“If you drop him headfirst, his beard will tangle in the drainage plug,” Bai An muttered, shoving Elder Jiao’s limp, dry boots deeper beneath a pile of dried camphor roots. Lin Ye threw up his hands in mute horror, but Bai An was already wiping his palms on his sleeves. “Done. Now, shut the lid, light the incense stick by the door, and let us depart. I have far more pressing chores that require a distinct lack of physical exertion.” Pangzi let out an unholy, metallic belch from Bai An’s shoulder. A ripple of gold-and-black static popped along the finch’s beak, singeing three feathers on its crest. “Your gluttonous ball of fluff swallowed a divine relic forged by celestial entities,” Lin Ye hissed, scurrying after Bai An into the moonlit corridors of the Luminous Cloud Sect. “It will dissolve his innards! It will ignite the hall! It will—” “He has eaten broken roof tiles, three rusty copper daggers, and an entire basket of unrefined spirit-scorpions without so much as a hiccup,” Bai An replied, yawning into his fist. “The real problem is that the artifact’s resonance will draw every watchdog from the Nine Ethereal Realms straight to my nap quarters unless I sweat the venom out of him. Which means I need a cauldron. And broth.” Twenty minutes later, the alchemical hall's third-tier brewing chamber smelled like rotten river mud mixed with burnt scallions. Bai An leaned against the edge of a massive copper vat, holding a ladle carved from ironwood. Beneath the vessel, a lazy amber flame flickered—not the roaring alchemical fire disciples spent decades learning to summon, but a dim hearth flame sustained by charcoal he had scavenged from the kitchen refuse. Inside the lukewarm, bubbling brown fluid, Pangzi bobbed happily on his back, paddling his tiny pink feet and chirping while specks of greasy black residue seeped from his downy plumage into the broth. “You are boiling your beast alive,” Lin Ye whispered, clutching his temples near the doorway. “And calling it medicine.” “He likes the warmth. Keeps the feathers glossy,” Bai An said, tapping Pangzi’s tummy with the ladle. The bird burped again, releasing a pale blue puff of celestial mist that Bai An casually stirred into the gunk. “Besides, the metal-element poison requires an earthy base to sweat out. Stink-weed roots, pig fat, fermented vinegar. Traditional remedies are cheap for a reason.” The chamber doors slammed inward with a crash that rattled the brass tripods. “Bai An!” Jin Meilin stood on the threshold, her twin swords vibrating in their scabbards, face flushed with fury. She had clearly sprinted across the inner courtyards. “The entire western quarter reeks of foul curses! I knew you were skulking around here! What forbidden, soul-rotting venom are you concocting to cheat your way through the upcoming trials?” She took two marching strides inside, froze, and stared into the vat. Pangzi rolled over in the slop, dunked his head under the murky surface, popped back up, and shook greasy brown droplets across the floor. Meilin pointed a shaking finger at the vat. “You... you barbarian! You are making soup out of your familiar!” “He had an upset stomach,” Bai An said evenly, not pausing his slow, clockwise circles with the ironwood spoon. “A hot bath cures ninety percent of all mortal ailments. The rest can be cured by a nap.” “That is an innocent spirit beast! It trusted you!” Her hand dropped to her hilt, spiritual pressure rising like a gale that threatened to topple the herb racks. “First you mock the sect’s sacred pillar, then you humiliate me in the courtyard, and now you practice demonic slaughter in the holy alchemy hall? Step away from the kettle before I sever your wrists!” “Meilin, wait—” Lin Ye began, waving his hands frantically. “Silence, accomplice!” she barked. Bai An sighed. He flicked his wrist. The ironwood ladle gave one final, lazy scrape against the cauldron’s bottom ridge, clipping the exact spiritual meridian of the kettle where the cold-iron seam met the fire-copper base. A single vibration hummed through the metal. The muddy, foul-smelling broth stopped boiling. The surface of the sludge turned pure, immaculate pearl-white. Then, with a dry *clack*, the entire pool contracted into a singular sphere the size of a pigeon’s egg, hovering an inch above Pangzi’s wet belly. The bird blinked, disappointed that his warm water had vanished, and pecked at the marble. A cloud of vapor billowed outward—not the stench of rot, but a fragrance so sweet, so purely crystalline, that the wild bamboo outside the window-lattice instantly sprouted three inches. Frost-lilies bloomed across the wooden rafters. Meilin's lips parted without a sound. The sword in her hand slipped an inch from its sheath, then fell back with a dull click. “The... the Nine-Turn Soul-Sight Pill? A zenith-grade spiritual elixir... from pig fat and ditch-water?” Before she could draw breath to scream, the heavy footfalls of four sect elders thundered outside. Doors down the corridor flew open. “Who has opened a zenith furnace?” a voice boomed from the stairwell. “Which supreme grandmaster graces our halls?” Bai An winced. “Marvelous. Now everyone is awake. I despise noise before dawn.” “You didn't brew soup,” Meilin breathed, staring at Bai An as if he were a ghost that had stepped out of the sky. Her voice trembled. “You inverted the celestial impurities within the bird’s belly using a discarded fire to force an absolute harmonic condensation. You... you mocked me by pretending to be an idiot!” “I truly just wanted to clean the bird,” Bai An said, scooping the damp, grumbling finch off the dry basin floor. The pearl-bright pill floating in the air suddenly cracked. It did not break apart. Instead, a beam of cold, lunar radiance shot from its fissures, painting a shimmering illusion against the soot-stained ceiling above them. The elders’ shouts drew closer down the hall, but inside the room, silence fell like a guillotine. The light formed a shape. In the projection stood the outer disciple—the killer who had struck down Elder Jiao in the chamber. His face was pale, his robe torn where Pangzi had bitten him. He was kneeling on damp pine needles under the crooked pines of the sect’s outer perimeter. Standing above him, sneering down with cold arrogance, was a young nobleman dressed in fine white brocade stitched with threaded crane motifs. Bai Feng. Bai An’s cousin. The brilliant, pampered golden child of the main clan branch, who had looked down on Bai An’s uselessness since their childhood. In the phantom light, Bai Feng kicked the Reaper’s shoulder, tossing a silk scroll onto the grass. The scroll unfurled, revealing the intricate layout of pavilions, defensive wards, and private courtyards belonging to their ancestral home. “Do not return until the old man’s soul is extracted,” Bai Feng’s projected voice echoed off the cauldron, cold and devoid of blood. “Father wants the patriarch’s seat empty by morning. Kill Bai Renshu first. As for my useless cousin Bai An... leave him to rot here. He won't even realize his house has burned.” The light shattered into sparkling dust, leaving the pill resting lifeless on the metal rim. Outside, the elders reached the doorway, shouting praises and demands. But Bai An didn't hear them. He looked down at his damp sleeves, feeling the quiet pulse of blood that had once leveled heavens. His peaceful retirement had just been cancelled.

Secrets in the Soup