Chapter One: A Desperate Struggle

The hottest months were June and July.

The sun beat down mercilessly, the heat so intense it made the earth feel like a giant furnace.

Iron Ox Town.

It was midday, the sun at its zenith.

“Huff!”

On a long stone staircase, Qin Feiyang climbed step by arduous step, drenched in sweat and panting heavily.

The stone stairs rose at a forty-five-degree incline, nine hundred and ninety-nine steps in all, leading toward a grand palace. Each step, exposed to the blazing sun, was burning hot. Sweat dripped from his body, evaporating the instant it hit the stone, sizzling as it vanished.

Qin Feiyang was just fifteen, yet he possessed a maturity and steadiness far beyond his years. He stood one meter seventy-five, his body somewhat thin, his features handsome, but his face was pale as paper, drained of all color, giving him the appearance of a frail youth suffering from illness.

No—that wasn’t merely an impression.

He truly was ill. And not just sick, but gravely so.

He had only five days left to live.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine steps, under such cruel weather—an impossible feat even for a healthy man, let alone someone as sick as he was. Yet, to him, ascending these stairs was his only chance at survival. It was the one hope that could change his wretched fate.

Five years ago, Qin Feiyang had been a prince of the Great Qin Empire, noble by birth and gifted beyond compare. At the tender age of ten, he had become a nine-star martial artist, lauded as a once-in-millennia prodigy. He was the sun around which all attention revolved, the most favored candidate among the princes to inherit the throne, his father’s favorite son.

But then, disaster struck.

At the peak of his glory, misfortune befell him. Forced to swallow the Malignant Spirit Pill, he was ruthlessly expelled from the imperial palace and the capital, cast out to this remote Iron Ox Town.

The Malignant Spirit Pill was a vicious poison; after consuming it, one lost all cultivation, could never train again, and would be plagued with illness, doomed to die at fifteen.

Now, only five days remained before he turned fifteen.

Five years had passed.

The Great Qin Empire still stood mighty, ruling the land with unrivaled power.

And he? He struggled to survive, fighting for his life in obscurity.

He refused to accept this fate! Countless times he had sworn to himself: one day, he would return to the capital and make those who wronged him pay dearly for it.

The palace at the top of these stairs was his last hope.

Gradually, his legs weakened, aching intensely. Each step was a battle for him. Sweat poured from his body, leaving him dehydrated. His lips cracked, bleeding. Dizziness clouded his vision.

He paused on a step, gasping for breath, trying to recover his waning strength.

At the same time, he gazed up toward the summit, and in his weak eyes, a determined light shone.

At the end of the stone stairs, a grand hall towered, resplendent in gold and jade, imposing in every sense. Its doors were tightly shut. Beside the hall stood a black stone stele, over ten meters tall, inscribed with two bold characters:

Pill Hall!

The calligraphy was like iron hooks and silver strokes, vigorous and forceful, exuding an awe-inspiring pressure.

This was a place countless people dreamed of entering.

Here, myriad elixirs were crafted. Some could cure all poisons and diseases, ensuring a lifetime of peace. Others could cleanse the body, allowing one to start anew on the path of cultivation. Rumor had it that legendary divine pills existed here—elixirs imbued with life, capable of flight and magic, granting the power to overturn mountains and seas. To consume one was to become a living legend overnight.

Thus, the Pill Hall was sacred.

Every disciple of the Pill Hall was revered. Even the lowest-ranked alchemist was fawned upon by many, all seeking a single pill.

Qin Feiyang sought the Marrow Cleansing Pill.

This pill was his key to rebirth.

To obtain it, he could no longer count how many times he had come here. Yet every time, illness held him back—he never reached the top.

But this time, he had no retreat, no choice.

In five days, he would die.

If he wanted to live, he had to reach the summit.

He pressed on, teeth gritted, every step a test of will.

Then—the tightly closed palace doors swung open.

A woman, about thirty, in a red gown, strode out of the hall. She stood at the edge, looking down at Qin Feiyang with detached disdain. “Qin Feiyang, do you know how many times you’ve tried? When will you give up?”

He didn’t answer, head down, jaw set, climbing on.

He saw her every time he came here. Her name was Ma Hongmei, an elder and steward of the Pill Hall—and, naturally, an alchemist herself. Her status made her proud and arrogant. She held others in contempt and had humiliated him more than once.

He had no desire to trade insults.

But his silence only fueled Ma Hongmei’s ire.

Her lips curled into a sneer. “Don’t say I look down on you, but no matter how many times you try, the result will be the same. Do yourself a favor and leave—stop being an eyesore.”

“Elder Ma, you can always close your eyes and not look,” Qin Feiyang replied, halting to stare up at her, anger flickering in his gaze.

Ma Hongmei laughed coldly. “Oh? You have an answer for everything? Fine, let me be clear: even if you reach the top, I will not give you the Marrow Cleansing Pill.”

Qin Feiyang’s fists clenched, but in the end, he held back and kept climbing.

He had no choice. Under eaves, one must bow.

Besides, Ma Hongmei was not the only alchemist in the Pill Hall. He could seek another.

Time slipped by.

Was it Ma Hongmei’s provocation, or his own desire to survive? Whatever the reason, he did not stop again. Step by step, he drew closer to the summit.

Two hours passed.

He was only fifty steps from the top.

Though exhausted, his head spinning, every step sending agony through his legs as if his muscles were being torn apart, his heart blazed with hope.

Only fifty steps remained!

Reaching the top meant not just survival, but also the possibility of training once more.

Only by growing stronger could he seek the truth and resolve his doubts.

He fixed his gaze on the summit, determination burning in his eyes.

This time, he would succeed.

Forty steps.
Thirty steps.
Twenty.

Ten steps!

With a final burst of strength, he reached the summit, collapsing facedown, greedily gulping air.

“Well, isn’t this a miracle—you actually made it up here today,” Ma Hongmei remarked, surprised he had reached the top. But then, a cold light flashed in her eyes, and she kicked him.

“What are you doing, Elder Ma?!” Qin Feiyang cried in shock and anger.

“Sending you back down, of course.” She mocked him, kicking him hard in the chest.

With a thud, Qin Feiyang tumbled down the stairs like a ragdoll, his cries of pain echoing.

“Ma, I curse you! May you die a wretched death!” he screamed, his voice hoarse with hate.

He had finally reached the summit, only for this venomous woman to shatter his last hope—she was cutting off his only path to survival.

“How dare you curse me? You clearly have a death wish. I’ll kill you myself!” Ma Hongmei’s eyes glinted with murderous intent. She moved to finish him off.

“What’s happening here?” A voice thundered from inside the hall.

A middle-aged man emerged—tall and imposing, clad in purple, his every movement exuding power and authority.

Ma Hongmei frowned, turning to bow. “Greetings, Third Hall Master.”

The Third Hall Master nodded, then frowned at the sight of Qin Feiyang tumbling down the stairs. “Why is he here again?”

Ma Hongmei replied with a smirk, “Still after the Marrow Cleansing Pill.”

“Then why is he rolling down the steps?” the Hall Master asked, puzzled.

With feigned concern, Ma Hongmei said, “He brought it on himself. I warned him repeatedly to give up, but he refused to listen. He exhausted his strength, his legs gave out, and he lost his balance.”

Hearing this, Qin Feiyang was so infuriated that blood spurted from his lips.

Ma Hongmei only sneered.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine steps—no one could survive such a fall. Without help, she needn’t dirty her own hands; the brat would be smashed to death.

Qin Feiyang knew this too.

By the time he’d reached the summit, his whole body was already numb, his limbs useless. Now, battered by the descent, his head was bloodied, both arms broken—he could not stop himself.

“Is this how I die today?” he thought.

“No!”

“I must survive. I must return to the capital. Those who betrayed me—I will make them pay a thousand, ten thousand times over!”

Rage and unwillingness became his fuel.

With a desperate twist, he flipped onto his back, pressing his spine to the stairs and sliding down feet-first. His legs acted as brakes, pressing hard against the stone, slowing his fall.

After a hundred breaths, he finally came to a halt, sprawled on the steps.

But his back and feet were torn to shreds, blood and flesh mangled, even his spine fractured. Agony washed over him like a tidal wave, threatening to drown his very soul.

He was in hellish pain, teetering on the edge of life and death.