Chapter Seven: The Physical Assessment

Today, he had only been astonished three times. The first was when Yi Xin made her entrance, her formidable fire magic leaving everyone in awe; the second, when Ling Xiao Lei’s rare dark elf magic proved itself truly extraordinary; and the third, for this pure and flawless power of ice and snow.

Leaning in for a closer look, one could see that every snowflake inside the magic sphere was sharply defined, exquisitely formed, as if made of crystal.

“This is a display that only comes when one’s mastery of spells has reached true maturity, a clear testament to remarkable control,” the elder nodded repeatedly, full of praise. “And in the art of magic, control is precisely a test of one’s patience and meticulousness. To solidify magic into substance—why, the realm of ‘Form Awakening’ is not far off.”

After completing this demonstration, Bai Shengye lowered his hands.

At that very moment, his information appeared in the hands of a female teacher tasked with recording the details. She was graceful in figure, her rose-colored hair coiled high atop her head. Glancing down at the student dossier she held to her chest, her expression suddenly flashed with surprise.

“You’re an apothecary?” She couldn’t help exclaiming.

Bai Shengye answered with composure, “Yes, I passed the apothecary qualification exam at twelve. I am now a junior apothecary.”

“What, twelve? A junior apothecary?”

His reply left everyone present dumbfounded.

Apothecaries were exceedingly rare on the continent. Though magic shops overflowed with all manner of restorative potions, these were typically produced by magicians of lesser talent, who had turned instead to potion-making. Such individuals generally lacked formal apothecary certification and could only concoct basic remedies.

True apothecaries, however, were different entirely. They possessed profound knowledge of pharmacology and medicinal properties, excelled at extracting magical essence from rare ingredients, and could even create their own formulas—something ordinary folk could never hope to achieve. Potions crafted by certified apothecaries were highly sought after in every major magical pharmacy.

What truly shocked everyone was his age: only twelve, and already a junior apothecary!

Apothecaries were classified into junior, intermediate, and senior ranks. Achieving even junior status before the age of thirty was a point of pride across the continent. But to do so at twelve—such genius was scarcely believable, the kind of prodigy seldom seen in history.

While the crowd buzzed with amazement, Dean Yun Lan’s thoughts had already formed a clearer picture.

Throughout the continent, there was a saying: “Northern Immortals of Medicine, Southern Clan of Poison.” Though the two were often mentioned together, in truth, the Wu clan of the south specialized more in poisons. Only the immortal family of medicine, nestled within the snowy domains, truly practiced benevolent healing, boasting a thousand-year legacy and the legendary art of “Rebirth and Renewal.” They were unrivaled as the sovereigns of the medicinal world.

Now, witnessing the white-robed youth wielding ice and snow magic unique to the snowy domains, Yun Lan became even more certain of his suspicion.

“Teachers, may I proceed to the next test?” Bai Shengye asked with respectful poise.

“Oh, of course.” Yun Lan snapped out of his reverie and smiled.

After Bai Shengye turned away, Yun Lan waved his hand to retrieve the magic sphere. As its power faded, his body seemed suddenly bereft of support; his breath faltered, his step wavered, and he nearly staggered before regaining his stance.

To mask his condition, Yun Lan gently raised his fist to his mouth and coughed lightly. Yet Bai Shengye, glancing back with feigned nonchalance, caught a bluish tinge on the dean’s lowered brow. Astute as ever, he immediately discerned the truth.

With his deep understanding of illness, he knew that for a mage of Holy Magister caliber, even conducting student assessments all morning would not so exhaust the body if one were in perfect health.

Nonetheless, Bai Shengye kept his realization to himself.

After the students had all departed, the white-bearded elder stroked his beard with satisfaction and said, “Truly, this year’s students are remarkable…”

“Master He Yin,” Yun Lan shook his head with a troubled sigh, lowering his voice, “their talents are undeniable, but… dark elf magic is a closely guarded secret; I fear our academy has no teacher to match that specialty. As for apothecaries, we also lack truly skilled instructors—most are only junior apothecaries themselves, and…”

The two were close friends, with no need for secrets, though Yun Lan found the admission difficult.

“Hmm… perhaps not entirely hopeless.” The elder named He Yin fell into thoughtful silence, stroking his beard and closing his eyes as if weighing possibilities.

Meanwhile, Hei Yu, Yi Xin, and the others had reached the trial grounds for physical strength. Here, a dozen drum-like apparatuses were set out, each topped with beast hide of extraordinary toughness. Above each drum stood a tall measuring rod, nearly twenty feet high, its surface marked and divided into ten segments. By every drum, a teacher stood ready to record results.

“These are special drums designed to measure both your attack speed and strength,” explained a burly instructor, his build reminiscent of a black bear. “You’ll each come forward in turn and throw two punches. The first measures speed; the second, strength. Remember, both must be performed without any use of magic! Now, step forward!”

His voice was deep and thunderous, resounding like rolling clouds across the field.

“I’ll go first!”

Once again, Yi Xin strode forward, unwilling to waste time waiting and fully confident in his physical prowess.

The body is the foundation of all things. Many magicians, in pursuit of ever-greater magical power, neglected the forging of the body—a critical mistake, for it is the basis of everything.

The Crimson Flame clan’s secret art emphasized: “Refine the body in scarlet fire, strengthen the roots to cultivate true essence.” Only from solid foundations could a magician’s power grow, allowing true strength to blossom in due time.

The first punch: speed.

He approached a drum, focused his breath, lowered his stance, feet set at the perfect distance, and launched his right fist toward the drumhead.

A deep thud rang out. Above the drum, a ribbon of yellow light shot up the measuring rod, soaring to more than nine-tenths of its height—just a hair’s breadth from the very top.

“Whoa, incredible…”

The onlookers were astonished.

The light swiftly sank back down, returning to the base, and turned from yellow to red. Yi Xin was already gathering strength for the next blow.

The second punch: strength.

He sank lower, and this time, the ground bulged beneath the outer edges of his feet, earth rising into small mounds as his soles pressed an inch into the soil. He drew on the force of the returning first strike, combining momentum with might. The punch whistled through the air, fierce as a tiger, solid as the earth.

A thunderous boom—louder than before—echoed as the drumhead bent into an exaggerated arc, then rebounded. The red beam on the measuring rod shot straight to the top, and at its peak, the excess energy burst forth in a brilliant red flare.

After this punch, silence fell over the entire field.