Blueprint for Immortality: a Crafting Xianxia

They entered the bathhouse together, with no guarantees of survival. The three huddled together in the entrance before turning to each other, and on exchanging a solemn nod, stepping forward one after the other.

Whoever the ghost chose first was probably dead.

Booker entered with them, the Ghost Summoning Amulet clutched in his right hand. It was apparently so simple that you didn’t even need cultivation to use it.

They stepped one by one across the slick pine wood floors, the water sloshing back and forth in the stone-lipped pool. Dark body parts and scraps of robe scattered across the water.

Quickly, the fat one dropped into the pool and waded across the shallow water. He grabbed about at the pieces of robe, searching for –

A bamboo tube floating in the water.

“I found it!”

Already, yellow mist was pouring out of the walls. It surrounded them, billowing past their legs and rising up to the ceiling. The ghost could have appeared anywhere.

But once he had the Spirit vision Pill he could track its movement.

The fat one threw the pill vial towards him, but as it arced through the air, an invisible force swatted it out of the air. That same force swept towards the middle one’s chest, whipping into his sternum and lifting him up into the air as he bent double around the blow. It looked like he was a doll in a child’s hand.

Booker spun towards the source of the strikes and lifted the amulet. It shone, the individual teardrops of jade lighting up with a golden energy that swirled through the air in the wide beam.

Within that golden energy a shadow appeared, caught within the beam of light and rapidly becoming more and more visible. Booker could even see the features of a face within the flickering shadowy presence. It struggled to step forward, extending a hand slowly, and Booker felt an invisible hand close around his wrist.

That hand began to squeeze with a terrible iron force, crushing down like a vise until his bones began to ache and his fingers trembled. But if he dropped the amulet…

The thing would kill him for sure.

For a moment he clung on as the agony in his hand turned his whole arm numb except for a shooting core of pain deep within his bones.

Then his wrist snapped, and the amulet dropped–

The skinny one barreled into Booker’s side, shoving him aside and seizing the amulet. The invisible force had released his wrist, and Booker was thrown back into the row of lockers.

Skinny flailed about, aiming the amulet left and right. But the ghost was gone, retreating back out of sight. After a moment…

“Duck!”

A row of lockers ripped out of the wall and flung themselves at Skinny. He dodged aside, screaming, and before he could raise the amulet again the same invisible force had grabbed his arm and thrown him across the room. The limb used to fling him was snapped clean in two, and he landed in a screaming pile.

Booker lunged for the amulet.

A force flung it away from his reaching fingertips, then stomped down onto his hand.

He felt the bones of his fingers grind and nearly snap–

And there was a flash of blue. The other ghost, the one with the slit neck that Booker had encountered in the dark of the boiler room, Brother Han– had flung himself onto the shadowy ghost’s back! His limbs wrapped around the invisible creature, his ghostly body becoming larger and more shadowy as he exerted all his spiritual force to lock the enemy in place.

The fat one had grabbed the amulet, and now they lifted it with a shout. A beam of light pierced forward and struck the shadow in the chest.

And for a moment it looked as if the shadowy, malevolent force would dissolve. Scraps of shadowstuff broke away from its body and faded out into the light.

But then it took a step forward, dragging itself against the blue Brother Han’s deadlock. Slowly, its arm reached up for the fatty holding the amulet. The yellow mist had begun to take on the appearance of a cyclone at the roof of the room.

“A-aaa–aaaaaHHH!” The fat one wailed as he was lifted up into the air.

Dialyze.

Booker pushed his hand into the shadowy presence’s chest, and unleashed a spiraling disk of pure water. It shone like droplets of liquid diamonds as it formed, sparkling tears coalescing in the air and combining into a rotating wheel. This time–

It was big enough to engulf the ghost entirely!

As the water slowly rotated, the shadows were pulled away. The evil spirit was revealed, and at their core, they were nothing more than a scared child with dark and haunted eyes.

Booker collapsed onto one knee in front of the child, gasping. He was spent. Whatever he’d just done– it had taken everything he had.

Slowly, Brother Han released the child, who reached forward to touch Booker’s shoulder. “Thank you.” He said, his voice small and weak like a baby sparrow’s awkward whistle.

“Why were you in the wall?” Bookers sked. “Who put you there?”

“I don’t remember. It was a long time ago; but he had dark red gloves and he laughed. That’s what I remember. Not his face.” The child said slowly. Their body was dissolving like a flame going out, starting to pull away in threads of mist.

“Oh.” Booker said.

And passed out cold.

Secret Quest: Tools of the Master

Goal: Uncover a hidden use of Dialyze or Furnace.

Reward: Page of the Master’s Book,

— — —

Booker woke up in clean white sheets, on a thin mattress of clean straw. He woke up slowly, painfully, prodded out of a comfortable sleep by the aches and pains of his existence. His wrist was hot and burning within a crude pine-splint cast, and his entire body felt drained.

The pungent smell of herbal medicine filled the air, and bells swung slowly on the open windowsill.

Beside him, hunched over a desk, an old man was preparing medicine. He ground it out into paste with a mortar and pestle, tapping the instrument against the bowl’s edge and scraping off the little bit stuck on as he finished.

Something in Booker’s memories of alchemy approved of that. This doctor was clearly a fastidious man who wasted nothing.

“Don’t get up just now. You’re still in a dangerous state.” The doctor said. He was a man with graying black hair tied up into a neat bun, a mustache that descended like a pair of dagger on either side of his mouth, and a pair of dark spectacles fixed atop his nose. “I hear you tangled with a spirit.”

“That’s right. I think we won, too.” Booker tilted his head to look at the table besides the bed. Sitting there was the Spirit Summoning Amulet and the pill vial.

“Against spirits, it’s not unknown for something like this to happen. Your soul has been damaged. In fact, its been split totally in two. If you aren’t careful, your consciousness will fade. You’ll begin to see your body move without you commanding it, and worse, you will be happy to watch, observing yourself go through life as if trapped within a dream. In time you will forget who it is you are watching, and be a stranger to yourself. All of this will happen quickly if you suffer an emotional shock or pressure to your soul.”

Booker listened for a moment, shocked, and then began to chuckle.

“Young sir, this is no laughing matter.” The doctor seemed shocked.

Booker just waved a hand. “I know it’s not, but it’s not what you think either. I’ll be fine.”

“Young sir, you underestimate the damage. In this state it would be shocking if you could stand–”

But Booker had already sat up. He swung himself out of bed, and grabbed his robes, which had been neatly folded and hung over the edge. As he got dressed the doctor watched him with a shocked expression.

“Unfathomable…” The old man whispered.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any money right now. If it’s okay with you, I’ll come back and work off the debt later.” Booker said casually as he struggled with his robes, trying to get them on without moving his ruined right hand.

How am I going to explain this to my master…

“Ah, that’ll be alright, I suppose…” The doctor nervously adjusted his spectacles. “The Sect does a great deal of charitable work that allows my little hospital to survive.”

“Oh, and the people who brought me here…” Booker realized he’d never gotten their names.

“Ah yes, them. I ah, admit, when they brought me an unconscious disciple of the Sect, I thought they might have knocked you unconscious themselves before realizing who you were.”

“Nothing like that. They’ve been upstanding citizens.” Booker turned back. “If they come back asking about me, tell them I’ll meet them at the teahouse in three days, when the evening bell rings.”

In three days he’d be paid his stipend from the Sect. Then he could start trying to earn some money his own way.

For now…

I have a mission reward to cash in.

— — —

“Two Sect members died? The spirit was in the Yellow Realm?” The old granny manning the rewards station regarded the bamboo slip with suspicion. “And you lived?”

He held up his broken hand. “Barely.”

“Still… You know this will be inspected, correct? If two disciples have died, there will be questions. If, heavens forbid, you did something…”

“It was a Yellow-Realm Spirit. I had some luck. And my story will hold up to inspection.”

“Very well then.” She ripped a palm-sized ticket off a roll of similar papers, with a grid of nine spaces stamped onto it. Lifting up a gaudy-looking official seal, she stamped down on the upper left corner, leaving behind an orange mark, then stamped again beneath it.

Sensing his confusion as he took the ticket, she pointed to a needle on the countertop and noted, “That ticket is a record of how many pills the Sect owes you for your services. Those stamps mean you’re entitled to two Sunflower-Saffron Cultivation Pills. Now prick your thumb and stamp it onto the blank box at the bottom, while saying your name.”

Picking up the needle, Booker followed instructions. As he pressed his thumb down the blood smeared out and took on the perfect shape of his fingerprint. When he pulled his finger back, the blood shone for a few seconds with rainbow light.

“This is a simple identification charm, using the magic of the Blood-Sensing Needle. If anyone else places their thumb over that mark and says a name, it will burn up immediately. If you do it, however, the ticket will simply light up. This way you stupid kids can’t fight each other over scraps.”

“Huh. I was actually worried about that, thank you.” Booker said, picking up the ticket and spending a moment to admire that someone had stamped little patterns of fish swimming among the clouds at each corner.

The Sect’s craftsmanship really shines.

“Of course you were worried, cripple.” She laughed, waving a hand as if swatting a fly. “But we’ve dealt with generations of you brats– we know what you get up to, because we broke every rule we could in our own time..”

Booker paused, then suddenly decided to ask her. Something had been weighing on his mind… “Granny, if you don’t mind me asking, then… Is there a way for a disciple to issue a request for other disciples?”

“Hmm?”

“The spirit in the bathhouse, it was a child whose corpse was buried in the walls. I don’t think someone who does that, and gets away with it, I don’t think someone like that would stop at killing just once. And I know if I’m going to investigate, I’ll need help from the Sect’s cultivating disciples.” He bowed his head respectfully, in case it made any difference. “Please granny, if there’s any way for me to issue this as a new request, it might save lives.”

“Keh. Who told you to be such a bleeding heart? I swear, youthful beauty is wasted on soft-hearted men…” The old granny cackled to herself, leafing through a large register book. “Regarding your issue, there’s maybe a way. We have a certain fund to issue charitable missions on behalf of the poor. The funding is out this month, but I can start a request next month. It’s jumping a bit of a line, but… You say it was a child in a wall?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Poor thing. Well, we’ll try to sort things out.” She sighed, counting on his silver liang for the mission.

“Thank you granny.” Grinning broadly, Booker straightened up.

“Thank you nothing. You really are a troublesome brat, dragging my good nature into this.” The old woman snapped. “Now get gone!”

— — —

“You really encountered a Yellow-Realm Spirit? You’re lucky to have survived. Those foolish boys, using you as bait… They didn’t know that Spirits prefer to hunt cultivators.” Booker’s master was examining his broken hand with care. But he looked up from his study, and gave Booker a sour glare. “And you, going back in after seeing all that? The height of foolishness, boy! What did you have to gain from it?”

“After unearthing that corpse, I knew I had to set things right. Sorry for making you worry.” Booker replied. It was a straightforward and honorable answer, and one he felt was close enough to the full truth; he was only leaving out that he needed the Spirit Vision Pill to begin with.

“Hmm. I see I’ll waste a lot of time worrying over you.” Taking a pair of scissors, he snipped off the cast around Booker’s right hand. “By rights, I should forbid you from taking any more Sect requests. They’re not supposed to interfere with your rightful duties.”

“I’m sorry, and I won’t take any more requests, but I can’t promise I won’t be wounded again.” This world is too dangerous, Booker thought. It feels like at any second things could turn towards violence. “I’m going to find whoever killed that child.”

“And what if they’re a cultivator? Hmm? Why, in that case, they would shatter every bone in your body and cast your worthless corpse to the gutters.” The old man snorted derisively.

“I’ll have cultivators with me. The granny at the requests desk allowed me to put in a request.”

“And those cultivators will protect you? Think! The last two used you for fodder, why would these be any better?”

“There have to be some honorable people within the Sect! I refuse to believe you and I are the only ones here with any good intention.” Booker protested.

“Hmmph.” His master responded. “Who says I have good intentions?”

After that, there was nothing Booker could say.

“Good, now you see that nothing can be trusted. Give me your hand.” Taking a powdered green herb from the wall, he added water in a small bowl, mixing it with a whisk and applying the frothing mixture to Booker’s broken hand.

It felt… strange. Fizzy, but the fizzing was happening beneath his skin, a ticklish itch that made Booker grimace.

The old man snorted at the flicker of distress on Booker’s face. “Yes, it’s a somewhat uncomfortable feeling, but with this you won’t need a splint for such a thin fracture. The bone will naturally seal, and you won’t feel any pain.”

“I’m not complaining. The Sect can really do miracles.” Booker shook his hand. The pain was totally gone, replaced by the strange tingling feeling.

“Greenrot Salve, prepared from a fungus that grows only on trees of a hundred years.” The master recited proudly. “If you want the good of the Sect, boy, look no further than your books and tools. These are the arts of preserving life. Alchemy, you can trust in. Now, get to work.”

Booker would have argued further, but judging by the old man’s temper it would have just made things worse. He took up his station, beginning to peel and prepare large hairy roots, slicing away their rough gray exteriors to reveal pale smooth flesh within that faded from bright purple at the outside to an inner white.

Gem-Seeking Earth Root

Intact // Dull Quality

The root of a rare grass, which grows downwards seeking for nearby deposits of spiritual gemstone. Will produce rare flowers if it finds a shining treasure to latch onto. These flowers are prized for their poison nullifying powers.

Effects:

Cultivation Boost 5% (+)

Poison Nullification (-)

Purification 10% (+)

Potency 10% (+)

His knifework was clean and precise. His hands already seemed to know the work, and he chopped with an ease that would have put seasoned chefs to shame, dividing the roots and coring them of the poisonous purple flesh.

Sweat beaded on his brow and began to trickle into his eyes, so he wiped it away with the back of his hands.

When he looked back, his master was regarding him, fingers tracing the goatee on his chin. “There’s talent there.” He commented.

“Thank you.”

“In my day, alchemists who needed to defend themselves had a method.” He turned back to his work, sifting iron-black seeds through a sieve. “They would prepare a bamboo vial of poison, insert several needles, and seal them in place with wax to keep the concoction fresh. If done properly, the poison would be active and potent at the moment the needles were withdrawn.”

Booker nodded, slowly realizing what the old man meant – this was a way he could rely on himself, without needing the other disciples of the Sect to defend him. “What kinds of poison did they use?”

The old man just snorted. “Anything they could synthesize, for the most part. But I remember the oil of the Irongrass Seed and powdered Thornbean was effective at halting violence and sparing life. As for the needles, they have to be of utmost quality. You’ll want a material that can pierce the skin of Condensation Stage experts, otherwise your weapon will be useless. Finding the material for that…”

“Where do we get our materials?” Booker asked. “Surely the Sect parcels them out?”

“Parcels them out…” His master chuckled. “To us? To cripples? These are things that people risked and sometimes gave their lives to acquire… Spiritual herbs grow only in the wild, and that is where the monsters dwell. There is a ration of such things, were you to become a full student instead of a novice.”

He continued. “Alchemists like us naturally have some access. But we’re carefully monitored; the materials given to us are counted and recounted. We must return the proceeds of our creations to the Sect, always. That said… We are given some ability to conduct personal projects…”

Reaching into the neckline of his robe, he produced a talisman carved onto red lacquered wood, the characters written there bold and imposing. MOUNTAIN COMMISSARY SEAL.

“This seal is given to alchemists who reach the first level of the Sparrow’s Examination. Once you have it, the Sect will let you exchange your supply of pills for raw materials at a discount, and sell created pills back to them at a profit..”

Booker simply nodded, his eyes fixed on the seal.

If he had that seal, all bets were off. His alchemy seemed to be better and more efficient than anyone else’s technique – of the pills his master made, maybe ten in twenty survived the furnaces, the rest crumbling to a foul-smelling poison ash.

But Booker could manufacture pill after pill. His encounter with passing out after Dialyzing the ghost of spiritual impurity suggested there was a limit to his Furnace power too, but it was hard enough to reach that he could make five, maybe ten pills a night. At some point the problem wouldn’t be supply, but selling them back to the Sect without someone noticing just how prodigious his output was for a cripple.

“Now, come with me. I’ll show you the commissary where we buy these things.” His master said, heading for a side door Booker had never taken before. He paused at the threshold, and turned back. “Understand that these are challenges I am imposing upon you. I’m sure a clever apprentice could find a way to get the materials without a seal of their own – but you will acquire both the seal, and process the materials into a finished weapon, by your own hand. This is the requirement I have set for you to continue this investigation – if you cannot manage this, don’t even think of chasing a murderer!”

Again, Booker nodded dutifully, but inside he was grimacing. His first thought had been going to another alchemist and convincing them to buy materials on his behalf. It couldn’t be that hard…

The door led down a long hallway to a small basement. There, the smell of medicine was overpowering. Booker was totally hypnotized for a second, closing his eyes and trying to smell all the different, enticing scents mingling in the air. When he opened his eyes he was actually drooling and his master was casting a sideways eye in his direction.

He coughed, and regained his composure.

Sitting behind a metal grate was an old, old man, his eyebrows drooping over the edges of his eyes and descending like hairy white waterfalls down his face. His mouth was completely caved in around a lack of teeth.

“Fall Leaf.” His master dipped his head respectfully.

“Oh, Young Ping.” The old man’s head jerked up slightly, like the creaky adjustment of an animatronic figure. His bones were painfully clear under his skin, which was as thin and papery as parchment. “Come by again so soon?”

“Fall Leaf, this is my new apprentice. He’ll be coming by on his own soon.” Master Ping gestured for Booker to step forward, which he did, offering a more formal bow.

“No need, no need. A polite young man, but I’m not worth bowing to. Just a minor functionary, stowed away in this basement.”

“Fall Leaf was a premier alchemist of his generation. Mentioning his name would still turn heads.” Booker’s master said, with a tone of argument.

“Was is was. Here is here. I was there, and now I’m here.” And the old Fall Leaf wheezed, like he’d said something deeply funny. His eyes finally opened a crack, and suddenly, Booker felt an unmistakable chill run down his spine. It was like the air was no longer his friend, but a weight fighting to go still and dead inside his lungs, and he had to struggle just to breathe.

Those eyes…

They were piercing and green. Not the eyes of a withered old husk at all.

Booker caught his pose starting to slip, and consciously adjusted himself, standing up straight and tall like a tree.

“Hmm.” The old man hummed, and his eyes slipped close again. The feeling left immediately; the tension in the air fell slack. “Come all this way to present him to me, eh? Boy, your master has notions of greatness for you. But he often does have foolish notions, keh.”

“It’s not just that. My apprentice is the usual sort: foolish and brash.” His master said. “I would like him to survive longer than usual.”

“Oh-ho. Hold here one second, I’ve got just the thing.” With a sudden mischief in his voice, the old man headed back into the shelves, returning a moment later with a cedarwood box pulled out from among the rows. He set it down on the counter below the grate.

Sitting within were spiky clay shells, with twisted rag-paper fuses sticking out of the tops. Booker immediately recognized them. They were grenades.

“Absolutely not!” His master immediately protested.

“Haha, but these are my own special mix! Absolutely no chance of an early detonation.” The old man declared proudly. “How else is your apprentice supposed to defend himself, hmm?”

Booker’s hands itched. He wanted those grenades; the old man was right, they were perfect weapons for someone who couldn’t cultivate. If gunpowder could be made stronger through alchemy, so much the better.

“Absolutely not.” His master repeated. “Do you want him to come back to me without any fingers?”

“Keh, of course not. No no, forgive this old man his foolishness – I must be going senile. What did you think I should have brought out, then? Blinding powder, so the wind can blow it back into his own eyes? Poisons, so a slip of the knife can leave him on the floor, breathless and green? Hmm? What weapon is there, that can make you safer?”

His master shrank a little, rebuked. He glanced back towards Booker.

Booker grimaced and hesitated. He should probably tend to his relationship with the old master, and refuse. Despite all odds the old man seemed to like him, and their relationship had brought him to this point to begin with. But he needed those grenades, precisely because what he was planning would leave the old man worrying to death.

“Hmm. Listening to both of you, I have to say, those things won’t make me safer. They’re explosives, if I understand correctly. But… They will help direct the dangers I encounter. The more danger I hold in my own hand, the less I’m likely to be swept away by events. And although my master’s worries are well-founded, I have to be willing to bet on my own capability to handle them, yes? If I harm myself this way, there is at least a lesson to be learned, while being harmed for being without them would teach me nothing.”

He’d only been here for– it felt like no time at all. But he was beginning to understand how these people thought, and more importantly, argued. They liked an argument to be constructed in front of them, step by step, as solidly as laying the foundations of a house. It almost didn’t matter who was correct – more who took the correct steps in arriving at their conclusion.

It was something he thought he could work with. Build an argument like a house – or in this case, a bridge that allowed his master to cross over to the other side of the argument, without getting himself muddy by backing down.

“Hmmph.” His master definitely had been hoping for support, but he grimaced and let the matter drop, gesturing for Booker to take the grenades. “Very well – Fall Leaf, you have the heart of a young man still, and clearly you know what toys excite such souls.”

Booker couldn’t repress a quiet smile. His master really had a way with the backhanded compliment, when he was annoyed.

“How long are the fuses?” He asked, taking the tray.

“Hmm, a smart question. There’s about a second and a half on those, but– here’s a smarter answer. Remove the fuses. Make your own. That way, you’ll never have to question anything but yourself.”

Booker nodded. That was smart. Even if you bought grenades, you should make the fuses yourself so you couldn’t be punished for someone else’s mistake.

“What’s the blast distance on these? And are they only gunpowder?”

“Keh! You’ve played with similar toys before, eh? They’ll clear about five meters. The ones with a spiky casing, those are just powder, but these…” He turned over a smooth, round grenade casing, and pointed to a blot of wax on the underside. “Under the wax is a second compartment for adding poison dusts and other fun tricks. And if you add poison to a few metal arrowheads, it will scatter another five meters.”

Booker was grinning merrily. These really were clever – and he had no doubt they’d surprise anyone who thought being a cripple might make him a soft target.

“Alright, alright. I’ll pay for these –” His master put down a ticket slip marked with numerous seals. “But remember, if you lose your fingers you’ll be unable to continue as my apprentice.”

“I’ll be careful.” Booker promised, working to hide his grin. Oh, this is going to be fun…

Together, they returned up the stairs and hall to the alchemy room, Booker’s new acquisitions stowed in a safe wrapping of cotton fluff within his satchel bag. But as they returned, Booker began to feel an odd weakness in his right hand.

He looked down and it was shaking.

— — —

By the time he’d completed his duties of chopping, cutting, and skinning vegetables for four long hours, the tremble in his hand was almost unbearable. The process of breaking down the roots, which had been so easy he’d barely given it any thought, had become a torment. It took him both hands to cut now, crudely chopping down with the heel of his palm against the flat of the blade.His motions were abrupt and clumsy.

Every few seconds, he had to pause and wipe sweat from his forehead. It was constantly there, building up into heavy beads that dripped down into his eyes. His whole body felt hot and cold at once, a sensation concentrated on the edges of his skin, creating points of discomfort as his robes stuck to the sweat on his skin.

His guts bubbled and boiled, a tight discomfort radiating out from his stomach.

His heart beat erratically, too fast.

As soon as his duties were complete he stumbled away, croaking a goodbye and moving as quickly as he could bear down the halls. By the time he made it to his room, his throat was full of acid. He kicked the door shut behind him and puked into the chamberpot.

There was no mistaking it…

He’d gone without Rain’s drug of choice for two days now. He was going into withdrawal.

Booker didn’t have a plan for this, but he had a hope. The hope that the ghostflower medicine ‘strengthening his soul’ would let him ride through easier.

Clumsily, wiping his mouth, he dug the ghostflower up from where he’d hidden it below the floorboards. It was absolute torture to force his body through the steps of preparing and cutting the leaves, grinding them down to paste with his crude equipment.

But when it was done, he took out the Spirit Vision Pill and clenched it in his palm. “Dialyze.”

When he opened his hand, there were two distinct piles of powder. They both contained the Ghost Sight property, so he poured one off into a small pot and mixed the other with the ground-up flower pulp, stirring with his knife and scratching the surface of the table.

“Furnace.”

The fire crackled under his hand, then dissolved, breaking into teardrops of flame and then into smoke.

He grimaced, leaning against the table for support. He focused until he was almost blind.

“Furnace.” He insisted.

This time the fire held strong, and the mixture was slowly transformed into a pitch-black pill. As the fire bled away and only the medicine remained, a ring of mist slowly appeared around the perfectly round sphere.

He tried to sink into a meditative pose, but soon he found himself lying on the floor.

Pushing the pill through his numb lips, he swallowed.