In the underground deep pit beneath the Nine-Cauldron Crucible Tower, the air burned with the acrid reek of molten sulfur, boiling copper, and scorched granite.
A hundred feet below the street level of the Imperial Capital, deep within an ancient fiery vent chamber that predated the founding of Great Da-Qi, red magma bubbled sluggishly through dark rock channels. The dark cave radiated waves of choking, crimson heat that distorted the shadows like waves of hot grease rising above an open fire pit.
Standing on an iron check narrow high walkway above the magma pit was Grandmaster Ouyang.
The former Chief Judge of the Potion-maker Guild had shaved his singed beard. His once-clean stitched robes were covered in black coal soot and grease. And his bloodshot eyes burned with the manic, cornered hatred of an unsafe man with nothing left to lose.
Beside him stood three figures in black glass-and-crimson robes, their faces hidden beneath the heavy, rune-stitched hoods of the northern Thunder Fire Sect.
“The royal court guards have sealed our guild treasuries,” Ouyang rasped. His voice shook with poisonous desperation that rattled off the damp cave walls. “Patriarch Shen Canghai is a broken cripple. Third Prince Jiang Feng has been exiled to the northern salt mines. And that little royal brat Ling’er now holds the Emperor’s seal over all palace boiler works! If Lu Zhen survives the tournament finale tomorrow, every one of us will hang from the royal gibbets before sundown!”
The lead elder of the Thunder Fire Sect—an ancient fighter whose breathing sounded like grinding fiery foam-stone—stepped to the edge of the narrow high walkway.
The elder pointed a gnarled, ash-stained finger toward the center of the underground vault.
“He won’t survive tomorrow, Grandmaster Ouyang,” the elder hissed, his voice echoing over the bubbling magma like the rumble of an impending earthquake. “Look upon the old family weapon of the First Dynasty.”
Resting upon a huge foundation ring of solid black iron in the center of the cave was a thirty-foot-tall, riveted bronze giant beast: the Nine-Dragon Primordial Cauldron.
Forged ten thousand years ago by the legendary Potion-maker-Emperor of the First Dynasty, the massive vessel was carved with nine roaring dragons whose hollow mouths served as intake ports for the underground magma veins. The bronze hull was eight inches thick, stained black by thousand years of dragon fire, streaming an aura of ancient, dormant cataclysm that caused the very stone beneath their feet to shudder.
“Tomorrow’s final challenge is the refinement of the Grade-6 Heaven-Ascending Dragon Pill,” Ouyang sneered, a psychotic smile stretching across his soot-streaked lips. “We’ll wheel the Nine-Dragon Cauldron into the center of the Imperial Pill Plaza! We’ll unseal the deepest magma vents beneath the capital!”
Ouyang clenched his fists until his fingernails bit into his palms: “That peasant handyman uses a kitchen wok! He can’t withstand the spiritual backdraft of an ancient fire! And if the vessel becomes unstable... If the internal pressure exceeds holding... We let the ancient dragon detonate! The blast will turn to steam him, his students, and half the plaza! We can blame it on a tragic ground-shaking strange flaw, seize his corpse, and claim the Grand Champion title!”
The Thunder Fire elders laughed in low, rasping chimes that echoed into the fiery dark, having already sealed the emergency pressure relief ports with red stone glue.
* * *
Meanwhile, three miles away in the peaceful courtyard of Ironwood Peak’s temporary carriage house, the night was cool, calm, and fragrant with autumn pine needles.
Out front in the driveway, the forty Golden Core elders of the Shen Clan were still stuck waist-deep in the compacted pea gravel, groaning softly in the evening dew, unable to move a single muscle under the unbending grip of Frank’s maximum Judge soil compaction.
Inside the workshop, Frank sat at a heavy maple workbench beneath the soft yellow glow of an oil lamp. He wiped down his sixteen-inch cast-iron wok with a lint-free cotton cloth and a light coat of peanut oil.
Beside him, Shen Shitou was carefully organizing newly forged chisel bits made from the shattered shards of the old family divine sword, while Ling’er was reviewing royal blueprints for palace radiator retrofits. Niu Mang sat in the corner, happily sharpening his hard dark metal-iron trench shovel with a coarse whetstone: SHHHH-CLINK. SHHHH-CLINK.
Frank set the oily rag down, leaned back in his wooden stool. Then he closed his eyes to inspect his internal status.
In Frank’s eyes, the Heavenly Bug Tracker screen flared with deep internal tracking data.
Frank tapped his fingers rhythmically against the workbench, staring at the numbers with a slight frown.
“Four thousand eight hundred PSI static pressure,” Frank muttered to himself, shaking his head. “The Dantian pressure vessel is fully packed. The carbon core is fully soaked with spiritual hydrocarbons.”
Frank pulled his red carpenter’s pencil from behind his ear and sketched a quick phase-diagram curve on a scrap piece of butcher paper.
“To complete the phase shift from tightly packed carbon into a true nine-pattern diamond matrix, I need an external squeezing environment of at least fifteen thousand PSI and a core heat of ten million Degrees of star-heat,” Frank grumbled. “That’s basic material heat laws. In a diamond cubic crystal lattice, every carbon atom needs four covalent bonds arranged in a rigid tetrahedron. You can’t achieve that thickness with common firewood or standard spirit charcoal. The Gibbs free energy curve needs a sky-high heat spike.”
Frank looked toward the dark ceiling of the workshop, letting out a dry sigh.
“Where on earth am I going to find a fifteen-thousand-PSI overload explosion before breakfast tomorrow?” Frank murmured deadpan. “I need an uninspected, unvented high-pressure heavy-duty boiler to suffer a total heat runaway right in front of me.”
Across the workbench, Shen Shitou and Princess Ling’er paused in their work.
The two students exchanged a glance of deep, religious awe. Their hearts hammered against their ribs like thunderous war drums!
Master... Master is not merely preparing to refine pills tomorrow!
Master’s Dantian is already soaked with the power of a tightly packed mortal world! To forge his Golden Core, he doesn’t seek a secluded mountain cave, ancient medicines, or peaceful quiet focus! He is deliberately seeking a world-ending, star-annihilating explosion to swallow into his very belly!
Ling’er gripped her brass valve-wrench, her eyes shining with total respect: “Master’s Dao is truly that of the Ancient World-Forging Saints... While the grandmasters of the mortal realm cower before a single spark of earth fire, Master treats a fifteen-thousand-pound fiery blast as an afternoon snack!”
Shitou nodded with fierce, solemn conviction, clutching his sledgehammer: “We must ensure the workspace is clear tomorrow, Junior Sister. When Master feeds upon the dying star, no mortal vermin must interrupt his upkeep schedule.”
Frank, fully clueless to his students’ world-ending interpretations, yawned loudly, stretched his arms. Then he checked his pocket watch.
“It’s ten-thirty,” Frank said, sliding his seasoned wok into its canvas transport bag. “Get some sleep, crew. Tomorrow is the tournament finale. We’ll show up, stir-fry a batch of pills, pick up our ten-million-stone certificate, and load the sixty barges of steel for the trip home.”
* * *
Dawn broke over the Great Da-Qi Imperial Capital with a pale, golden light that washed across the terracotta roofs.
Long before the sunrise cleared the eastern mountains, the outer edge of the Imperial Pill Plaza was already choked with a never seen before ocean of two hundred thousand spectators!
Fighters from across three kingdoms, merchant lords, royal generals, and wandering martial artists packed every stone tier of the huge tiered arena. In the high royal viewing box sat Emperor Yan, dressed in golden ritual dragon robes. He was flanked by the Dowager Empress Yan in her floral housecoat, sipping warm tea from Frank’s padded thermos. Beside them sat Chief Arbiter Pill King Dan Kui, wearing his yellow builder hard hat with unbending pride.
In the center of the vast stone arena, twenty armored spirit-beasts—massive, six-legged iron-horned rhinos draped in heavy chain-mail barding—strained against thick steel tow-cables, their hooves gouging deep ruts into the flat stone slabs!
RUUUUUUUUUUUUMBLE.
The entire stadium shook with a deep, underground earthquake that caused the teacups on the VIP tables to rattle wildly!
Slowly, inexorably, the rhinos dragged the huge, thirty-foot Nine-Dragon Primordial Cauldron into the center of the competition stage!
The blackened bronze behemoth towered over the arena like a three-story castle, streaming waves of ancient heat that caused the morning mist to evaporate instantly into shimmering waves of ozone.
Standing around the cooking pot in clean crimson robes were Grandmaster Ouyang and twenty senior masters of the Potion-maker Guild, their chests puffed out with terrifying, royal arrogance!
“Citizens of Great Da-Qi!” Ouyang’s voice echoed across the two hundred thousand spectators, carried by thunderous sound-stones. “See the sacred relic of the First Dynasty! Today, before the Emperor and the Heavens, the Grand Finale commences!”
From the entrance tunnel, walking through the parted crowds with his hands in his denim pockets and a thermos tucked under his arm, came Frank.
Behind him marched Shen Shitou, Princess Jiang Ling’er. Niu Mang, calmly pushing their two-wheeled pine work cart. Tied down to the wooden bed with clean hemp rope was their seasoned sixteen-inch cast-iron wok, a metal spatula, a bottle of peanut oil, and Frank’s light metal clipboard.
The two hundred thousand spectators looked between the huge, three-story ancient bronze castle and Frank’s kitchen skillet. He erupted into an ear-splitting wave of frantic laughter!
“A frying pan!” a sect elder mocked, wiping tears of mirth from his cheeks. “He brought a kitchen wok to compete against the sacred Nine-Dragon Primordial Cauldron of the First Dynasty!”
Frank didn’t even glance at the laughing stands. He walked past the twenty panting spirit rhinos, stopped by the main tow cable. Then he tapped the frayed steel strands with his carpenter’s pencil.
“Look at this rigging, Niu Mang,” Frank muttered deadpan. “Unrated wire rope, no thimbles in the eye splices, and four broken strands right near the hitch pin. If one of those cables snaps under tension, it’ll whip across the first three rows of spectators and cut fifty people in half. Total disregard for public rigging safety.”
Niu Mang nodded solemnly, resting his chin on his shovel: “Very dangerous, Master. We should stay uphill.”