The alchemy chamber roared with fire. The air shimmered with heat; the walls glowed molten red. The flames beneath the great furnace blazed ceaselessly—true solar fire drawn from the heavens and fused with the infernal breath of the earth. This was no ordinary flame: it could melt the hardest steel in moments, its intensity fully at the alchemist's command.
Only a divine-grade furnace could refine metal all the way into vapor. But even this mortal furnace, though less exalted, was more than enough—to boil a man alive without effort.
Fang Han sat cross-legged within that inferno. The cauldron bubbled with the sacred waters of the Yellow Springs, waves of vapor shrieking through the tiny vents in the lid like ghostly whistles. He was immersed entirely, unmoving, as though carved from bronze. His breathing slowed to the rhythm of a tortoise, yet his vitality did not fade—it grew. Those who could sense spiritual power would have seen his life force swelling with each passing moment.
His tall frame seemed to shrink slightly, his essence condensed; his blood and bones compressed into something purer, stronger. His skin shimmered faintly gold, as if tempered by the gods themselves—unyielding, smooth, impervious to blades.
Strangely, his face bore not the contorted agony of a man being boiled alive. Instead, he wore an expression of calm delight, as though he were sitting beneath pine trees, sipping tea, listening to mountain winds.
"Where the heart rests, the will follows. Turn suffering to bliss; the boundless sea of pain—beyond it lies paradise…"
He murmured the meditation verse of the Yama Golden Body Technique, channeling the unbearable pain into serene focus. He directed his energy and blood throughout every inch of his body—into skin, sinew, and bone. The transformation deepened; his physique grew denser, his form smaller yet more perfect—powerfully compacted, flawless in proportion.
For twenty-five days, he endured the flames. Every session consumed vast amounts of Blood Pills and Biluo Great Pills. Now, only twenty remained. Yet the sacrifice was worth it: his mind had been sharpened to perfection. He could now command his thoughts like blades—forgetting or remembering at will.
Within his consciousness, spiritual power had condensed into something tangible—a shimmering golden liquid that flowed slowly through his mind. It radiated light, threatening to pierce through his skull and ascend into the heavens. This was the sign: the threshold of divine transformation. One more step, and he would transcend mortality.
A thunderous splash broke the silence. Fang Han's eyes snapped open. Power burst from his body as he exploded from the cauldron, blowing off its heavy lid. He landed with a crash that cracked the stone floor beneath him.
"The foundation of the Yama Golden Body is complete," Yan said, emerging from the void. "Your accumulation has reached its peak. Your body rivals that of an Asura now—your strength, your resilience, all the same."
Yan gestured, and a razor-sharp steel sword appeared in his claws. With a sudden swing, he slashed straight at Fang Han's bare chest.
Fang Han did not move. His eyes flashed; his skin shivered and began to hum, vibrating at an impossible frequency. The sword struck with a metallic scream—
CLANG!
The steel blade shattered. Not even a cut appeared—only a faint white mark on Fang Han's golden skin.
Then, as his muscles relaxed, the gold faded. His skin returned to a warm, jade-like tone, smooth and supple once more.
"Excellent," Yan said approvingly. "Your flesh has reached perfection—but still you stand outside the Gate of Divinity."
Fang Han frowned. "I've consumed the Nine-Aperture Golden Pill, absorbed the Crimson Nectar, practiced the Yama Golden Body for twenty-five days in the cauldron, drank the sacred water of the Yellow Springs, and exhausted countless Blood and Biluo Pills—and still, I can't step into the Mystic Divine Realm. That barrier truly is monstrous."
"The Mystic Divine Realm is no easy threshold," Yan replied. "Cross it, and you are no longer mortal—you stand between heaven and man. If it were easy, the Yuhua Sect wouldn't have only a hundred and eight True Disciples. The key to opening that gate lies only within yourself. Don't rush. The deeper your foundation, the stronger your divine power will be once you transcend. Mark my words—when you break through, your strength will eclipse Jin Shitai's. His magic is shallow; yours will be deep as the abyss."
Yan clicked his tongue. "But your resources are nearly gone—less than twenty pills left. We can't return to the Demon Battlefield. Instead, we'll head underground. The depths swarm with Flying Yakshas, Asuras—even the weaker Great Asuras. Kill them, refine their essence, and we'll have Blood and Biluo Pills of supreme quality. A single Great Asura can yield pills far superior to any demon's."
Fang Han's eyes narrowed. "I can handle Yakshas and Asuras—but Great Asuras are different. They've already taken human form, wielding true mana. That's the realm of Mystic Divine masters. How can I kill one?"
"The earth demons lack refined arts or divine tools," Yan said coldly. "They rely only on brute flesh. You now command ten Demon Sword Puppets, and with my sorcery, that's enough to slay a weak Great Asura. If you want to surpass Hua Tiandu, you must fight and fight again—drown in blood, never waste a breath. Every moment counts. Come! I'll lead you through the fissures of the earth. I know every layer of that world."
"Not today," Fang Han said simply.
"Why not?"
"Have you forgotten? Three days each month are the Teaching Days. Inner disciples must attend the Transmission Hall to study the sect's techniques and consult the elders. I won't waste a chance to learn Yuhua Sect's divine arts."
Yan paused, then nodded. "Fair enough. The sect's arts must be mastered—and deeply. If you can touch the Scripture of Ascendant Immortality, even better. That's the supreme path—transcendence beyond the world, soaring through the heavens. Even the Yellow Springs Emperor coveted that scripture."
Fang Han's heart stirred slightly. The Scripture of Ascendant Immortality… wasn't that what Master Bai Haichan told me to seek?
He gathered his belongings as Yan retreated into the Yellow Springs Diagram, melting into Fang Han's body like a shadow. The ten Asura Sword Puppets vanished with him, dormant yet deadly, waiting for the next call to slaughter.
The Blood Cotton Demon Robe and the corpse of the Red Powder Prince remained hidden within the diagram—reserved for use in the underworld battles to come.
Closing the heavy stone door of his quarters, Fang Han stepped out and made his way toward the Transmission Hall.
Along the path, groups of inner disciples streamed in the same direction. Each radiated confidence and power—individuals who, if they walked into the mortal world, could command armies or rule nations. Yet as they passed Fang Han, their expressions changed. Whispers, sidelong glances, quickened steps—they scattered as if avoiding a plague.
Fang Han smiled wryly. "So I really have become the cursed one. No surprise—Hua Tiandu's status among the disciples is legendary. Offend him, and no one dares even greet you."
But he didn't mind. One day, he thought, they'll see.
"Fang Han! You've stirred up quite the storm lately."
A familiar voice sounded from behind him. Fang Han didn't even turn; he already knew who it was.
He turned anyway—and there she stood. The Red Princess, clad in a robe of Water and Fire Dao patterns, her sword strapped neatly across her back. She looked every bit the crisp, bright heroine—but Fang Han could feel the killing intent coiled beneath that calm, a blade hidden in her spirit.
"If I'd gained that kind of reward and still hadn't made it to inner disciple," she said lightly, "I'd be too embarrassed to show my face."
The "reward," of course, referred to the True Blue Sword they had discovered together—a secret only the two of them shared.
"I heard you offended Senior Brother Hua Tiandu in the Demon Battlefield," she continued. "He's the top True Disciple, Fang Han. Even ten of the Mountain and River Roll elites together wouldn't match him. Not even Senior Sister Qingxue could protect you. Many of the True Disciples owe him favors. You've essentially made yourself an enemy of the entire sect. How are you going to survive this?"
Fang Han licked his lips and smiled faintly. "I'll have ten years of peace, at least."
Before she could respond, a sharp, arrogant voice cut through the air:
"Well, well—so you are here."
Several figures approached swiftly. Fang Han's brow furrowed as he recognized them. At the front was a tall man wearing a resplendent Golden Biluo Robe—a spiritual garment equal in quality to the Blood Cotton Demon Robe.
It was none other than Yuan Jiankong, ranked tenth on the Mountain and River Roll—known as the Silver Serpent Sword.
Beside him stood Senior Sister Mo and several other inner disciples—those whose flying swords Fang Han had once taken. Among them, the arrogant Prince Bao smirked coldly.
"Senior Brother Yuan, Senior Sister Mo," Fang Han greeted evenly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Yuan Jiankong's smile was sharp as a blade. "That day, we were caught in the Six Desire Thunder Trap—you escaped with the aid of some demonic treasure. Since you survived, you must also know where my Silver Serpent Sword went. I think it's time you told us."