Chen Mo thought the furnace was the miracle.

  He was wrong.

  The furnace sat there like a dead thing. Black. Cold. Silent. No glow. No voice. No spirit. It didn’t even pretend to care about him.

  The book did.

  It fell out when he tipped the furnace on its side, thin and heavy at the same time. No title on the cover. No shine. Just old paper that smelled like dust and iron.

  He opened it.

  No warnings.

  No greetings.

  No “chosen one.”

  Just a list.

  Pill names. One line each. Effects written like someone was bored when they wrote them. Next to each name were grades. Low. Mid. High. Peak. Perfect.

  That was it.

  Chen Mo flipped pages faster.

  Bone-Tempering Pill.

  Effect: strengthens bones.

  Calm-Mind Pill.

  Effect: suppresses mental turbulence.

  Qi-Overflow Pill.

  Effect: increases Qi capacity.

  Meridian-Clearing Pill.

  Effect: clears blocked meridians.

  There were hundreds. Thousands. Page after page. Some names he couldn’t read properly. Some effects sounded fake. Some sounded like suicide.

  Every pill had the same grades.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Perfect was always at the top.

  He stared at the word.

  Perfect.

  He didn’t think about it.

  Why would I take the worse one?

  That was the whole thought.

  He dragged the furnace back upright and shoved whatever he could find into it. Old herbs. Moldy roots. Things scraped off alley walls. Offerings stolen from a half-collapsed shrine because no one watched it anymore.

  The furnace accepted everything.

  No fire.

  No smoke.

  No reaction.

  Then the lid clicked.

  A pill rolled out.

  Black. Smooth. Warm.

  Meridian-Clearing Pill.

  Perfect.

  Chen Mo swallowed it without sitting down.

  Pain hit him like a blade driven into his spine.

  He screamed and fell over.

  It felt like something was clawing through his body, ripping open passages that had never existed. His meridians burned. Then cracked. Then burned again.

  He vomited.

  Then he laughed.

  Because the pain didn’t stay.

  It passed through him and left nothing behind.

  No numbness. No damage. No weakness.

  His breathing changed.

  Qi rushed in.

  Outside, the night wind shifted—carrying a pressure that did not belong to weather.

  Too much.

  Way too much.

  His body shook as Qi forced itself through him, filling spaces that had never been there before. His skin burned. His vision blurred.

  Chen Mo grabbed the book again with shaking hands.

  Qi-Overflow Pill.

  Perfect.

  He swallowed it.

  The world tilted.

  Qi slammed into him so hard he thought his chest would burst. His heart hammered like it wanted out. His muscles locked.

  He rolled on the floor, biting his arm until blood filled his mouth.

  Then it settled.

  His body didn’t feel full.

  It felt empty.

  Like it wanted more.

  Chen Mo stared at the furnace.

  “Oh,” he said hoarsely.

  He didn’t stop.

  Stopping felt pointless now.

  Bone-Tempering Pill. Perfect.

  Calm-Mind Pill. Perfect.

  Another Meridian-Clearing Pill. Perfect.

  He didn’t count.

  He didn’t rest.

  He didn’t think about tomorrow.

  Pain came. Pain left. Qi surged. Qi stayed.

  By dawn, the room was cracked. The floor was powdered with dust from his movements. His clothes were stiff with dried blood that no longer mattered.

  Chen Mo sat against the wall, breathing slowly.

  Qi moved inside him like a flood with no banks.

  He wasn’t in control.

  He didn’t care.

  Outside, cultivators would have called this madness.

  Inside, Chen Mo had only one thought drifting lazily through his head.

  Still not enough.

  The thought was calm.

  That frightened him more than the pain.

  He reached for the book again.

  The furnace lid clicked once on its own.

  Somewhere far above, thunder rolled—slow, patient, and listening.

  It was not a warning.

  It was a measure.

  And Chen Mo had just been measured.