He Jian’s Sky-Render hummed, a potent aura of battle power swirling around him. The air crackled with his indignation, a predictable reaction from a youth whose primary discipline seemed to be an inflated sense of self-importance. A fascinating case study in unchecked adrenal glands, really. I wondered if his spleen qi was stagnant. My attention, however, remained on Lady Xiang An. Her eyes, the color of twilight amethyst, held not the expected outrage, but a peculiar stillness. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of vermilion deepened around her pupils, a clear diagnostic indicator that the Crimson Soul Decay was indeed accelerating under stress. Ninety days. Perhaps eighty-nine now. “He Jian, stop.” Her voice, though soft, cut through the tension with surprising authority. He Jian froze, his sword-arm lowering slightly, his face a mask of bewildered fury. “An’er? He… he insulted you!” Xiang An stepped forward, her silk robes rustling like a whisper of dusk. She moved with an ethereal grace, a dying star still burning with captivating light. “He made a… diagnosis. A very specific one. One that no other physician has ever dared utter.” Her gaze, direct and unnerving, settled on me. “What do you know of Crimson Soul Decay?” “Everything,” I stated, my tone as flat as an ancient stone tablet. “And not enough, if you wish to live.” A ripple went through the onlookers. He Jian spluttered, “Arrogant trash! Do you think to deceive Lady Xiang An with such baseless claims?” “Silence, He Jian,” Xiang An commanded, her voice gaining a steely edge. He actually flinched. “I wish to speak with Shen Luan. Privately.” He Jian’s mouth worked, but no sound emerged. He shot me a look of pure venom, the kind that promised future dismemberment. I paid it no mind. His internal power flow was too erratic to pose a real threat, even if he were to attempt a sneak attack. “Follow me,” I told Xiang An, turning on my heel. “My current quarters are… adequate for discussion.” Pangzi, who had been attempting to gnaw through a particularly stubborn section of a stone pillar, chirped indignantly and scurried after me, a trail of dust and stone flakes in his wake. We wound through the gleaming main thoroughfares of Seven Rings Academy, past manicured herbal yards and towering lecture halls, before veering off onto a rarely trodden, overgrown path. The path led behind the main kitchens, past overflowing refuse bins, and finally ended at a squat, moss-covered building with peeling paint and a sagging roof: the school’s infirmary. Xiang An’s elegant brow furrowed slightly as she surveyed the dilapidated structure. “This is… your residence?” Her voice held a note of genuine bewilderment, not judgment. Even the lowest-ranked novice had better quarters. Such was the reputation of Shen Luan, the talentless void. “It serves,” I replied, pushing open the creaking wooden door. A cloud of dust motes danced in the sliver of light that pierced the gloom. The interior was a study in forgotten neglect: cobweb-draped shelves lined with ancient, unlabeled vials, a single examination cot with a torn linen sheet, and the pervasive scent of stale herbs and disuse. Pangzi immediately began sniffing around a suspicious-looking stain on the floor. “Crimson Soul Decay,” I began, turning to face her, bypassing pleasantries entirely. “It is not a curse, as most believe. It is a slow, systemic disintegration of the soul’s energetic matrix, accelerated by external psychic pressure and, in your case, a subtle resonance with a much larger, more ancient ward.” I omitted the part about the ward being the cosmic seal I died to contain, and the Void Maw it held back. That information would only cause unnecessary panic. “Symptoms range from intermittent fatigue and emotional instability to more severe manifestations like transient energetic blindness and, eventually, complete soul-fragmentation.” Her composure, which had been unshakeable moments ago, began to crack. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the silken sash at her waist. “Emotional instability… energetic blindness…” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I… sometimes I feel a sudden coldness, a void within. And colors… they sometimes seem muted, as if the world dims for a moment.” “Precisely,” I confirmed. “The outer rings of your soul are already eroding. The scarlet mist you sometimes perceive, and others can faintly glimpse, is the manifestation of the decay. It will progress inward, consuming your core essence, until nothing remains but a hollow shell. No conventional breathing technique can heal it. No ordinary pill-master can even slow it.” Her eyes, wide and luminous, fixed on mine. Fear, raw and unadorned, bloomed in their depths. “Then… what hope is there? My family’s physicians, even Master Ren, the Grand Healer of the Imperial Court, they found nothing. They called it a rare humoral imbalance, incurable.” “They were mistaken,” I stated. “There is a way. But it will require resources and an environment that your esteemed academy, despite its pretensions, does not readily provide to a ‘talentless’ individual.” “What do you need?” she asked, her voice laced with desperation. “The furnace lab,” I replied. “Specifically, the primary distillation arrays and the esoteric ingredient stores. I will require unrestricted access.” Xiang An blinked, her elegant features registering surprise. “The Grand Crucible Hall? But that is reserved for grand concocters and the highest-ranking peers. And access requires the express approval of Grandmaster Feng.” A slight frown touched her lips. “He… does not look kindly on those without martial talent, especially when it comes to the sacred art of pill-craft.” “Grandmaster Feng is an obstacle, but not an insurmountable one,” I mused. The old fool. His knowledge of true compounding was rudimentary at best, compared to the cosmic recipes I once commanded. But his lab held the necessary tools. “There is a formal pathway, is there not? A contest, perhaps?” Her brows shot up. “The Pill Duel? But that is for overturning an elder’s decision on a compounding matter. It is a direct confrontation, Shen Luan. No novice has successfully bested Grandmaster Feng in centuries. He’s a Seventh Ring Concocter, renowned across the Azure Cloud Empire.” “Indeed,” I said, a faint, almost imperceptible curve touching my lips. “Then I shall face him.” Xiang An stared at me as if I had suddenly grown a second head. “You… you wish to confront Grandmaster Feng, the most esteemed pill-master in the Seven Rings grounds, to a Pill Duel? For access to his lab?” “Correct.” The news spread through the cloisters like wildfire. By sunset, every disciple, every elder, even the reclusive hermits in the inner halls, knew. Shen Luan, the meridian void, the institute’s greatest embarrassment, had formally filed for a Pill Duel against Grandmaster Feng. It was an act of such audacious, suicidal folly that most believed he had finally lost his mind. Grandmaster Feng himself, a stoic man with a long, braided white beard and eyes that typically held only professional disdain, actually paused mid-stir of a simmering concoction when the messenger delivered the formal petition scroll. He read it, then reread it. A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face, revealing teeth stained yellow from countless herbal teas. He leaned back in his ornate chair, the scroll still clutched in his hand, and let out a single, contemptuous laugh that echoed through his opulent study. “Shen Luan? A Pill Duel? Hah! Bring me the match register. Let us humor the boy. He will learn the true price of a single pill.”

The Price of a Single Pill