Xuanyan did not linger any longer. He turned away from the lingering tension between the two women and focused entirely on the task before him, arranging the ingredients with the calm efficiency of someone who had decided, very deliberately, to be competent. There was no hesitation in his movements, no unnecessary flourish, only quiet precision guided by understanding rather than habit.
A small bronze cauldron sat waiting before him, the standard beginner's model issued to those who were expected to fail more often than succeed. It was deliberately unimpressive in both size and craftsmanship, its inscriptions shallow and its walls thin. Its one redeeming feature was mercy—if it exploded, the damage would be limited to a section of wall and a few wounded egos rather than the entire chamber.
Xuanyan lowered himself to the floor and sat cross-legged before the cauldron. Behind him, both Lingling and Yanmei fell silent, their attention drawn inevitably toward the same focal point. Whatever lingering irritation or teasing had filled the air moments earlier faded as the examination truly began.
Thin spirals of herbal steam curled upward as the first ingredients warmed, twisting lazily through the air like mischievous spirits. The scent was sharp and bitter, the kind that burned the sinuses and lingered at the back of the throat whether one welcomed it or not. Xuanyan closed his eyes briefly and exhaled slowly, steadying his breathing as he reminded himself to keep his qi calm and even, refusing to react to anything beyond the cauldron itself.
His hand hovered above the bronze rim, and a thin stream of qi descended into the metal. At first it was barely visible, nothing more than a faint shimmer, before gathering into a pale, fragile flame. It was not impressive in the slightest—no roaring heat, no brilliant glow—only a delicate wisp that looked as though a careless breath could extinguish it entirely. This was the kind of fire most outer disciples feared, the stage where failure was most common.
Inside the cauldron, the herbs began to whiten, their edges softening as they melted into a viscous pulp. The surface bubbled gently at first, then a little too eagerly, forcing Xuanyan to tighten his control and draw the flame back into balance. Each time the cauldron trembled, he muttered quietly under his breath, urging it not to explode, adjusting his qi with increasingly refined corrections.
Despite it being his first attempt at refinement, his adaptation was rapid. Each mistake was met with immediate correction, each adjustment smaller and more precise than the last. What began as crude control gradually sharpened into something measured and deliberate, the knowledge he possessed settling into instinct with unsettling speed.
Yanmei watched from the side with her arms folded, posture relaxed and expression faintly smug. For the first several minutes, she looked almost pleased, observing the wavering flame and the occasional tremor of the cauldron with the confidence of someone expecting failure. This, she thought, was reality asserting itself. Let him burn through herbs and exhaust himself—arrogance always died quickly under real pressure.
But as the minutes stretched on, her expression began to change. The wavering stopped. The qi beneath Xuanyan's hand stabilized, its rhythm evening into a steady, controlled pulse. Each movement of his hand became cleaner, more intentional, his breathing slow and even as if this were not an exam but a familiar routine.
Yanmei's smirk faded completely. Her brows drew together as she stared more closely, irritation seeping into disbelief. He was not merely correcting errors—he was learning, adapting in real time, refining his control with every breath. The bronze cauldron no longer rattled; instead, it emitted a faint, steady hum as resonance settled into harmony.
Lingling watched from behind him, hands clasped unconsciously, her expression filled with quiet warmth and unwavering faith. That calm certainty in her eyes made Yanmei's pulse spike with unwanted tension. How could she still look so confident? How could she believe in him so completely?
Yanmei forced her gaze back to the cauldron, irritation giving way to something far more uncomfortable. Xuanyan was moving too fast, his refinement advancing at a pace that defied common sense. Not mastery—yet—but undeniable talent.
"…Genius," Yanmei muttered under her breath, the word tasting bitter as it left her lips.
And no matter how much she hated it, she could not deny it.
Sweat gathered along Xuanyan's brow, sliding down in slow, trembling beads, yet his breathing never lost its rhythm. Each inhale was measured, each exhale controlled, as though the chaos simmering inside the cauldron had no authority over him. One mistake—too fierce a flame or too hesitant a flicker—and the concoction would either burn into worthless ash or collapse into useless sludge. Alchemy was never about creation; it was a negotiation with disaster. And yet, Xuanyan did not waver.
His gaze sharpened, dark intent settling behind his eyes. Within the bronze cauldron, the muddy herbal pulp began to shiver, as if responding to his will. The mixture twisted inward, thickening as it collapsed upon itself, its murky brown hue slowly bleeding away. In its place emerged an eerie silver-green sheen, like poisoned moonlight swirling in liquid form.
Yanmei, watching from behind, unconsciously held her breath.
Xuanyan lifted two fingers before him, tracing a slow, deliberate spiral through the air. His qi responded instantly. Fine threads of wind-light essence slipped from his fingertips and sank into the cauldron, weaving themselves through the unstable brew with frightening precision. The liquid pulsed, glimmered, and subtly shifted, as though something within it had awakened.
A faint hum rippled through the stone floor beneath them. For a brief heartbeat, the temperature in the chamber rose—not explosively, but with a quiet, dangerous vitality that made the air feel alive.
Sensing the mixture nearing its breaking point, Xuanyan finally acted.
With a sharp flick of his fingers, a compressed surge of qi slammed into the flame beneath the cauldron.
The bronze vessel lurched violently, belching out a thick wave of smoke that smelled halfway between heavenly fortune and catastrophic failure. Lingling squeaked and covered her mouth, eyes wide with anxious devotion, while Yanmei braced herself, already expecting an explosion powerful enough to send them flying into the courtyard.
But no debris followed.
No blast.
Only silence—broken moments later by Xuanyan's calm, mildly apologetic voice.
"…That was meant to be gentler."
As the smoke slowly thinned, something rolled out of the cauldron and dropped neatly into his waiting palm. A perfectly rounded pill lay there, its surface faintly aglow, radiating a delicate fragrance that spread through the chamber. The scent was sweet yet sharp, like spring blossoms concealing a blade.
Lingling gasped, her eyes shining. "Brother Xuanyan… you actually refined it!"
Yanmei stared, speechless.
A Grade Two pill.