Feiyin’s days were structured like a carefully composed melody, each note flowing seamlessly into the next. Over the years, he had developed a routine that balanced his various pursuits: alchemy, combat, refining his meridians, and perfecting his internal strength. It was a discipline forged through necessity, a rhythm that allowed him to not only survive but thrive within the constraints of the Saint Spirit Sect.

  Today was an alchemy day.

  The early morning light filtered through the wooden slats of his small cabin as he sat cross-legged on the floor, Bai Yu curled beside him in a lazy coil. The small white-scaled serpent barely stirred as Feiyin reached for a porcelain vial on his nearby table, uncorking it with a practiced motion. A delicate herbal fragrance wafted into the air—one of the newest ingredients he had been experimenting with.

  Alchemy had long since become more than just a task for him. When he first started, it had been an uphill battle. He had struggled to control the temperatures, failed to harmonize the ingredients properly, and produced pills that were anything but effective.

  Now, it was like second nature.

  He prepared the refining room with precise, almost effortless movements, setting up the pill cauldron on the specialized stone platform. The room itself was one of the many rentable practice chambers provided for alchemists—small, dimly lit, and soundproof to prevent disruptions. The stone walls bore faint traces of previous refinements, discolorations from failed attempts and long-burning flames.

  Feiyin no longer left such traces.

  His oscillation sense had changed everything.

  Alchemy was, at its core, a matter of balance. Each herb, each mineral, had a rhythm—an inherent vibration that dictated how it interacted with others. When he had first begun refining pills, he had followed the common methods, relying on rote memorization and trial-and-error like every other apprentice. But as his oscillation sense developed, he realized that he could hear the way ingredients responded to each other.

  It was just like playing a melody.

  He placed the first ingredient into the cauldron—a Moon Lotus Root, a cooling herb meant to stabilize energy fluctuations. The moment it touched the heated chamber, Feiyin attuned himself to its resonance. A soft, wavering note filled his mind, as though the lotus root was humming a gentle, steady tune.

  Next, he added a Fiery Sungrass, a volatile component that, if mishandled, could scorch away the beneficial properties of the lotus root. It was like introducing a discordant instrument into an otherwise harmonious song.

  But Feiyin had long since learned how to make such clashes work in his favor.

  He focused, listened to the way the oscillations fought against each other, then adjusted the temperature by the faintest fraction, letting the heat temper the intensity of the Sungrass rather than overpower the Lotus Root.

  The notes in his mind shifted, settling into an unexpected but natural harmony.

  A small smile played on his lips.

  Over the years, he had experimented relentlessly, refining his understanding of how different elements resonated together. Where other alchemists relied solely on prescribed formulas, Feiyin had found ways to improve them—subtle modifications that enhanced purity, strengthened effects, and ensured a near-perfect success rate. His reputation among the other apprentice alchemists had grown because of this, though he had always been careful not to reveal too much.

  He continued the refinement process, adding the final stabilizing agents, each ingredient a new note in his unseen composition.

  Then came the most delicate part.

  Controlling the fire.

  Unlike most alchemists who relied on precise measurements and timing, Feiyin could feel when the mixture was reaching the right point of cohesion. The oscillations in the cauldron aligned, vibrating in a perfect frequency—signaling that the pill was ready to condense.

  With a single controlled pulse of his inner strength, he sealed the refinement.

  A soft shimmer passed through the cauldron, and when the heat faded, five pills rested inside. Their surfaces were smooth, unmarred by imperfections, gleaming faintly under the dim light.

  Perfect.

  He retrieved them, placing them in a small jade bottle before exhaling deeply.

  Even after all these years, there was a quiet thrill in each successful refinement. The act of bringing ingredients together, shaping them into something new—it was an art that filled him with an almost childlike wonder.

  He cleaned up the workspace before moving to his next task.

  Artifact refinement.

  Pill refinement and artifact forging required different approaches, but to Feiyin, they both followed the same fundamental principle—understanding the resonance of the materials.

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  He retrieved a ingot of Blacksteel from his storage pouch, running his fingers over its rough surface. Blacksteel was notoriously difficult to refine due to its dense composition, but he had always enjoyed the challenge.

  Placing the ingot into the small forging basin, he activated the refining flames and waited as the metal softened. Then, he reached for his hammer—a piece he had crafted himself over the years, carefully weighted to suit his technique.

  With slow, measured strikes, he began shaping the metal.

  Each impact sent vibrations through the material, and with his oscillation sense, he could feel how the metal was responding. Unlike a normal blacksmith, who relied on sight and experience alone, Feiyin could sense the internal structure of the metal shifting with each strike.

  He adjusted accordingly, striking at just the right points to refine it without causing unnecessary fractures.

  The rhythmic clanging of the hammer against metal filled the room, but to Feiyin, it wasn’t just noise.

  It was music.

  The deep, resonant tones of the metal sang under his hands, each strike another note in a silent composition. Where others saw raw material, he saw the potential for something greater—something shaped by his own will.

  Slowly, the rough edges smoothed, the impurities burned away, and the once unyielding Blacksteel began to take shape.

  Hours passed in a quiet blur.

  By the time he finished, a sleek, curved blade rested in his hands. It wasn’t grand, nor was it overly ornate, but it was his. A weapon shaped by his own hands, refined through his own understanding.

  He tested the balance, adjusting the grip slightly, before nodding in satisfaction.

  The blade would need further tempering, but it was solid—a tangible result of his years of practice.

  Feiyin set it aside and stretched, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness that had settled in from hours of focus.

  The sun had already begun to set.

  He exhaled, feeling the satisfying weight of a day's work well done.

  Tomorrow, he would train his body, refining his techniques and pushing his meridian opening further.

  But today—today was for creation.

  And there was no greater joy than that.

  The only thing that still truly impeded him was the collar the sect has attached to them.

  Feiyin had spent years uncovering the hidden mechanisms behind the Heart-Eating Worm, delving into research alongside Shen Mu with an intensity fueled by both desperation and necessity. Their knowledge of the sect’s dark practices had expanded, but with each revelation, the weight of their predicament only grew heavier.

  The first breakthrough had come through sheer persistence. The knowledge hall jade slips contained fragmented records of the worm’s existence, its origins traced back to the Saint Blood Branch—a faction within the sect infamous for its gruesome techniques. The worm had not always been widely used. It was originally developed as a means of controlling high-level servants and sect slaves, ensuring that betrayal was not an option. However, as the sect expanded, they refined it to ease recruitment, turning it into an unavoidable tool to enforce absolute loyalty.

  Yet, the true horror lay not in its ability to kill them at any moment, but in the structure behind its control.

  Somewhere within the sect resided a single main Heart-Eating Worm, the Mother Worm—the progenitor of all implanted parasites. Every single worm inside the menial disciples had been born from it. This meant that their lives were bound not only to their captors but also to a single, grotesque entity that could remotely sense, command, and terminate them at will.

  Feiyin had remained quiet the day they confirmed that fact. Sitting in their cabin, running his fingers over the wooden surface of his desk, he had let the reality sink in. Even if he found a way to remove or tamper with his own worm, the moment something slipped, the Mother Worm would know.

  And then, he would die.

  It was a cruel, layered security measure. Even if someone found a way to locate the Mother Worm and kill it, every single host would perish instantly.

  The second discovery had come through methodical testing. Over the years, Feiyin and Shen Mu had collected the monthly antidotes given to them, studying their effects and composition by purchasing dozens of them. The sect was unbothered about menial disciples knowing how the antidote worked—after all, knowledge without a means of action was useless.

  Feiyin and Shen Mu had reverse-engineered part of the antidote’s formula through painstaking trials. They learned that it worked by suppressing the worm, inducing a dormant state that kept it from growing too powerful or acting out of its master’s control. However, they were still missing crucial elements to ensure its complete removal.

  As promising as their progress was, they couldn’t test their theories—not yet. The risk was too high. A single miscalculation, and their bodies would become internal battlefields, their hearts shredded from within.

  Another revelation had come from dissecting the corpses of fallen assailants. Every time Feiyin’s group was ambushed by disciples looking to rob them, they would take their bodies afterward—not out of cruelty, but necessity.

  Feiyin had retrieved worms from their enemies’ corpses, and what he and Shen Mu found was deeply unsettling.

  The worms were not uniform.

  A weak cultivator’s worm was smaller, its surface smooth, almost unformed. Meanwhile, those inside stronger cultivators had grown—their exteriors layered with hardened ridges, armored like a parasitic beast. The worms adapted to their hosts, drawing from their strength.

  This was why no one had ever overpowered them. As a cultivator grew, so did their parasite.

  Even if Feiyin reached a level of strength where he could crush the worm, it would be too late. It would have grown alongside him, adapting to match his body’s power.

  One fateful night, Shen Mu had tried to dissect a worm for further study. His cabin had been set up meticulously, reinforced with dampening formations and proper ventilation. Yet, the moment his blade touched the worm’s interior fluids, the entire table began corroding.

  A foul green smoke curled into the air, acrid and burning. If not for Shen Mu’s growing poison resistance, he might have suffered permanent damage.

  The worms were not just parasites. They were deadly even after death. Their blood was a toxin strong enough to corrode steel, ensuring that any crude removal attempt would backfire spectacularly.

  Feiyin, on the other hand, had taken a different approach. He had tried to match his oscillations to the worm’s, attempting to synchronize his inner strength with its natural frequency. He had succeeded—to a degree. He could feel it clinging to his heart, could subtly affect its movements, but he couldn’t yet control it.

  And if he miscalculated while attempting to crush it, his own heart would suffer the consequences.

  This confirmed one thing— a rushed solution would only lead to death.