The Verdant Cauldron Sect was built on a single, sacred principle: creation. Its disciples were alchemists, cultivators who pursued the Dao through the art of refining the world’s spiritual essence into pills of sublime power. They turned herbs into elixirs, minerals into spiritual catalysts, and mortal ingredients into life-extending treasures. In this temple of creation, Wen Long was a living blasphemy. His spiritual root, the foundation of his talent, was the Root of Decay, colloquially and cruelly known as the “Rust Root.”
While his peers could coax spiritual herbs to release their vibrant life force, Wen Long’s touch only seemed to sap it. When he tried to refine ingredients in a cauldron, the mixture would inevitably curdle into a foul-smelling, inert grey sludge—dross. At eighteen, after a decade of failure, he was the only disciple in the sect’s history who had never successfully concocted a single, low-grade Qi Replenishing Pill. He was the sect’s shame.
His daily reality was a testament to his status. His task was to manage the Waste Repository, a deep, foul-smelling pit at the northern edge of the sect where all the failed alchemical experiments were dumped. It was a mountain of dross, a monument to failure, and it was his domain.
The air of ridicule was thickest when Shi Tian was near. Shi Tian was the sect’s pride, a genius of the highest order, blessed with the Pure Jade Root. His pills were masterpieces of purity and potency. He was everything Wen Long was not.
“Clearing away your own creations, Wen Long?” Shi Tian’s voice, smooth and condescending, cut through the air. He stood at the edge of the pit, his white robes unstained, a group of admiring disciples behind him. He held up a small, glowing green pill between his fingers. “Behold. A Flawless-grade Spirit Cleansing Pill. It can purge impurities from a cultivator’s meridians. I synthesized it this morning. Tell me, what masterpiece did you create today? More fertilizer?”
His followers laughed. Wen Long didn’t respond, simply tipping his wheelbarrow full of dross over the edge of the pit. The grey sludge tumbled down the man-made mountain of failure.
“Your silence is as pathetic as your alchemy,” Shi Tian scoffed. “The sect’s resources are wasted on you. The only value you provide is taking out the trash. It’s fitting, really.”
Wen Long gripped the handles of his wheelbarrow, his knuckles turning white. He hated the pity more than the scorn. He had tried. Gods, how he had tried. He had memorized every alchemical formula, practiced every flame control technique until his fingers bled. But the moment his spiritual energy, tainted by the entropic nature of his Rust Root, touched the ingredients, the process was doomed. It was like asking a storm to nurture a seedling.
An elder approached the group. “Shi Tian, your talent is remarkable. The Sect Master wishes to see you.” He then glanced at Wen Long with undisguised distaste. “Wen Long. A new shipment of volatile waste from the core elders’ experiments has arrived. It must be disposed of with extreme care. Any instability could cause a spiritual energy detonation. Take it to the deepest part of the pit.”
It was the most dangerous job in the sect, one given only to him. Volatile waste was a cocktail of potent, mismatched spiritual energies, a bomb waiting for the slightest nudge.
Wen Long bowed his head. “Yes, Elder.”
As Shi Tian walked away, basking in praise, Wen Long made his way to the heavily reinforced shed where the volatile waste was stored. Inside were three lead-lined crates. He could feel the chaotic, angry energy pulsing within them, a discordant hum that made the hairs on his arms stand up. His own spiritual energy, usually sluggish and murky, seemed to resonate with the chaos, a strange, faint tremor of excitement running through his Rust Root.
He carefully loaded a crate onto his wheelbarrow and began the slow, nerve-wracking journey to the bottom of the Waste Repository. The path was treacherous, slick with alchemical slime. Halfway down, his foot slipped. The wheelbarrow tilted precariously. The crate slid, hit the ground with a heavy thud, and the lid burst open. A pulsating, multi-colored mass of semi-sentient dross spilled out, hissing like a cornered snake. Its energy spiked violently. A detonation was imminent.
Panic seized him. There was nowhere to run. In a moment of pure, desperate instinct, he fell to his knees and thrust his hands into the volatile mass. He didn’t know why. It was a suicidal act. But the moment his skin made contact, his world changed.