At the sixth hour of the nonstop boil, the light filtering through the high cleft of Red Mist Valley turned from murky grey to the deep purple of dusk.
Inside the workshop, the air was dense with the clean, healing aroma of packed ginseng and mountain fern. There was no sulfur tang, no oily stink of scorched resin—only the crisp, herbal sweetness of pure botanical extraction.
In the corner nook, Old Monster Gui sat on the edge of his bamboo recliner. His breathing had steadied. He gripped his hickory cane with both hands, his knuckles white.
“The sixth hour,” Gui croaked, his voice tight. “The water is spent. The broth has turned to steam. If you don’t lock the water drops within ten minutes, the vapor will escape through the seals or burn against the brass base.”
Gui pointed his cane toward the cooking pot. “Yan Ba’s boots will be at that door before the fifth watch bell strikes. If there are no pills in the tray, we’re dead men.”
“The timing is exact,” Pei Jing replied.
He stood in the draft pit, hands locked onto the hardwood lever, stance relaxed, breathing deep and slow.
To Pei Jing, the water drops of pills was not an act of divine prayer or spiritual chance. It was a classic heat-powered phase shift. Transforming a white-hot gas-vapor mixture into solid, crystal-clear spheres via controlled heat slope and outward-pulling water’s skin.
