Han Chen slowly opened his eyes.
For the first time in fifteen days, he moved. The petals around him rustled faintly as he rose to his feet, joints cracking under the lingering stiffness from continuous meditation. The grass beneath him glowed softly, saturated with residual energy from his refinement process.
He looked down at his hands—steady, pale, veins faintly glowing with greenish‑black light. Inside his upper dantian, the Modified Soul Bead pulsed rhythmically, emanating a faint hum that seemed to blend with his heartbeat.
The sensation was new, yet eerily natural, like finding a missing piece of his own being. Fifteen days of struggle, pain, and near‑death had ended in stillness."I succeeded…" he murmured under his breath. "The Shadow Bead is refined." His eyes gleamed faintly with sharp light. "My soul foundation is unstable. But, My spirit… is stronger than before. Ten times stronger than an ordinary cultivator of my realm." The words left his mouth, but the tone carried both triumph and fatigue.
He exhaled deeply and glanced at his surroundings—unchanged, eternal as ever. The flower‑covered plains remained quiet beneath the same unmoving sun overhead. This place, this domain crafted of Law, cared nothing for time."It's a huge profit." He gave a faint chuckle, one without joy. "But if it weren't for that thing…"His expression darkened as the memory returned.
The moment the Heavenly Eye had intervened, saving him from being shattered along with his collapsing soul bead. The image of the massive, black eye with a violet pupil flickered in his mind.
Han Chen frowned. "Without the Heavenly Eye, I'd be dead." Silence followed, and a single question rose again—one that had haunted every quiet moment since it first appeared within him. "What exactly is the Heavenly Eye?" he thought.
No matter how many times he asked himself, the answer never came. It had appeared when he was on the brink of death in his original world, followed him across realities, and now it had protected him from the wrath of this ancient dome.
Even Wang Zhen's fragments of Law had failed to suppress it. He sighed. "Whatever it is, it benefits me. When I'm strong enough, I'll naturally know its nature."
Decision made, he pushed aside the line of thought. The trial still hung over him. Reflection could wait; survival could not.
Han Chen looked down at himself. His clothes were the same ones he'd worn fifteen days ago—folded, scorched slightly along the sleeves, caked faintly with dried blood. His hair hung loosely around his face, messy and uneven from the prolonged meditation.
Without hesitation, he circulated a thin layer of qi across his body. The faint greenish‑black energy glimmered as it passed over him like a wave, sweeping away grime and sweat. His hair moved with the current, straightening and settling against his shoulders.
Cultivators had no need for water; qi was their purification. Yet one thing remained that qi couldn't silence. Growl. His stomach's complaint echoed through the quiet meadow, absurdly human after weeks of divine trial. Han Chen smiled faintly, rubbing his abdomen. "Can't run from that." He flicked his fingers, summoning a faint shimmer of light.
A silver ring glowed briefly on his hand—the spatial ring he had looted from Wang Qi a one and a half month ago."This much, at least, I can still use," he muttered.
He reached within the ring and pulled out a small pack of preserved food—simple dry grains sealed in an energy‑tight wrapping, along with a flask of purified water. The scent was faint but enough to stir his hunger.
Sitting cross‑legged again, Han Chen unwrapped the food. He hadn't tasted anything in over two weeks. Qi could sustain the body, but he'd never believed in relying entirely on energy alone. Eating—small, mundane things like this—kept his body natural.
He ate quietly, savoring the dull, grainy texture. Then, once he finished, he drank the entire flask of water in a single pull. The taste was ordinary. Completely ordinary. But that ordinary calm was exactly what he needed after fifteen days of darkness and pain.
Leaning back slightly, he looked toward the endless plain once more. "The refinement is complete," he murmured. "Now… what comes next?" The faint air remained still. No voice answered.
Han Chen smiled faintly, leaned back, and gazed up at the sky within the dome—the sky even had a sun, born from a fragment of the Thread of the Law of Illusions.
...
Han Chen lay on his back atop the field of golden flowers, the faint glow of twilight washing over his face. The exhaustion he had held at bay for fifteen days finally caught up to him, and before he could resist, sleep claimed him.
The last thing he felt was the soft brush of petals against his fingers. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep when a voice thundered across the entire grassland, shaking him awake.
"The first trial is over." The voice carried neither warmth nor cruelty—it was calm, vast, echoing like the sky itself speaking."It contained two phases: Man and Refinement. In the Man phase, challengers faced the deepest sectors of their regrets. If one had none, they faced their greatest desires. And if one held neither regret nor desire, they passed through untouched."
Han Chen blinked at the sky, still half‑asleep as he listened. "The Refinement phase tested those who survived the first—by tempering their soul foundation. Congratulations to all who lived." The world trembled; the voice continued. "The second trial begins now."
Before Han Chen could react, the ground beneath him dissolved into silver light. Buzz—Everything around him disintegrated. For an instant, he felt weightless—then came the pull. The world twisted and reshaped, and when his vision cleared, he stood on stone.
He looked around. It was a vast hall, echoing with dull silence, lined with rows of large, round tables. Upon each table sat a bronze alchemy furnace no taller than a man's waist—fifty in total. Each furnace rested upon an engraved formation circle, faintly glowing. Bundles of herbs and shimmering ingredients were neatly arranged upon the tables in front of the furnaces.
The air was thick with the pungent aroma of medicinal plants and burnt powder. Before Han Chen could make sense of his surroundings, blinding flashes of light filled the room. One after another, figures appeared beside the remaining furnaces until every table was occupied. Fifty in total.
Whispers broke out at once. Some cultivators shouted for answers; others cursed or stared in quiet panic. Then the voice returned."You have completed the strengthening of your soul in the first trial," it said. "Now, the second trial begins—the Trial of Alchemy."The voice was steady and absolute."Your cultivation will be sealed. You must use only your soul power to refine the pill before you. Each furnace contains ingredients for a Grade One pill. Do not concern yourselves—this trial allows only Grade One soul energy and mortal bodies. Those with great cultivation will find no advantage here."
As soon as the words settled, Han Chen felt it—the abrupt emptiness. His core dimmed, his qi dispersed. He could no longer feel his meridians. A strange weight settled into his limbs, the unmistakable heaviness of mortality. The same realization rippled through the crowd.
The voice continued, unhurried. "For those who have never refined a pill before, a recipe jade has been placed on each table. Examine it with your soul sense, and you will understand its usage."Han Chen glanced down. Sure enough, a translucent jade slip glowed faintly beside his ingredients.
"This is a fair trial," the voice said. "Of the fifty in this hall, only five will proceed alive. The others will perish." The final line dropped like a hammer.
The whispers erupted into chaos.
"What—die!?"
"Only five!?"
"There must be another way!"
The noise grew frantic. People backed away from their tables, eyes widening in disbelief. A few even reached out for others' furnaces, as though sabotaging them could improve their own odds. But their courage collapsed in the next instant.
"Fight if you wish," the voice said coldly, "but remember—your bodies are mortal. Even a small injury here means death."
Silence swept across the hall once again. The deadly reminder turned desperation into heavy tension. Han Chen exhaled quietly. His gaze fell to the furnace before him. Its surface was dull bronze, etched with symbols that flickered softly in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Three sets of ingredients lay in front of it—three chances. He frowned. "So this is how it continues…" Around him, faces hardened. No one dared to speak. They all understood—they weren't rivals in cultivation now, but competitors for life itself.
As Han Chen placed his hand gently over the recipe jade, he focused his soul sense into it. A faint warmth entered his consciousness, and a line of information flooded into his mind, calm and precise.
Grade One Spirit Condensation Pill—formula.
Purpose : Stabilize soul foundation.
Required time : Twelve hours.
Materials : 1 branch of guts tree, one Eye of Level 1 Red eyes Rabbit, Horn of Level 2 three horned deer, one Grade 1 mind essence apple.
Han Chen raised his head slightly and swept his eyes across the room. Every pair of eyes he met now carried the same mix of fear and hostility.
The voice faded one final time, its last words echoing faintly through the chamber. "Begin."
All at once, fifty furnaces ignited with pale flame. And the hall of fifty souls became a silent battlefield.
...
The hall echoed with the faint hum of soul energy. Fifty bronze furnaces flickered to life simultaneously, each lit by a pale, blue‑white soul flame. The air shimmered as cultivators strained to control their newfound, fragile power—souls stretched to guide flame and refine ingredients in bodies that were once filled with limitless qi, now reduced to mortal fragility.
But amid the growing tension, one man did not move. Han Chen stood silently before his furnace, eyes half-lidded, watching others fall into their rhythm. The flicker of flames reflected in his dark pupils, unreadable and calm.
Around him, the faint scent of herbs filled the air. Some cultivators whispered nervously to themselves, others gritted their teeth as their first attempt at alchemy began. And in that chaos of fear and focus, Han Chen's thoughts drifted—cold, steady, precise."If the Heavenly Eye isn't restricted by the dome…"His lips twitched into the faintest shadow of a smirk. "Then it means it can still absorb death qi."His eyes lowered slightly, scanning the room without moving his head.
Dozens of people—some from sects, some rogue cultivators—each isolated behind their own furnace, channels open, souls extended and exposed. None of them carried even a fraction of their former power. Every one of them—mortal. Vulnerable.
He leaned forward slightly, whispering to himself. "Their strength is sealed, yes, but their essence isn't. The death qi will remain same—untouched by the dome's suppression. If I were to kill them now…"
A faint pulse flared behind his forehead, the Heavenly Eye trembling faintly as if hearing his intention. "Even if I can't absorb their essence to advance my cultivation," he reasoned quietly, "their death qi will still feed the Heavenly Eye, won't it?" The thought hardened his expression.
Around him, the heat of concentration deepened. One by one, alchemists fell into trance—mind and soul focused entirely on maintaining the fragile balance between fire, herb, and time. The faint light of soul essence flickered from each person in rhythmic intervals.
Han Chen rolled his shoulders once, loosening the stiffness in his back. He extended a trace of soul power—no more than a thread—and touched the edge of his spatial ring.
The metal glinted faintly, then responded. A dagger slid out—its blade short, blackened steel that swallowed what little light reached it. There were no engravings, no spiritual markings, nothing divine—just a simple weapon. Enough for mortals to kill mortals.
He clenched the hilt, familiar weight settling in his hand."Should I wait?" he mused inwardly. "If I strike now, they'll notice immediately. Panic spreads fast. They'll abandon refining and attack. I can't afford that—my body's mortal too."
His gaze drifted to the nearest cultivators—young men and women hunched over their furnaces, sweat dripping down their foreheads, eyes glowing faintly with concentration. None of them noticed him."If I wait until the refinement reaches its critical point," he thought, narrowing his eyes, "they won't be able to react."
He remembered the pill recipe—The last stages of refinement—the time before the pill condenses—were crucial. The soul had to hold the flame, balance the core essence, and bind the product. Any distraction in that instant shattered the entire process and backlashed into the soul. If one were interrupted then, the soul would crack, sometimes irreparably.
That was the perfect moment."The eleventh hour," he whispered softly. "That one hour when they're bound by their own refinement… unable to move, unable to resist." He slowly retracted the dagger, slipping it back into his spatial ring.
His fingers brushed the cold metal once before it vanished, safely out of sight."I'll wait."Han Chen lowered himself to the ground beside his table, crossing his legs. He closed his eyes, outwardly calm, pretending to sink into meditation. The faint pulse of his soul power remained steady, masked under the hum of other furnaces.
Around him, the other cultivators didn't even glance his way—they thought he was preparing, perhaps stabilizing his soul before beginning. A small smile curved across his lips."You refine pills," he thought, "and I'll refine you."Hours slipped by, and the flames around the hall grew fiercer.
-----TO BE CONTINUED-----