Entering his room and gently closing the door behind him, Feiyin took a moment to truly look at the space that was now his. Compared to the cramped quarters he once shared, this place felt oddly expansive.

  It was plainly furnished, with no superfluous decorations, yet the quality was obvious—each piece finely made and durable, the materials rich to the eye and smooth to the touch. The Saint Alchemy Branch may have been austere in design, but it spared no cost in practicality.

  A single bed stood against one wall, with a simple pillow and quilt arranged with symmetrical precision. Beneath it, drawers were carved seamlessly into the wooden frame, ideal for storing the few pieces of clothing and supplies he had carried with him.

  Across from the bed lay a woven meditation mat, placed perfectly in the center of an open space. It was made from an unfamiliar fabric, soft-looking but sturdy, dyed with natural hues. The elegant pattern woven into it—of a cauldron resting above a stylized flame—reminded him that this room, no matter how comfortable, was still a workspace before all else.

  To the left, a partition framed by a dark wooden arch led into two closed doors. One bore the mark of a flame, the other of a cauldron. His personal refining rooms. Pill and artifact—just as promised. Few in the branch had access to both. It should have been an honor.

  To the right, next to the bed, an open doorway revealed a small private bathroom. He stepped closer, hand brushing against the smooth polished stone of the threshold.

  A real bath.

  Not just a bucket with a wet rag to make do. This was luxury. And yet, Feiyin felt no comfort in it.

  The space around him was warm—not just from the volcano beneath the mountain, but from the insulation built into the stone itself. Yet despite the warmth, a chill had settled deep into his chest.

  He toed off his shoes and stepped barefoot onto the floor. The stone was warm against his skin, heated through by the volcanic heart of the mountain. A subtle reminder of the raw, untamed forces just beneath them—quiet but ever present.

  Looking at all the space available—larger than what he used to share with his friends—he could have felt proud.

  Instead, the emptiness echoed around him.

  The silence, once longed for, now pressed heavy against his chest.

  After so long, it's weird not to feel their presence in the same room.

  With slow, quiet steps, he walked to the bed and dropped his small fur sack—the only thing he brought with him. It contained some clothes, notes, and a couple of hand-forged tools. Nothing special. Nothing sentimental.

  He sat down, the mattress dipping gently beneath him. It was softer than anything he had slept on in years. But the softness didn’t soothe him. It only made him feel like he was floating—adrift.

  A long breath escaped his lips, unbidden.

  If only...

  Tears slipped down his face without warning, trailing paths of grief down his cheeks. The weight he’d been shouldering ever since Hui’s death, their parting, their rushed advancement—it all came crashing down in the quiet of his private room.

  He hadn’t realized how heavy it had become.

  Something stirred at his shoulder. Bai Yu—coiled gently across his upper body—raised her head. The spirit snake blinked once, then again, golden slitted eyes locking onto his tear-streaked face. Without hesitation, she pressed her snout to his cheek.

  Hissss.

  Her tongue flicked out, gently licking away the tears. The touch was cool, almost ticklish.

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  "Hey—stop that..."

  He flinched slightly, but Bai Yu only persisted. The forked tongue danced along his face with mechanical dedication, flicking at his skin in a strangely motherly fashion. The sensation was bizarre and unexpectedly effective.

  Feiyin burst into laughter.

  It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t light-hearted. It was raw, surprised laughter—half from exhaustion, half from grief. But it came anyway. His body shook with it, the sound echoing against the walls as he fell backward onto the mattress, one arm across his stomach, the other covering his eyes.

  Bai Yu finished her work with a final proud flick of her tail, then slithered off his chest and made her way to the pillow, coiling into a neat circle. She rested her head on the edge of the cloth, blinking slowly like she was keeping watch.

  Feiyin turned his head, gaze softening as he looked at her. “You’re always there when I need you.”

  Her tail flicked once, content.

  Feiyin sat there for a while longer, letting the silence return. His fingers brushed against the warmth of the mat as he remembered something his father once told him: "Regret is a heavy thing—but don’t carry it like a burden. Use it. Make it a whetstone to sharpen your resolves. The past can’t be changed, but what you do next—that’s yours to carve."

  Those words floated through his chest like the last ripple of an echo, grounding him.

  Eventually, after composing himself, he sat upright and moved to the meditation mat. He crossed his legs, hands resting lightly on his knees, and closed his eyes. Despite the heaviness in his chest, he guided his breath into slow, deep cycles.

  The warmth of the room helped. The subtle scent of ash and herbs grounded him. Slowly, the haze around his thoughts cleared.

  He let the world fall away.

  And then he called it forth—his blade intent. He hadn't had the time to look at it any deeper, since everything was done in a rush over the last day.

  The presence stirred within him, quiet but absolute. Compared to regular inner strength—which was a force of will guided through the body—blade intent was something more. It was the intention born in the heart, shaped by the mind, and carried by the body's inner strength. A resonance of soul and thought, honed through experience. A slice of conviction that cut not just through the air, but through hesitation, fear, and doubt.

  It wrapped around his inner sense like mist—unseen but undeniable. Where before he had only felt the edge of it, now it settled into him like an old coat—comfortable, natural, his.

  The final two meridians had always eluded him. The 107th and 108th. The Conception and Governing meridians. The ones that connected everything.

  Previously, it was like trying to reach through fog, to a sound just barely audible. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find the door.

  But now, it was different.

  He could feel them. Not just as abstract points—but as real, tangible targets.

  It was as if his soul had grown roots, spreading downward through his body and upward through his mind, linking them. Everything was closer. Everything clearer.

  The pain he carried. The rage. The sorrow. The promise he made beneath the sunset.

  All of it shaped his intent. And that intent carved a path.

  The edge of his spirit sharpened.

  Slowly, his breathing shifted from the calm rhythm of meditation to the deliberate draw of inner strength. The breath pulled from deep within his lower abdomen, circulating upward, spiraling through his channels.

  He could feel it pass through each open meridian—clean, stable.

  When it reached the locked points at his pubic area and at the base of his spine—the final two—it didn’t stop.

  They trembled.

  A flicker of pressure danced along the edges of his perception. Not painful. Not obstructed. Just waiting.

  Waiting for him to cut through.

  He opened his eyes.

  And they were calm.

  Not dull. Not empty. Calm—like a blade rested in its sheath.

  Feiyin smiled faintly, the weight on his chest still present, but no longer suffocating.

  There was more to do. More to learn. More to fight for.

  But he would walk the path one step at a time.

  He leaned back slightly, one hand resting on Bai Yu's back. She shifted minutely under his touch but didn’t stir.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Outside, far above, another plume of colored smoke into the sky. The air remained warm.

  But inside the room, a quiet storm had settled into stillness—a momentary peace before the next wave. The calm wasn’t comfort, but a breath taken before the plunge. Feiyin knew this feeling well. It was the pause between steps in a fight, the moment the blade returns to its sheath before being drawn again. The fire in him hadn’t dimmed—it had only steadied, waiting for the right moment to burn brighter.

  Alchemy would come later.

  For now—he had reached the threshold.

  And he would cross it.