Del sat by the window, the table piled high with oddly shaped herbs of every description. Sunlight filtered through stained glass, casting mottled shadows. Expressionless, he picked up a purplish-red tuber and chewed it slowly.

  “Bitter, pungent, with obvious localized congestion,” Del noted inwardly.

  He was conducting an extremely tedious yet crucial experiment. After days of trials, he had discovered a peculiar logic in this world’s alchemical pharmacology: drugs that dramatically enhanced physique—especially those boosting adrenaline and blood circulation—had, through natural evolution, almost invariably become pure virility tonics.

  “Chip, wake up. Update real-time physiological data.”

  In his mind, cold blue data streams cascaded like a waterfall:

  Host current stats:

  Strength: 1.82

  Agility: 1.55

  Constitution: 1.65 (in continuous overflow reinforcement state)

  Spirit: 2.3

  Black Wind Cyclone: Primary automatic circulation

  “Data shows that over 85% of recently ingested potent active ingredients went toward capillary dilation, with only 15% converted to effective physique reinforcement,” the chip reported mechanically and precisely. “Recommendation: seek higher-tier virility raw materials—use quantity to force quality and raise constitution baseline.”

  Del leaned back in his chair, slender fingers lightly tapping the desktop. He began mentally reviewing the incomplete alchemy notes, considering which other notorious potent drugs remained. Since this world’s rule was “grow stronger only after virility,” there was no need for him to be coy about it.

  Meanwhile, in a secluded tower at the territory’s edge.

  A middle-aged man named Torry stared in horror at a shattered soul tablet on the floor. It had once borne the name of his most favored disciple; now only a pile of gray-white ash remained.

  “Dead… actually dead?” Torry’s hand trembled slightly. “Did he encounter a Level-2 beast in the forest, or was he discovered by that old monster Ian?”

  “My retainer, what are you panicking about?”

  A deep voice emerged from the shadows. Torry shuddered, quickly turning to bow deeply to the approaching figure.

  It was Ian. But a close observer would notice a subtle hierarchy in their positioning. Torry’s role was “retainer”—a position assigned by southern great families to influential figures like Ian. Torry himself was from a minor branch of those families, with average talent; the family treated him as a low-return investment posted to the border—for tempering, and to remind Ian: the great families were still watching.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Lord Ian.” Torry swallowed hard, forcing composure. “One of my subordinates… went missing in the forest. I fear it might disrupt your arrangements.”

  Ian gave a cold snort, not pursuing the matter. Hands clasped behind his back, he said faintly, “Dead tools aren’t worth words. Listen—the boy named Del, I’ve decided to take him under my wing personally. He’s shown battle-qi talent far beyond ordinary, giving me new plans for him.”

  Ian paused, his tone brooking no argument: “I’ve already issued the notice—Del will be my core introductory apprentice. That means he’s mine now. Whatever grudges you had before, touching him from this point is slapping my face. Understood?”

  Torry’s heart jolted. He had intended to avenge his disciple, but with Ian personally shielding Del, the boy had become an untouchable red line in this territory.

  “Understood,” he replied, head bowed, frustration filling him. A once-disdained playboy had skyrocketed, becoming the reclusive wizard’s sole disciple.

  Del knew nothing of the external political games; he was facing the greatest “reputation crisis” of his career.

  Gossip had spread wildly through the castle. From maids to grooms, everyone whispered: the second young master had changed completely after returning from the forest—extremely… lustful and frail.

  Del sat in the dining hall, noting the evasive pity in maid Maggie’s eyes. He weighed options for three seconds.

  “Counterattack?”

  “Explain?”

  No—too troublesome.

  “Since you all think I’m lustful,” Del set down his knife and fork, gazing frankly at Maggie, “then do me a favor. Inquire outside—who has ‘Red-Horned Deer Antler’ or ‘Desert Black Root.’ Anything that greatly replenishes vitality, spare no cost—I want it all.”

  Maggie’s face flushed crimson instantly. She opened her mouth, managing only: “Yes.”

  Del decided to fully “give up.” He not only accepted his craving for virility drugs but openly set up crucibles in the castle’s backyard for basic extractions.

  The chip’s knowledge of this world’s pharmacology was limited by missing data, often giving only “toxic” or “non-toxic” judgments. Del relied on previous-life knowledge for crude alcohol extraction and distillation.

  “Chip, report experimental group data.”

  “Extract No. 1 (named: Madman): Countdown reduction contribution to Black Wind Sword: 3 hours.”

  “Extract No. 2 (named: Barbarian Bull): Contribution: 5.5 hours.”

  “Extract No. 3 (core ingredient: Goblin Tuber): Contribution: 6.5 hours.”

  “Total countdown reduced by 15 hours. Estimated time to next form ‘Black Sand Entwines the Body’ unlock: 7 days.”

  Del gazed at the bubbling purple liquid in the pot, inhaling deeply. Though the process was somewhat embarrassing, the results were tangible. With these potent drugs flooding in, his constitution had indeed been forcibly elevated a notch.

  Even more surprising, the Black Wind Sword’s self-circulating energy circuit was subtly remodeling his flesh. This martial art from fragments of his previous life’s memories unexpectedly fit his body perfectly.

  He stood, drew his cross-shaped sword from his waist, flourished it once, then focused intently. Left hand slamming the desktop, right hand slashing hard at his left forearm.

  Clang—

  A faint, metallic clash rang in the air.

  Del’s skin bore only a faint white mark—no break. He clearly felt that in the millisecond before impact, a weak yet resilient strand of black energy from his dantian had followed the “meridian” paths, preemptively reinforcing the struck area.

  This defense wasn’t rigid blocking but active energy countering.

  “Automatic predictive defense?” Del murmured, a trace of satisfaction finally in his eyes.

  “Though this martial art’s origins seem like cheap street fiction, its performance data… is quite scientific.”