The Hidden Sovereign: 100 Days to Conquer the Academy

The Alchemy of Scrap Metal

Time Remaining: 1 Hour, 55 Minutes.

The "Ghost Market" of the capital wasn't on any map. Located in the labyrinthine alleyways of the Old District, it was a place where laws were suggestions and cash was king.

Han Ye walked through the smog, his hood pulled low. The air smelled of sulfur, unwashed bodies, and illicit spices.

“Commander,” Blackhawk’s voice was tense. “You have less than two hours before the bank seizes Su Qing’s company. You need 50 million. The only things selling for that price in this market are illegal organs or stolen military tech. Which one are we selling?”

“Neither,” Han Ye said, stopping in front of a grimy stall piled high with withered roots and blackened herbs. “We’re selling trash.”

The stall owner, a toothless old man, squinted at Han Ye. “Buying or looking? If you’re looking, move on. This is the reject pile. Dead Spirit Grass. Useless.”

“I’ll take the whole pile,” Han Ye said, tossing a crumpled 100-yuan bill onto the table.

The old man laughed, snatching the money. “No refunds, kid. Enjoy your compost.”

Han Ye scooped the blackened roots into his bag. To the world, this was garbage—Spirit Grass that had died before reaching maturity. But Han Ye knew the truth. The energy didn't leave the dead root; it just condensed into the core.

He moved to a secluded corner of the alley, behind a dumpster. He pulled out a cheap, portable butane stove and a small, rusted iron pot he had bought for five yuan.

“You’re going to refine a Tier-9 Serum… in a soup pot?” Blackhawk asked, sounding skeptical.

“The tools don't make the master,” Han Ye muttered, lighting the stove. “The fire does.”

He tossed the dead roots into the pot. He didn't add water. Instead, he placed his hand against the side of the rusted metal. He closed his eyes and pushed a microscopic thread of his own "Internal Qi" into the metal.

The 100-Day Seal prevented him from using his Qi for combat, but it said nothing about cooking.

The pot hissed. The black roots didn't burn; they melted. A pungent, acrid smoke rose up, smelling like rotten eggs. Passersby gagged and hurried away.

“Disgusting,” a mercenary scoffed, walking past. “Someone’s cooking sewage.”

Han Ye ignored them. His internal clock was ticking.

45 minutes left.

He turned off the heat. Inside the pot, the black sludge had vanished. In its place sat three small, jagged pills. They were ugly, gray, and looked like dried mud.

But if you looked closely, a faint, golden vein pulsed inside them.

[Item Created: Soldier’s Second Wind] [Grade: Military Restricted - Class S] [Effect: Instantly repairs ruptured meridians and stops internal hemorrhaging.]

“Let’s go,” Han Ye said, scooping the pills into a plastic sandwich bag. “Time to rob the rich.”

---

Heaven’s Pavilion Auction House.

This was the most exclusive building in the Ghost Market. Gold-leaf doors, marble floors, and guards who looked like they ate steroids for breakfast.

Han Ye walked up to the front desk, still wearing his hoodie and carrying a sandwich bag.

The receptionist, a woman in a sharp silk dress, didn't even look up from her nails. “Delivery entrance is in the back.”

“I’m not delivering,” Han Ye said, placing the sandwich bag on the pristine glass counter. “I’m selling.”

The receptionist looked at the bag. She looked at the ugly gray pills inside. Then she looked at Han Ye.

“Security,” she said flatly. “Get this beggar out of here.”

Two massive guards stepped forward.

“Wait,” Han Ye said, his voice calm but authoritative. “Tell your Appraiser that I have a cure for ‘White Phosphorus Lung.’ If he sends me away, the person coughing blood in your VIP suite right now will be dead by midnight.”

The receptionist froze.

How did he know?

The owner of the Pavilion, Elder Qin, had been suffering from an old chemical weapon injury for decades. It was a closely guarded secret. Just ten minutes ago, Elder Qin had collapsed in the upstairs suite, coughing blood.

“You… wait here,” the receptionist stammered, her arrogance replaced by fear. She grabbed the phone.

Two minutes later, an elevator pinged. An elderly man in a white appraiser’s robe rushed out, looking flustered. This was Master Gu, the Chief Alchemist of the Pavilion.

“Who claims to have a cure?” Master Gu demanded, scanning the lobby. When he saw Han Ye, his face fell. “You? A street rat?”

“The cure is on the counter,” Han Ye said, pointing to the sandwich bag.

Master Gu picked up the bag, opened it, and sniffed. He recoiled. “It smells like burnt rubber! You dare insult Heaven’s Pavilion with this poison?”

He raised his hand to throw the bag into the trash.

“If you throw that away,” Han Ye said coldly, “you’re throwing away Elder Qin’s life. And fifty million dollars.”

Master Gu hesitated. The smell was awful, but there was… something else. A faint heat radiating from the pills.

“Test it,” Han Ye challenged. “Scrape off a grain of dust from the pill. Feed it to a dying rat. If the rat doesn't run a marathon in ten seconds, you can shoot me.”

Master Gu stared at Han Ye. The boy’s eyes were terrifyingly confident.

“Fine,” Master Gu hissed. “But if this is a prank, I’ll have your hands cut off.”

Master Gu took a small knife, scraped a microscopic amount of gray powder, and dropped it into a glass of water. The water instantly turned a vibrant, glowing gold.

Master Gu gasped. “Liquid Gold... Impossible. This purity...”

He ran back to the elevator without a word, clutching the bag like it was a holy relic.

---

The VIP Suite.

Elder Qin lay on a silk bed, his face grey, blood trickling from his lips. His breath was a shallow rattle.

“Master Gu,” Elder Qin wheezed. “Is… is it time?”

“Elder, drink this!” Master Gu burst in, holding the glass of golden water.

The bodyguards drew their weapons, but Master Gu ignored them, pouring the liquid into Elder Qin’s mouth.

For three seconds, nothing happened.

Then, Elder Qin’s eyes snapped open.

A deep, audible crack echoed from his chest—the sound of his lungs re-inflating. Color rushed back to his pale cheeks. The rattling breath vanished, replaced by a strong, deep inhale.

Elder Qin sat up, ripping the oxygen mask off his face. He took a deep breath, then laughed—a booming, powerful laugh.

“The pain… it’s gone!” Elder Qin roared, clenching his fists. “I feel like I’m thirty again! Who made this? This is a Divine Elixir!”

Master Gu was trembling. “A young man in the lobby, Elder. He brought three pills. We only used dust.”

“Three?” Elder Qin’s eyes widened. “Get him up here! I will buy them all! Name the price!”

---

The Negotiation.

Han Ye sat in the velvet chair of the VIP suite, looking bored.

Elder Qin, now standing and looking vigorous, bowed deeply—a shocking sight for the staff. “Young Master. You have saved my life. I am Qin Long. How can I repay you?”

“I don't need your gratitude,” Han Ye said, his voice disguised. “I need fifty million. Cash. Transferred to an offshore holding account in the next ten minutes.”

Master Gu gasped. “Fifty million? Kid, that’s extortion!”

“My life is worth more than fifty million!” Elder Qin barked at his subordinate. He turned to Han Ye. “Done. But on one condition. You must tell me the name of the Master who refined these.”

Han Ye stood up, checking his watch. 20 minutes remaining.

“The Master prefers to remain a ghost,” Han Ye said. “But if you want more business in the future… keep your mouth shut about who sold this to you.”

Elder Qin nodded solemnly. “The Dragon Hall honors its debts. The money is sent.”

Han Ye’s burner phone buzzed.

[Notification: Transfer Received. $50,000,000.00]

Han Ye pulled his hood up. “Pleasure doing business.”

---

The Corporate Office of Su Enterprise.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the boardroom.

Wei Jun sat at the head of the table, his feet up on the mahogany surface. He checked his Rolex.

“Time’s up, Qing,” Wei Jun smirked at Su Qing, who sat opposite him, looking defeated. “The bank closes in one minute. Sign the transfer papers. The company is mine.”

Su Qing gripped her pen, her knuckles white. She had called everyone. No one would lend her the money. Wei Jun had blocked every avenue.

“Please,” Su Qing whispered. “This company was my father’s life.”

“And now it’s my toy,” Wei Jun laughed. “Sign it, or I’ll have the eviction team throw your grandfather out of his hospital bed.”

Su Qing’s hand shook as she lowered the pen to the paper.

BZZT.

Her phone on the table lit up. A notification.

[Bank Alert: Deposit Received. $50,000,000.00 via Anonymous Source.]

Su Qing froze. She stared at the screen. She blinked, thinking she was hallucinating.

“What’s wrong?” Wei Jun frowned. “Crying already?”

Su Qing looked up. The despair in her eyes was gone, replaced by shock—and fire.

She picked up the transfer papers and slowly ripped them in half.

“Get your feet off my table, Wei Jun,” Su Qing said, her voice trembling with adrenaline. “ The debt is paid.”

Wei Jun’s jaw dropped. “What? That’s impossible! Who gave you the money?!”

Su Qing didn't know. She looked at the notification again. The sender ID was blank.

[Sender Message: Buy yourself some better noodles.]

Su Qing’s eyes widened.

Noodles?

The image of Han Ye sitting on the couch in his pajamas, holding a cup of instant noodles, flashed in her mind.

No, she thought. It can't be him. He’s just a useless student.

But deep down, the seed of suspicion had been planted.