The moment Elder Tao's form vanished into the pavilion's shadows, the spell of absolute silence shattered. The disciples were left in a state of collective, awestruck shock, their heads swiveling between the empty doorway and Meixiu, who was now peering curiously at her own Flawless pill, tilting it to watch the shimmering halo.
The young disciple who had caught the "bad" pill was still holding it gingerly in his palm as if it were a hot coal, his expression a turmoil of reverence and confusion, utterly unsure of what to do with the discarded treasure.
One of the more courageous disciples, a young woman whose hands were still stained from her own recent, less successful attempts, took a tentative step forward. Her voice was a hushed, awestruck whisper.
"S-Sister Meixiu..." she began, her eyes wide. "How... how did you do that? The Seven-Rotation Seal... you perfected it on your second try. I've been practicing the first two rotations for over a year, and my success rate is barely half!"
Her question broke the dam. Another disciple, a young man who had always prided himself on his meticulousness, chimed in, his voice thick with a confused sort of admiration. "And you called a Peak-grade pill 'bad'!" he exclaimed, gesturing to the pill in the other disciple's hand. "That pill Brother Li is holding... its purity is staggering. It's better than any Tier 3 pill I've ever made in my life!"
They began to crowd around her slightly, their earlier jealousy and pride now completely burned away by the sheer scale of her feat. They were not looking at her with resentment, but with the fervent, desperate intensity of dedicated scholars who had just witnessed a living miracle and now sought to understand the impossible scripture she represented.
A third disciple, his face alight with a mixture of hope and disbelief, asked, "Was there a secret? A trick to feeling the counter-rotations? My spiritual sense gets tangled every time."
Another simply stared at the Flawless pill in her hand. "A Spiritual Halo... I've only read about them in ancient texts. I thought it was a myth for Tier 6 pills and above."
They surrounded her, a flock of sparrows around a phoenix, their voices a hushed, eager chorus of questions, seeking a key to the door she had so casually unlocked.
Meixiu looked up from her flawless pill, blinking at the crowd of eager, desperate faces surrounding her. She seemed genuinely surprised by the intensity of their questions.
"How?" she repeated, her head tilting. "I just... did it? It's like cooking. If the soup is too salty, you add a potato. If the energy feels lumpy," she gestured vaguely toward the "bad" pill still held reverently by the other disciple, "you just... spin it more until it's smooth." She stated this with the same simple finality as explaining that water was wet.
She then held up her own Flawless pill, its halo shimmering. "And this one..." she said, her expression brightening, "it just felt right. Even with the little bang. It tastes perfect." She beamed, utterly proud and satisfied with her culinary assessment of a supreme alchemical treasure.
The disciples could only stare, their faces a canvas of pure, unadulterated bewilderment. Her explanation had not illuminated anything; it had only deepened the mystery, framing an impossible art in the terms of a village kitchen.
Seeing their utterly lost expressions, a brilliant, mischievous idea sparked in her eyes. She placed her hands on her hips, puffing her chest out with theatrical pride and tilting her nose up in a perfect imitation of a haughty senior.
"Hmph! If you guys really want to learn..." she declared, her voice taking on a lilt of playful authority. "I suppose I could teach you. But!" She raised a single, delicate finger, her expression turning stern. "All you have to do is... call me 'Senior Sister'! Properly!"
A profound silence gripped the courtyard after Meixiu's declaration. The disciples stood frozen, a gallery of conflicted expressions. For these proud Inner Sect disciples, bowing to a girl who had just arrived felt like shattering the very foundation of their hard-earned status.
The disciple who had caught the discarded pill stared at the treasure in his hand. Its perfect form and potent aura were undeniable. It was a testament to a skill he could scarcely comprehend. His pride warred with a desperate, gnawing curiosity.
Finally, with a sharp, resigned breath, he stepped forward. He bowed deeply from the waist, his posture rigid with the effort of the gesture.
"I would be honored to learn," he said, his voice formal and clear. "Senior Sister Meixiu."
His action sent a ripple through the others. The sight of one of their own submitting was a powerful catalyst. Ambition and awe began to overpower wounded pride.
Three more disciples quickly moved to join him. They offered their own respectful bows, their heads dipping low. A murmured chorus filled the air.
"Senior Sister."
"Please guide us, Senior Sister."
They formed a small, earnest semicircle around her. Their eyes, once filled with jealousy, now shone with a fervent, almost pleading light. They were willing to set aside tradition for a chance to grasp the miracle she performed so casually.
Yet, a stubborn few held their ground. The young man who had earlier scoffed now stood with his arms tightly crossed, his jaw clenched. The woman beside him refused to meet anyone's gaze, her face a mask of conflicted defiance.
They could not bring themselves to bow. Their pride was a fortress they were not ready to abandon. But neither could they make themselves leave. They remained at the edge of the group, silent and tense, unable to tear their eyes away from the scene. They were prisoners of their own stubbornness, forced to watch a lesson they were too proud to officially join.
Meixiu's face lit up with a triumphant, utterly sunny smile at the sight of the bowing disciples. She clapped her hands together, the sound bright and cheerful.
"Good! You're all very smart students!" she declared, her voice full of genuine delight.
She immediately launched into her "teaching," but it bore no resemblance to Elder Tao's structured, theoretical principles. This was pure, unadulterated Meixiu.
"First," she began, holding up a stalk of Spirit-Siphon Grass, "you have to really taste your ingredients. Don't just look at them!" She broke a small piece and popped it into her mouth, closing her eyes. "See? It has a bright, zesty flavor. That flavor is the taste of its spiritual energy—it means the energy is quick and lively."
She insisted each of her new "students" do the same. The disciples exchanged hesitant looks, but under her encouraging gaze, they complied. Their faces were a mixture of confusion and fascination as they chewed, no longer just tasting a plant, but actively seeking to feel the "zest" of the spiritual power within it.
She moved between their cauldrons, her critique focused entirely on sensory feedback. She paused by one young man whose cauldron glowed with a roaring, intense flame.
"Your fire is too harsh!" she chided, shaking her head. "It tastes burnt. You can't just throw wood on the fire. You have to simmer it like a gentle broth, not blast it like a blacksmith's forge!"
The disciple stared at her, utterly baffled by the analogy. But, trusting the creator of the Flawless pill, he reluctantly tempered his flame, reducing its intensity to a soft, steady glow.
To the astonishment of everyone watching—including the two proud disciples lingering on the edge—the result was immediate. The previously chaotic energies within his cauldron settled into a smooth, harmonious swirl. The color of the concoction deepened from a murky brown to a clear, vibrant green.
A soft gasp escaped the disciple. He looked from his cauldron to Meixiu, his eyes wide with disbelief. Her bizarre, kitchen-based instruction had worked where years of rigid formulas had failed him.
She moved on to another, instructing a young woman to "whisk" her spiritual energy as if folding egg whites, creating a lighter, more stable fusion. Again, the result was a marked improvement in purity and control.
The disciples watched, their initial skepticism melting into dawning revelation. They were not just learning alchemy; they were learning a completely new language for it, one spoken in tastes and textures, and it was yielding miracles before their eyes.
The tangible success sparked a new energy in the small group. Another disciple, a young woman who had been stuck producing only Standard-quality pills for months, looked up from her cauldron with a furrowed brow.
Meixiu drifted over and peered inside. She hummed thoughtfully for a moment before tapping the edge of the cauldron.
"The energy in here is too salty," she declared with certainty. "It's all one sharp note. You need to balance it out." She made a gentle, swirling motion with her finger. "Add a sweet swirl right at the end, just as it's settling. It will smooth everything out."
The disciple, though bewildered by the culinary terms, focused her will. As her pill condensed, she imitated the motion, introducing a soft, counter-directional swirl of her qi into the mixture.
The result was not just an improvement. It was a breakthrough. When she opened the cauldron, the pill that emerged glowed with a deeper, more stable light. The tell-tale shimmer of High-Quality refinement was unmistakable. She stared at it, her hands trembling slightly, a choked sound of disbelief and joy escaping her lips.
A wave of ecstatic amazement passed through the small group of disciples who had bowed to her. Their initial reluctance and wounded pride were completely forgotten, burned away by the sheer, undeniable power of her guidance. They looked at her with fervent, almost reverent admiration. To them, in that moment, she was like an angel—so beautiful, so skilled, so perfect in her unorthodox genius.
From the edge of the courtyard, the small group who had refused to join watched this second, rapid success. Their crossed arms seemed to tighten. The stubborn set of their jaws softened into looks of intense conflict. They saw the evidence before them—the palpable leap in skill, the stunned joy on their peers' faces. The fortress of their pride was being steadily, silently dismantled by the weight of the incredible results unfolding just steps away.
Meixiu moved through her small group of students with bright, energetic steps. "No, no, like this!" she chimed, demonstrating a gentle, rolling motion with her wrist. "You're kneading the energy, not punching it! Imagine you're making dough for buns!"
She stopped beside a young woman whose cauldron energies were particularly chaotic. With a patient smile, Meixiu gently adjusted the disciple's hands, guiding her posture. "There! See? Now it can breathe!"
The disciples watched her, their faces a mixture of intense concentration and dawning wonder. The two holdouts at the edge of the courtyard watched this intimate guidance, their envy now warring with a desperate desire to be included.
It was then that a figure appeared at the arched entrance, his arrival silent and seamless.
He did not announce himself. One moment, the arched entrance was empty. The next, Lin Feng was simply there, a silent statue of grey and white. His hands were clasped behind his back, his sharp eyes scanning the courtyard. They noted the unusual crowd with analytical detachment before inevitably finding their center.
They settled on Meixiu, who was cheerfully guiding the young woman's hands. A faint, almost imperceptible softening touched the line of Lin Feng's mouth at the sight of her so in her element.
The change began with the disciples facing the entrance. One young man, about to add an ingredient, froze mid-motion. His eyes locked onto Lin Feng, widening in pure shock. The herb slipped from his numb fingers, forgotten.
The woman beside him followed his gaze. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped her lips. The sound was small, but in the quiet concentration, it was a gunshot.
"He's here," someone whispered, the words choked with awe.
The ripple of awareness spread instantly. Heads snapped up from cauldrons. Conversations died mid-sentence. The disciple whose hands Meixiu was guiding felt her senior sister's own hands suddenly still. She turned to see what had captured Meixiu's attention, and her own breath hitched.
The two proud disciples at the edge finally broke. Their pretense of indifference shattered completely. They stared openly, their faces pale. The young man uncrossed his arms, his hands falling limply to his sides.
The courtyard was now a frozen painting. The gentle bubbling of elixirs and the hum of spiritual energy were the only sounds in a space choked with silent reverence and fear. Every single person held their breath, waiting for the Heaven-Devourer's next move.
The frozen silence held for a long moment, thick with apprehension. Then, a few of the female disciples, their courage fueled by a potent mix of terror and fascination, began to stir. They exchanged nervous glances, their hearts pounding. The allure of the legend was too powerful to resist.
One of them, a young woman with more boldness than sense, took a tentative step forward. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide with awe.
"Senior Brother Lin!" she began, her voice trembling slightly. "The rumors... they are true. You are even more... impressive in person." She gathered her nerve. "Is it true you moved faster than sight itself in the arena?"
Lin Feng's gaze, which had been resting on Meixiu, flicked toward the speaker. It was utterly devoid of interest. "I moved," he stated, his voice flat. The answer was a fact, devoid of drama or confirmation.
His stark response did not deter them; it only deepened the mystery. Another disciple, this one with a more scholarly demeanor, saw an opening. She stepped forward, her expression one of intense curiosity. "Senior Brother," she said, her tone more measured. "Your power... it's only been a short time since you were chosen, yet you stand apart from all of us. What profound technique has Elder Lan taught you? What art allows for such growth?"
His response was just as immediate and just as final. "I don't think," he said. "I act." It was not a teaching. It was a simple, stark description of his own reality, one that offered no path for others to follow.
A third young woman, her voice soft and full of hopeful curiosity, dared to speak next. "Senior Brother Lin..." she started, almost whispering. "There's a rumor... they say that after your awakening, you used your new power to gently guide a group of junior sisters away from falling debris. That you saved them." She looked at him, searching for a sign of the hidden kindness the story implied. "Is it true? That someone with your... intensity... could be so considerate?"
Lin Feng turned his head and gave her a blank, unreadable look. The hope in her eyes seemed to wither under his impassive gaze.
"I cleared the rubble," he stated, his tone devoid of any emotion. "I didn't notice who was standing there."
His response was not deliberately rude, but it was a cold, factual dismissal of the romanticized rumor. It stripped the event of all heroism and sentiment, reinforcing his utterly detached and pragmatic nature.
Yet, to the female disciples, his bluntness was not a deterrent. They saw what they wanted to see. As they fell back a step, their whispers began anew.
"He's so modest," one murmured, her eyes shining. "He doesn't want the praise."
"Of course he noticed them," another sighed. "He just doesn't want to seem like he's showing off. How perfect."
"He's not cold, he's just... deeply focused. A real cultivator shouldn't be distracted by trivial things like praise."
They wove a new narrative around him, one of a noble, misunderstood genius who shunned the spotlight. The intimidating legend was being carefully wrapped in a layer of their own romantic fantasies, making his terrifying power somehow more palatable, more dreamlike. The truth of his nature—a being of pure, analytical function—remained completely beyond their perception.
Having dispensed with the interruptions, Lin Feng's dark eyes swept once more over the courtyard before his gaze returned to Meixiu. The moment they settled on her again, the rest of the world—the disciples, their questions, their stifled awe—simply ceased to exist. His entire intense presence narrowed to a single, fixed point.
He began to walk toward her. The small crowd of disciples parted before him like reeds before a ship's prow, not a single word uttered.
Meixiu watched him approach, a slow, warm smile blooming across her face, a private sunrise that erased the playful instructor persona she had worn moments before.
He did not offer a greeting. His eyes dropped to her hands, noting the smudges of green herbal paste and the fine, iridescent powder from crushed spirit stones that stained her small, soft fingers and the cuffs of her sleeves.
Without a word, he retrieved a square of fine, snow-white silk from an inner fold of his robe. He reached out and gently took one of her hands in his.
With a meticulous, almost reverent focus, he began to wipe the stains from her fingers. The action was intimate and possessive, a silent ritual of care that spoke of a devotion far beyond the bounds of normal sect relations.
Meixiu looked down at her hand in his, then up at his focused face with a playful, knowing pout. "Took you long enough to notice. I was starting to think I'd have to use Mr. Bunbun as a napkin."
"You would never," he said, his tone flat but certain as he continued cleaning her fingers. "I passed the Contribution Hall. I went in to see what was there. I didn't have any contribution points, but when the attendant heard my name, he told me I could take any one item." He finished with her hands and finally looked at the box beside them. "They had these Starlight Persimmons. So I took them."
It was his way of explaining his delay and presenting the gift—a rare, luxurious spirit fruit acquired through a fame he neither sought nor understood, but had simply accepted as a means to bring her something she would like.
Her eyes lit up with genuine delight, all pretense of annoyance gone. "Really? Oh, you do care! But don't think this gets you out of trouble for being late. The last batch I made exploded a little."
A barely-there flicker of something—amusement, resignation—passed through his eyes. "I noticed."
As he finished cleaning her first hand and moved to the second, Meixiu leaned in slightly. She sniffed the air near his collar, her nose twitching. Her playful expression sharpened into one of curious suspicion.
"Sniff... Sniff... Wait a minute," she murmured, her voice dropping. "Why do you have a... 'vixen's' scent on you? A very perfumed one."
Lin Feng's movements did not falter, but his shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. He continued wiping her fingers, his gaze still fixed on his task. "She was the one following me," he stated, his voice flat. "I didn't do anything. I swear."
The disciples stood as silent statues, their earlier excitement replaced by a profound, watching stillness. The scene before them was more captivating than any alchemy technique.
They saw the formidable Lin Feng, the subject of terrifying rumors, engaged in a act of tender care. He cleaned Meixiu's stained fingers with a focus usually reserved for drawing a sword.
The female disciples watched with a storm of conflicting emotions. For some, a bittersweet understanding dawned. The softness in his eyes was a private language, spoken only to her. They felt a respectful ache, acknowledging a bond they could not breach.
But not all accepted it so gracefully. A few younger disciples clung to a fragile hope. One whispered to her friend, "She's just his alchemy tutor, that's all. A man like that... he wouldn't be tied down so easily." Another thought, "I'm from a noble clan. My background is better than hers. Given time, he might see..."
Their whispers were threads of denial, weaving a fantasy where his devotion was temporary.
Among the male disciples, a different tension simmered. One young man from a prominent family clenched his jaw, his gaze sharp with jealousy. It wasn't just that Meixiu, one of the sect's most captivating beauties, was so clearly claimed.
It was the sheer, effortless audacity of Lin Feng's action. To be so openly intimate, so possessive, in front of everyone... it was a level of confidence that bordered on arrogance. It was a power move they could never hope to emulate.
It was the disciple who had first bowed to Meixiu who broke the spell. He understood the profound, unbreakable nature of the bond he was witnessing. This was no fleeting infatuation.
He caught the eyes of a few others and gave a firm, almost solemn nod toward the exit. "We should go," he murmured, his voice thick with deference. "We are intruding."
His quiet command spread. The disciples, each lost in their own thoughts of awe, jealousy, or heartache, began a silent, orderly retreat. They filed out, the rustle of their robes the only sound.
The courtyard emptied, leaving the pair in a world of their own. Behind them, they left a new, undeniable truth taking root. Lin Feng's legendary power had a single, absolute anchor: Li Meixiu.
The courtyard was now empty, the last of the disciples having tactfully withdrawn. The silence they left behind was warm and private, broken only by the gentle rustle of the silk cloth.
Lin Feng continued his task with unwavering focus, his head bowed over Meixiu's hand. Each stroke was deliberate, wiping away the last traces of iridescent powder and green paste until her skin was flawless once more.
Meixiu stood patiently, a small, contented smile gracing her lips as she watched him. There was no need for words. This was their long-established rhythm, a silent understanding built over a lifetime where his fierce protectiveness manifested in these small, meticulous acts of care, and her acceptance of it was her own form of affection.
On the sun-warmed stone table beside them rested the elegant wooden box he had brought. Its lid was slightly ajar, revealing the shimmering, translucent forms of the Starlight Persimmons within, glowing with a soft, internal light.
To any who had witnessed the scene, the conclusion was obvious—a deep, romantic bond between two prodigies. The secret of their true, far deeper relationship remained safe, hidden in plain sight behind the veil of the sect's fond assumptions.
From the shadowed interior of his pavilion, Elder Tao let out a long, soundless sigh. His spiritual senses had missed nothing of the entire exchange.
First, he had to endure the baffling spectacle of his new disciple producing a Flawless pill through sheer, unthinking instinct. Now, he was subjected to the cloying, domestic tranquility of the two most monstrous talents he had ever encountered.
'Poor me,' he mused internally, the taste of his tea suddenly bitter. 'First, I watch a miracle performed like a child making mud pies. Now, I have to listen to these two... lovebirds.'
He took a slow, deliberate sip, the weight of his centuries feeling heavier than ever.
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