The frigid point of the blade kissed Meng Ruohan’s Adam’s apple. The swordswoman’s eyes, the color of twilight ink, narrowed. Her grip on the hilt, adorned with a single, unblemished jade phoenix, was absolute. The air around her hummed with a suppressed, lethal energy that pressed down on the entire dormitory. “Your spiritual signature,” she said, her voice a low, melodic tremor, “is an open wound, an uncontrolled torrent of primal ash. The artifact screams of a foreign body, of cultivation methods long banned from these hallowed walls. Confess your demonic origins, or my blade will find the truth.” Her accusation hung heavy, silencing the whispers that had begun to stir among the other apprentices. Fan Bo, still clutching Pudge, quivered. The pangolin, however, seemed oblivious, its tiny snout twitching with a newfound curiosity. Ruohan’s mind raced, his throat tight against the steel. Demonic cultivation was a death sentence. He couldn’t reveal Old Master Gu, nor the true chaos writhing beneath his skin. He needed a lie, swift and convincing. “Demonic?” he scoffed, forcing a controlled tremor into his voice. “You mistake a nascent gift for a dark art. I possess the Ashen Constitution, a rare, volatile lineage thought lost. My qi flares, yes, but it is the raw power of elemental ash, not the corruption of demons.” He met her gaze, his own eyes holding a calculated defiance. The Ashen Constitution. It sounded grand, ancient, and dangerous enough to explain the artifact’s alarm, yet nebulous enough to avoid immediate contradiction. The inner agony from Gu’s pill added a convincing pallor to his face, making him appear genuinely afflicted. The swordswoman studied him. Her gaze seemed to pierce his very soul, searching for the falsehood. Just as a flicker of doubt seemed to cross her austere features, a wet, unceremonious burp echoed through the tense silence. All heads snapped to Fan Bo. Pudge, disturbed by the sudden attention, blinked once, then twice, before regurgitating a half-chewed, vibrant crimson root onto the dormitory floor. It pulsed with a faint, internal light, unmistakably a Sunpetal Gingseng, an herb known only to grow in the Pavilion’s most guarded cultivation gardens. Fan Bo’s face went ghastly white. “Pudge! You… you ate the cultivation treasure again, didn’t you?!” he shrieked, instantly confirming the theft. The pangolin merely licked its lips, then settled back into its owner’s arms, looking smug. The swordswoman’s expression hardened, her previous flicker of doubt vanishing. The accusation of demonic cultivation might have been speculative, but theft of a rare herb from the Pavilion’s restricted stores was an undeniable, punishable offense. The sword at Ruohan’s throat pressed harder, a thin line of blood beading on his skin. Before she could speak, a sneering voice cut through the air. “Well, well, what have we here? A crippled mongrel, claiming some fantastical constitution, and his pet-tamer accomplice, stealing our precious cultivation resources.” Young Master Zhao, a senior disciple whose robes bore the emblem of a three-leafed retort, strode into the room, flanked by two equally arrogant lackeys. His gaze, cold and calculating, swept over Ruohan, lingering on his pale face and the slight tremor in his hands. Zhao was known for his ruthless ambition, and for disabling any perceived threats to his standing. He had a reputation for making examples. “Senior Sister Song, you handle the corrupt pretender. I’ll deal with the thief and his vermin,” Zhao declared, drawing a heavy, barbed whip from his belt. The leathery thongs hissed as he cracked it, the sound echoing ominously. “Shredding their energy pathways should teach them the price of insolence.” Fan Bo whimpered, clutching Pudge tighter. The thought of losing his already meager spiritual base made his knees wobble. Ruohan, however, felt a cold calm settle over him. Zhao’s arrogance was a gift, a perfect opportunity for a public humiliation. “Maiming our energy pathways for a stolen root?” Ruohan’s voice was steady, despite the pressure of the blade and the radiating aura of Zhao’s hostility. “Such a severe punishment for a Tier-1 herb. Perhaps the White Heron Pavilion has grown weak, reliant on brute force rather than true talent.” He let his gaze drift pointedly to the expensive, shimmering robes of Zhao, then to the humble, rough-hewn floorboards. “Or perhaps, Young Master Zhao, your own craft is so lacking that a petty theft frightens you more than a genuine contest.” Zhao’s face contorted in a sneer. “A contest? You, a broken wretch, dare confront me, a peak Core-Forging Disciple, over a furnace? You barely have a shred of qi left!” “A public contest, then,” Ruohan pressed, his voice rising, drawing more attention from the other apprentices. “I wager we each concoct a Tier-1 Pill. We use whatever scraps we can gather from this very floor. If I win, my physique is recognized, and my companion and I are granted entry into the sect. If I lose, you may maim us both.” Song Yueli’s blade twitched, her eyes betraying a hint of surprise. Zhao, for his part, burst into laughter. “Floor scraps? You are mad! Very well, you mangled fool. Your wager is accepted. Let’s see how your ‘Ashen Physique’ fares against true skill.” Moments later, a small, makeshift arena was cleared in the center of the dormitory. Two temporary pots were brought out, crude iron vessels usually reserved for boiling water. Zhao, still laughing, casually swept a handful of dust, discarded pill fragments, and even a few stray hairs into his vessel. “Good luck finding anything useful in that, wretch,” he mocked. Ruohan, ignoring the jab, knelt. He meticulously selected a few calcified dust motes, a tiny shard of a broken spirit stone, and a withered, forgotten leaf from a window sill. He placed them gently into his pot, his mangled right hand shaking slightly from the tempest within. *“Fool! What are you doing? These nascent channels cannot withstand such an unstable process!”* Old Master Gu’s voice screamed in Ruohan’s head, a cacophony of agony and furious warnings. The prototype pill inside him pulsed violently, a molten sun threatening to consume his very core. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the old alchemist. Zhao, confident, began his refinement with practiced ease, his qi flowing smoothly, coaxing the meager ingredients into a bubbling, fragrant concoction. He aimed for a simple Spirit Nourishing Pill, a common Tier-1 formula. The cauldron hummed contentedly under his expert touch. Ruohan, however, deliberately channeled his chaotic, fiery qi in jagged, uneven bursts. He pushed the calcified dust and spirit stone shard to their absolute breaking point, not for a clean reaction, but for a violent one. The heat built, not within the pill mass, but within the very air inside his pot, a deliberate, agonizingly precise over-engineering. He endured Gu’s frantic mental screams, focusing only on the subtle tremors in the iron. Suddenly, Ruohan’s vessel began to vibrate with an unnerving, low growl. A localized pressure vacuum, a subtle tear in the very fabric of the air around his vessel, began to form. Zhao, startled, faltered in his own refinement, his brow furrowing in confusion. Then, with a loud *CRACK*, the cheap iron pot of Young Master Zhao split down the middle. A geyser of foul-smelling, half-concocted pill sludge erupted, coating the arrogant senior disciple from head to toe in humiliating, sticky, black soot. A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers, quickly followed by stifled giggles. Zhao stood, frozen, his expensive robes ruined, his face smeared with grime, the distinct odor of burnt herbs clinging to him like a second skin. He looked utterly ridiculous. Ruohan, meanwhile, had subtly redirected the chaos. With a final, controlled pulse of qi, a perfect, pearlescent sphere rose from his vessel, shimmering with a faint, quiet light. It was a flawless Tier-1 Cleansing Dew Pill, its purity so absolute it almost glowed. He picked it up, cradling it gently in his palm, completely unstained by the earlier explosion. “It seems,” Ruohan said, his voice quiet but clear, “that even scraps from the floor can yield treasure, when guided by true insight. And perhaps, Young Master Zhao, a little humility.” Zhao’s face, visible through the soot, was a mask of furious disbelief and shame. He had been utterly, completely humiliated without a single punch thrown. The duel, and Ruohan’s entry, were secured. Song Yueli stepped forward, her gaze once again fixed on Ruohan. She extended a hand, her movements precise. “The pill. I will confiscate it for examination.” Ruohan offered it to her. As her cool, slender fingers brushed against his, heat sparked against his knuckles. He felt a faint, almost imperceptible spark. Not from his artificial meridians, but from the pill itself. A wisp of familiar, ancient qi, a mere shadow, but undeniably present, flared between their touching skin. Her stare hardened into sharp recognition, locking onto his. Her voice, usually so steady, dropped to a bare whisper, barely audible above the murmurs of the crowd. “You’re the Meng clan’s dead heir.”

The Ash Constitution