“Reborn with the Violet Bloom”

Chapter : 6 Reborn with the crimson demon seed

The Crimson Bath & The First Clash.

On the vast Aetherion Continent, every medicinal herb carried traces of spiritual essence. The difference lay not in whether such power existed, but in its purity, potency, and affinity. Some herbs were violent, overflowing with raw force. Others were gentle, slow-acting, and deceptively subtle.

The herbs stored on the Ground Floor of the Arcane Herb Pavilion belonged to the latter category.

They had undergone only the most basic preparation. Unrefined. Mild in effect. Safe enough to be consumed directly or simmered into simple medicinal brews. To high-level cultivators, they were barely worth a glance. To those at the beginning of their path, however, they were priceless.

Herbs within the Pavilion were meticulously categorized. Some strengthened flesh and sinew, others tempered internal organs. A smaller portion enhanced spiritual circulation, while rare shelves contained herbs meant for obscure or specialized uses.

As Eryndor Vale walked slowly between the wooden shelves, his footsteps light and measured, his brows gradually furrowed.

He recognized almost none of the engraved names.

A few sounded vaguely familiar, yet their properties were a mystery to him. This ignorance was not truly his own. The original owner of this frail body had never been permitted to enter the Pavilion. In the past, Eryndor had relied solely on purchased refined elixirs, pouring every waking moment into cultivation while ignoring medicinal theory entirely.

Normally, young clan members who entered this place were guided by elders—each herb selected with care, each quantity measured precisely. Someone wandering alone, unguided and deliberate, was exceedingly rare.

Was he going to leave empty-handed?

A quiet, bitter smile tugged at Eryndor’s lips.

Medicinal power depended on harmony. Randomly combining body-strengthening herbs would yield pitiful results—perhaps not even a tenth of what he required. Worse, improper mixtures could damage the body instead of repairing it.

Then—

“Hm?”

At the fifth shelf, a familiar name caught his eye.

Scarlet Core Seed.

His heartbeat skipped.

This herb originated from the Netherwilds, a harsh and hostile land infamous for breeding violent lifeforms. Yet paradoxically, some of the finest medicinal ingredients in existence came from that place.

In a previous life—within a world governed by rigid systems and numerical rules—Eryndor had walked the path of alchemical synthesis. Scarlet Core Seed had been a core ingredient in a beginner-grade concoction known as Flesh-Forging Crimson Soup, a brew designed to temporarily enhance physical attributes.

That world had been a game.

This one was not.

Suppressing the surge of excitement threatening to show on his face, Eryndor opened the wooden box.

Inside lay tiny seeds no larger than grains of rice, shimmering with a deep crimson sheen. He lifted one, rolling it gently between his fingers, examining the delicate vein-like patterns etched across its surface.

Identical.

Perfectly identical.

“Excellent.”

Without hesitation, he gathered a handful and wrapped them carefully in white parchment before moving on. Even if the formula failed in reality, it posed no danger. All herbs approved within the Pavilion were safe for consumption.

Moments later, he found Windveil Fern, its thin leaves pale and translucent.

Then Jadebone Lotus Kernel, smooth and faintly luminous.

After searching most of the hall, only one ingredient remained.

Bloodshade Bloom.

His gaze drifted toward the final shelves, clearly marked by warning plaques. He ignored the shelf labeled High Toxicity entirely and walked straight to Low Toxicity.

“Found you.”

The third box revealed crimson petals edged with faint black veins. Letting out a slow breath, Eryndor collected a measured amount.

According to Pavilion regulations, one could take up to five varieties of herbs, provided the total weight remained under one pound. His selection fell well within the limit.

Carrying four neatly wrapped packets, Eryndor approached the exit.

The elderly gatekeeper—a bald man hovering between wakefulness and sleep—sniffed each packet in turn, murmuring their names and weights with practiced indifference. When he reached the last bundle, his eyelids lifted slightly.

Such precision was rare.

Unaware that Eryndor had refined this knowledge across decades in another world, the old man merely nodded and waved him through.

Eryndor bowed politely, reclaimed his token, exchanged a brief greeting with Master Caelthorn, and hurried home.

The Crimson Bath

Steam filled the narrow kitchen, clinging to the wooden beams and fogging the air.

Eryndor sat cross-legged inside a large wooden tub, hot water rising to his chest. Nine radiant golden needles were embedded across his body, arranged in a precise and deliberate pattern. Each needle pulsed faintly, restrained power humming beneath their polished surfaces.

Through the rising steam, his silhouette wavered like a phantom.

At the doorway, Liora Ashwyn crouched beside a small alchemical stove, gently fanning the flames. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, and she stole nervous glances toward the tub, her fingers tightening around the ladle.

“You can pour it now,” Eryndor said calmly.

Liora hurried forward, lifting the pot with trembling hands. Avoiding his gaze, she poured the boiling liquid into the tub.

The water instantly turned deep crimson.

As the medicinal bath enveloped him, Eryndor closed his eyes and activated his needle technique. His acupoints vibrated violently, sending ripples of power through his body. One by one, every pore opened.

Crimson essence surged inward.

The golden needles hummed softly, guiding the medicinal force deep into muscle fibers and bone marrow. Pain followed—sharp, burning, relentless—but Eryndor did not move.

Slowly, the color of the water began to fade.

He felt it—atrophied muscles swelling, fragile bones hardening, vitality roaring back into his limbs like a long-dormant tide.

Had the herbs been consumed individually, much of their power would have dissipated or converted uselessly into spiritual energy. Bound together by Bloodshade Bloom, however, every trace was absorbed and refined.

This world worshipped spiritual power alone.

When that power failed, people were helpless.

No one truly understood the importance of strengthening the body itself.

Half an hour passed.

Then another.

By the time Eryndor opened his eyes, the medicinal force had been fully absorbed. The water in the tub had returned to clear, and the steam slowly dissipated.

He rose.

His frame was firm and balanced. His breathing steady. The sickly figure that had haunted him for years was gone.

Liora froze in place.

“U-Uncle…?”

Eryndor smiled gently.

“Yes.”

Her disbelief shattered into joy.

“You’re really better… You’re strong already!”

“If I soak again in three days,” Eryndor replied evenly, “I’ll be fully recovered.”

Watching her smile, warmth spread quietly through his chest.

He would not allow anyone to harm such a kind soul.

The First Clash

The setting sun painted the sky crimson.

Golden light streamed through the window as Eryndor finished his meditation. A final surge of energy swept through his body, washing away lingering stagnation and pushing his foundation to a new height.

An invisible threshold shattered.

His strength stabilized.

Satisfied, he rose and stepped outside.

The house was empty.

He knew where Liora had gone.

A narrow river wound through the residential district, its banks lined with women washing clothes and chatting idly. Among them, Liora stood out instantly—young, quiet, radiant.

Their chatter was broken by a sharp, mocking voice.

A plump woman approached, hips swaying.

Mirelda Crowe.

“Young widow,” she sneered, “still clinging to that dying uncle? You’d live like royalty if you served Lord Varenth.”

“I won’t,” Liora replied firmly, her voice trembling but resolute.

Mirelda scoffed. “That cripple should’ve died long ago—”

“Enough.”

A calm voice cut through the air.

Mirelda’s wrist was seized mid-gesture.

Eryndor stood beside Liora, eyes cold and unyielding.

“With a single breath,” he said quietly, “you insult my family.”

Power erupted.

Mirelda screamed as she was lifted off her feet and hurled into the river, water exploding upward in a chaotic splash.

Silence fell.

Eryndor turned to Liora.

“Let them talk,” he said softly.

“We’ll live our own lives.”

For the first time, she believed him.