Alchemist Reborn: Ruler of the Immortal Legion

6

Han Chen tugged at the collar of the tuxedo, a scowl deepening on his face. This silk was supposed to be the finest in Arkas City, but to him, it felt like sandpaper against skin that was still trying to knit itself back together. Every time he moved, the fabric pulled against his shoulders, restricting the flow of Qi he was trying to pull from the stagnant air.

"Stop messing with the suit, Han Chen. You’re going to ruin the lines," Valerie snapped. Her voice was sharp, but he could hear the underlying tremor. She was wound tight, like a spring ready to snap.

Han Chen looked at himself in the full-length mirror. A stranger stared back—sharp jawline, eyes like cold gold, and a suit that made him look like one of the very vultures he planned to pluck. "This is ridiculous. How do your people fight in these things? It’s not clothing; it’s a high-priced straitjacket."

Valerie didn't look at him. She was busy checking the ceramic blade strapped to her thigh, hidden beneath the slit of her blood-red gown. "In the Obsidian Tower, we don't fight with fists. We fight with smiles and bank balances. So stop acting like a restless soldier and start acting like someone who belongs here."

"I don't belong here," Han Chen muttered, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble. "I belong on a throne of bones. This is just a costume for a circus."

Valerie paused, catching his gaze in the mirror. For a second, the commander of Sector 7 looked genuinely unsettled. The suit didn't hide the predator underneath; it just made the predator look more expensive. "Just… try not to kill anyone before the main event. We need that herb."

"I make no promises," Han Chen said, turning toward the door.

---

The Obsidian Tower stood in the center of the city like a giant, glass middle finger pointed at the sky. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of heavy perfume and the kind of oily stench that only comes from deep pockets and shallow souls. Han Chen walked through the lobby with his hands in his pockets, his gaze sweeping the room. He wasn't looking at the art; he was looking for threats.

"Don't be too obvious," Valerie whispered at his side, her arm linked with his.

"Too late," Han Chen replied.

He felt it immediately. In the far corner of the ballroom, behind a raven-shaped mask, sat a man who wasn't breathing like the others. His heartbeat was slow, rhythmic—a drumbeat in a room full of fluttery pulses. A cultivator. In this energy-starved world, finding someone like that was like finding a spark in a tinderbox.

"Raven," Han Chen murmured.

"Who?" Valerie asked.

"Our first piece of dead weight for the night."

The auction started with trash. That was the only word Han Chen had for it. Pieces of a meteor that were just common iron, rusted 'ancient' swords with no soul left in the metal, and vials of life-extending serum that were basically glorified caffeine. He watched with bored eyes as people screamed out bids of hundreds of millions.

Idiots, he thought. Buying their way into a longer grave.

Then, the pedestal rose.

The Heavenly Dragon Grass.

It was a small, twisting thing with gold-veined leaves and a root system that glowed with a soft, rhythmic amber. The air in the room suddenly felt heavier. Greed in a room like this wasn't just an emotion; it was a physical weight, thick enough to choke on.

"Five hundred million credits!" a man in the front row shouted.

"Eight hundred!"

"One billion!"

"Two billion and the eternal protection of the Shadow-Step Clan." The voice came from the Raven in the corner. It was a cold, dry sound that made the room go silent. In Arkas City, a debt from a cultivator clan was a blank check for safety.

The auctioneer, a woman in a shimmering gold dress, raised her gavel. "Two billion, going once… two billion, twice—"

"A single grain of Soul-Purifying Dust."

Han Chen’s voice wasn't loud, but it had a vibration that made the champagne flutes on the tables ring like tiny bells. He stepped forward, the crowd parting before him as if he carried a plague.

"What did you say, sir?" the auctioneer asked, looking confused. "We don't accept… dust."

Han Chen reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. He poured a tiny, glowing speck of golden grit onto the marble floor.

A wave of pure, crystalline energy erupted from the spot. The air, previously stale with cigar smoke and sweat, suddenly felt like the air at a mountain’s peak. People who had spent the last hour feeling tired or drunk suddenly stood up straight, their chronic pains vanishing in an instant.

"That grain," Han Chen said, his voice echoing in the dead silence, "will grant the owner of that herb thirty extra years of life and dissolve any cancer in their body by morning. Now, ask your bidders… can two billion credits buy a single second back from the Reaper?"

The Raven stood up, his chair screeching harshly against the floor. "You brat! Bringing fake tricks to a serious house? That’s glass and light, nothing more!"

Han Chen didn't even look at him. He walked straight onto the stage. With a casual flick of his finger, he shattered the 'bulletproof' glass casing as if it were a soap bubble. He reached in, plucking the Heavenly Dragon Grass from its soil.

"Who do you think you are?!" the Raven hissed, his hands beginning to glow with a sickly, pale-blue light. "You don't walk out of here with that!"

Han Chen turned, holding the glowing herb in one hand while the other stayed casually in his pocket. He looked at Valerie, who was already shifting her weight, her hand hovering over the slit in her dress.

"Valerie," Han Chen said.

"Yeah?"

"Burn."

The Raven lunged, his fingers curved into claws, his blue energy screaming. He was fast for a mortal, but to Han Chen, he was moving through mud. Han Chen didn't even use his hands. He just took a single step forward, his own golden aura flaring out in a violent, silent explosion.

The impact sent the Raven flying backward through three rows of chairs and into the marble wall. The cultivator’s mask shattered, revealing a face twisted in shock and agony.

"The auction is over," Han Chen announced to the room, his eyes scanning the terrified socialites. "Anyone who wants a refund, talk to the man in the wall."

He walked off the stage, gesturing for Valerie to follow. As they reached the exit, a dozen security guards with high-frequency batons blocked the way.

"Tigor," Han Chen called out into his earpiece.

The service elevators at the end of the hall exploded outward. Tigor and the Eternal Guard surged through the smoke, their black armor gleaming under the red emergency lights. They didn't fire guns. They used their bare hands, turning the elite security force into a pile of broken limbs in less than thirty seconds.

"Let’s go," Han Chen said, stepping over a groaning guard. "I have a date with a furnace, and I’m in no mood for more small talk."

As they reached the APC waiting in the garage, Valerie grabbed his arm. "You just declared war on the Shadow-Step Clan, Han Chen. They won't stop until you're dead."

Han Chen climbed into the vehicle, looking at the glowing herb in his hand. "Good. I was starting to worry the cultivators in this world were all as disappointing as that crow in the ballroom. Tell them to come. I’ve always preferred my ingredients to deliver themselves."