The materials were prepped, and the alchemy manual had been committed to memory until the pages were worn thin.

Chen Ping knew the time for theory had ended. It was time to act.

He produced the small bronze alchemy furnace he had purchased for fifteen Spirit Stones. The vessel remained dull, its surface a roadmap of deep scratches and soot stains, with a jagged chip on its rim that seemed to mock his ambition.

A thick layer of deep brown waste residue coated the inner walls, exuding a pungent mix of stale herbs and scorched earth.

Chen Ping did not recoil. With stoic patience, he fetched clean water and a rough cloth, scrubbing the furnace chamber bit by bit.

The residue was stubborn, clinging to the bronze like a curse. It took him nearly half a Chen Hour—from the first light of seven until nine—just to reveal the rough bronze base beneath the grime.

Even then, dark traces lingered in the fine crevices. The furnace was ancient, a relic of countless failures.

Once cleaned, he placed the furnace in the center of his small room. Following the diagrams in the Introduction to Alchemy Records, he sat cross-legged three feet from the vessel.

He took a slow, deep breath, forcing his racing heart to steady. For this first attempt, he refused to be reckless. He laid out only a single set of materials: one stalk of Dew Condensing Grass, one root of Red Ginseng, and a single Crystal Flower.

First step: Ignite the fire.

True alchemy on The Immortal Path required a stable, continuous heat source—ideally Earth Fire drawn from the planet’s Qi veins. But Chen Ping was not even an Outer Disciple; such luxuries were beyond him. Nor could he afford fire-attribute Spirit Stones or specialized Dharma Artifacts.

He had to rely on the primitive: charcoal.

He stacked high-quality Silver Thread Charcoal beneath the furnace and struck a flint. This was no ordinary fuel; made from spirit plants, it burned with a fierce, concentrated heat. Orange sparks leaped into the air, dancing in the dim room.

Chen Ping stared into the glow, recalling the basic Fire Control technique known as “Warming the Furnace.”

Without Divine Sense, he had no eyes inside the pot. He had to rely on the physical sensation of the heat against his skin to guess how evenly the bronze was warming.

He channeled his Qi, trying to guide the intensity of the flames. It felt clumsy, like trying to poke at a fire with an invisible, heavy, and disobedient leaden staff.

The flames flickered erratically, flaring up one moment and dying the next. By the time he had maintained the heat for a few minutes, sweat beaded on his forehead and his Qi was flagging.

“This won’t work,” he muttered, decisively cutting off his power.

He didn’t force the issue. He closed his eyes, regulating his breath to recover his strength. He needed a new strategy.

He abandoned the futile effort of “guiding” the flames with pure Qi. Instead, he used his Qi to influence the general temperature while manually shifting the charcoal pieces with tongs to balance the heat. It was a crude, manual labor approach, but it was feasible for a Mortal.

When the furnace finally reached a state he judged to be “warm and even,” he moved to the next phase: Adding the herbs.

He pinched the roots from the Dew Condensing Grass, keeping only the essential stem before tossing it in. He scraped the skin from the Red Ginseng, sliced it thin, and added the pieces. Finally, he dropped the Crystal Flower in whole.

He slammed the lid shut.

Now came the most crucial and ambiguous stage—merging the medicinal efficacy into a Pill. The manual was maddeningly vague:

Use spirit to command fire; harmonize all medicines; when heat control reaches its moment; condense liquid into pill.

But what was the “moment”? How long should it last? The text offered no answers.

Chen Ping braced himself. He concentrated his mental energy, funneling his thin stream of Qi through the tiny air holes in the lid.

A wave of scorching heat and herbal scents buffeted his senses. Through his Qi, he could feel the herbs softening, weeping their vital juices.

The Dew Condensing Grass ran clear and fresh; the Red Ginseng was thick and earthy; the Crystal Flower melted into something resembling liquid glass.

The three streams tumbled within the chamber, stubbornly resisting fusion. Chen Ping struggled to stir them with his Qi while maintaining the furnace temperature—a grueling feat of multitasking that drained his mental reserves.

Sweat soaked his clothes. Time slowed to a crawl.

Inside, the liquids began to evaporate, thickening into a murky sludge. The scent shifted from floral to something dangerously charred. Dark brown particles of impurity began to precipitate.

Is the heat too high?

He hesitated, terrified of making a mistake. Suddenly, a faint sizzling erupted from within.

Phut!

Acrid black smoke billowed from the missing chip in the lid, carrying the stench of ruined medicine.

Chen Ping’s face didn’t twitch. He wrapped his hand in a cloth and threw the lid aside.

A puddle of sticky black paste bubbled at the bottom of the furnace. There was no Pill.

First attempt: Failure.

Chen Ping stared at the charcoal-like mess. He felt no discouragement, only a cold, analytical focus. If alchemy were easy, every beggar would be an Immortal.

He silently scraped out the Waste Residue. His Qi was spent, his body heavy with fatigue. He sat back, consuming a stalk of Dew Condensing Grass to aid his recovery.

In his mind, he replayed every second of the process.

Dew Condensing Grass is light; it melts first. Red Ginseng is too heavy to fuse easily. The Crystal Flower is the bridge, but it chars the moment the heat spikes.

He sighed softly. “My Qi is too weak. Without Divine Sense, I’m flying blind.”

He had many problems, but he also had the one thing that mattered: he now knew what failure looked like. He had touched the doorway.

After resting, he struck the flint again. This time, he reduced the amount of Red Ginseng and prepared to lower the heat the moment the Crystal Flower began to melt.

The lid closed. The crackling of charcoal filled the room as the young cultivator leaned in, his silhouette cast long against the wall.

Perhaps the black smoke would rise again. But the fire in Chen Ping’s eyes was more resilient than any charcoal flame. He was born stubborn, and in the brutal world of cultivation, that was his most lethal weapon.