Otherworldly Medicine King

Chapter 13: The Four Heirs

Nolan did not realize how exhausted he truly was until he was halfway down the stone path leading away from the training grounds.

At first, he walked as he always did. Back straight. Shoulders squared. Expression calm. Anyone watching would have assumed he had finished another ordinary session.

Then the world tilted.

His vision blurred at the edges. The ground seemed farther away than it should have been. His knees trembled so violently that for a heartbeat he honestly believed he might collapse face first onto the cold stone.

He forced himself to keep moving.

Every muscle in his body ached. Not the simple soreness of a hard workout, but something deeper. It felt as though a blacksmith had laid him across an anvil and struck him repeatedly with a hammer. His arms felt hollow. His shoulders burned. His palms were raw, skin split open in thin crimson lines.

He had cast Flower Burst again and again against the red-blood timber until his spiritual energy ran dry. In the moment, fueled by stubborn pride, it had almost felt glorious.

Now his body demanded payment.

His fingers twitched uncontrollably. His knuckles were swollen. Each step sent a dull vibration through his bones.

And yet, despite all of it, a faint smile tugged at his lips.

This was exactly what he needed.

The Muscle Strengthening and Bone Fortifying Elixir worked best when the body was pushed beyond its limit. Only when the muscles were torn and the bones strained could the medicine truly reshape them.

He drew in a slow breath and reached inward.

The strands of spiritual energy inside him were thin and fragile, like threads of smoke. Carefully, patiently, he gathered them together. He guided that fading warmth through his meridians, coaxing it to steady his shaking legs.

It was like trying to protect the last ember of a dying fire.

Still, it was enough to get him home.

The outer district of the clan estate was quiet at dusk. Smoke curled gently from kitchen chimneys. The air carried the comforting scent of cooking rice and roasted vegetables.

When Nolan entered his small courtyard, he found Luna kneeling beside a basket of freshly picked greens. Her movements were quick and practiced. A loose strand of dark hair clung to her cheek.

She glanced up.

And immediately froze.

“Nolan,” she said softly, rising to her feet. “What happened to you?”

He managed a crooked smile. “I fought a tree.”

Her brows knit together. “That is not funny.”

“It was not funny for the tree either,” he replied, though his voice sounded thin even to his own ears.

She stepped closer, studying his hands. Her expression shifted from irritation to concern.

“Sit down. Do not argue. I will prepare the bath.”

Within minutes, the quiet courtyard transformed into a flurry of activity. Luna chopped herbs and crushed roots with steady precision. Bitter fragrance filled the air as dried bark and powdered minerals were added to the pot.

Nolan measured the final ingredients himself, though his hands shook badly enough that he nearly spilled them twice. Luna did not comment, but she moved closer, ready to catch the pouch if he dropped it.

Steam thickened the kitchen until the windows fogged.

Half an hour later, Nolan lowered himself slowly into the large wooden tub beside the hearth.

The water was dark red, almost like diluted wine. Heat wrapped around him instantly, seeping into bruised muscle and cracked skin. When the liquid touched his split knuckles, he sucked in a sharp breath.

It burned.

For a moment, the pain intensified, crawling up his arms and into his shoulders.

Then it began to ease.

He leaned back slightly and exhaled.

Relief followed, heavy and warm.

From his travel pack, he removed nine slender golden needles. Their surfaces caught the firelight, glimmering faintly.

He steadied his breathing.

Then he began.

One needle after another slid into carefully chosen acupoints. His movements were precise. Insert. Twist. Adjust. Release. He had practiced this technique so many times that his fingers moved without hesitation.

When the ninth needle settled into place, a subtle vibration pulsed beneath his skin.

Heat surged through him.

The red liquid in the tub trembled, then seemed to come alive. It seeped into his pores in fine streams, threading through muscle and bone, flowing along his meridians like molten metal poured into a mold.

Nolan’s jaw tightened.

He did not cry out.

The elixir worked faster than before. He felt it clearly. His muscles absorbed the medicinal energy greedily. His bones, which had felt ready to splinter earlier, drank deeply of the strengthening essence.

The stubborn weakness that had plagued him since childhood was still present. He could sense it, like a thin wall resisting the flow.

But it was no longer solid.

It was thinning.

The dark red of the water began to fade.

Deep crimson softened to rose.

Rose shifted toward pale pink.

Sweat gathered along Nolan’s brow, though his body was finally relaxing instead of fighting. The warmth spread evenly, smoothing the damage left by overexertion.

Minutes passed in silence.

Then everything stilled.

The water in the tub had turned nearly clear.

The elixir’s power had been completely absorbed.

Carefully, Nolan removed each golden needle. He wiped them clean before placing them back into his pack. His breathing was steady now.

The pain had not vanished entirely, but it had dulled to something distant and manageable.

He leaned back against the rim of the tub. Outside, insects chirped softly in the night.

For the first time all day, his thoughts slowed.

The Illusory Realm.

It would open on the fifteenth of next month.

If he continued improving at this pace, perhaps he would not simply survive it.

Perhaps he would stand out.

That thought lingered only briefly before warmth overtook him.

Sleep came gently.

Within moments, Nolan drifted into deep, dreamless rest, unaware that his name had already begun to circulate among the highest ranks of the clan.

At the very center of the estate stood the ancestral residence known as the Hidden Blade Courtyard.

The structure was elegant without being extravagant. Stone walkways curved beneath carved arches. Lanterns glowed softly against white walls. The place radiated quiet authority.

Beneath a flowering tree, two men sat facing one another at a polished stone table. Steam curled from the porcelain cups between them.

The man on the left wore deep violet robes embroidered subtly at the cuffs. His beard was dark and neatly trimmed. Lines marked his face, though not from age alone. They spoke of responsibility.

This was Lord Alistair Vale, patriarch of the clan.

For three centuries, the Vale family had stood among the most powerful noble houses in the region. Under Alistair’s leadership, their influence had grown steadily. Trade flourished. Alliances strengthened. Rivals hesitated before acting.

His children were the pride of his legacy.

His eldest son had entered Spirit Communion at twelve. By fifteen he reached Spirit Fusion. At nineteen he stepped into Spirit Transformation. By twenty-five he stood at the ninth tier of that realm and was soon accepted as a direct disciple under the High Lord of the Sacred Summit.

His second son followed closely behind, reaching the ninth tier of Spirit Fusion at twenty-three before entering the renowned Celestial Order. Two years later, he had likely already broken into Spirit Transformation.

His fourth child, a daughter, possessed rare talent in both cultivation and alchemy. She refined a third rank spirit medicine at fourteen and later became the final apprentice of a grand alchemical master.

Three children. Three powerful factions.

Any patriarch would have been satisfied.

Yet Alistair Vale’s fingers remained wrapped around his untouched cup of tea.

There was another son.

The third.

Darius Vale.

His talent was not inferior to his brother’s. That much was clear. But discipline had never taken root in him. While his siblings trained relentlessly, Darius wandered.

Now in his early twenties, he remained at the eighth tier of Spirit Communion. Some younger branch members had already surpassed him.

Worse still, whispers followed him.

Within the estate, a quiet saying had begun to circulate.

The four heirs shine, but one carries shadow.

Every time Alistair thought of Darius, he felt like a craftsman staring at iron that refused to harden.

“Alistair.”

The man across from him spoke calmly.

It was the Ninth Elder of the council, the youngest among the nine yet far from inexperienced.

“We have an interesting development,” the elder said. “A prodigy has emerged among the branch families.”

Alistair’s brow lifted. “And I hear this from you?”

“The news surfaced only today. A young man advanced from the third tier of Spirit Gathering to the sixth in two days.”

Silence settled between them.

“Three tiers in two days,” Alistair repeated.

“Yes.”

“That borders on impossibility.”

“He was born frail,” the elder continued. “For ten years he stagnated at the first tier. Illness, weakness, mockery. Yet he continued training.”

Alistair leaned forward slightly.

“And now?”

“Now he surges forward.”

“What is his name?”

“Nolan King. Son of Rowan King, who died three years ago hunting a spirit beast.”

Recognition flickered across Alistair’s eyes.

“And his affinity?”

“Wood.”

That answer gave him pause.

“We possess no advanced wood techniques within the estate,” Alistair admitted. “The foundational Five Star Cycle will carry him only so far.”

They sat quietly.

Finally, Alistair spoke with decision.

“Watch him. If his talent proves genuine, we will seek proper techniques elsewhere. A rare sapling must not be left to wither.”

The elder nodded.

At that moment, footsteps echoed across the courtyard.

A young man in white entered with a relaxed smile.

“Father. Elder.”

It was Darius.

“Should you not be training in the Icefire Chamber?” Alistair asked coolly.

“I left this morning,” Darius replied. “I met Nolan King. His talent is real.”

The elder’s gaze sharpened.

“The Illusory Realm opens soon,” Darius continued. “Those under twenty are permitted entry. Let him join.”

Alistair considered briefly. “Anyone under twenty at sixth tier Spirit Gathering or higher may enter. If he qualifies, he will go.”

A faint flicker passed through Darius’s eyes.

“Fair enough.”

For a brief moment, under the elder’s watchful gaze, something tightened in his expression.

He inclined his head. “I will visit Mother.”

He departed without another word.

The courtyard grew quiet once more.

“You saw it,” the elder murmured.

“Yes,” Alistair replied.

Above them, clouds drifted slowly across the moon.

Far away, in a modest house near the edge of the estate, Nolan slept peacefully, unaware that powerful eyes now watched his path.

Unaware that the Illusory Realm would not simply test him.

It would reshape his fate.

And beneath the lantern light of the corridor, Darius Vale walked alone, a faint smile touching his lips.

“Let us see,” he whispered into the night, “how brightly you truly shine.”

The wind carried his words into darkness.