The golden rays of the afternoon sun fell upon the Alchemy Forging Grounds, where rows of ancient cauldrons stood like silent sentinels, each scarred by years of fire and creation. A faint haze of spiritual mist hung in the air, carrying the fragrance of rare herbs, crushed roots, and simmering elixirs.

Mo Han stepped onto the polished stone platform, his steps steady, his eyes sharp as blades. The disciples already present stopped their chatter for a moment and glanced at him. Some whispered, their tones filled with disdain.

"That's the one who stirred the Healing Tower…"

"Pleasure healer, they called him. Hah, what use will that be here?"

"Let's see how he embarrasses himself in front of Elder Bogi today."

Mo Han ignored them all, his aura calm, unshaken, like still water hiding an unfathomable depth.

At the center of the grounds, an old man stood beside a massive black cauldron. His long beard reached his chest, his robes bore faint scorch marks, and his eyes carried the wisdom of centuries. Elder Bogi, Vice-Patriarch of the Eternal Night Mansion, raised his gaze as Mo Han approached.

"You came," the elder said, his voice deep, steady as thunder rumbling in distant skies.

Mo Han clasped his fists and bowed. "I came to learn, Elder."

"Learning is not words but fire and steel." Elder Bogi pointed at the cauldron beside him. The carved beast engravings on its surface seemed alive, their eyes glowing faintly with runes. "Show me your flame."

Mo Han inhaled deeply. He extended his right palm. With a subtle hum, golden-red fire burst forth, flickering silently. Unlike the flames of common disciples, his fire was alive—steady yet fierce, contained yet boundless.

The crowd murmured.

"So pure…"

"That control… he's not using a single talisman?"

"Impossible. He must be hiding something."

Elder Bogi's brows lifted slightly. "You control fire with bare hands… and such stability. Not bad. But fire without discipline is arrogance." He lifted his sleeve, and a storage ring shimmered. In the next moment, a pile of herbs and minerals landed before Mo Han.

"These are common materials. Mix them into the Spirit Stabilizing Elixir. You have one hour."

Mo Han didn't reply with words. He knelt before the herbs, his gaze scanning each root, leaf, and mineral. Memories surged from deep within—the knowledge of Leo Reynold, techniques from another world. Every texture, every property flashed clearly in his mind.

He began.

With steady fingers, Mo Han crushed the Red Lotus Root, grinding it into fine powder. The sound of pestle on stone echoed across the grounds. Next, he sliced the Moon-Leaf Grass, his strokes so precise it looked more like swordplay than herb-cutting. Each piece was exactly the same size, not a hair's difference.

He poured them into the cauldron, his flames swirling beneath, wrapping it in golden-red light. Unlike others who relied on arrays to keep the flame steady, Mo Han's fire moved like an extension of his will, rising, falling, twirling gracefully.

The onlookers' whispers grew.

"He's… treating fire like it's alive."

"His control is insane. Elder Bogi himself once said flame obeys none but years of mastery."

"How can a new disciple…"

The liquid within the cauldron shimmered, the herbs dissolving with barely a wisp of smoke. Not a single spark was wasted, not a single drop spilled.

Mo Han's expression never wavered. His left hand hovered above the cauldron, sending threads of aura qi into the brew, suppressing impurities, guiding the reaction like a river flowing into the sea.

Minutes stretched into half an hour. Sweat dotted the foreheads of the watching disciples—not from heat, but from pressure. The atmosphere grew thick, oppressive, as though the air itself bowed to the harmony of fire and herb.

Finally, Mo Han flicked his fingers. The flames withdrew instantly, leaving the cauldron glowing faintly. He tapped its side gently. Ding! A fragrant mist rose, carrying the sweetness of spirit energy.

From the cauldron, a row of pills emerged—round, smooth, glowing faintly with gentle light. Not one, not two—but twelve perfectly formed pills.

Gasps erupted.

"Twelve…! The limit is usually eight or nine!"

"He's… he's insane. How can anyone refine twelve in one go?"

"Even our elder has rarely achieved such perfection…"

Elder Bogi stepped forward, his expression calm, but his eyes betrayed the faintest gleam of wonder. He picked up one pill, studied its luster, its fragrance, its purity.

"No cracks. No discoloration. Energy condensed perfectly." He turned to Mo Han, his voice heavy. "Your fire control is beyond extraordinary. But tell me—how long have you practiced alchemy?"

Mo Han clasped his hands. "This is my first formal attempt in this world, Elder."

A heavy silence fell. The disciples gawked as though struck by lightning. Elder Bogi's eyes narrowed, then softened, his gaze sharpening like blades as he studied Mo Han's face.

"First attempt, yet you create twelve flawless pills?" His lips curled faintly. "Either you are lying… or the heavens themselves gave you this gift."

Mo Han lowered his head respectfully. "It is neither. I carry memories that guide me. But the fire, the hands, and the will are mine. The rest… I leave for the elder to judge."

For a long moment, Elder Bogi said nothing. Then he let out a low laugh, deep and rumbling. "Hahaha… Interesting. Very interesting. This sect may yet produce something extraordinary."

The laughter ceased abruptly. His tone became sharp. "Tomorrow, come to the Alchemy Forging Grounds. I want to see how you temper metal, not just herbs. If your fire can command steel as it commands plants, then perhaps…"

He didn't finish his words.

Mo Han bowed once more. "Yes, Elder. I will be there."

As he turned to leave, Elder Bogi called out again. "Mo Han."

Mo Han paused.

"Do not waste your talent in petty battles of seduction or politics. Alchemy is not just craft—it is war. With it, you can heal a city… or destroy one. Remember that."

Mo Han's eyes flickered with quiet determination. "I will remember."

He stepped out of the grounds, the whispers of stunned disciples following him like shadows.

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