SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS

The news spread like wildfire through the Immortal Alchemist Association.

At first, it came as a whisper from a passing scout near the outer ring of the Divine Herb Forest. Then, it was confirmed by a recording jade—the red light shimmering with unmistakable imagery:

A young man with a beast veil mask, trapped atop the Fire Mountain, staring into the eyes of a massive Naga Ancestor whose hood alone veiled half the sky.

“Kent… is finished,” one of the elders whispered with a cold smile.

Inside the association’s soaring jade hall, murmurs grew like a rising tide. The elite alchemists, wearing their long robes embroidered with celestial flames, gathered around translucent projection mirrors showing blurred glimpses of the event. A serpent coiling the entire Fire Mountain. The sacred Nagasthra binding a lone youth in the sky. The unmistakable hiss of a Primordial Naga’s fury.

Many among them rejoiced quietly.

“Finally… the Fire Mountain reclaims what is hers.”

“For thousands of years we left it untouched, fearing the curse of the burning ridge. That boy thought he could take it all for himself?”

“Hmph. Arrogant fool. A good lesson.”

“He was too fast, too talented. If he had entered our association, he’d rise too quickly. Better he falls now.”

But amidst the mockery, a single figure stood silent near the back. His long beard nearly touched the floor, and his hands were wrinkled with time and spiritual refinement. Grandmaster Huei, one of the founding elders of the Immortal Alchemist Association, narrowed his eyes at the floating projection. He stared long and hard—not at the Naga—but at the youth with the calm eyes and firm stance, the one who had dared bargain with an immortal serpent.

His thin lips parted.

“Prepare my chariot,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “We are going to the Divine Herb Forest.”

“Elder, but the Naga Ancestor—”

“I know what I said.”

The hall fell quiet. Even the jeering alchemists went still as they watched the old master slowly walk out. And all the while, more and more people across the continents began witnessing the scene. For centuries, they believed the Naga was a myth to keep fools from climbing the Fire Mountain. But now? That myth breathed, moved, and stared straight into the heavens with fury in its gaze.

—

Meanwhile, on the scorched, smoke-veiled cliff of Fire Mountain, Kent sat cross-legged before a small clearing, his movements deliberate and calm. The battlefield that once thundered with divine rage now simmered with focus.

Around him were the remains of dozens of herbs—some rare beyond measure, others believed extinct. Fragrant petals, glowing roots, brittle golden vines, and crystal-like seeds—all laid out in delicate patterns as if painted by nature’s own brush.

The Naga Ancestor, in his human form, stood nearby—arms folded, hood-like aura twitching with curiosity. His jewel gleamed faintly, but it was his gaze that remained fixed on the youth.

“You… really intend to make an elixir?” the serpent asked, his voice dry, almost bemused.

Kent didn’t answer. His hands moved like flowing water—grinding the Black Flame Root into dust, slicing the Seven-Fold Leaf with a dagger made of spiritual wind, and mixing the powdered Golden Poison Flower essence with molten Red Nectar sap. Each movement precise, each breath calculated.

The Naga narrowed his eyes.

“That’s not ordinary preparation,” he murmured. “You’re… layering essence without flame processing? Hmph. No ordinary mortal has that finesse.”

Still, Kent did not respond. He was somewhere deeper now—within a mental world where only herbs and balance mattered.

With a low hum, he reached into his spatial ring and withdrew a small cauldron—no larger than a fruit basket. It was dark silver, etched with markings of clouds and serpents. Strange—it didn’t radiate heat or cold, but something in between.

Then, Kent raised his hand to the sky.

A moment passed.

Then another.

Suddenly, the heavens rumbled.

Crack!

A blinding bolt of golden lightning slashed through the clouds, slamming directly into the small cauldron. The ground didn’t shake—but the mountain hummed. The lightning didn’t destroy the cauldron. Instead, it wrapped around it like a loyal beast embracing its master.

The fireless flame had been lit.

The Naga’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

“Lightning as fuel? For alchemy?” His voice dropped to a whisper, and for the first time, disbelief touched his proud tone. “Only the Storm God’s Sect used such madness… but they perished in the First Age.”

From the other mountains nearby, distant spectators gasped in shock. A few of them—high elders, beast lords, even rogue cultivators—saw the beam of lightning descending from the clouds into a silver cauldron and sat frozen.

“Who is he?”

“Where did he learn that forbidden refinement?”

“No flame, no beast fire, no poison base. Only heavenly thunder… that’s madness!”

In the valley below, Elder Jill—still watching through her divine mirror—pressed her trembling fingers against her lips. “He’s using lightning not just to heat… but to transform the medicinal base. That’s a Divine Elixir Preparation.”

The red jade recording tools among the observing guards flickered violently as the lightning blurred the screens, forcing them to recalibrate.

But Kent ignored all of it.

He added the powdered roots slowly, letting each ingredient meet the thunder pulse in harmony. His mind guided the concoction like a conductor leading an orchestra.

Golden fumes began rising from the cauldron, shaped like serpents coiling in the air—mirror images of the Naga-Ancestor’s own spiritual form. The wounded serpent’s body twitched unconsciously at the resonance.

“I can feel… the potency of this elixir is so soothing. Boy, what is the name of the elixir you are preparing?” the Naga asked with a curious-look.

Still, Kent said nothing. His gaze burned with focus, his hands dancing between ingredients, spiritual wind, and lightning flow. He had no interest in spectacle or praise. He had bargained with death and was now weaving salvation from nature’s deepest secrets.

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

The lightning began to settle. The fumes coalesced, and the cauldron’s inner-liquid took on a color unlike anything else—a deep violet-green hue with streaks of lightning swimming across the surface like serpentine veins.

Kent finally exhaled. A bead of sweat traced his jaw, and his hands stopped.

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