Ming knelt on a simple cushion in the center of a sterile, stone-walled chamber within the Greendrop estate. Seated opposite her was Peng, his posture erect and his expression one of calm observation. Flanking her were his two senior attendants, Sui and Vara, with whom Ming had become well-acquainted over the past few weeks. Their presence was no longer intimidating, but a familiar part of this grueling ritual. Vara held a medical kit of polished dark wood, while Sui stood ready with a basin of purified water and clean linens.

  "Let us begin once again," Peng announced, his voice echoing softly in the quiet room.

  Ming took a steadying breath, then reluctantly extended her bare arm, palm up. The pale skin of her forearm was already a faint tapestry of faded yellow and purple marks from previous sessions. Vara’s movements were swift and precise. She selected a needle of sharpened spirit-forged steel from the kit, then uncorked a small vial containing a viscous, emerald-green liquid that seemed to swirl with a malevolent light. She dipped the needle's tip, coating it carefully.

  Sui moved forward, gently but firmly grasping Ming's wrist and elbow to hold her arm perfectly steady. There was a moment of tense anticipation, then a quick, sharp prick as Vara expertly broke the skin.

  The attendants retreated immediately. Vara disposed of the contaminated needle in a lead-lined container that hummed with containment seals, and both watched Ming with clinical focus.

  The effect was swift and violent. A sickly, dark purple bloomed around the pinprick, like a bruise spreading with unnatural speed. It crawled up her arm, the discoloration accompanied by a deep, throbbing ache that quickly intensified into a burning coldness. Ming’s arm began to tremble uncontrollably. Beads of sweat formed on her brow, and her breathing became ragged, each inhale a shuddering effort as the toxin invaded her system.

  "Focus on your breath, Ming Shui," Peng instructed, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of discomfort. "Cycle your qi as you were taught. Isolate the invader. And remember, do not be a hero. If you cannot purge it, I will draw the poison out. There is no shame in preservation."

  Gritting her teeth, Ming forced her mind to calm. She visualized her spiritual energy, directing it to the epicenter of the cold fire in her arm. Following the intricate mental map Peng had drilled into her, she gathered her qi and pushed, concentrating the foreign substance towards the point of entry. With a final, focused exertion, a small jet of the vile green liquid was forcibly ejected from the puncture wound, spattering onto the stone floor where it sizzled faintly.

  But the battle was only half-won. A deeper, more insidious residue of the toxin remained, weaving its way into her tissues. This was the true test. Shifting her technique, Ming now used her qi not as a analytical tool. She surrounded the remaining poison, applying the "Dissolving Palm" technique Peng had taught her. Her spiritual energy worked to break the complex toxin down into simpler, less harmful components, mimicking the body's own processes but at an accelerated, conscious rate. She could feel it, a strange sensation of her own power dismantling the foreign agent molecule by molecule, weakening it until her body's natural immune response—fortified by weeks of this very training—could recognize and overwhelm the remnants.

  For several long minutes, the only sounds in the room were her controlled, rhythmic breathing and the faint sizzle of the expelled poison. Slowly, the violent purple discoloration on her arm began to recede, fading first to a dull blue, then a yellowish-green, before finally returning to the regulate hue of her skin, leaving only the fresh, tiny red dot of the needle prick.

  "Well done," Peng said, a note of genuine approval in his voice. "Your control improves each time. Sui, please apply the restorative balm."

  As Sui stepped forward to gently dress the small wound, Ming slumped slightly, exhaustion washing over her. She had endured, but the process was as mentally draining as it was physically painful.

  The cycle had become a grim routine. Since her arrival at the Greendrop estate. Her days had been measured by the number of vials emptied into her veins. Each session followed the same brutal pattern: the prick of the needle, the invasive chill of a new toxin, the frantic, painful internal battle to purge it, and the exhausting aftermath. They systematically increased the potency and altered the type of poison each time, ensuring her body and spirit never grew complacent.

  This agonizing process was the Greendrop clan's famed method for building resistance, and eventually, complete immunity. By forcing the body to confront and overcome a toxin using cultivated qi, it learned to recognize and dismantle the threat with increasing efficiency. Repeated exposure to the same poison would build a formidable defense, and a broad enough exposure to different types could grant a near-universal immunity.

  Ming understood the logic. But the timeframe allotted by the Alliance was a mere drop in the bucket compared to the lifetime of training required for such a grand goal. Instead, Peng was focusing on a practical, if still painful, curriculum: building her resistance to a select list of the most common and insidious poisons a rising hero might encounter.

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  "Once you have rested for a few minutes, we will begin the next round," Peng stated, his tone as neutral as if he were commenting on the weather.

  A low, involuntary groan escaped Ming's lips, and for a single, unguarded moment, her face contorted into a mask of pure weariness and resentment. It was a critical slip. The Jinsu Fairies had drilled into her the vital importance of maintaining a placid, unreadable expression—a neutral mask to avoid giving rivals ammunition or revealing weakness. In her exhaustion, the mask had cracked.

  Peng's eyes, sharp and perceptive, caught the fleeting expression. A thin, knowing smile touched his lips, devoid of warmth. "The Jinsu Fairies taught you well. I see, however, that you have learned to not like me."

  Ming gasped softly, her heart lurching. The Fairies had warned her that powerful cultivators would be adept at reading the subtlest tells, using emotional leverage as a political tool. The fact that Peng had discerned her feelings the instant her guard dropped was terrifying. "N-No, Teacher Peng, it's not that!" she stammered, scrambling to rebuild her composure. "I-I am simply tired, I—"

  "It is alright," he interrupted, his voice still calm, almost detached. "You are not in trouble. You are far from the first student I have trained who grew to dislike me. I once had a disciple who was convinced I held a personal hatred for her, based solely on my demeanor of distancing from them. I assume your reasoning is similar."

  Ming's gaze dropped to the floor, a hot flush of shame creeping up her neck. She was unwilling to voice the accusations in her heart: that his distance felt like disdain, that his refusal to offer a comforting hand felt like cruelty, that his constant, clinical observation made her feel less like a person and more like a specimen. His blunt acknowledgment of the truth left her nowhere to hide, cornered by her own silent judgments. She simply nodded, unable to meet his eyes, the silence between them speaking volumes.

  “My coldness is deliberate,” Peng explained, his voice losing its clinical edge and gaining a note of profound weariness. “It is a shield, one every child of the Greendrop clan is taught from the moment they can understand words. And the reason for it is this.”

  With a subtle pulse of qi, he beckoned the lead-lined disposal case towards him. He reached inside, ignoring the faint, corrosive hum of the contained toxins, and retrieved one of the used needles, its tip still stained with the emerald poison from Ming’s last session. Before she could protest or even fully comprehend his actions, he deliberately pricked the tip of his own finger.

  Ming’s eyes widened in shock, expecting a bead of crimson. But what welled up from the tiny wound was not red. It was a vibrant, sinister green. A single drop of this viridian blood fell onto the reinforced metal of the case. Instead of beading up, it sizzled violently, eating through the specialized alloy as if it were parchment, leaving a smoldering, pin-sized hole straight through to the other side.

  “Every fluid in the body of a Greendrop clansmember,” Peng said, his voice flat as he wiped his finger on a specially treated cloth that immediately began to dissolve, “from our saliva to our sweat, carries a lethal toxin. Our blood is the most potent of all. We are taught to be unpleasant, to be distant, to make people want to keep away from us. It is the only kindness we can offer. I cannot so much as adjust a bandage on your arm without risking poisoning you through the natural oils on my skin. That is why Sui and Vara attend to you. Every task that a master should perform for his disciple—every gesture of direct care—is a potential death sentence from my hand.”

  The revelation struck Ming. All her assumptions shattered in an instant. His aloofness wasn't contempt; it was a heartbreaking act of protection. The distance she had interpreted as disgust was a wall built to keep her safe. A wave of shame washed over her for her earlier resentment.

  “How… how did this happen?” she whispered, her voice filled with a new, horrified empathy.

  “Instinctual Refinement,” Peng replied, a term Ming had learned at the Silver Quill regarding powerful cultivation traits that could become embedded in a bloodline. “Our ancestors dedicated themselves to the art of poison immunity for so many generations that our very lineage adapted. Our bodies now instinctively refine themselves from birth to resist all toxins. But this profound adaptation came with a cruel paradox: the very process that makes us immune also saturates our essence with venom. We, who have sworn our lives to healing the world from poison, have become walking vessels of it. We are physicians who cannot offer a healing touch.”

  Hearing his story, Ming’s heart ached for him and his entire clan. She imagined a life devoid of casual contact—no comforting pat on the shoulder, no helping hand, no embrace. The loneliness of such an existence was unimaginable.

  “This is why our clan is eternally grateful to the Sacred Qilin Order,” Peng continued, his gaze softening slightly. “They saw past our curse and recognized our purpose. They gave us sanctuary and purpose, preventing us from becoming complete outcasts. And it is why, before you leave us, we are determined to make you as resistant to the world’s toxins. So, for my necessary coldness, for the distance I must keep, I humbly ask for your forgiveness.”

  To her utter astonishment, Peng Greendrop, a high-ranking master of a revered clan, lowered his head and performed a deep, formal prostration before her, a student.

  Ming was speechless. In the rigid hierarchy of the cultivation world, such an act from a teacher to a disciple was almost unheard of. It spoke of a humility and pain that transcended pride. “No… please, get up. It’s alright,” she managed, her voice thick with emotion. “I… I didn’t understand. I see now.”

  “I am glad you understand,” Peng said, rising smoothly back to his seated position. The moment of raw vulnerability passed, and his professional demeanor returned. “Now then, let us continue with your training.”

  Ming groaned internally. While her newfound sympathy for Peng was genuine, it evaporated entirely in the face of the fresh vial of shimmering toxin Vara was now uncorking. Understanding his reasons didn't make the impending pain any less excruciating.

  As Ming continued training she couldn’t help but feel like someone was watching her.

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