Calling them body parts feels wrong, like naming storm clouds by shape. These chunks of meat weren’t taken off by function; they were carved like driftwood from a drowned tree.

Especially the torso. It had been brutalized and clean-cut, skin to bone to viscera, sliced into several short cylinders like stumps after a forest fire.

More chilling still, this person—taken apart like a broken statue—was still alive, like embers refusing to die under ash.

Hand of Dominion—that was Ming Duo’s power. It could command a living body, like a puppeteer plucking strings in the rain.

It looks like the Curse Deity’s line of control, even a cousin to the Love God’s tricks, but it isn’t the same, like moonlight that isn’t snow.

The Curse Deity forces a body’s behavior. The Hand of Dominion governs the body’s form, the shape itself, like clay under a quiet palm.

You could remove a specific organ without ending the life, preserve part of its state or function, or simply separate it from the host, like lifting a leaf from water.

Just like those two little “beans” delivered earlier, like seeds picked from a gourd.

Or you could cut and reassemble. Any cut could join to any cut; if you didn’t reassemble, the pieces lingered in a strange living state, like fish gills working on land. That’s exactly what we had here.

That heap of mind-tainted meat and parts was one of the leaders of the Society of Beauty Worshipers, whom Ming Duo intercepted days ago, like a trophy wrapped in fog.

“What is this mess supposed to be…”

Cerqin frowned at the heap on the platform, like staring into a dirty mirror, then turned to ask Spring Tide.

“During the search, we found anomalies at a waste plant in the outer district. We checked it out, and… found these,” Spring Tide said, like dropping pebbles into a still pond.

Cerqin winced for the knights who had to see it, like picturing them walking into a room of flayed shadows.

It wasn’t hard to imagine their hearts sinking when they saw this mind-tainted carnevale of flesh.

“So you’re trying to…?”

Cerqin didn’t finish. Aileaf picked up two twitching finger segments, like worms on a wet stone, aligned them, pressed them together.

They didn’t join. The one she wasn’t holding slipped and fell straight back to the platform, like a bead of rain sliding off glass—then landed square on another organ’s cross-section.

This time, that bit of finger stuck like it’d been painted with glue, like sap catching a fly.

Aileaf frowned, grabbed the finger stuck to the other organ, and with little effort pulled upward; it came off stiff and clean, like snapping a strip of rubber in the cold.

Cerqin watched the absurdity with a fresh crease between her brows, like a bowstring drawn too tight.

“The original interfaces barely adhere, but they attach to other cross-sections… that’s too weird,” she said, like counting crooked stars.

“That’s Ming Duo’s power—the Hand of Dominion,” someone murmured, like a draft slipping under a door.

It’s terrifying in effect, enough to make rumors scuttle like roaches. But in a fight, it’s awkward, like a blade with no hilt.

Against anyone your level or higher, you wrap yourself in mana like armor. Pay attention, and you won’t get tagged at all.

Hand of Dominion is nearly useless in battle, but perfect for interrogation—like water wearing down stone where swords can’t.

Spring Tide continued, voice steady as a tideline. “We gathered the pieces this afternoon. Confirmed they’re alive, scattered as they are. We figured we might force a reassembly…”

“I see…” Cerqin’s thoughts flowed like ink. If the original ports won’t take, and random assembly is a trap, then besides the torso, everything is too fragmented to question.

Since the target was alive, she already had a possible path, like a candle you shield with a hand.

Fast and likely effective: destroy the power clinging to the cross-sections. But forced disruption risks a backlash; life could drop into stillness, like a pond freezing mid-current.

So you go gentle—use special, softer potions first. That’s the first choice, like rain before thunder.

Aileaf’s brows knit as she sank into thought, like a physician reading tea leaves.

By an alchemist’s measure, she could outmatch any royal apothecary in the Imperial City. She knew that as a mountain knows its height.

So Spring Tide pinned her hopes on Aileaf at once, like tying a rope to the surest tree.

But potions that alter an ability’s state are rare, like blue flowers in winter.

Aileaf lifted her head, saw Cerqin, and her eyes lit up like lanterns. “Cerqin? Perfect timing. I was about to have Spring Tide fetch you.”

“Huh?”

“Your power boosts potions. So give me some blood first,” she said, bright as morning, ruthless as frost.

“You went through the last batch that fast…?” Cerqin’s face fell like wet paper. When the Love God’s power was active, its residue lingered in her blood; with the right trigger, it worked as an adhesive base for many brews.

They’d proved that when Aileaf made the strengthened secret elixirs, like sharpening a blade with dew.

Since then, every so often, Aileaf had Cerqin draw blood for experiments, like tapping a maple tree each dawn.

If you totaled it up, it might exceed a body’s full volume by now, like a river borrowed cup by cup.

“Blood tinged with the Love God’s power is even more versatile than Silver Luan’s Dragon Deity blood. It strengthens almost every class of potion,” Aileaf said, like counting coins.

“A cure-all, huh,” Ninexiao muttered, unable to stop himself, like a cat flicking its tail.

“It’s hard to gently remove an ability’s residue—harder still from a living target,” Aileaf said, handing Cerqin a large jar, big as a harvest moon.

“Why’s this jar so huge…” Cerqin stared, speechless. It was much bigger than her head. That much blood would lay you flat, like a sapling in a gale.

The Love God can’t restore lost flesh. It only replenishes energy, not matter. A jar like that would push her into critical injury, like a bell breaking its own rim.

“Use it with this,” Aileaf said solemnly, passing over a high-efficiency recovery potion, clear as spring water.

Then she produced several identical jars from who knew where, like a conjurer emptying the sky, and handed them to the others in the room.

Under everyone’s baffled looks, she said, “Let’s collect more samples while we’re at it. For research. Here—high-efficiency recovery potions. Drink as you draw.”

“Are you a devil…” someone groaned, like a prayer to a cold altar.

Most days Aileaf seemed gentle as drizzle. When it came to alchemy, she turned razor-sharp, like ice under sunrise—almost a different person.

Ming Duo ignored the would-be criers and started working the bottles and jars, arranging the smaller meat pieces on the table, like lining up chessmen for a first test.

Cerqin nicked her wrist with a nail. She clamped the recovery potion in her teeth and filled the jar within moments, like a stream feeding a basin.

A faint breath of mana rose from the blood, like heat from tea. In the Love God’s active state, her blood wasn’t the same; it could serve as a mana-restoring elixir on its own—with excellent effect.

In the lab, a group huddled around that heap of mind-tainted flesh on the table, each hugging a jar and drawing blood from their wrists, like monks offering lamps.

Beside them, Aileaf worked her bottles and vials with an excited smile, turning the scene into a hell of capering demons, like firelight on cave walls.

Cerqin passed the full jar to Aileaf. Aileaf brewed quickly and pulled together a strengthened potion, like rainfall gathering into a stream.

She took up two finger segments again, dipped them fast, then pressed them together like mending a snapped twig.

They bonded cleanly this time. No sudden drop. But once the Hand of Dominion’s film was washed off the cross-section, the parts’ vitality wavered, like a candle sputtering in a draft.

Aileaf’s brows pinched. She moved fast, reassembling piece after piece, like stitching a torn banner in a storm. The body, once scattered like leaves, turned whole again.

When she set the last piece in place, she tilted a potion into the mouth of the girl who looked plain as an unmarked pebble.

When the breath beneath Aileaf’s palm finally smoothed, like a lake after wind, she exhaled.

“Done. She’ll probably wake soon,” she said, relief flowing like warm tea.