Alchemy God: the Ultimate Pill Master

The roaring cheers of the crowd echoed through the arena as the grand finale of the Junior Academy warrior competition unfolded. In the center of the stage stood two prodigies, each representing their respective academies, and both carrying the weight of their schools’ expectations. The energy in the air was electric, thick with excitement and tension, as Sandro Dovah faced off against his final opponent.

Sandro, the pride of the Dragonlands Royal Academy, adjusted his stance, his green hair glinting under the midday sun. His emerald eyes gleamed with confidence as he locked gazes with Fen Zhu, the fiery-eyed boy standing across from him, representing Tall Tale Academy. Despite being only ten years old, Sandro had already earned the title of No. 1 prodigy—a title he wasn’t planning to lose today.

“Ready?” the referee asked, glancing between the two boys.

Sandro gave a sharp nod, never breaking eye contact with Fen Zhu. His opponent was formidable, with swift reflexes and a relentless fighting style, but Sandro knew he was faster, stronger, and more tactical. Today, he would prove it.

The referee’s hand shot up, then cut down through the air. “Begin!”

Fen Zhu lunged forward first, closing the distance between them in an instant. His fists, small but precise, aimed for Sandro’s midsection, but Sandro was ready. With a graceful sidestep, Sandro avoided the blows, his movements fluid as water. Fen Zhu spun on his heel, delivering a roundhouse kick aimed at Sandro’s head, but once again, Sandro was faster. He ducked beneath the kick, sweeping Fen Zhu’s legs out from under him in one smooth motion.

The crowd gasped as Fen Zhu crashed to the ground, but Sandro barely paused. His instincts, honed through years of rigorous training, told him to press the advantage. With a quick leap, he aimed a downward punch at Fen Zhu’s chest, but Fen Zhu managed to roll out of the way at the last second, springing back to his feet.

“You’re not bad,” Sandro admitted, his voice steady despite the intensity of the fight.

Fen Zhu’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he darted forward again, this time throwing a barrage of punches and kicks in rapid succession. Sandro blocked each one with ease, his arms moving almost too fast for the eye to follow. The two boys danced around the arena, their movements a blur of strikes, blocks, and dodges.

For a moment, it seemed like Fen Zhu might gain the upper hand. His relentless attacks forced Sandro onto the defensive, pushing him closer to the edge of the arena. But just as Fen Zhu raised his fist for what could have been a decisive strike, Sandro moved.

In a flash, Sandro ducked beneath the punch, sweeping his leg out to knock Fen Zhu off balance. As Fen Zhu staggered, Sandro delivered a powerful palm strike to his chest, sending the other boy skidding backward across the arena floor.

The audience erupted into cheers as Fen Zhu struggled to regain his footing, but Sandro wasn’t finished. With a burst of speed, he closed the distance between them and unleashed a spinning kick that caught Fen Zhu square in the side. The force of the blow sent Fen Zhu flying through the air, crashing into the arena’s boundary wall with a thud.

Sandro straightened up, a triumphant smile spreading across his face. He had done it. Fen Zhu was down, and there was no way he was getting back up.

The referee, who had been watching the match intently, began walking toward the center of the arena, preparing to announce Sandro as the victor. Sandro relaxed his stance, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead as he waited for the declaration of his victory.

Sandro stood tall, his heart still racing from the intensity of the match, but victory was in his grasp. The referee was just about to start the countdown when a faint sound reached his ears. His eyes flicked to the side—Fen Zhu was moving.

Sandro’s confidence faltered for a moment as Fen Zhu slowly rose to his feet, his face twisted in determination. Sandro narrowed his eyes. How is he standing?

Across the arena, Fen Zhu’s master, a tall, imposing figure draped in dark robes, nodded to his student. A smirk tugged at the corners of the master's lips, an unsettling mix of pride and malice. Fen Zhu’s expression mirrored his master’s as he straightened, his breathing steady. He whispered something under his breath, the words too faint for the crowd to hear, but Sandro felt it—an ominous shift in the air.

Before Sandro or the referee could react, Fen Zhu chanted louder, his voice cutting through the noise of the arena. Ancient words filled the space, and with each syllable, the air around Fen Zhu seemed to thrum with power.

The crowd’s murmurs of confusion quickly turned to gasps of horror.

“No!” shouted one of Sandro’s teachers from the sidelines, recognizing the spell for what it was. “That’s forbidden!”

Sandro's eyes widened, but before he could make sense of what was happening, Fen Zhu charged forward, his feet barely touching the ground. Sandro began to turn, instinctively moving to dodge, but Fen Zhu was already there. His fist connected with Sandro’s right side, the impact so fast and powerful that Sandro didn’t even have time to brace.

Pain exploded through Sandro’s body as he staggered, his eyes going wide in shock. Fen Zhu skidded past him, but something strange began to happen. Golden-red threads materialized in the air, wrapping around Sandro’s body, connecting him to Fen Zhu’s hand. For a brief, terrifying moment, Sandro felt his strength being pulled away.

With a sharp, decisive motion, Fen Zhu closed his fist. The golden-red threads snapped and exploded, sending a violent surge of electricity coursing through Sandro’s body. His muscles seized as the crackling energy spread, every nerve in his body screaming in agony. The crowd gasped as Sandro’s body went limp, crumpling to the ground in a heap.

The arena fell into a stunned silence, and then chaos erupted.

The Dragonlord himself stood from his royal seat, his voice booming across the stadium. “This is an outrage! Tall Tale Academy, you will pay for this treachery!” His words carried the weight of authority, but the master of Tall Tale Academy remained unbothered, a sinister smile playing on his lips.

From the stands, Sandro’s teachers rushed to the edge of the arena, their faces pale with fury. “That move is forbidden! Stop the match!” one of them shouted at the referee, but it was too late.

The referee, visibly shaken, waved his arms frantically. “Disqualified! Tall Tale Academy is disqualified!” he yelled, trying to restore order.

But Fen Zhu and his master didn’t care. The young prodigy simply dusted himself off, his expression one of smug satisfaction. He looked up to his master, who nodded approvingly.

Behind them, Sandro’s motionless body lay on the ground, unmoving.

The Dragonlands Royal Academy’s head instructor stormed over to the officials, pointing an accusing finger at Fen Zhu’s master. “You’ve gone too far! You’ve broken the sacred rules!” But the dark-robed master only smiled, pulling a phone from his pocket. He turned away from the shouting, dialing a number, his voice calm as he spoke into the receiver.

“It is done, just as you requested,” he said quietly, before slipping the phone back into his robes.

The scene shifted to the medical wing of the academy, where doctors hurriedly worked over Sandro’s unconscious form. The room was filled with the soft hum of magic as various healers applied their most powerful spells, hands glowing as they hovered over his body.

“We need to stabilize his energy channels,” one doctor said urgently. “His meridians are damaged, but maybe we can—”

“Stop,” another healer said, shaking her head. Her hands hovered over Sandro’s chest, her face grim. “There’s nothing we can do. His meridians… they’re shattered beyond repair.”

The room fell into a heavy silence. Sandro’s master, standing by the doorway, felt his heart sink. He took a step forward, his voice trembling. “Are you saying… there’s no way to fix him? Not even with time?”

The healer met his gaze, her eyes filled with sorrow. “I’m sorry. He’ll never be able to cultivate again. His path… it ends here.”

The words hit like a hammer. Sandro’s teachers exchanged looks of disbelief, the weight of the news too much to bear. One of them clenched his fists. “This can’t be happening… He was our best! He was supposed to be the future of the Dragonlands!”

But no one took the news harder than Sandro himself.

His eyes fluttered open as the voices around him became clearer. His body felt weak, as if every ounce of strength had been drained from him. He tried to move, but his limbs refused to respond. The pain in his side was a dull throb now, but it was nothing compared to the hollowness that settled in his chest.

“What… what happened?” Sandro rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

His master knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Sandro… you need to rest. You—”

“Tell me,” Sandro demanded, his green eyes searching his master’s face. “What did Fen Zhu do to me?”

There was a pause. No one wanted to say the words, but Sandro could see the truth in their eyes.

“Your meridians… they’re gone,” his master finally said, his voice filled with sorrow. “You… you can’t cultivate anymore.”

Sandro’s world shattered at that moment. Everything he had worked for, all the training, all the dreams of becoming the greatest warrior in the land—it was gone. He was nothing now. Just… trash.

Tears welled up in his eyes as the reality of it settled in. “I’m… I’m trash,” he whispered to himself, the words heavy with despair.

The bright afternoon sun cast long shadows over the grand halls of the Dragonlands Royal Academy, where students trained relentlessly, pushing themselves to become the best warriors they could be. Sounds of clashing weapons, shouted orders, and focused meditations filled the air as young warriors prepared for quests that would one day take them beyond the academy’s gates.

But far from the bustling training grounds, in the quiet, neglected back corners of the academy, there was only the faint scraping sound of a broom against the stone floor.

Sandro Dovah, once hailed as a prodigy, now stood hunched over a broom, painstakingly sweeping away dust and debris. His green hair, once vibrant and full of life, was now dull and unkempt. He wore the plain brown tunic of a servant, far removed from the prestigious academy robes he used to don. His green eyes, once bright with determination, were tired and hollow.

It had been five years since the fateful tournament. Five years since Fen Zhu’s illegal move had destroyed Sandro’s cultivation. And five years since Sandro had fallen from grace.

By the mercy of the Dragonlord, Sandro had been allowed to remain at the academy, but only in a capacity far beneath the students he once surpassed. He was forbidden from combat, meditation, or crafting courses—activities that had once been his life. Now, he swept floors, cleaned weapons, and performed menial tasks just to earn a place to sleep and food to eat. The academy no longer saw him as a student, and the teachers, masters, and peers who once admired him now barely acknowledged his existence.

As he swept, Sandro’s mind drifted. He thought of leaving the academy more times than he could count. But where would he go? He had no family, no place to call home. He had been an orphan for as long as he could remember, raised within the walls of the academy under the care of his master, the only person who had ever truly cared for him. His master had been more than a mentor—he had been like a grandfather. But even he was gone now, having passed away three years ago while on a futile quest to find a way to restore Sandro’s shattered meridians.

Sandro let out a long, weary sigh and continued sweeping.

Suddenly, a hard object slammed into the back of his head, sending him stumbling forward. He dropped the broom and clutched his head in pain, recoiling from the blow. Laughter erupted from behind him.

“Oops! Sorry about that, trash boy!” a voice sneered.

Sandro turned slowly, his vision swimming for a moment before he focused on the source of the laughter. Standing before him were three boys, all of them wearing the academy’s regal training uniforms, each with an arrogant smirk plastered on their faces. Garreth Ebner, or "Garble" as he was known, stood at the front, his arms crossed over his chest. Flanking him were his two friends, Fynn Ryder, known as "Flame," and Carl Von Dohenhiem, or "Clump." The three of them had once been his peers. Now, they were among the top students at the academy, each having reached level 30, and they never missed an opportunity to remind Sandro of his fall.

Garble snorted. “What’s the matter, Sandro? You missed a spot.” He kicked the bucket that had struck Sandro in the head, sending it clattering across the floor. “Clean it up!”

Sandro stared at the bucket for a moment, his fists clenching. He could feel the familiar burn of humiliation crawling up his spine. But he forced himself to keep his cool. He bent down, picked up the bucket, and began cleaning the mess without a word. He wanted to avoid any trouble, especially with the likes of Garble and his gang.

The trio of bullies continued to laugh, leaning against the wall as they watched Sandro clean.

Flame shook his head in mock pity. “You know, it’s a real shame. You used to be something, Sandro. Now look at you.” He made a show of wiping a fake tear from his eye.

Clump guffawed. “Yeah, sweeping floors like the trash you are!”

Sandro gritted his teeth but remained silent. He had learned long ago that talking back would only make things worse. But Garble wasn’t satisfied with Sandro’s silence. He stepped forward, looming over Sandro, who was still crouched on the ground.

“You know,” Garble began, his voice dripping with disdain, “the least you could do is thank us for letting you stay here. After all, you’re not really one of us anymore. You’re just a waste of space.”

Sandro froze. His hands tightened around the broom, his knuckles turning white. For five years, he had endured the taunts, the whispers, the stares. He had swallowed his pride more times than he could count. But something in Garble’s words, the smugness, the arrogance, pushed him over the edge.

Without looking up, Sandro spoke, his voice low and dripping with sarcasm. “Yes, Garble, show the world how powerful and strong you are, by bullying the only person in this academy you know won’t fight back. How grand of you.”

For a moment, there was silence. The sarcasm in Sandro’s voice cut through the air like a knife. Then Garble’s face twisted with anger.

“What did you say?” he growled.

Before Sandro could react, Garble lunged at him, his fist connecting with Sandro’s face in a blur. Sandro staggered back, but Garble wasn’t done. He grabbed Sandro by the collar and threw him against the wall with a force that knocked the wind out of him. The next few moments were a blur of punches and kicks as Garble unleashed his fury.

Sandro barely had time to raise his arms in defense as Garble’s fists pounded into him. Blood splattered against the wall as Garble’s punches hit their mark again and again. Flame and Clump stood by, laughing and cheering Garble on, their voices a distant echo in Sandro’s dazed mind.

Just when it seemed like Garble was done, he delivered a final, brutal kick to Sandro’s ribs, sending him crumpling to the ground. Sandro lay there, gasping for breath, his vision blurry from the pain. He could taste blood in his mouth, and every inch of his body ached.

At that moment, the sound of approaching footsteps reached their ears. A teacher rounded the corner, her expression stern as she took in the scene before her.

“What’s going on here?” she demanded, glaring at the trio.

Garble quickly straightened up, wiping his bloody knuckles on his uniform. “Nothing, ma’am. Just a little… disagreement.”

The teacher’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing to Garble or his friends. Instead, she turned to Sandro, who was still lying on the ground, blood dripping from his nose and mouth.

“Sandro,” the teacher said coldly, “I expect that blood splatter on the wall to be gone by the time I return. Do I make myself clear?”

Sandro looked up at her through swollen eyes, but he didn’t have the strength to respond. The teacher tossed a bucket of water and a brush at his feet before turning on her heel and walking away, her robes fluttering behind her.

Garble smirked down at Sandro one last time before he and his friends followed the teacher, leaving Sandro alone in the alley, bruised and beaten.

With a pained groan, Sandro pushed himself up, wiping the blood from his face. He stared at the bucket and brush for a long moment before finally grabbing them. His hands trembled as he began scrubbing the blood off the wall, each stroke a painful reminder of how far he had fallen.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the academy in a deep orange glow, Sandro dragged his tired body back to his shack. It was a modest building, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the academy grounds, far from the grandeur of the main halls. Once, it had been the home of his master, a place filled with warmth and wisdom. Now, it was falling apart, just like everything else in his life.

The roof leaked when it rained, the windows were cracked, and the wooden walls were weathered and worn. The academy elders barely acknowledged the shack's existence, much like they barely acknowledged Sandro anymore. Still, it was all he had. He pushed open the creaking door and stumbled inside, every muscle in his body aching from the beating Garble had given him earlier.

His stomach rumbled, but the food he was supposed to eat had been ruined. Garble, in his usual cruel fashion, had knocked Sandro’s plate to the ground, laughing as the contents spilled across the dirt. Sandro had been forced to clean it up, but this time, Garble hadn’t gotten away unscathed. Elder Ruthford had witnessed the act and scolded Garble for wasting food. The elder wasn’t angry out of concern for Sandro—he simply hated seeing resources squandered. Sandro was used to it by now. It didn’t matter if he was humiliated or left hungry; as long as the academy’s precious resources weren’t wasted, the elders were content.

Sighing, Sandro rubbed his aching ribs and collapsed onto his cot. For a moment, he lay there, staring up at the cracked ceiling. His mind wandered, drifting between memories of his former glory and the endless cycle of menial tasks that now filled his days. But he couldn’t afford to dwell on the past for too long.

With a heavy sigh, Sandro sat up and activated his space ring, summoning a stack of books onto his lap. They were his textbooks—one of the few things he was still allowed to study. He couldn’t participate in combat or crafting classes, but at least he could keep up with the academy’s basic academic courses. The subjects ranged from history to economics, to the theory of cultivation.

“It’s better than nothing,” Sandro muttered to himself as he opened one of the books, Basic Knowledge of Cultivation. He flipped through the familiar pages, his eyes scanning the text.

In the book, cultivation was broken down into stages. Fighting, elixirs, pills, meditation, Sandro thought, repeating the steps in his mind. And special abilities, if you’re lucky enough to be born with one.

He stared at the words on the page, his fingers tracing over the descriptions of how a warrior could increase their strength. Meditation was the most common method—focusing on internal energy and slowly expanding one's capabilities. But there were other ways. Elixirs and pills, for instance, were alchemical creations that could boost one's abilities rapidly. They were rare, but powerful. And for those born with special abilities—unique talents or gifts—they could enhance their cultivation naturally, without as much effort.

Sandro’s eyes lingered on the section about alchemy. He had always been fascinated by it, the idea of creating powerful pills and elixirs that could change the course of one’s cultivation journey. His master had often spoken about the wonders of alchemy, and Sandro had dreamed of learning the craft himself one day. But that dream, like so many others, had been crushed.

“Alchemy,” Sandro whispered. “If only…” But he shook his head. What was the point in thinking about it now? He wasn’t allowed to take the alchemy courses. He wasn’t allowed to do anything anymore. All because of Fen Zhu.

A wave of bitterness surged through him as he thought of the boy who had ruined his life. If it weren’t for Fen Zhu, Sandro would still be a prodigy. He’d be taking advanced classes, participating in tournaments, and preparing for quests. But instead, here he was—sitting in a broken-down shack, reading textbooks about things he could never do.

He slammed the book shut, frustration bubbling up inside him. “What’s the point?” he muttered, tossing the book aside. He buried his face in his hands, feeling the familiar sting of hopelessness creeping in.

Just then, the ground beneath him trembled.

Sandro froze, lifting his head. The tremor was slight at first, barely noticeable. But then it grew stronger, shaking the floorboards beneath his feet. The shack’s walls creaked, dust falling from the rafters.

“What the…?” Sandro muttered, standing up. He swayed slightly as the ground continued to quake, his instincts kicking in. He didn’t know what was happening, but it wasn’t good.

Suddenly, the academy’s loudspeakers crackled to life, the voice of the academy’s head instructor echoing across the grounds.

“Attention, all students and staff. Report to the main hall immediately. This is not a drill. I repeat, report to the main hall for protection.”

Sandro’s heart raced. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

Without wasting another second, he grabbed his space ring and shoved his books back inside. His body still ached from the beating, but he pushed the pain aside and bolted for the door. The tremors beneath his feet were growing stronger, and he could hear distant shouts from the academy grounds.

Sandro burst out of his shack, his eyes scanning the horizon. In the distance, he could see students and staff running toward the main hall, some of them stumbling as the ground shook violently beneath them.

He had no idea what was going on, but he didn’t intend to stick around and find out. Gritting his teeth, Sandro broke into a run, heading straight for the main hall.

Sandro’s heart pounded in his chest as he sprinted toward the main gate of the academy. The tremors beneath his feet made it difficult to maintain his balance, but he pressed on, weaving between the fleeing students. Panic gripped the academy, and the air was thick with tension.

When Sandro finally reached the gate, his relief was short-lived. The massive iron gates were closed, the enchanted chains securing them in place, shimmering with protective magic. He rushed to the gate, slamming his fists against the cold metal.

“Hey! Let me in!” Sandro shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation. “I need to get inside!”

Beyond the gate, he could see a group of upperclass students and a few masters standing guard. They were tense, weapons drawn, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the threat. But none of them spared a glance in Sandro’s direction.

“Please!” Sandro yelled, waving his arms frantically. “I’m still out here!”

But it was as if he didn’t exist. The students and masters remained focused on the threat, ignoring his cries for help. Sandro’s throat tightened, frustration and fear bubbling up inside him. He was an outcast—forgotten and invisible, even in the face of danger.

Suddenly, a deafening crash shattered the tense silence. A massive boulder, larger than a horse, slammed into the wall next to the gate with a thunderous boom. The impact sent a shockwave through the ground, knocking Sandro off his feet. Upperclass students were hurled into the air, their bodies tumbling like rag dolls.

Sandro scrambled back, his heart racing as dust and debris filled the air. His ears rang from the explosion, and his body shook with the force of the quake. He braced himself, half-expecting the wall to collapse on top of him.

When the dust settled, Sandro saw the upperclass students regaining their footing. By some miracle, none of them seemed to be injured, but the attack had rattled them. Without hesitation, they began chanting the activation code for the academy’s magic shield.

Sandro’s eyes widened in horror as he realized what they were about to do. “No, wait!” he shouted, staggering to his feet. “Don’t leave me out here!”

But it was too late. The shimmering barrier of magical energy began to rise from the ground, encasing the entire academy in a protective dome. Sandro reached the gate just in time to watch the barrier seal him out, leaving him standing alone on the other side.

His chest tightened with panic as he banged his fists against the invisible wall. “No! Please, let me in!” he cried, but the barrier remained, and the students inside the academy were now safe—while he was left to fend for himself.

As Sandro’s hands fell to his sides in defeat, something caught his eye. Amid the rubble and dust, a small, gleaming object lay just a few feet away. Sandro crouched down and picked it up, turning the object over in his hand. It was a dagger, beautifully crafted with intricate engravings along the hilt. As his eyes fell on the name etched into the blade, his breath caught in his throat.

“Erina Dragovich…” he whispered.

The name sent a flood of memories rushing back to him. Ember… this is Ember’s dagger. Ember Dragovich was the youngest daughter of the Dragonlord and Sandro’s childhood friend. She had been his closest companion, always challenging him in friendly rivalry. They had trained together, laughed together, and shared dreams of becoming the strongest warriors in the land. But after the accident, after his fall from grace, they had drifted apart. Ember had risen through the ranks, while Sandro had faded into obscurity.

He stared at the dagger in his hand, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of his lips. She must have dropped it during the chaos, he thought.

Just then, the ground trembled again, a violent quake that shook the very air around him. Sandro’s head snapped up, and his eyes widened in alarm. A boulder, even larger than the first, crashed into the earth just behind him, sending up a cloud of dust and debris.

I can’t stay here, he thought, panic gripping his chest. He glanced at the enchanted barrier one last time, knowing there was no way through it.

With nowhere else to go, Sandro turned and ran—his feet carrying him toward the dense forest southeast of the academy. His heart pounded in his chest as he sprinted into the woods, the sounds of destruction echoing behind him. He knew the forest was dangerous, filled with monsters and creatures that could tear him apart in seconds. But right now, it was his only option.

“Monster Behavior, Volume 3, Chapter 6,” he recited to himself as he ran, his mind racing. “Danger triggers.”

He remembered the lessons he had studied about how monsters reacted to large-scale threats. Quakes and natural disasters would cause even the most dangerous beasts to flee, seeking shelter far from the epicenter of the destruction. It was a gamble, but Sandro hoped the monsters in the forest had already fled.

“They’ll be gone… they have to be.” He forced himself to believe it, his legs burning as he pushed deeper into the forest.

The trees around him grew thicker, their gnarled branches clawing at the sky. The underbrush was dense, making it harder to navigate, but Sandro pressed on, his breathing ragged and his mind focused on one thing: survival.