The smell that escaped the baked-clay jar was not herbal.
It didn’t carry the clean, sweet scent of spirit clover or the sharp, refreshing bite of mountain ginseng. Apothecary He pried open the lead-lined lid with trembling fingers. Then, the shed filled with a greasy, cloying aroma of burnt almonds, sweet honey, and the clear, metal tang of battery acid.
Nestled in a bed of dry cotton wool sat a single pill.
It was the size of a pigeon’s egg, perfectly ball-shaped, its surface polished to a gleaming, mirror-like crimson finish that seemed to swirl with rainbow-bright rainbow oil. A faint, hypnotic spiral of golden vapor coiled lazily above the wax paper lining.
To any outer student in the Azure Cloud Sect, this was the holy grail: a Zhubang Dan—the Foundation Establishment Pill. The sole sky bridge between mortal Qi water drops and true spiritual immortality, valued at three thousand spirit stones on the open market.
“Three of them died last night,” Apothecary He rasped. He pulled a clay pipe from his stained sash, stuffing it with bitter weed, and lighting it with a trembling thumb-strike. His voice was thick with dry coughing. “Over in the Fourth Ward. Promising lads. Reached the 9th Layer of Qi Gathering, pooled their families’ life savings to buy Grand Fortune stock pills at the concourse.”
