Clive's spirit sense spreads slowly through the frail body on the bed.
It moves with extreme care, thread by thread, like mist slipping through cracks in an old wall, entering her meridians, brushing past weakened organs, and mapping every subtle fluctuation of vitality within her.
Her organs are weak.
Her heartbeat is slow and hollow.
Her vitality is thin like a thread in winter wind, trembling, on the verge of snapping.
Yet there is no external wound.
No torn meridian.
No foreign toxin residue.
He narrows his eyes slightly.
This is not poison.
Not plague.
His perception deepens.
Beneath the surface weakness, something else exists.
A special energy lingers inside her body.
It does not rampage.
It does not corrode.
It works quietly.
Patiently.
It is transforming her cells.
Clive focuses further.
He reduces his spirit sense into strands finer than hair and directs them toward one of the altered cells.
The transformation of cells requires energy.
And the woman does not have the energy to help with the transformation.
Her body is malnourished.
Depleted.
Starved of vitality.
She is ill, not because the cells are being transformed.
She is ill because she lacks the energy required to sustain both herself and the transformation.
Less than a hundred cells are transformed.
Among more than a trillion cells, a few hundred will not cause anything.
Not yet.
He lets his spirit sense sink fully into one transformed cell.
The sensation changes instantly.
The outer membrane feels normal.
The internal structures appear structurally identical to those of any human cell.
But the energy within is different.
Inside the microscopic world, he perceives currents.
In normal human cells, life energy rests at the centre, radiating outward in harmonious cycles that sustain growth, repair, and warmth.
But here, at the centre of this transformed cell, death energy gathers.
It does not feel chaotic.
It does not feel corrupted.
It is balanced.
Death energy and life energy exist together in equilibrium.
Perfectly stable.
Like two sides of a scale frozen in place.
He moves deeper.
Observes the core.
The death energy forms the nucleus of power, calm and cold, while life energy circulates around it like a dim halo.
This is the only difference.
Structure remains human.
Function remains intact.
Only the centre has shifted.
He withdraws slightly and inspects several other transformed cells.
All are the same.
Death energy is centred.
Life energy secondary.
If every cell in her body becomes like this, the result is inevitable.
When all cells are transformed into death-centred cells, her body will no longer sustain life.
She will die.
Not by poison.
Not by injury.
But by a complete transformation.
His eyes open slowly.
Her malnourishment is protecting her.
Without sufficient vitality, the strange energy cannot continue transforming her cells.
Her weakness slows the process.
But she also cannot survive without energy.
If she regains strength naturally, the transformation will resume.
If she remains weak, her organs will fail from starvation.
It is a narrow edge.
Clive exhales quietly.
There is only one solution.
His life energy stirs.
Gentle.
Pure.
He guides a thin stream of it into the first transformed cell.
The moment his life energy touches the death-centred core, balance shatters.
Life energy floods inward, overwhelming the delicate equilibrium.
The death energy trembles.
Then collapses.
The cell returns to normal.
He moves to the next.
And the next.
His control is precise.
He does not harm the surrounding tissue.
He does not waste energy.
One by one, the transformed cells are cleansed.
Each time death energy is destroyed, the strange external energy sustaining it weakens.
He traces that strange energy to its origin within her bloodstream.
It disperses as the final transformed cell is purified.
Without its anchor, it cannot remain.
It fades like smoke in the wind.
The woman groans softly.
Her breathing deepens.
Air flows more smoothly into her lungs.
A faint flush of colour returns to her pale cheeks.
The tightness around her eyes loosens.
Her pulse strengthens.
She does not wake.
But anybody can see she is better.
Clive withdraws his hand and stands up.
"She is better and will wake up later," he says calmly.
The little boy's eyes shine with relief.
"Thank you, Sir," he says, gently caressing his mother's hair.
Clive gives a small nod.
He picks up his materials and walks toward the door.
The guard follows behind him silently.
At the doorstep, Clive pauses.
"I will be coming to check tomorrow," he says.
The guard bows repeatedly.
"Thank you, Master Alchemist. Thank you."
Clive steps into the dim street and walks toward his residence.
The town remains tense.
Lanterns flicker.
Distant voices murmur along the walls.
When he returns to the residence, he moves to the side lawn where the Shadow Monkey's corpse lies.
He begins arranging the Blood Awakening Array.
Lines of alchemical powder form complex geometric paths upon the grass.
Nodes are placed at precise intersections.
The array expands outward in layered rings.
He places the Shadow Monkey at the centre.
Then he activates the array.
Light rises faintly from the lines.
The array nourishes the blood of the dead Shadow Monkey.
Dormant power stirs within the corpse.
Residual bloodline energy awakens under stimulation.
Clive sits cross-legged on the grass.
He closes his eyes.
His spirit sense penetrates the monkey's blood.
Shadow power lingers within it.
Cold.
Subtle.
Elastic.
He studies its circulation pattern.
Its density.
It's a response to stimulation.
He observes how shadow energy compresses before release.
How it fragments.
How it reforms.
Gradually, understanding forms in his mind.
The structure of Shadow Arrow evolves.
Compression increases.
Output intensifies.
Instead of elongated projectiles, he reshapes the spell into condensed bursts.
Shadow Bullet.
Smaller.
Faster.
More efficient.
As the sun sets, distant roars echo through the forest.
The beast tide attacks the town again.
Clive opens his eyes.
He rises without hesitation.
Leaving the array active, he heads toward the wall.
The night sky darkens.
Torches blaze along the ramparts.
Beasts surge from the treeline.
Clive raises his hand.
Shadow energy gathers instantly.
He has now completed the transformation of the Shadow Arrow spell into Shadow Bullet.
Like an automatic rifle, he releases them in rapid succession.
One.
Two.
Ten.
Twenty.
Fifty shadow bullets tear through the advancing beasts.
Precise.
Lethal.
He consumes spirit nuts to recover.
Energy replenishes swiftly within his meridians.
He raises his hand again.
And continues.
Shadow bullets streak from Clive's hand in relentless succession, each compressed mass of darkness piercing skulls, rupturing hearts, and throwing beasts backwards from the wall.
A few minutes later, after emptying another wave of power and consuming spirit nuts to restore himself once more, a sharp pain twists along the left side of his belly.
His breath catches.
He had healed the injury on the outside earlier.
The torn flesh had closed.
The bleeding had stopped.
But inside, the damage was not completely healed.
The internal tissues remain strained.
Bruised.
Partially torn.
The war does not make it easy.
There is no time to sit and refine his body slowly.
No moment of safety to circulate energy in peace.
Another roar rises from below.
Clive grits his teeth and channels a portion of his spirit energy toward the wound.
Carefully.
Steadily.
He guides the energy inward, knitting damaged fibres, soothing inflamed meridians, and reinforcing fragile tissue.
His attention narrows to the injury.
He focuses entirely on the dull throbbing beneath his ribs.
And he does not notice something eyeing him.
High above the battlefield, hidden within rolling clouds illuminated by distant lightning, a lightning eagle circles silently.
Its massive wings barely stir the air.
Its eyes are sharp.
Filled with unsettling wisdom.
It watches the battlefield below, searching for easy prey.
It was not forced by the Crocodile Tiger to come here.
The tiger cannot harm it.
The eagle is newly advanced.
A few days ago, it broke through to tier two spirit beast.
Its cultivation is still unstable.
It needs refined flesh.
Dense vitality.
Strong blood to stabilise its realm.
It sees many easy prey.
Panicked guards.
Wounded beasts.
Exhausted knights.
But it is not satisfied.
Its instincts demand better nourishment.
Then it notices one figure.
Standing firm despite exhaustion.
Shadow energy is lingering around him.
Vitality strong despite injury.
The eagle's pupils narrow.
It senses the aura.
Its stomach stirs at the taste of food.
Lightning begins to spew from its feathers.
Thin arcs crawl across its wings.
Yellow light intensifies until it resembles a descending star.
Like a lightning bolt tearing through the sky, it charges toward its prey.
Clive suddenly feels a lightning truck slam into him.
There is no time to react.
No time to raise defence.
The impact detonates against his body.
He is thrown violently from the wall.
His body crashes through the roof of a nearby building.
Wood splinters.
Stone cracks.
Dust erupts into the air.
Pain spreads through his entire body.
His nerves scream.
His muscles convulse from residual electricity.
His head sways as he teeters on the verge of unconsciousness.
He forces his eyes open.
Above the broken wall stands a massive bird surrounded by yellow lightning.
Its wings spread wide.
Bolts shoot outward from its body, striking nearby guards.
Men collapse instantly.
The smell of burning flesh fills the air.
Screams mix with thunder.
Clive pushes himself upright through debris.
Every movement sends agony through his side.
The bird turns its head.
Its sharp eyes lock onto his.
There is a mocking glint within them.
Predatory certainty.
Clive understands immediately.
He cannot escape.
Not injured.
Not against a flying spirit beast that moves like lightning.
There is only one choice.
He must stake his life.
Within the Nine Revolution Spirit Blood Technique lies a forbidden exercise.
At the cost of burning his blood and vitality, he can double his strength for a few minutes.
Afterwards, his body will suffer.
Perhaps severely.
Perhaps permanently.
He begins running the exercise.
His blood heats instantly.
Vessels expand.
Vitality ignites like oil thrown into fire.
His aura surges.
The lightning eagle releases a fierce cry that shakes the air.
It dives again.
Faster than before.
The sky flashes.
Clive does not retreat.
He steps forward.
The bird collides with him mid-charge.
An explosion of lightning erupts outward.
The building collapses further.
Thunder rages across the street.
Dust and debris swallow both figures.
From high above, Kaelan watches.
His raven eyes remain calm.
Unmoved.