Two hours later, the sharp aroma of burnt herbs still lingered faintly on Robert robes.
The tips of his sleeves had a slight burn, and beads of sweat were sticking to his forehead.
But his eyes?
They glead with satisfaction.
Four pills.
All bearing the faint spiral mark of one-line purity.
Flawed as they were, they held together—real, reliable, and ready when it counted.
He had refined them one by one, adjusting fla, timing, and infusion with care sharpened by instinct and system guidance.
By the final stretch of refinent, Robert was running on fus. He poured what little spiritual energy he had left into the cauldron, just trying to keep the mixture from falling apart.
The fla flared unevenly, and every adjustnt felt like walking a tightrope with shaking legs.
By the ti the reaction stabilised, he was barely upright—knees buckling, vision swimming at the edges.
He fumbled into his pouch, pulled out a Basic Mana Recovery Pill, and slipped it into his mouth.
A warm energy coursed through him, reminiscent of a soft wind—relaxing the shake in his arms and bringing his heartbeat back to a steady pace.
It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep him upright.
Exhaling with relief, he gathered the four glowing pills and stored them in the system storage.
His eyes traced the furnace, the scattered tools, and the faint shimr of heat still rising from the cauldron. It wasn't perfect—but it was his first real step.
Robert smiled faintly.
One day, he thought, these will be the weakest pills I've ever made.
He stepped out of the room, sealing the spiritual array behind him with a flick of his fingers.
As he stepped outside, the corridor embraced him with its warm, golden glow from the torches.
But sothing inside him refused to slow down—not yet. Not when there was still more to prove.
He walked the hall with purpose, the hesitation from earlier burnt away by resolve.
Only fifteen days left.
And he still had a realm to climb.
The evening air carried a quiet chill as Robert made his way down the stone corridor toward his room.
The sun was gone, dipped behind the mountains, leaving behind only streaks of amber slipping through the clan's high windows.
Each step felt more certain now—heavier, but in a good way.
Back in his room, he didn't pause to rest.
He moved straight into the adjoining chamber—a simple training space lined with runes designed to soak up spiritual pressure.
Dark scorch marks from past sessions stained the floor, and the still, heavy air carried a quiet tension as if the room itself rembered every trial that had taken place within it.
With a breath, Robert called the system.
[System Inventory: Accessed]
[Item Retrieved – Body Tempering Enhancent Pill]
Golden light flickered briefly, and the pill materialised in his hand. He blinked—still not used to how seamless the system made things. The pill was warm, its surface etched with faint veins of energy, like tiny rivers under skin.
He sat cross-legged at the center of the room, placing the pill in his mouth and swallowing it whole.
At first, nothing happened—then a wave of heat blood in his gut, spreading fast.
It wasn't just warmth; it was pressure, sharp and rising, like his insides were stretching tight around sothing too big to hold.
He winced, hand gripping his side as the energy forced its way through.
His body tensed, every muscle vibrating under the weight of the enhancent.
But Robert was ready.
He shut his eyes.
[System Prompt: Cultivation Mode Detected]
[Activating Optimal Circulation Pattern: "Dragon Heart Pulse" Technique]
He exhaled gently and then started.
The Dragon Heart Pulse Technique awakened within him like the beat of a war drum. A faint pulse of Qi circled near his chest—slow at first, then building montum. With each beat, the pill's effects dug deeper, loosening the tension in his limbs.
He felt the spiritual energy pushing into his ridians, rough and unsteady, but just strong enough to clear the fog of exhaustion that had settled in after hours by the furnace.
His bones creaked faintly as the technique refined his physical foundation, forcing internal reconstruction with every circulation.
He bit down hard, the pain cutting through him like a knife—but it was a pain that had its purpose.
"This was the Osborn way—rising through tireless effort and unwavering determination to achieve greatness."
Minutes bled into hours.
Robert body glistened with sweat. The jade formations beneath him flickered, absorbing the excess spiritual pressure.
Then, without warning—
Crack!
A subtle pop echoed from within, and a surge of warmth spread from his dantian across his limbs.
[System Notification:
Cultivation Level Increased – Body Tempering: Level 7]
Robert opened his eyes. His breath was heavy, but steady. His limbs ached, but his foundation was stronger.
"One step closer," he muttered under his breath, a calm smile forming at the corner of his lips.
The pressure of the upcoming Clan Competition still lood—but now, He was no longer the sa boy.
In just fifteen days, he would be even stronger.
Sunlight crept across the training courtyard, brushing over the worn stone floor where Robert's footsteps would soon echo.
As the day began to break, the spiritual torches lining the walls slowly extinguished, one after another, as if they were aware of the sun arrival.
Robert stepped outside, refreshed from a few hours of rest.
His body was still sore from the breakthrough, but beneath the fatigue, a stronger foundation had settled.
Today wasn't about taking pills or finding peace through ditation.
It was for the Swords.
Robert stepped into the outer courtyard—the usual place where Osborn disciples gathered for their early drills and sparring matches. Few were present this early. The cold air clung to his skin, raising goosebumps across his arms—but it helped keep him alert.
Robert drew his training sword with a slow breath, easing into the First Form of the Iron Fang Style. The stance ca naturally now—low, sharp, and built for sudden bursts of power.
He moved—swing, step, pivot, exhale. Steel sliced the air with a clean whistle, sharp and quick. He'd heard it so many tis, it echoed like part of a rhythm only he understood. It was precise, steady, and deeply satisfying.
He was easing into the second form when he sensed it—that quiet presence behind him. Familiar. Calm. No footsteps, no words… but unmistakably there.
"Robert?"
He paused, lowering the sword before turning.
It was Er Osborn, one of the more prominent talents of the younger generation. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a calm yet sharp gaze.
Whispers were going around that he had already hit Level 8 in Body Tempering. Unlike many others in the clan, Er was known for his relentless training.
Robert offered a polite nod. "Cousin Er."
Er studied him with a furrowed brow. My father ntioned that you've started cultivating… he told you're at Level 4.
His gaze shifted slightly as he stepped closer. "But this aura… You're already at Level 7?"
Robert didn't flinch. "I made so progress recently."
Er blinked, clearly taken aback, a look of surprise crossing his usually steady face. That's… quite impressive.
He ant it. Er had worked for months to go from Level 6 to 7. Robert had done it in less than a week.
A pause hung in the air before Er nodded. "Well then. Seems like I'll have to start waking up earlier."
Robert gave a faint smile. "You might."
The cousins stood for a mont beneath the rising sun, the quiet between them not hostile but sharpened with the slight edge of rivalry.
Both turned back toward the training grounds.
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