Chapter 401: Lowering the Alchemy Cost
Zhang Yu stared at the Feather Scroll displaying Tianqing Sand Level 1 (0/10), and couldn’t help but sigh inwardly at the long road ahead of him in Alchemy.
But before he could dwell further, a chill of Ritual Power surged through his heart—sharp, unwavering, a silent reminder to keep pushing forward. It cut through his momentary reverie.
Zhang Yu quickly suppressed his distractions and began the second refinement of Tianqing Sand.
“Bought the copyright, rented the lab and equipment—cost me nearly one million Lingbi. Just one refinement? Not nearly enough.”
He glanced at the time. The first attempt had taken over twenty minutes. He’d rented the lab and equipment for six hours total.
“Keep going.”
Zhang Yu immediately raised his Gang Qi, sweeping it toward the materials beside him.
This time, his movements were far more fluid. Strands of Gang Qi lashed out in perfect coordination, manipulating both raw materials and tools with precision.
He found the process of refining Tianqing Sand strangely familiar—like how he practiced his techniques. Only here, the raw ingredients were his body, and he used various Immortal Dao Techniques to reshape them, ultimately achieving the desired transcendental effect.
Progress mirrored cultivation: the more skilled he became, the more powerful his results. The better his refinement, the higher the quality of the final product.
Yi Xingli, watching from the side, initially paid little mind as Zhang Yu began again. But then her brow twitched slightly.
“Is the quantity of ore… a bit low?”
Zhang Yu smiled. “I’m trying to cut material costs. That way, I can refine more times.”
Yi Xingli frowned. “The amount of ore affects everything downstream—the Gang Qi application, martial energy control, furnace temperature. All of it changes.”
“Beginners should stick to the standard quantity. Only once you’ve mastered the basics should you consider adjusting it.”
Zhang Yu, of course, didn’t heed her advice.
Yi Xingli sighed, shaking her head. This kid… average Alchemy talent, but stubborn as a rock.
She wasn’t surprised. Many newcomers were like this—especially those who’d already excelled in other fields. Full of confidence, convinced they could master anything quickly. It wasn’t until they stumbled a few times in Alchemy that they finally learned humility.
She watched Zhang Yu continue refining his reduced portion of Tianqing Sand. In the end, only about half the material was successfully refined. The rest was ruined.
Yi Xingli shook her head in disbelief. Now he’ll finally get it, right?
But Zhang Yu, glancing at the Feather Scroll showing Tianqing Sand Level 1 (1/10), gave a quiet nod.
Exactly as I suspected—changing the quantity still counts as a refinement attempt.
He decided to keep reducing the amount, testing just how little material he could use while still triggering the Feather Scroll’s progress.
If I can do this, I’ll drastically cut the cost of my Alchemy cultivation.
As he thought this, he turned to Yi Xingli and asked, “Sister, I’m only refining Tianqing Sand here. The rest of the lab’s equipment is idle. Do you need to use any of it?”
Yi Xingli’s eyes lit up—though not for the reason he might think.
It wasn’t about saving money. She wasn’t short on Lingbi. But she’d been standing here watching him, and time was passing. Why not use it productively?
A few Lingbi didn’t matter—but hours of study and cultivation time did.
She nodded. “Actually, I’ve been adjusting my spirit armor lately. This lab’s equipment would be perfect.”
“I’ll split the rental fee evenly. No free rides.”
“And if you have any Alchemy questions, feel free to ask anytime.”
Zhang Yu watched as Yi Xingli detached her right arm, using Gang Qi to carefully reposition the spirit armor before placing it on a nearby instrument. She then channeled specialized martial energy into it while monitoring real-time data.
Right now, I’m refining too simple a material. Doing this alone is wasting resources.
If I could share the lab with someone else—split the rent—then I’d save even more Lingbi.
Ever since his first successful refinement, Zhang Yu had been obsessing over one thing: how to push forward in Alchemy with the least possible cost.
What if I could sell Tianqing Sand? Maybe even make a profit?
But the thought vanished quickly.
No… not possible. I’d only break even at best—maybe lose money.
He knew Tianqing Sand was the most basic of materials. Thousands of companies and factories already mass-produced it via assembly lines. Their costs were far lower than his, and their average quality was higher.
Selling it would mean only one outcome: loss.
And even if I wanted to mass-produce it… I don’t have the means.
Spirit artifacts, spirit armor—refining them one by one by hand was utterly different from industrial-scale production.
To set up mass production, you either buy a factory line… or build one yourself.
The first requires massive capital. The second needs high-level Alchemy skills—something I don’t have yet.
For now, he had no choice but to focus on building a solid foundation.
He continued adjusting the material quantity, testing each time until he discovered: as long as he used more than one-tenth of the standard amount, each refinement still counted toward the Feather Scroll’s progress.
Perfect. Now I can reduce my practice material cost to just 10%.
After mastering quantity adjustment, he turned his attention to movement and time.
He wanted to see if he could shorten each refinement cycle even further.
Because deep down, Zhang Yu understood: using the Feather Scroll’s specialization wasn’t like ordinary cultivation.
Just like his previous technique cultivation—each complete cycle counted as one step, regardless of how much variation there was in movement or quality. As long as it met basic criteria, the progress still added up.
That’s how he’d accelerated his technique cultivation before.
Of course, the Feather Scroll’s system had its flaws.
Every time a technique was switched into the Scroll’s specialization mode, it reset to Level 1. No matter how many similar arts he’d cultivated before, he had to start from scratch, stacking each refinement attempt one by one.
That was true for Alchemy too.
It still requires repeated practice to level up. But the process—quality, time—can be compressed.
My cultivation logic is fundamentally different from ordinary practitioners.
As Zhang Yu kept tweaking the refinement process—adjusting movements, optimizing timing—Yi Xingli watched in growing disbelief.
Zhang Yu… what is he even doing?
He’s cutting materials, then randomly fiddling with movement and timing?
She knew that after the Top Ten Sects standardized Immortal Dao cultivation, every aspect had been systematized and digitized. Immortal Dao technology was now a fully structured, data-driven science.
Alchemy was no exception.
No longer were refinements done like in old artisan workshops, with crude, vague classifications. Today, spirit artifacts had detailed grading systems, and refinement processes were meticulously defined.
To improve Alchemy skill, one had to study rigorously and practice high-quality refinements.
“Zhang Yu, you can’t keep doing this,” Yi Xingli finally said, unable to hold back. “There are proper, proven methods to reduce practice cost. You don’t need to go this messy.”
“For example, you could sell your Tianqing Sand to recover some of the investment.”
“It’s a common base material in many spirit artifact refinements. The Alchemy Department has plenty of teachers and students who buy it.”
“You could also use the Ling realm’s Simulation Lab for practice—it’s much cheaper than real materials.”
Zhang Yu knew all of this.
But from his current results, he was confident he could cut costs even lower than the Simulation Lab—while still getting actual usable Tianqing Sand as a bonus.
Yi Xingli, unaware of his inner calculations, went on.
“Even more advanced spirit artifacts can be practiced this way. Use lower-cost substitutes to create substandard versions for training.”
“And for high-tier artifacts? After the first refinement, you can keep improving them through maintenance, adjustments, and reinforcement—much cheaper than starting over.”
“For example, my master’s Jiutian Yuanyang Tower—it went from Level 31 all the way to Level 40 through repeated tempering, repairing, and strengthening. My master’s Alchemy skill rose significantly in the process.”
Zhang Yu understood: when she said the Jiutian Yuanyang Tower manufacturing technique reached Level 40, it meant that under ideal conditions—complete materials and perfect environment—Ciji Zhenjun could now directly produce a Level 40 Jiutian Yuanyang Tower.
But that thing sounds incredibly expensive. And time-consuming.
Unless someone offers a huge price, Ciji Zhenjun probably won’t make another one.
Yi Xingli had one more powerful cost-saving method she hadn’t mentioned: joining school Alchemy projects.
Project funding could cover materials, lab rental, equipment—everything.
Alchemy was brutally expensive. Even she, with her wealth, constantly felt short on funds. Her Alchemy budget was always over.
So top students in the Alchemy Department all participated in multiple projects. Securing funding wasn’t just helpful—it was essential for becoming a true master.
But Zhang Yu was just a Civil Engineering Department beginner. Too far from that world to even consider it.
So she didn’t bring it up.
Just as she was about to offer more advice, Zhang Yu finished another refinement.
Tianqing Sand Level 2 (0/20)
(End of Chapter)
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