy. This was where the lower disciples and servants traded their meager goods. The noise was a vibrant, chaotic hum of haggling voices, clinking coins, and barking street dogs.
Aryan kept his head down, pulling his collar up to hide his face. He navigated the crowded dirt path, ignoring the aggressive calls of the food vendors. His eyes darted around until he spotted a small, dimly lit stall tucked between a blacksmith and a cheap cloth merchant.
An old man sat behind a pile of withered roots and dried insects. Everyone called him Kaka Ram. He was smoking a cheap, strong-smelling beedi, his eyes half-closed. Aryan noticed the way Kaka Ram rubbed his lower back with his left hand every few seconds. He grimaced slightly every time he shifted his weight.
Aryan walked up to the stall. He didn't look at the herbs; he looked directly at the old man. The golden book in his mind flipped open with a soft, imaginary rustle.
[Target: Kaka Ram. Age: 62. Ailment: Severe nerve compression in the lower spine (L4-L5 region). Cause: Sleeping on damp earth for forty years. Flaw in treatment: He is chewing bitter-leaf to numb the pain, which is actively poisoning his liver.]
"What do you want, boy?" Kaka Ram grunted, his voice raspy from the smoke. "If you don't have silver, don't block my stall. Go stare at the sweet shops."
Aryan placed his three copper coins on the wooden counter. "I need three grams of dried ginger, two fresh willow leaves, and half a spoon of black beetle shells," Aryan said quietly. "And I know this is not enough money."
Kaka Ram snorted, brushing the copper coins aside with a calloused finger. "You are right. It is not enough. Beetle shells are hard to catch. Take your coppers and get lost before I call the market guards."
Aryan didn't move. He leaned closer across the counter, lowering his voice. "The bitter-leaf you are chewing right now," Aryan said, his tone flat and serious. "It numbs the pain in your lower back, but it is turning the whites of your eyes yellow. In two months, your liver will fail completely, and you will die in agony."
Kaka Ram froze. The beedi almost slipped from his trembling lips. He looked at Aryan, his eyes widening in a mix of shock and sudden fear. "How... how do you know about the back pain? I never told anyone. And my eyes..." The old man quickly reached up to touch his own face.
"I know a little about medicine," Aryan lied smoothly, keeping his face perfectly blank. "Stop chewing the bitter-leaf. Instead, boil the roots of the wild dandelion with salt, and drink it every morning. It will reduce the swelling in your spine without rotting your liver."
Silence hung between them for a long moment, broken only by the distant clanging of the blacksmith's hammer. Kaka Ram stared at Aryan, trying to find a lie in the young boy's eyes. Finally, the old man swallowed hard and reached under his counter.
Without saying another word, Kaka Ram grabbed a small piece of rough paper. He quickly measured out the ginger, the willow leaves, and the beetle shells with practiced hands. He folded the paper into a neat little packet and slid it across the counter toward Aryan, completely ignoring the three copper coins.
"Take it," Kaka Ram muttered, looking away. "If that dandelion root trick doesn't work, I will hunt you down, boy."
Aryan grabbed the packet, his heart skipping a beat in relief. "It will work," he said. He turned to walk back toward the academy. He had his ingredients. He was one step closer to fixing his meridians.
But as he stepped out of the narrow alley and into the main market square, his blood ran completely cold. Two men in shining silver armor were walking through the crowd. They wore the crest of the Lakshay family—a roaring tiger on their chest plates. One of them was holding up a rough sketch on a piece of parchment, asking a terrified fruit vendor a question.
They were already looking for him. The game of survival had truly begun.