The early morning sun cast pale, golden beams through the carved wooden lattice of Lucien’s window, but his gaze remained fixed inward.
The initial rush of adrenaline that came with unraveling the Primordial Genesis Art had cooled into a sharp, calculating clarity.
Igniting a stellar body within mortal clay was not a romantic fantasy—it was a brutal logistical nightmare.
In standard cultivation, drawing in atmospheric Qi to temper the flesh was like drawing water from a gentle stream.
But birthing even the embryonic ember of a star inside an absolute void?
That was like demanding a dried-up well swallow an entire ocean.
Natural Qi in a low-grade border city like Aurora was far too thin.
If he tried to initiate the first tempering purely through meditation, his dantian would devour his own meager vitality to fuel the ignition, leaving him withered before he could even form a foundation.
He needed resources.
Dense, condensed spiritual energy in the form of medicinal pills.
Stepping out of bed, Lucien washed his face with basin water, watching his reflection ripple.
His white hair fell across high, noble cheekbones, framing eyes of startling, piercing blue.
His frame was still deceptively slender, bearing the fragile pallor of someone who had never circulated spiritual Qi, but the tired gloom that usually hung over his brow had vanished.
In its place burned quiet, unyielding resolve.
Pushing the door open, he found his mother seated in the inner courtyard pavilion, stirring a cup of herbal tea.
When Leona looked up and saw him standing fully dressed, a warm, radiant smile broke across her ethereal face.
“You should be resting, Lucien,” Leona said gently, setting her porcelain cup down.
“Elder Soren explicitly said your meridians require quiet recuperation.”
Lucien walked over and sat across from her.
He looked directly into her deep blue eyes—eyes so remarkably like his own.
“Mother, I want to try cultivating again.”
Leona paused, her delicate fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the cedar table.
A flicker of deep, protective ache flashed through her gaze.
Over the past five years, every attempt to force open his meridians had ended in bitter disappointment, draining medicinal resources and wearing down his youthful pride.
She feared the pain it brought him more than she feared the whispers of the city.
“Lucien, you don’t need to push yourself,” she said softly, her voice laden with tenderness.
“Your uncles and your grandfather protect this clan. Even if you live as a mortal, no one will ever harm you while I draw breath.”
“I am fifteen, Mother,” Lucien said, his tone resolute, calm, and completely devoid of childish petulance.
“I don’t want to hide behind the clan forever. I felt… something changed when I woke up. A resonance. I know I can do it this time, but my body has been dormant for too long. I need pills. Medicinal energy to spark the foundation.”
Leona studied him.
The lingering frailty was still there, but the defeat was gone.
In its place was a fierce, commanding presence she hadn’t seen in him before—a glimmer that reminded her eerily of the peerless genius she crossed paths with in her youth.
She let out a soft sigh, her lips curving into a proud, affectionate smile.
“Very well. But we do not decide this alone. Come. Your grandfather has been waiting to see you.”
The Patriarch’s residence stood at the center of the David Clan compound, flanked by ancient black-iron pine trees.
Inside the main study, a man stood before a sprawling territorial map of the Triad Kingdom.
Lucas David looked barely in his late thirties, possessing thick black hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and broad shoulders that carried the immense weight of the family.
He radiated the imposing, suffocating aura of a high-tier powerhouse, yet the moment the doors opened and his eyes landed on Lucien, all the sternness melted away into pure warmth.
“Lucien!” Lucas strode forward, his heavy boots thudding against the polished stone floor.
He placed two massive, calloused hands on Lucien’s shoulders, checking him up and down with genuine worry.
“You reckless boy. Waking up from a three-day slumber and already walking around? Soren said you needed another two days of bed rest.”
“Grandfather, I am fully recovered,” Lucien replied, feeling a genuine wave of gratitude.
In many clans, an heir who couldn’t cultivate after five years would have been cast aside to manage minor merchant accounts in the countryside.
Yet Lucas had never once looked at him with anything less than doting affection.
“He wants to attempt cultivation again, Father,” Leona said, stepping up beside them.
“He says he needs medicinal pills to awaken his spiritual channels.”
Lucas’s dark brows furrowed slightly.
He looked at Lucien, silence stretching across the study.
“Lucien… you know your uncles and I would empty the treasury for you if it meant opening your veins. But medicinal energy can be violent to an untempered vessel. Forcing it can permanently damage your life force.”
“I know the risks, Grandfather,” Lucien met his gaze without flinching.
“I won’t be reckless. But I cannot sit idle while the clan prepares for the city’s tribulations. Give me this chance.”
Lucas stared into those sharp blue eyes for several long seconds before bursting into a hearty, booming laugh that rattled the teacups on his desk.
“Good! That is the spirit of a David!” Lucas clapped Lucien firmly on the back.
“A man who accepts defeat before drawing his sword has already lost. Take my command token. Go directly to our family’s Alchemy Pavilion in the eastern district and draw whatever pills you need. Don’t worry about the cost. If you need ten, take ten. If you need twenty, take twenty!”
“Thank you, Grandfather,” Lucien bowed respectfully, taking the bronze clan token.
Leaving the inner courtyards, Lucien made his way toward the sprawling outer gates of the estate.
The morning breeze carried the crisp mountain air of the Cloudridge peaks, refreshing his mind.
“Lucien! Hey, little brother!”
A loud, boisterous voice hailed him from the pathway leading to the martial training grounds.
Trotting toward him was a tall, broad-shouldered young man with short black hair and an open, cheerful grin.
It was Reiner David—his eldest cousin, the eighteen-year-old son of his eldest uncle, John.
At eighteen, Reiner had already broken through the mortal barrier, stepping firmly into the second layer of the Bone Forging Realm.
He was widely considered the vanguard genius among the David family’s younger generation, yet he had never shown an ounce of arrogance toward his non-cultivating cousin.
“Reiner,” Lucien greeted with a light smile.
“Shouldn’t you be in the training hall polishing your stance?”
“Ah, the elders are drilling us to death for next week’s martial meet,” Reiner waved his hand dismissively, slinging a heavy arm over Lucien’s shoulder.
“I heard you finally opened your eyes this morning and came running over. Where are you heading with that patriarch token in your hand?”
“The family’s Alchemy Store. I’m going to collect some body tempering pills.”
Reiner’s eyes widened, then lit up with fierce enthusiasm.
“You’re taking another crack at it? Hell yes! Come on, I’ll walk with you. With the city getting rowdy before the tournament, the streets aren’t completely peaceful. Besides, who would dare mess with my brother while I’m around?”
The two walked out of the heavy gates of the David estate, stepping onto the wide cobblestone thoroughfares of Aurora City.
The city was humming with tension.
Banners bearing the crests of various trading companies fluttered overhead, but the dominant presence was split cleanly down the middle: the silver hawk insignias of the David Clan on the eastern side, and the crimson serpent banners of the Lewis Clan lining the west.
For decades, the two families had fought for dominion over the city’s spiritual vein mines and medicinal trade.
As they turned down the central commercial boulevard, a mocking sneer cut through the ambient market noise.
“Well, well. Look who finally crawled out of his deathbed. I thought the David family’s famous invalid had finally returned to the dirt.”
Lucien and Reiner halted.
Stepping out from an upscale silk boutique was a youth clad in gaudy crimson robes, surrounded by four armored clan guards.
He had narrow, fox-like eyes and a smug, condescending posture.
It was Gregory Lewis.
At sixteen, he was a prominent younger talent of the Lewis Clan, having recently reached the ninth level of the Body Tempering Realm, placing him right on the threshold of breaking into the Bone Forging Realm.
Reiner’s face instantly darkened, his protective instincts flaring.
He took a heavy step forward, the spiritual pressure of a Bone Forging cultivator rippling across the pavement, causing dust to dance around his boots.
“Watch your tongue, Gregory,” Reiner growled, his voice dropping an octave.
“Or do you want me to break your teeth in the middle of the street?”
Gregory flinched slightly under the oppressive weight of Reiner’s realm, but quickly masked it with an arrogant smirk, gesturing to the city guards patrolling nearby.
“Touch me here and the City Magistrate will lock your David Clan out of the market quarter for breach of peace, Reiner. Besides, am I lying? A fifteen-year-old waste who can’t even sense Qi, leeching off your family’s pills while you play nursemaid.”
Reiner’s fists clenched, veins bulging on his forearms.
He was about to lunge, rules be damned, when a calm, slender hand caught his wrist.
“Leave it, Reiner,” Lucien said calmly.
Reiner glanced back, surprised by the absolute lack of anger in Lucien’s expression.
Lucien didn’t look humiliated or furious.
He looked at Gregory Lewis the way an immortal might look at a barking stray dog on the roadside—mildly observant, entirely unbothered.
“Don’t waste your energy on insects barking for attention,” Lucien said, his voice carrying clearly across the quieted street.
“The tournament is next week. Let his fists do the talking then, if they can.”
Gregory’s face flushed red with humiliation.
He had expected the frail invalid to cower or burst into tears of shame, not dismiss him like filth beneath his shoe.
“Arrogant cripple!” Gregory hissed, taking a step forward before remembering Reiner stood right there.
He sneered viciously, pointing a finger at Reiner’s chest.
“Enjoy your smug attitude while you can, David! Next week, at the Annual Martial Competition, my elder brother will thoroughly cripple you on the stage! We’ll see if your family can still act high and mighty when your younger generation is crushed!”
With a venomous glare at Lucien, Gregory swept his robes and stormed off down the western avenue with his guards in tow.
Reiner blew out a breath of irritation, unclenching his fists.
“Arrogant bastard. If you hadn’t stopped me, Lucien, I would have knocked him into the gutter.”
“No point,” Lucien said, continuing forward with an easy stride.
“He’s just trying to provoke an early confrontation to disrupt your training. Let’s get the pills.”
Reiner looked at his cousin with newfound respect, chuckling as he caught up.
“You’ve changed a bit since waking up, little brother. Much calmer.”
A few moments later, they arrived at the David Clan’s primary Alchemy Pavilion.
The interior smelled rich and earthy, thick with the scents of dried spiritual roots, cinnabar, and refining cauldrons.
Behind the long counter made of polished camphor wood stood an elderly man with small spectacles resting on his nose—Shopkeeper Vane, a veteran steward who had managed the clan’s medicinal assets for over thirty years.
“Young Master Reiner, Young Master Lucien!” Vane bowed courteously, placing his ledger down.
“To what do I owe the honor? Patriarch Lucas sent word that you might visit.”
“Uncle Vane,” Lucien smiled politely, placing the bronze clan token on the counter.
“I need some basic medicine to aid my cultivation.”
“Of course, of course,” Vane nodded warmly.
“Given your constitution, a low-grade Vitality Nourishing or perhaps two mild Body Tempering Pills would be best to gently stimulate your blood vessels without overwhelming your channels—”
“I need Body Tempering Pills,” Lucien interrupted gently.
“One hundred of them.”
Dead silence fell over the shop.
The wooden brush in Vane’s hand slipped, clattering against the counter and leaving a streak of black ink across the ledger.
Reiner, who had been lazily inspecting an herb display nearby, choked on his own spit, spinning around with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“H-How many did you say, Young Master Lucien?” Vane stuttered, adjusting his spectacles as if he had misheard.
“One hundred,” Lucien repeated evenly.
“Standard grade Body Tempering Pills.”
“Lucien, are you insane?!” Reiner grabbed his shoulder, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull.
“One hundred?! A normal martial artist only consumes one pill to break through a level! Even geniuses attempting the tenth tempering take at most twelve to fifteen pills across their entire foundation! If you ingest one hundred pills, the medicinal fire will ignite your blood and turn your internal organs to ash!”
Shopkeeper Vane nodded frantically, his face pale.
“Young Master Reiner speaks the absolute truth! A mortal body cannot process such medicinal toxicity. Even a high-ranking elder would take months to refine that much raw essence!”
“I am not going to swallow them all in one breath, Reiner,” Lucien chuckled softly, shaking his head at their panic.
“My veins have been dormant for fifteen years. The blockage is massive. I need a consistent, uninterrupted supply so I don’t run out midway through the process.”
Lucien tapped the bronze token resting on the wood.
“Grandfather gave me permission to take what I require. Does the shop have one hundred pills in stock, Uncle Vane?”
Vane swallowed hard, looking between the unquestionable authority of the Patriarch’s token and Lucien’s calm, unwavering gaze.
“We… we do,” Vane said hesitantly.
“A fresh shipment arrived from the refining chambers yesterday. But please, Young Master… be extremely cautious. If anything happens to you, the Patriarch will peel my skin off.”
“I hold my own life in high regard,” Lucien assured him.
Ten minutes later, Vane returned from the vault carrying a reinforced wooden crate lined with silk.
Inside rested ten white porcelain bottles, each containing ten dark-crimson medicinal pills radiating a faint, warm herbal aura.
Lucien tucked the bottles into his travel pouch, feeling the subtle, latent hum of spiritual energy sealed within the clay.
One hundred pills, he thought, his heart thumping with anticipation.
To ordinary people, this was a lethal dose of medicinal poison.
But to the hungry, cosmic void waiting inside his dantian, this was barely enough to ignite the first spark of stellar dust.
“Let’s go home, Reiner,” Lucien said, strapping the satchel securely to his waist.
“I have a foundation to build.”