The draught tasted of copper and bitter root. A faint grey trace clouded the last mouthful, so fine that Yan felt no grit against his tongue. He swallowed it with the rest of the draught. When he tipped the cup to check the bottom, a single grey flake, no larger than a grain of rice, slid out and settled beside the wet ring on the table. The light caught one edge.
“What is that?” he asked.
Elder Zhao leaned over the cup. “Sediment from an old confiscated jar. The trace in the draught appears inert. It is too little to affect the recipe.”
“Which jar?”
“An ancient alchemical vessel. The assistants have already checked the residue.”
Yan had no time to ask who had opened it or why the flake was in his dose. The qi moved first. It gathered below his navel, then surged through his chest and shoulders. Heat scraped along the channels in his arms. His fingers locked around the rim of the cup.
The pain sharpened. His breath stopped in his throat.
It felt as if the channels beneath his skin had been rubbed with hot grit. The pressure ran from his belly to his chest, then split toward both shoulders. His fingers would not open. He tried to loosen them and felt the pain bite deeper. Zhao’s voice came from somewhere across the room, asking Wu for the tray. The words reached Yan late, softened by the rush of blood in his ears.
He had been warned about corrosion. He expected a tearing sensation, a break in the route, maybe an ache that would last for days. Instead the pain changed while it was happening. The line under his ribs, which had always tightened when he tried to circulate qi, opened a fraction. He could not tell if that was relief or another part of the injury. He could only keep breathing.
A clear notice appeared in his mind, silent and bright.
The Bizarre System has awakened.
Qi accumulation retained. Meridian corrosion reversed into meridian refinement.
The words stayed in his mind while the room kept moving around him. Yan did not know what a system was or whether this was a dream brought on by pain. He did know the pressure in his arms had shifted. The channels no longer scraped. They felt clean and broad, like a drain after the ash had been pulled free.
The pressure turned in the same breath. What had been a scrape became a current, warm and gentle, flowing along the route that had always caught beneath his ribs. It opened without force. Qi moved through his arms and returned to his abdomen as easily as water through a clean channel. There was no second wave and no hidden injury waiting behind the first. The draught’s warmth gathered low in his belly, steady and pleasing.
He flexed his fingers one at a time. The hand that had locked around the cup opened with no sharp pull. His knuckles were damp with spilled tea, not blood. He pressed two fingers against his wrist and felt his pulse move in a steady line. The room still smelled of bitter root. Zhao’s sleeve brushed the table as he leaned over him.
Yan kept his face turned down. If he showed relief, the elder might ask why. If he showed strength, Wu might test his grip. He forced one breath to shake and let his shoulder sag against the table edge. The channels underneath carried qi cleanly, but the rest of him had to look like a man who had swallowed a dangerous medicine.
The cup fell from his hand and struck the floor. Yan let his knees buckle. He caught himself on one palm and stayed low, letting his face show only pain and surprise.
“Yan!” Wu grabbed his elbow. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded hoarse. “Water.”
Zhao came around the table. “Prepare a purge. The corrosion may worsen.”
Wu reached for a jar on the shelf. Yan slowed his breathing. He did not want Zhao to see how easily the new qi moved. He had no explanation for the notice, no idea what the grey flake had done, and no way to know whether the change would last. He knew only that the pain had eased and the channels felt clearer.
Wu brought the pulse tray. Zhao held out a hand for Yan’s wrist. “Look at me. Can you sit upright?”
Yan did so, slowly. He let his shoulder tremble once before settling his arm on the table. Wu counted his pulse. Zhao watched the reading.
“The pulse is strong,” Wu said. “The circulation is smoother than the baseline.”
“Could that be the draught’s effect?” Zhao asked.
“It should be the opposite,” Wu said. “The card lists corrosion.”
Zhao frowned at the cup on the floor. “The result is inconclusive. Prepare the purge anyway.”
Yan looked at the jar Wu had brought. “What does the purge do?”
“It clears the batch from your channels,” Zhao said.
“Will it make the corrosion worse?”
“Not if we give it now.”
Yan held out his wrist for another reading. “Could you measure me first? The pulse is still changing.”
Wu glanced at Zhao. The elder looked at the tray, then at the testing card. “Take the reading.”
Wu counted again and wrote the time. The pulse had settled. Zhao looked displeased but did not order the purge poured. He asked Yan to stand.
Yan rose, keeping his movements slow. His legs held. He lifted his eyes only briefly, then lowered them again.
“Do you know where you are?” Zhao asked.
“In the testing room.”
“Do you remember what you drank?”
“Frostvine, river ginseng, and black salt.” Yan did not mention the flake. Zhao already knew it was there. “It burned through my chest.”
“Did you feel qi accumulate?”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“It hurts less.”
“Less than when?” Zhao asked.
“Less than when it was moving through my chest.”
“Is it gone?”
Yan let the pause stretch. “Mostly.”
Zhao studied him. “You should be in the infirmary for observation.”
Yan was grateful the elder had said it. Returning to the yard too soon would invite questions. “All right.”
Wu asked Yan to put his arm around his shoulder. The assistant’s robe smelled of soap and lamp oil. Yan used the support more than he needed, allowing his steps to drag. At the threshold, he had to duck under the door frame. The room swayed a little from the strain of holding his breath, and he let the stumble show.
“Easy,” Wu said.
“I’m fine.”
“You just asked for water.”
“I was thirsty.”
Wu gave a short, tired laugh. “That is not what Zhao asked.”
Yan kept his eyes down. “I answered him.”
The corridor turned past the testing rooms and ended at the infirmary door. A pair of workers with wrapped hands moved aside to let them pass. Wu lowered Yan onto the cot and went to fetch a basin. Alone for a moment, Yan let his breathing deepen. The circulation followed each breath without catching. A quiet warmth spread from his abdomen to his fingertips, light enough to feel like a pleasure rather than a force. His hands no longer trembled. Strength sat under his skin, new and startlingly clean. When Zhao entered, Yan let his shoulders sag again and tucked his hands beneath the blanket.