Chapter 235: No Margin for Miracles
The moment the flame caught beneath the Two Star Pagoda Pill Furnace, I felt the world narrow.
No distractions. No noise. Just me, the ingredients, and the ticking pressure of one life too close to the edge.
I laid out the wolfsbane first.
The original recipe called for soaking it in distilled water to leech out impurities. That was how you were supposed to tame something this toxic.
But I hesitated.
My gut stirred. Not panic. Not doubt. A kind of inner stillness that Nature’s Attunement had started to teach me to listen for.
The hybrid wolfsbane wasn’t ordinary. I’d poured my qi into it. Fed it, guided it. Now, as my fingers hovered above it, I could feel that qi echoing faintly back.
So I didn’t soak it.
I rolled the stalk gently between my palms, then crushed the leaves by hand, letting the oils seep out and bleed onto the preparation slab. The scent was sharp. Unpleasant.
Nature’s Attunement hummed again, faintly pulsing against my chest. Like a heartbeat out of sync with my own.I tilted my head.
“…Right.”
I retrieved a small bundle of dried lotus rhizomes and skullcaps, arranged them carefully in a shallow dish, and set them aflame until they blackened and cracked.
Once cooled, I ground the charred pieces to fine powder; activated charcoal.
I added the astragalus for blood nourishing, letting the ingredients meld together within the distilled water. Then came the part I hated; the Bloodsoul Bloom essence.
I uncorked the vial and let a single drop dangle from the tip of the glass. It shimmered as it fell, like living wine, and the moment it struck the surface of the mixture—
The Refinement Simulation Technique surged.
Dozens of projections flared through my vision in a split-second. Chain reactions. Toxic backflows. Charting paths toward combustion, spoilage, and failure.
“Damn it—!”
I reached for the control dials on the Two Star Pagoda Pill Furnace, adjusting airflow, narrowing the inner ring to condense the flame’s reach. I mentally commanded the Alchemical Nexus, shifting the sigil arrays to prioritize stability over potency.
The Nexus responded with a soft glow, the formation’s outer ring constricting. The pill furnace’s inner chamber vibrated as the fire dimmed to a focused glow, just hot enough to coax a transformation, not trigger an explosion.
The bubbling within the crucible slowed; but it didn’t stop.
That was when I felt it.
A pulse.
Not from the Bloom. Not from the furnace.
From the wolfsbane.
Still raw. Still poisonous. Still untouched at the edge of the slab.
It was like a push. No thought. No words. Just an urge.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
'Add me.'
That much poison, now, in a mixture already reacting unpredictably? Any alchemist worth their salt would hesitate. Would measure. Would test.
I reached for the wolfsbane and dropped it in.
The moment it hit the pill furnace, the concoction fought.
The Bloodsoul Bloom essence surged, tendrils of crimson qi curling upward in defiance. But the wolfsbane didn’t dissolve. It resisted. Its own poisonous essence surged forth; sharp, wild, coiling like a snake in heat.
For a heartbeat, the entire mixture roiled like it might erupt.
I braced.
The Refinement Simulation Technique flared again, and then dimmed.
Not cleared. But... manageable.
The wolfsbane had stabilized it.
No. More than that.
It had challenged the Bloodsoul Bloom. Two poisons, locked in combat, burning each other out with precision. Balanced on a razor’s edge of toxicity and recovery.
A war.
That’s what it felt like inside the furnace. Two poisons, circling, clashing, never yielding; each fighting to define what this cure would become. I adjusted the flame again, just barely, watching as crimson threads wrapped around the darker purple of the wolfsbane. Not suffocating it. Not swallowing it. But encasing it, like oil and water spinning in orbit.
Then the pulse came again.
From the concoction itself.
A message. Not a whisper, not a feeling, just a need. As if the medicine was aware of its own instability and crying out for reinforcement.
A second later, my thoughts branched, the Manifold Memory Palace working two make me think even quicker. I let the simulation run wild, stripping each branch bare for possibilities.
A blood-cooling herb?
No. Too dull.
A strengthening root?
Too slow.
Ginger root.
As my conscious came across the ingredient, it immediately clicked. It was common. Modest. But when used right, it harmonized qi circulation, boosted medicinal absorption, and grounded volatile compounds in formulations with clashing elements. A perfect companion to the hybrid wolfsbane.
“Jian Feng!” I shouted, not taking my eyes off the crucible. “I need ginger root. Now!”
A blur of robes. A rustle of panic. Then his voice called back, “Got it!”—followed by the frantic sound of feet skidding across stone.
Seconds dragged. I tightened the grip on the furnace’s side handle to keep my hands from trembling.
Jian Feng burst through the door, panting. “Here!”
I snatched the root from his outstretched hand. No time to thank him. No time to peel. I sliced it raw, right there on the edge of the slab. Clean strokes. Thin shards. Nature’s Attunement pulsed again. Urging. My hands moved faster than thought.
I dropped the ginger into the furnace.
The wolfsbane’s essence surged again, this time not as a weapon, but as a conductor. The ginger fused with it effortlessly, and the green tendrils wrapped around the red, pinning the Bloodsoul Bloom’s fury in place like a harness.
A glow began to rise from the crucible; pale orange at first, then shifting toward brownish-purple. It shimmered with heat and balance.
The Refinement Simulation Technique flared one last time. Then it quieted.
The mixture began to calm.
The roiling pressure that had clawed at the edges of the crucible eased. The duel between the wolfsbane and the Bloodsoul Bloom subsided. Two poisons balanced by a thread of ginger root.
I exhaled, the tension in my arms loosening as the brew simmered down. A low thrum pulsed through the Alchemical Nexus as it stabilized the formation, locking the concoction into equilibrium. For the first time since the flame had ignited, I allowed myself to breathe.
The Refinement Simulation Technique went silent.
No more warnings. No more threads of failure.
The liquid in the furnace had turned a deep, purplish brown. I ladled it out slowly, carefully, letting it cool in a shallow jade bowl. The surface rippled faintly as steam wafted into the air, heavy with a scent like bitter herbs and burnt flowers.
It was meant for Yu Long.
And no one else. Not me. Not Windy. Not Tianyi. No other villager or cultivator. Just him. A concoction tuned so precisely to his constitution and stage of infection that even a healthy person would struggle to digest it without harm.
I held the bowl in both hands and turned toward Han Chen.
“All clear,” I said, voice low.
I didn’t say it worked. I didn’t say it was a success. Because hope was a fragile thing, and I wouldn’t offer it carelessly; not to a man who had already lost so much.
Han Chen nodded, his jaw clenched tight, eyes refusing to blink.
I moved to Yu Long’s side, tilting his head gently and prying his mouth open just enough to let the first few drops slide down his throat.
He didn’t choke.
But his face twitched. His brows furrowed. A low murmur escaped his lips. He mumbled something I couldn’t quite make out. I froze.
Then the violet splotches on his skin began to fade. Slowly. Then faster. As though chased away by invisible light.
The others stared in silence as sweat burst across Yu Long’s brow, then poured down his body. His breaths grew labored—then eased. His pulse steadied. The fever haze lifted from his face, and his fingers twitched, curling around the blanket.
The color returned to his lips.
It was working.
The cure was working.
A sound came from behind me.
Han Chen dropped to his knees, tears hitting the stone before his hands did.
“Thank you,” he choked. “Thank you. Thank you—”
I didn’t have the strength to respond.
Jian Feng moved closer, staring between Yu Long and the half-empty bowl in my hands. “Can you do that again?”
I met his eyes. “No.”
His brow furrowed.
I shook my head. “That was made for him. His body. His plague progression. Every ingredient was adjusted based on what I saw in him and what the plants told me through Nature’s Attunement. It’s not scalable. Not yet.”
“But you made it. So the cure exists.”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “And no.”
He frowned. I continued.
“If word gets out that I can do this, even once, people will come running. Not for the universal cure, but for one tailored to them. And I can’t survive that. The cost is too high.”
Jian Feng's expression dawned in understanding. “We’ll keep it quiet.”
I nodded. “Watch over Yu Long. He’ll need blood-nourishing medicine soon. His body’s going to be fragile for a while—just because the plague’s been purged doesn’t mean the damage is gone. And it doesn't guarantee he'll be safe from being infected again.”
The disciples all nodded.
I turned, bowl still in hand, and walked out without another word.
By the time I reached my shop, the air had gone thick and cold. I leaned against the doorframe, steadying my breath.
A single drop hit the floor.
I touched my nose. Blood.
'Of course.'
Strain from overusing the Manifold. From parallel thought. From pushing my qi to grow the wolfsbane too soon. It all added up.
I wiped it away with my sleeve.
Then coughed, quietly. A shallow, tight sound.
I was still infected. And now, I’d made myself worse.
This life... it wasn’t just mine anymore.
Every move I made now came with weight. And the margin was tighter than ever.
What would I do if it were Tianyi next? Windy? Wang Jun? Lan-Yin? Elder Ming?
Let them die?
Or give everything, knowing the cost?
I didn’t have the answer.
But I did know this: my time was running short.
And before it ran out, I had to find it. I had to find the cure.