Blue light burned his retinas. Floating in the middle of his vision was a semi-transparent screen, pulsing with a cold, electric glow. "System initialization complete," a mechanical voice chimed directly inside his skull, vibrating against his temporal bones. Lin Tian squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the glowing letters would vanish behind his eyelids. Instead, they remained burned into his dark vision, sharp and unyielding. "Welcome, Host," the text read, shifting swiftly as if responding to his racing thoughts. "Dual Divine System online. Path of Alchemy and Desire unlocked." Am I experiencing a cerebral hemorrhage? His logical mind scrambled for a medical diagnosis, tracing his symptoms back to the moment of his death in the operating room. Perhaps his brain was starved of oxygen, firing off random, desperate neurons in a final, frantic bid for survival. "This is not a neurological malfunction," the text updated instantly, almost mockingly. "You have been selected to navigate the Azure Sky World. Do not waste this second chance." "Explain yourself," Lin Tian muttered, his dry throat cracking under the effort. "What are you? Why am I here?" Silence greeted his demands, followed by a brief, flickering message. "Inquiries restricted. Information will unlock as the Host's cultivation progress advances." Frustration flared hot in his chest, a sudden spark of the old anger he used to feel when his father demanded perfection without explanation. Always, it was about doing, never about understanding. "A perfect medical tool does not ask questions, Lin Tian," his father’s harsh, grating voice echoed in his memory. "You memorize the textbook. You perform the incision. You do not think outside the parameters." He had died trying to live up to that impossible, suffocating standard, his heart giving out at the young age of twenty-five under the weight of suppressed anxiety and endless shifts. "A hallucination," he muttered, shaking his head. "A defense mechanism of a dying brain." "Initiating physical validation," the system replied. Suddenly, his heart skipped a beat, then slammed against his ribs with the force of a piston. Adrenaline flooded his system, cold and sharp as liquid ice, forcing his pupils to dilate to their absolute limit. Every hair on his arms stood on end, and a precise digital readout flashed in his top-right field of vision: *Heart Rate: 142 BPM. Epinephrine levels: 400% above baseline.* "Validation complete," the cold voice echoed. "Entity is real. Accept reality, Host." "Host statistics:" the system chimed, displaying a minimalist grid of numbers. *Strength: 3 (Average adult: 10)* *Agility: 4 (Average adult: 10)* *Constitution: 2 (Severely compromised)* *Qi: 0 (Unawakened)* "A waste," Lin Tian muttered, reading his new body's metrics. He remembered how the old woman had snarled that very word at him. His life in this world was apparently starting at absolute zero, a cruel joke for someone who had spent his previous existence striving to be at the very top of his field. "You are a disappointment, Tian," his father's voice seemed to drift through the drafty walls. "A second-rate surgeon is no son of mine." He clenched his fists, ignoring the tremor in his weak fingers. Even in another world, he was being branded as inferior right from the start. Gasping for breath, Lin Tian clutched his chest, feeling the terrifyingly real thud of his pulse. No hallucination could manipulate his autonomic nervous system with such clinical precision. He was in a different body, in a different world, bound to a force that defied every textbook he had ever memorized. --- Dust motes danced in the dim shafts of light cutting through the cracked wooden shutters of the hovel. Ignoring the damp chill of the dirt floor, Lin Tian pushed himself up, his weak limbs trembling under his meager weight. His gaze fell upon a wooden table in the corner, covered in dried dirt and a few stray leaves. Among the debris lay a single, dried stalk of a weed, its leaves a dull, bruised purple. Memory, foreign yet accessible, identified it as 'Spirit-Returning Grass,' a basic herb used by low-level cultivators to mend minor wounds. "Nonsense," he whispered, picking up the fragile stem. His fingers, though thin and dirty, moved with the ingrained precision of a surgeon. He brought the herb to his nose, inhaling deeply, analyzing the scent profile. It smelled faintly of menthol, wet soil, and something strangely metallic, like copper wire heated over an open flame. Mentally, he began classifying its physical properties: dicotyledonous structure, likely rich in alkaloids or flavonoids, possibly containing a mild vascular constrictor. If his medical training served him right, any healing property this plant possessed was due to active chemical compounds, not some mystical lifeforce. He picked up the dried weed, turning it over under the dim shaft of light. Lanceolate in shape, the leaf had small serrated edges that felt like dry parchment against his skin. "If this is indeed a natural local flora," he reasoned, speaking to the empty room, "it must follow taxonomic principles. Let's assume it belongs to the family of vascular plants. Its cellular structure should contain plastids, mitochondria, and a nucleus." He scraped a fingernail along the central vein of the leaf, peeling back a thin layer of dried epidermis. Under his sharp medical gaze, he searched for signs of moisture, for any sap that might contain active chemical compounds like salicylic acid or tannins. Instead of a sticky residue, a tiny speck of pale blue light clung to his nail, defying gravity by floating slightly above his skin before winking out of existence. He shook his hand, his heart rate spiking again. "What was that?" he demanded. "Static electricity? An electrostatic charge accumulated due to the dry atmosphere?" "Negative," the system responded. "That was a residual particle of Wood Qi, escaping its physical container due to mechanical cellular damage." "Qi is not a physical property!" Lin Tian yelled, his voice cracking. He was a man of science. He had spent thousands of hours dissecting cadavers, memorizing every nerve, every artery, every vein. Never once had he uncovered a "Qi vessel" or a "dantian" in any human body. To accept this was to admit that everything he had worked for, every sacrifice he had made to please his father, was built on a localized truth that was utterly meaningless here. "Let us see what you really are," Lin Tian murmured, tapping into his analytical mind. He focused his gaze on the purple leaf, demanding his brain dissect its structure down to the cellular level. Promptly, the blue screen flared back to life, overlaying his vision with a grid of scanning lines. "Analytical Prowess activated," the system chimed. "Target: Low-grade Spirit-Returning Grass." Data streamed downward in rapid, neon-blue columns. Lin Tian squinted, trying to reconcile the scientific terminology he expected with the absurd metrics appearing before him. *Structure: Organic cellulose matrix containing 1.2% active alkaloids, 0.4% saponins.* "Good," he muttered, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Basic organic chemistry." Then, the interface shifted, a secondary layer of crimson and gold text overriding the clinical data. *Spiritual Qi Capacity: 0.05 Units. Element: Wood. Yin-Yang polarity: 30% Yin, 70% Yang. Spiritual efficacy: Low (Damaged).* Lin Tian blinked, his brow furrowing in deep confusion. "Spiritual Qi?" he asked aloud, his voice dripping with skepticism. "There is no such element on the periodic table." Determined to prove the system's readings were nothing but a grand delusion, he pinched a piece of the leaf and crushed it between his thumb and forefinger. He expected to smell the typical grassy aroma of ruptured chloroplasts releasing green leaf volatiles. Instead, a wave of warmth washed over his skin, accompanied by a faint, shimmering vapor that rose from the bruised plant tissue. "Error," the system reported. "Physical disruption has caused Qi dissipation. Spiritual efficacy reduced by 80%." This made no sense. Chemical compounds do not simply vanish into thin air because a plant is crushed; they merely change state or remain in the residue. Yet, his analytical vision showed the molecular structures remaining completely intact while some invisible, unmeasurable energy bled out into the atmosphere. "Explain the loss of mass," Lin Tian demanded, his voice rising in frustration. "The law of conservation of mass states that matter cannot be created or destroyed." "Qi is not bound by physical mass," the system answered coolly. "It is the breath of the heavens. Your scientific logic is insufficient to calculate the Dao." A cold sweat broke out across his forehead. His entire world view, built on years of rigorous medical training and scientific absolute truth, was cracking down the middle. How could something exist that could be perceived, measured by this system, yet completely eluded the physical laws of nature? Disoriented, he dropped the crushed stalk, watching it flutter to the dirt like an ordinary piece of garbage. "This is a joke," he said, rubbing his temple where a dull ache was beginning to form. "A highly advanced, hallucinatory simulation." No matter how real the adrenaline had felt, he refused to believe in magic. Magic was for the uneducated, a lazy explanation for things science had not yet mapped out. "I am a doctor," he whispered, trying to anchor himself to his identity. "I analyze facts. I treat biological systems." "Host is in denial," the system noted. "Adapting parameters to assist transition." "Shut up," he snapped, turning away from the table. He needed to walk, to find water, to clear his head of this elaborate fantasy. This 'cultivation' nonsense was just a cultural construct of this primitive world, a mass delusion that his brain was somehow translating into a digital interface. --- Stepping toward the creaking wooden door, he tripped slightly over a loose floorboard. He braced himself against the doorframe, his left arm bearing the brunt of his weight. Just as he decided this 'cultivation' was pure fantasy, a sudden, searing pain shot through his left arm, revealing a festering wound he hadn't noticed, pulsing with an alien energy that defied all medical explanation.

Chapter 3: The Scorned Alchemist