A Hidden Trump Card
"A hidden trump card?" Jekyeong realized instinctively. What Mu-ara had relied on was not his own strength, but that very "trump card."
"Fellow Daoist, have you ever heard of the Heumwon Clan?" When Jekyeong silently shook his head, Jang Yeong smiled and continued.
"Muryang-ae is a territory far vaster than Yangseo Lake. The Heumwon Clan is one of the powerful demon clans that rule over it. My father has joined hands with them."
Jekyeong had never heard of Muryang-ae or the Heumwon Clan. However, seeing Jang Yeong's shoulders unconsciously square with pride as he spoke of them, Jekyeong could roughly guess the significance of Mu-ara securing an alliance with such a faction.
"To congratulate my father on ascending to the rank of Yao King, the Heumwon Clan dispatched Elder Myowon as an envoy. Arriving just in the nick of time, his presence forced even the Jansu Whale King to swallow his anger."
"Then what will happen now?"
"The Whale King Palace will remain. However, they will no longer be able to rule the demons of Yangseo Lake alone as they did before." Jang Yeong spoke with even greater conviction.
"My father intends to establish a Court of Demons to rally the like-minded demons of Yangseo Lake. Its official name will be the Yangseo Demon Court. Unlike the Whale King Palace, this court will be a faction dedicated to those who share our vision. Specifically..."
Jang Yeong passionately rambled on about the Yangseo Demon Court, but Jekyeong tuned him out. It was typical lip service—grand promises with almost no practical guarantees. Right now, the envoy was saying whatever it took to reel him in, but once Jekyeong actually joined the court, the tune would undoubtedly start to change.
Jekyeong had no desire to get deeply entangled in this Demon Court. It was enough if it could serve as a temporary shelter from the storm.
I'll have to wait and see... but for now, this isn't bad.
Most of what he knew about the Jansu Whale King had come from Jang Yeong. While it surely contained malicious exaggerations and outright lies, the claim that the Whale King actively suppressed the rise of new demon powerhouses was highly likely to be true. Otherwise, it would be impossible to explain why no other Yao Kings existed in Yangseo Lake, or why Mu-ara, who could have ascended to the Yao King realm long ago, had bided his time until now.
Although the Yao King realm was still a distant world to Jekyeong, he unfortunately possessed a trait guaranteed to draw the Whale King's attention. He was a Gyoryong. Of course, this was not true, but the rumor had spread so widely that no one doubted it.
When he first realized that his false identity as a Flood Dragon would draw the Whale King's murderous gaze, Jekyeong had seriously contemplated revealing his true nature—confessing that he was no majestic dragon, but merely a lowborn serpent who had lucked his way into becoming a Great Demon.
However, doing so would mean forfeiting the numerous advantages he enjoyed as a Gyoryong. More importantly, there was no guarantee the Whale King would even believe him. In the end, he had decided against it.
Ultimately, Jekyeong had been left with only two choices: leave Yangseo Lake, or find some way to neutralize the threat of the Whale King. Jekyeong had chosen the latter, and that choice was now proving to be correct.
"Of course I will join."
"A wise decision." A bright smile bloomed on Jang Yeong's face.
"However, even if I join the court, I have no intention of leaving this place."
"Oh? And why is that?"
"I've grown attached to this area, and I've never been fond of noisy places."
Though phrased politely, his meaning was clear: he wanted to be a member in name only and avoid any troublesome duties. Jang Yeong immediately caught the subtext, his expression stiffening for a fraction of a second before he nodded smoothly, pretending nothing was amiss.
"As you wish, Fellow Daoist. The Demon Court will not force anything upon you."
Jekyeong let out a silent sigh of relief. He did not know how much authority Jang Yeong held within the court, but the envoy's attitude offered a glimpse into their current stance. Even though Mu-ara had become a Yao King and secured a powerful ally in the Heumwon Clan, the Jansu Whale King and his palace were still alive and well. That was precisely why the court was taking a different approach, attempting to rally the local demons through diplomacy rather than force. In other words, as long as the Whale King Palace stood as a counterweight, the court would be forced to maintain a lenient attitude, whether they liked it or not.
I shouldn't push my luck too far, but this level of compromise should be perfectly fine.
Jekyeong took a satisfying sip of his spirit wine as he looked at Jang Yeong, whose smile had grown slightly strained.
Pop! As always, the lid of the cauldron flew off with a cheerful sound. But unlike before, there was no black smoke. With a fluttering heart, Jekyeong peered inside.
One, two...
The cauldron was filled with pills. There were six perfectly spherical pills that emitted no scent whatsoever; eight similarly perfect spheres that leaked a faint medicinal fragrance; and six pills with slight blemishes on their surfaces, radiating a dense, rich aroma.
Six high-grade, eight mid-grade, and six low-grade.
• High-Grade: 6 Pills
• Mid-Grade: 8 Pills
• Low-Grade: 6 Pills
Jekyeong's breathing grew ragged. For a moment, it felt as if it wasn't a medicinal aroma wafting from the cauldron, but a brilliant light—the dazzling, radiant glow of spirit stones.
In the cultivation world, the most lucrative profession was undoubtedly that of an alchemist. While spirit blacksmiths and formation masters were also high earners, their income came in massive, sporadic bursts rather than a steady stream. Weapons and formations were not consumables; they did not need constant replacement, and could even be passed down to others.
But pills were different. No matter how poor a cultivator was, they would cut back on any other expense before they skimped on pills. Unless they had completely abandoned their path, every cultivator had to consume pills throughout their entire lives.
In short, as long as cultivators existed, an alchemist's income would never dry up. Whether one's skills were exceptional or mediocre, there was always a market. Once recognized as a true alchemist, one would never have to worry about running out of spirit stones.
Jekyeong had long considered himself a first-rank alchemist. This wasn't out of arrogance; objectively speaking, his skills met the standard. The variety of pills he could refine was diverse enough, and his success rate was decent.
It wasn't a matter of innate talent. His achievements were the result of ten years of grueling effort and a mountain of squandered spirit stones. If anything, when it came to raw talent, he was actually below average.
Since it had taken him ten years just to become a first-rank alchemist, Jekyeong had expected that reaching the second rank would take several times longer. He had deliberately avoided calculating the sheer volume of spirit stones he would have to burn through, knowing it would only give him a headache.
Yet now, he felt as though the seemingly distant goal of becoming a second-rank alchemist was right before his eyes. No, perhaps he was already...
No, let's not get ahead of ourselves.
The pill he had just refined was the Seonghu Pill. Though its medicinal properties were not overwhelmingly potent, it carried no risk of side effects, making it a staple for early-stage Foundation Establishment cultivators.
To be recognized as a second-rank alchemist, one must be able to refine at least ten different types of second-rank pills, including three or more cultivation-aiding pills—one of which must be usable by late-stage Foundation Establishment cultivators. Furthermore, one must guarantee a success rate of at least thirty percent for all of them...
This was the standard for a second-rank alchemist in the Human Territory. It was incredibly stringent, but considering the prestige and wealth associated with the profession, it was a reasonable demand.
Still, it does feel a bit excessively strict.
Jekyeong suspected that these rigid criteria served a purpose beyond merely protecting the consumers. For instance, if half-baked amateurs were allowed to flood the market, the authority and prestige of true alchemists would naturally plummet. To prevent such a disaster, the established elite had likely raised the barrier of entry to keep the rabble out entirely.
Well, it has nothing to do with me.
He belonged to the demon race, so he had no need for human recognition. Besides, such official credentials were only useful for those who established a permanent shop and practiced openly. For someone like him, who preferred low-profile, private transactions, a title was a useless luxury. The clients who bought his pills were drawn by decent quality and low prices, not some fancy title.
This is no fluke.
The last time Jekyeong had refined the Seonghu Pill, he had also produced exactly twenty pills. Back then, seven had turned out to be useless dregs, eight were low-grade, and only two were high-grade. Considering that a successful refinement required a grade of mid-grade or higher, his success rate had been a measly twenty-five percent. Given that he had already practiced refining the Seonghu Pill multiple times, it was a pathetic result.
Yet now, in less than a year, that twenty-five percent success rate had skyrocketed to seventy percent. Not a single pill had been ruined, and he had produced six high-grade pills.
This is truly unbelievable.
Ever since the day he had choked on the black smoke billowing from his cauldron, Jekyeong had worked tirelessly. He had reviewed his refining process countless times and collected and studied the journals of famous alchemists to amass knowledge. He didn't believe his efforts had been lacking, but he knew that effort alone could not have brought about such an earth-shattering transformation.
My Origin Earth Fire.
The primary catalyst that had transformed him from a third-rate alchemist—at least when it came to the Seonghu Pill—into a top-tier master was his Origin Earth Fire. He had long heard that while not all famous alchemists possessed an innate origin fire, every alchemist who did eventually achieved greatness. Back then, he had vaguely assumed that having a superior flame simply provided a minor advantage during the refining process.
But only after refining with his own Origin Earth Fire did he truly understand what it meant. It wasn't a simple matter of easier temperature control or superior heat.
Moreover, my Origin Earth Fire has a unique advantage when it comes to alchemy.
His Origin Earth Fire harbored a powerful, vibrant life force. This was likely because it was forged from the Sacred Fire of the fire spirits—or more precisely, its ember—inheriting some of its unique properties. Previously, he hadn't given this characteristic much thought, merely considering the abundant life force a useful trait that slightly boosted the flame's intensity and duration.
How foolish I was.
Only now did he realize that his Origin Earth Fire was not meant for combat, but for alchemy. The intense heat shortened the refining time to minimize the loss of medicinal properties, while the life force woven into the flames did more than just preserve the herbs' efficacy—it actually enhanced them. It was no exaggeration to say that the flame influenced every single step of the process, save for the initial mixing of ingredients and the final opening of the cauldron.
I suddenly feel like an alchemy genius.
No, even "genius" was an understatement. If alchemy were a race, while others were diligently running on foot toward the finish line, he was galloping ahead on a legendary steed. To borrow a phrase from his past life, it was practically a cheat code.
Maybe I really could make a living as a professional alchemist.
Of course, it was a fleeting thought. For Jekyeong, mastering alchemy was primarily a means to self-sufficiency, ensuring he could supply his own cultivation pills. Earning spirit stones was merely a secondary benefit. While he wouldn't turn down the chance to sell pills if the opportunity arose, he had no intention of dedicating his life to it.
I need to acquire more pill recipes.
Jekyeong believed that as long as he could obtain the recipes, he could refine other pills—even those of a higher grade than the Seonghu Pill. It was a confidence that had naturally blossomed after he became an "alchemy genius"... or rather, a confidence his Origin Earth Fire had instilled in him.
But second-rank pill recipes aren't something you can just get on a whim.
When he needed first-rank recipes, he had simply browsed auctions or acquired them through the Yeongbu Merchant Group. Back then, Jekyeong had pretended to be interested in various human heritages, so it was only natural for him to dabble in alchemy. Neither Gwak Jeong-sin nor the Yeongbu Merchant Group suspected a curious Great Demon. In other words, the value of first-rank recipes was relatively low.
Of course, a few high-grade first-rank recipes were exceptions, but most first-rank recipes were not strictly regulated. With a bit of spirit stones and the right connections, they were easy enough to obtain.
But second-rank recipes were a different story. Since Foundation Establishment cultivators were considered the core military strength of the Human Territory, the second-rank pills they consumed and their corresponding recipes were treated almost like strategic military assets. While recipes for pills used by early-stage Foundation Establishment cultivators, like the Seonghu Pill, circulated quietly among rogue cultivators, anything beyond that was monopolized by various sects and clans.
I could probably get them through Bul-mang-won, but...
The human cultivators in Bul-mang-won were not particularly stingy about trading heritages like pill recipes. Part of it was a lingering sense of camaraderie as fellow reincarnators, but the primary reason was the absolute anonymity the space provided. Jekyeong believed that as long as he paid a handsome price, acquiring second-rank recipes wouldn't be too difficult. The real problem was that even if he did obtain them, they would likely be useless to him. The reason lay in the unique nature of alchemy.
Alchemy was an incredibly profound and delicate art. Even when using the exact same ingredients, a minute difference in proportions could yield entirely unexpected results, and the success rate could fluctuate wildly depending on precisely when and how the heat was adjusted. The time-honored recipes passed down today were the culmination of countless trials, errors, and continuous refinements to find the absolute optimal ratio of herbs.
Because of this, not a single herb in a recipe could be added or omitted. Unfortunately, most of these specific herbs could only be found in the regions where the recipes had originally been created. In other words, even if he managed to acquire a recipe from some far-off land, replicating it here in Yangseo Lake would be next to impossible.