A low hum lingered beneath the still air as the last whispers died out. The floor beneath the students was polished stone, cool to the touch, faintly reflecting the warm glow of floating lanterns above. At the head of the hall, a man stepped forward—his presence sharp, robes flowing like liquid gold stitched with curling flame patterns.
His voice, calm yet firm, cut through the silence.
"I am Master Yuan Ji, rank Jing Ying—Star 4. I am your guide on the path of Alchemy."
The lantern light danced in his dark eyes as he scanned the room, the silence now heavy with focus.
Mike leaned slightly toward his group, the fabric of his sleeve brushing against the wooden bench.
"Wait, did he just say blue flame?" Jian Wu's voice was low but edged with tension, her gaze flicking sharply toward him.
Mike hesitated, scratching the side of his jaw. "It's… not really mine. I found it inside a storage ring."
Feng Jian raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing. "You never mentioned that."
"It's like a pocket of space," Mike whispered. "You store things inside it. I didn't even know what it was until I activated it."
Jian Wu looked away, her fingers tightening over her robe. "I tried to awaken a flame once," she said quietly, "but failed."
The admission hung in the air like mist.
"Uh… guys?" Lei Hu muttered, glancing up at the stage. "We're ignoring the actual master."
But the session was already ending. With a final sweep of his robe, Master Yuan Ji gestured gracefully.
"Dismissed. Class begins tomorrow."
The students rose, chairs sliding softly against the stone floor. Dust motes floated lazily in the warm air as the hall emptied.
Then came a voice—calm, familiar.
"Mike," said Jian Dao, his tone as steady as mountain rock. "Come with me. I need a word."
Mike turned. The master's robes shimmered slightly under the light, like ripples on still water.
"Can we come too?" Feng Jian asked hopefully.
Jian Dao smiled gently. "I'm afraid not. Not even my own daughter may follow."
Mike gave a small nod to his friends before stepping beside the elder.
Inside Jian Dao's chamber, a tranquil hush rested over the room. Tall bamboo stalks grew from the corners, swaying ever so slightly in the breeze from an unseen window. The scent of sandalwood and crushed lotus petals drifted in slow waves, and delicate jade carvings lined a small altar near the wall.
"You are still far from flying naturally," Jian Dao said, lifting a folded item from a wooden chest bound in gold-laced ropes. "But these will help."
He handed Mike what looked like thin strips of cloth—but when Mike held them, the material shimmered with threads of starlight. Wings, spiritual and silk-like, unfolded slightly, pulsing with dormant energy.
Mike looked at them, stunned. "What's your rank now, Master?"
"Sheng Zhe. Star 8," Jian Dao said, his eyes distant for a moment. "Your father once soared beyond that. He was my brother, in every way but blood."
Then, with great care, he unrolled a glowing scroll. Its edges shimmered like frost in sunlight.
"This is the Flying Skill Technique. Learn this, and you won't need those wings."
Mike's fingers trembled slightly as he touched the paper, the characters glowing softly beneath his skin.
"One month?" he asked.
"This is the simplest technique in our entire sect," Jian Dao said with a laugh. "Even a stubborn rock could learn it if it sat still long enough. Now come."
They arrived at a peak carved from silver-gray stone, its surface scattered with patches of emerald moss. The air here was thin, but rich with unseen power. Above, white clouds drifted lazily across a wide, endless sky. Golden sunbeams pierced through them, casting shifting shadows across the slope.
Pine trees clung to the edges of the cliffs, their roots gripping the cracks of the mountain like ancient fingers. The wind whispered through the branches, and birds—small, bright-feathered creatures—circled lazily overhead.
Mike stood on the stone, wind tugging gently at his sleeves. The world below was a mosaic of valleys and rivers, fields like painted cloth far in the distance.
"This place… is beautiful," Mike whispered.
Jian Dao closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. "It's untouched. Quiet. Rich in natural energy." He placed a firm hand on Mike's shoulder. "Here is your trial."
He pointed to the scroll in Mike's hands.
"You have two paths. One—learn the technique, and return with your own flight. Two—stay here forever."
Then, like a wisp of smoke, Jian Dao vanished into the sky, his form swallowed by the clouds.
Alone now, Mike slowly sat cross-legged on a flat rock near the edge. The scroll rested before him, its characters glowing faintly. He inhaled deeply—the air sharp, full of life. A cluster of wild blue flowers danced at the edge of the cliff, petals shimmering with morning dew.
"I'll do this," Mike whispered to the wind. "For my future. For everything I've started."
His eyes closed. The energy of the mountain swirled around him—gentle, patient, waiting.
Meanwhile…
Back in the Inner Academy, a rowdy courtyard filled with crooked trees and overgrown paths echoed with laughter and curses. The Wolfgang Gang was gathered beneath a cracked stone statue of a tiger, its teeth chipped from time.
"Boss," someone whispered, "this Pill Competition… there's a student alchemist. Rui Shen. Makes third-grade pills. Rank Dou Zhe—9."
Jin Hao leaned against a wall, flipping a silver coin between his fingers. A crooked grin formed on his lips.
"Interesting."
A younger member jumped in. "With your skills, we'll crush them—!"
Jin Hao's expression turned cold. "Shut your mouth, idiot. We rely on no one. Only I decide how this ends."
Back on the mountaintop, the wind had grown stronger. The sun was lower now, bleeding orange across the horizon. Mike remained still, the scroll aglow in front of him, and somewhere deep in his chest, something flickered—small, warm, alive.
A flame, he thought. Mine, or not... I'll learn to master it.
And the mountain watched in silence.