The world was silent.

The echo of the Fire Python's final roar still trembled in the air, fading like a dying storm. The once-blazing cavern now flickered dimly, its molten rivers slowing to sluggish trickles of dull red. The oppressive heat that had filled the chamber for centuries was gone, replaced by an eerie, heavy stillness.

The serpent's body — massive, magnificent, and terrible — lay coiled in death. The scales that once shimmered like living embers were now dull and cracked, their inner fire extinguished. Its golden eyes, wide and clouded, stared blankly toward the cavern ceiling. Smoke rose faintly from its wounds, where the Red Snow Python Spirit and White Fire Python Spirit had burned through flesh and bone with the force of yin and yang combined.

Mo Han stood amid the devastation, his chest heaving with slow, measured breaths. His robes were torn, blackened with ash, and streaked with the blood of both man and beast. The ground beneath him was cracked and glassy from the elemental collision, the air still shimmering faintly with residual heat.

He lowered his hand slowly, feeling the fading pulse of power as the two python spirits coiled faintly around him before dissolving into his aura once more. The silence that followed was absolute.

He exhaled — long, steady, tired.

"It's over."

The echo of his own voice came back to him, hollow and strange.

For a long time, Mo Han said nothing. He simply stood, staring at the colossal serpent before him. Its sheer size dwarfed him — its body stretched for hundreds of meters, a living mountain even in death. And yet, this beast, ancient and terrible, had fallen beneath the strength of a man who still bore the rank of a disciple.

The irony was not lost on him.

Finally, he moved.

He stepped forward, sword still faintly glowing, and approached the serpent's corpse. With every step, the ground crunched beneath his boots — crystallized magma, hardened from the earlier battle. The air was heavy with the scent of burnt blood and smoldering scales.

When he reached the python's massive head, he stopped and knelt beside it. The size of it was absurd — one of its fangs was longer than his entire arm. Yet, behind its monstrous appearance, there was something noble in its stillness.

"I'll make sure your death isn't wasted," Mo Han murmured quietly.

He pressed his palm to the serpent's side, activating a series of energy lines along his arm. Faint blue runes glimmered as he began his work — harvesting.

The Fire Python's body was a treasure trove. Every piece of it held immense value to cultivators and alchemists. Even its blood could forge weapons or temper the body.

Mo Han's sword sliced through flesh and scale with surgical precision. Each motion was deliberate, practiced — no wasted movement.

He began with the fangs, prying them carefully from the serpent's jaw. The material was denser than spirit steel, infused with natural flame essence. He sealed each one in a jade tube before storing it within his ring.

Next came the eyes — large orbs of molten gold that glowed faintly even in death. He extracted them using aura-infused threads, careful not to rupture the cores of condensed fire energy within. The eyes alone were worth more than any sect treasure — a single one could power a city's spiritual barrier for decades.

Then, the bones — immense, glowing faintly from the remnants of life force. Mo Han's sword carved through them, segment by segment, storing lengths of the spinal column that radiated heat like living magma.

Finally, the skin.

This was the hardest — layers of scale thicker than metal, nearly impenetrable when alive. Even dead, they resisted the blade. Mo Han infused his sword with both yin and yang essence, slicing carefully along the serpent's spine, peeling back the hide in great sheets.

Each scale gleamed faintly as it entered his storage ring, the glow casting brief flickers of gold and red across the cavern.

He worked for hours, methodically stripping and collecting, his concentration unwavering. The silence of the cavern was broken only by the soft hum of his blade and the occasional hiss of cooling magma.

By the time he finished, only the serpent's bones remained.

Mo Han straightened slowly, his back aching, his body covered in streaks of dried blood. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and glanced around the cavern.

"Now," he murmured, "for the true prize."

He turned toward the far end of the chamber, where the molten rivers converged. Beyond the serpent's corpse, half-hidden behind jagged stone, the faint shimmer of mist caught his eye.

The Spirit Well.

It was breathtaking.

A small lake of liquid light, glowing softly in the heart of the cavern. The surface was perfectly still, reflecting the faint shimmer of ethereal energy rising from it in silver wisps. The air smelled pure — crisp, ancient, untouched by corruption.

Mo Han approached slowly, his expression softening. "So this is it…"

He could feel it even from several steps away — the raw pulse of the world's vitality. Each drop of the Spirit Well's water was condensed spiritual essence, capable of tempering body and soul alike.

But that wasn't all.

Along the edges of the well, half-hidden between moss and stone, grew plants unlike any he had ever seen.

He crouched down, eyes narrowing in astonishment.

There were crimson stalks with crystal-like veins, each glowing faintly from within — Blood Sun Herbs, said to grow only where the strongest flame beasts die. Beside them, he found silver-petaled blossoms, their roots sunk deep into the luminous ground — Moonshade Lilies, capable of curing nearly any toxin.

Further along the wall, nestled beneath a fallen stone, a single Golden Flame Lotus bloomed — its petals pulsing gently with the aura of both heat and healing. The sight made Mo Han's breath catch.

"Even the sects in the capital would kill for one of these," he whispered.

He began carefully harvesting them, using spirit threads to lift the herbs without disturbing their roots. Each plant shimmered faintly as he sealed it into jade boxes, preserving their essence.

He moved methodically — harvesting, storing, sealing. Each motion carried reverence, as though he were handling something sacred.

At last, his gaze fell upon the base of the Spirit Well itself. There, almost completely submerged, was a crystal vine, its leaves translucent and glowing faintly gold.

Mo Han bent low, his fingers brushing the surface of the glowing water. "The source vine…" he murmured. "So this is what nourished them all."

He cut a small section carefully, sealing it immediately before it could react to the air.

When he finally straightened, his storage ring was nearly full — packed with treasures beyond value.

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