By sunrise on the seventh day, Jian Wuxin had already arrived at the Alchemy Hall.
The tower rose high above the outer disciple quarters, built from pale green stone that shimmered faintly with medicinal Qi. A thick herbal scent clung to the walls, calming yet heavy.
Inside, rows of cauldrons simmered, and disciples in clean robes moved with disciplined grace, sorting herbs and heating furnaces.
"Jian Wuxin," he said to the attending disciple at the desk. "I accepted the task from the board. To assist Grandmaster Lin."
The disciple looked up, gave a bored nod, and pointed deeper inside. "Back room. Don't spill anything. Or explode."
He passed cauldrons, drying racks, and jade containers until he reached a quiet back chamber.
There, surrounded by floating lists of pill formulas and suspended bottles of liquid, sat Grandmaster Lin—a thin, elderly man with silver eyebrows longer than his fingers.
"You're the assistant?" he said without looking up.
"Yes, Grandmaster."
"Can you read?"
"Yes."
"Sort those." He waved a hand.
A cabinet opened, revealing over thirty labeled herbs—some fresh, some dried, some glowing faintly with internal energy.
Jian didn't hesitate.
He used knowledge from the cultivation manual he stole and what he'd observed in the outer sect to organize the herbs by Qi type, spiritual property, and combustion risk.
Grandmaster Lin finally looked up.
"Not bad for a new face," he said. "Come here."
Jian obeyed.
The Grandmaster showed him the basic layout of a pill furnace, how to layer spiritual fire, and even how certain root stems counteract pill explosion. Jian memorized everything without asking questions.
He didn't just want to assist.
He wanted to understand.
By noon, he'd completed everything, and the Grandmaster nodded.
"Come back when your realm can match your focus," he said. "You might be worth teaching."
Jian bowed deeply. "Thank you, Grandmaster."
---
By afternoon, Jian made his way to the Forge Cavern.
Unlike the quiet of the Alchemy Hall, the forge roared.
It was built into the base of the mountain, with magma veins channeling natural fire through steel pipes. Sparks danced in the air. The scent of scorched metal and ash clung to every surface.
He presented his scroll to a broad-shouldered elder with a hammer across his back.
"Outer disciple. Jian Wuxin. Reporting for the forging task."
The elder snorted. "You want a flying sword, do you?"
"I want to earn it."
"Fine. Beat this ore until the impurities burn off. If you break the hammer, get out."
The ore block was Frost Iron, dense and cold even in the forge's heat. Each strike required Qi reinforcement. Every hour burned his stamina faster than a sparring match.
Still, he didn't stop.
The forgemaster watched from afar, arms crossed.
By sunset, Jian Wuxin had tempered three blocks, rebalanced two cooling arrays, and carried ingots to the shaping altar.
The elder finally spoke.
"Take this. It's not personalized. But it's sharp, durable, and listens to Qi."
He handed over a sleek first-rank flying sword, the blade simple but elegant, etched with minimal runes.
"And twenty contribution points."
Jian Wuxin bowed. "Thank you, Forgemaster."
The elder turned away. "If you want to learn how to make one, you come back after you've made Core Formation."
---
As night fell, Jian returned to his room.
His arms ached. His body was sore.
But he had learned from a grandmaster, handled spiritual flame, and earned his first real weapon.
He sat beneath the moonlight, the flying sword in his lap.
And the banner whispered:
> "You're building a foundation... worthy of slaughtering dragons."