The lesson of the library was not a deterrent; it was a refinement of parameters. The system would reject direct, systemic optimizations. But what about incremental improvements within permitted tolerances? If the Dao made allowances, as Elder Wen had said, then those allowances were a space to work.
Alchemy was the perfect testbed. Recipes were not fundamental laws like formation theory; they were applied chemistry. If the "Five Elemental Phase Theory" was a flawed but enforced model, then perhaps the inefficiencies in its practical applications were larger, more exploitable cracks.
The public alchemy laboratory was a world away from the library's sepulchral silence. It was a long, low hall in the clan's utility wing, heated by a subsidized fire-vein that ran beneath the flagstones. The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of cooking herbs, the acrid tang of failed concoctions, and the boisterous noise of a dozen clan youths.
Li Fan stood in the doorway, his presence a pebble dropped into a pond of noise. The chatter died for a moment, replaced by snickers and pointed glances.
"Look who's decided to stop coughing and start cooking!"
"Maybe he's going to brew a cure for being useless."
"Save a furnace for him—the cold one in the back. Wouldn't want him to overexert."
He ignored them, the insults washing over the analytical part of his mind. Social aggression from lower-status group members seeking to reinforce hierarchy. Irrelevant to the experiment. He walked to the designated "cold" furnace at the hall's far end. It was indeed cooler, its connection to the fire-vein weaker, its iron cauldron pitted with age. Perfect. He needed control, not power.
He presented his token to the bored overseer, a clansman in his thirties with grease-stained robes, and received his allocated materials: a bundle of low-grade Blueheart Grass, three desiccated Fire-Thread Lichen knots, and a vial of Condensed Dawn Dew. The standard ingredients for the most basic cultivation aid: the Qi Gathering Pill.
The other disciples were already at work, some with focused intensity, others with casual arrogance, dumping ingredients into roaring furnaces according to the rote steps memorized from the clan primer. They were following the recipe, a sequence as rigid as a formation: ignite, add Grass (Wood) to subdue the furnace's innate Fire, add Lichen (Fire) once subdued to create the reaction ash (Earth), use the Earth ash to catalyze the Dew (Water) into the pill matrix, which would nourish the cultivator (Wood). A perfect, sanctioned, Five-Element cycle.
Li Fan laid his materials out. First, analysis.
He picked up a stalk of Blueheart Grass. To the eye, it was just a blue-tinged weed. Under Fracture Sight, it was a complex lattice of chemical-energy bonds. And it was flawed. The spirit energy within was not uniformly distributed; it clustered in nodes, separated by inert, woody fiber. The standard process of tossing the whole stalk into the cauldron would overcook the nodes and leave the fiber under-processed, creating impurities—the "pill toxins" the primers warned about.
The Lichen knots were little bundles of unstable fire-aspected energy, their fractals showing a steep decay curve. Adding them at the prescribed moment would inject a burst of chaotic heat, further degrading the Grass nodes.
The Dew was pure, but its binding properties were weak.
Hypothesis: The standard process is thermally crude. The primary impurity source is the uneven heating of Blueheart Grass nodes, exacerbated by the aggressive Fire-Thread Lichen addition.
Revised Hypothesis: By reducing final-stage thermal input, the Grass nodes can be more evenly processed, reducing impurities and increasing the purity of the final Qi infusion.
He couldn't change the fundamental Five-Element sequence—that would likely trigger another systemic rejection. But he could tweak the parameters within that sequence. The by-laws governed the what, not necessarily the precise how.
He had no access to precision instruments, but he had waste-grade materials left over from his stipend—herbs too wilted or sparse for proper use, relegated to the trash bin. They would serve for a controlled experiment.
He cleared a space beside the main cauldron. Using a small, personal crucible he'd borrowed from the neglected kitchen, he began.
Experiment Design:
Batch C (Control): Standard recipe. Whole Grass stalk, full Lichen heat.
Batch A (Variable 1): Standard sequence, but reduce final Lichen-induced heat by 10% (achieved by using a slightly smaller Lichen knot and a longer, slower infusion distance).
Batch B (Variable 2): Standard sequence, reduce final heat by 20%.
He worked with meticulous, slow care, ignoring the rising derision around him.
"Look at him playing with scraps!"
"He's making poison, not pills."
"Wasting even the garbage. Pathetic."
Li Fan tuned it out. He recorded each step, each timing, in his mind. For Batch B, the critical variable, he used his Fracture Sight to monitor the Grass nodes as the reduced heat from the Lichen washed over them. He saw the energy matrices within the nodes soften and homogenize more evenly, without the violent, fracturing surge of the standard process. The inert fiber still remained, but it was less disruptive.
The final step, the binding with Dew, was the same for all three. He decanted the resulting pastes into pill molds and used the residual furnace heat to bake them.
The results were visually telling.
Batch C (Control): Produced a single, lumpy, pale green pill. It had a faint sheen and a weak, slightly discordant Qi pulse. Standard low-grade fare.
Batch A: Yielded two smaller, grey-green pellets. Their Qi pulse was marginally steadier.
Batch B: Yielded three pellets. They were an unappealing, matte grey, misshapen and small. They looked like failed slag. But as they cooled, they emitted a Qi signature that was 20% more potent than the control, and most importantly, it was a clean, stable frequency with almost no detectable impurity fracture.
He had not created a new pill. He had created a more efficient version of an old one. He had stayed within the Five-Element cycle but optimized its execution, staying—he hoped—within the Dao's "allowances."
The laughter in the hall had reached a crescendo. "He made three pieces of dirt! Hah!"
"Maybe he's trying to grow a new herb from the ashes."
Li Fan carefully collected his three grey pellets into a waxed paper pouch. The experiment was a success, but the data was incomplete without peer review from someone who understood the system's standards.
As if summoned by the thought, a ripple of quiet passed through the hall. The main doors had opened, and two figures entered. One was the Li Clan's Master Alchemist, a stern-looking man who oversaw the clan's official production. The other was a visitor.
The visitor was an old man with a wispy white beard and eyes so sharp they seemed to dissect the room at a glance. He wore simple grey robes, but on his lapel was a pin: a tiny, exquisite golden cauldron. Elder Huang of the Azure Peak City Alchemist Association. A figure of immense, neutral authority.
The Master Alchemist was giving him a tour, pointing out promising disciples with proud gestures. Elder Huang nodded politely, his expression unreadable.
They passed Li Fan's cold furnace last. The Master Alchemist's face tightened with annoyance at the sight of the sickly third son and his pathetic setup. He made to steer Elder Huang away.
But Elder Huang had already stopped. His sharp eyes weren't on Li Fan; they were fixed on the waxed paper pouch in his hand. More precisely, they seemed to sense the stable, above-average Qi signature emanating from within.
"One moment," Elder Huang said, his voice dry and precise. He stepped forward, ignoring the Master Alchemist's flustered protest. "Young man. What is in that pouch?"
Li Fan bowed slightly, holding out the pouch. "An attempt at the Qi Gathering Pill, Elder. A failed one, by the look of it."
Elder Huang didn't take the pouch. He simply extended a finger, hovering it an inch above the grey pellets. He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, there was a spark of something that wasn't quite interest, but profound curiosity.
"Failed?" he echoed. "These have no sheen, poor form, irregular size. By appearance, yes, a failure." He paused. "Their energy, however, shows an impurity content approximately forty percent lower than the standard. The Qi conversion efficiency is... notable for low-grade materials. How?"
The hall was utterly silent now. Every disciple was staring.
Li Fan kept his face carefully blank. "Trial and error, Elder. The standard recipe seemed... harsh on the Blueheart Grass. I tried using less heat at the end."
"A thermal reduction during the Fire-to-Earth transition phase," Elder Huang mused, nodding as if to himself. "An intuitive deviation. Or an observed one." His gaze drilled into Li Fan. "Did you feel the Grass was being scorched? Or did you see it?"
The question was a trap. Did he rely on mystical intuition (acceptable) or something else?
"I felt the Qi was becoming discordant in the standard process," Li Fan said, choosing the safer answer. "I hypothesized a gentler finish might preserve harmony."
Elder Huang studied him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "Hypothesized. Trial and error. These are the words of an alchemist, not a recipe-follower." He reached into his own robes and produced a simple bronze token, handing it to Li Fan. "The Association's public library. Your... methodology could benefit from more data. Do more trials. Record your errors. That is the true path. Not perfection, but understanding failure."
He turned and walked away, the Master Alchemist shooting a look of bewildered frustration at Li Fan before scurrying after him.
The silence in the lab held for a three-count, then erupted into a buzz of confused whispers. The insults were gone, replaced by speculation and a new, wary confusion.
Li Fan looked down at the bronze token in his hand. It was cool and heavy. Not an endorsement, but a permit. A license to experiment within a larger, sanctioned framework.
He looked at his three ugly, grey pills. They were the first thing in this world he had built that worked better because of his understanding, not in spite of it.
He packed his things, the weight of the token a counterbalance to the glitch-headache beginning to pulse behind his eyes. He had navigated the bureaucracy. He had produced a result that the system's own arbiters found noteworthy, if strange.
As he left the hall, the dismissive laughter now entirely absent, he understood something new. He couldn't rewrite the core programming yet. But he could write more efficient subroutines. And sometimes, that was enough to change everything.