Chapter Thirty-Four: Extracting the Poison

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Dawn.

Residence of Dong Muming, Third Elder of the Grand Yan Sect.

“So, have you made your decision?” Dong Muming sat across from Su Bai, his tone calm.

Su Bai curled his lips into a cold sneer. “Do I even have a choice?”

“You do, in fact. At worst, it’s just death.”

“That’s hardly a joke worth telling.”

“Shall we begin now?”

“Wait a moment.”

“Is there something else you need to prepare?”

“I skipped dinner last night. My stomach’s full of air—I'd like to let out a fart.”

“You—!”

A cup of tea later.

Dong Muming, face dark, bound Su Bai’s wrists and ankles to the wooden rods at the edges of the kang.

“If you ever dare act so insolently again, I’ll kill you on the spot.” Dong Muming forced a draught of numbing powder into Su Bai’s mouth.

In over a hundred years, few had dared behave so before him. If not for the one time Su Bai had helped him, he’d have killed him at the very first fart.

Tied to the kang, Su Bai swallowed nervously, his heart anxious. Just as Dong Muming pulled a black cloth from his robe, ready to blindfold him, Su Bai stopped him at once. “No need for that—I won’t faint at the sight of blood.”

Hearing this, Dong Muming seemed to register Su Bai’s confidence. He gave a cold chuckle, tossing the cloth aside.

He then raised two fingers in warning. “This is your last chance to choose. Soon, you’ll wish you were dead.”

“I’ve made my decision. Let’s—ah! Ahhh!”

Before Su Bai could finish his determined speech, Dong Muming’s fingers, sharp as blades, sliced open Su Bai’s wrists, skillfully avoiding the vital veins to prevent any permanent damage.

Su Bai’s screams didn’t faze him; a wooden stick was jammed into Su Bai’s mouth.

“Mmm! Mmm!”

Under Su Bai’s terrified gaze, Dong Muming repeated the bloodletting on his other three limbs.

Blood gushed from all four.

With a deep breath, Dong Muming’s powerful inner force enveloped Su Bai, meticulously peeling the stubborn poison from his veins and expelling it along with the flowing blood.

“Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!”

At this moment, pain was far too mild a word for what Su Bai felt.

Death, had it come, would have been a mercy.

He not only had to remain conscious, but also suppress the raging force within.

Most of this inner power had been forcibly bestowed upon him by Xi Menghe. During the cure, it might rebel, hindering Dong Muming’s extraction of the poison.

“Ugh!”

He mustered all his strength to suppress this alien power, but again and again, the gnawing agony in his body broke his concentration.

“Hah.” In the midst of torment, Su Bai’s head grew numb with pain. In his daze, he seemed to hear a mysterious voice.

“Sleep, and the pain will vanish forever.” A face, angelic and motherly, brimmed with compassion, as if intent on melting Su Bai’s heart.

He’d known no good days this past year; the months in the wooden hut were the only moments of respite.

His heart, like a tattered paper kite, was riddled with wounds. He still didn’t understand why he’d traversed to this world.

He had no power to save the world, nor the cunning to manipulate others. A small, feeble body could do nothing, yet he’d been given such talent and status—only to draw endless suffering.

During his days on the run, he’d often wondered if he should simply sleep and never wake.

After all, he was just a passerby in this world. Why take it so seriously? He’d already died once—why should he fear those who wished to kill him?

But for reasons unknown, every time death came close, he narrowly escaped. Yet each reprieve brought not relief, but a new wave of hardship.

“Yes, why haven’t I just stopped? This world is just a game, and I’m an ordinary player with no cheats. Now, it’s just an NPC saving me, and I still have the option to refuse rescue.

I’ve survived here for ten years—that’s no small feat. If I die now, even Buddha would not blame me.”

He slowly reached out his hand toward the gentle mother.

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But just as his hand reached the woman, he suddenly seized her throat.

“My dear child, what are you doing? Let go!” The woman, shocked, hadn’t expected that Su Bai, who moments before seemed to long for death and “eternal rest,” would now try to strangle this angelic guide.

Su Bai gripped her throat tightly, a wicked smile on his lips. “But after all I’ve suffered, I can’t just give up so easily. In my past life, rarely seeing my parents left a hole in my heart. You’re clever to exploit that weakness to tempt me.”

With every word, his grip tightened.

“Ahhh!”

The instant the woman died, a searing pain consumed Su Bai.

In a flash, everything returned to reality.

Familiar sights—so real.

Including the pain...

“Hold on, don’t lose focus.” Dong Muming, for once, offered a “kind reminder” to Su Bai.

And so, the next round of agony began.

An incense stick’s time passed.

Dong Muming saw Su Bai’s deathly pale face and knew he’d reached his limit.

He raised his hand, sealing Su Bai’s acupoints with inner force; the bleeding slowed at once. Then he produced various healing and replenishing pills, both for internal and external use.

But Su Bai had already fainted as the acupoints were sealed. Dong Muming had no choice but to untie his limbs and feed him the medicine.

Watching the unconscious boy, Dong Muming felt a pang of something—perhaps a memory of someone from his past.

He gave a wry smile. “Where could I have seen this boy before? I’m getting jumpy in my old age.”

“Now, without his inner strength, he’s no different from an ordinary ten-year-old. After this much blood loss, it’ll be at least ten days before he can walk again,” Dong Muming calculated silently.

He glanced at Su Bai a couple more times, then turned to leave.

But after Dong Muming departed, the boy who had lain comatose on the kang opened his eyes.

“Whew, it’s finally over. Who knows how long before I can leave this place?” Su Bai was drenched in sweat, utterly drained of strength. Even if he wanted to get up and bathe, he couldn’t. And with so much blood lost, his vision blurred. Knowing he’d reached his limit, he simply closed his eyes and sank into deep sleep.

When Dong Muming returned, he found all his healing and blood-replenishing medicines depleted. He called for his personal attendant.

“Xiao Si, go to the medicine hall and fetch these supplies.” Dong Muming handed over a prescription.

“Yes, sir.” The boy called Xiao Si took the prescription and hurried off to the medicine hall.

Dong Muming strolled out of his residence and wandered through the Grand Yan Sect.

Thunder rumbled as storm clouds gathered, the sky darkening with an overwhelming deluge.

Dong Muming looked up and realized he’d arrived at the Winter Cloud Pavilion.

The Winter Cloud Pavilion housed the sect’s secret arts and arcane tomes; countless classics were stored here. It was also the highest point in the entire sect.

The sect’s grounds consisted only of a few modest hills, but the hill under Winter Cloud Pavilion was the tallest. With the pavilion’s own towering height, it stood like a pillar holding the world in place.

As Dong Muming stepped into the entrance, a figure dashed out in haste, nearly colliding with him.

But with a wave of Dong Muming’s hand, an invisible force halted the youth in his tracks.

Dong Muming thus got a good look at him: the boy was unremarkable in height, likely stunted by poor childhood nutrition, his complexion sallow. His dark skin and rough hands spoke of hardship, not pampered upbringing. He lacked the innocence typical of children his age; instead, his brows bore an air of gloom and caution.

His first reaction upon seeing Dong Muming was not respectful greeting, but a defensive stance, eyes narrowed, as if calculating how to counter him. Somehow, a dagger had appeared in his hand.

Dong Muming recalled hearing of a prodigy among this year’s new disciples—a boy with extraordinary combat talent and a fierce nature. Almost all his opponents had been beaten half to death.

But because the sect protected its disciples, their elders dared not act against Wei Mingyuan.

“You must be Wei Mingyuan, the top new disciple of this year?” Dong Muming looked at the boy, reminded somehow of the child lying on the kang.

“Who are you?” Wei Mingyuan hadn’t expected this old man to call him by name, but he was unwilling to admit it. Still, sensing the man’s unfathomable strength, he feared being taken back for punishment. His frown deepened.

He was still young—not like Su Bai, who carried the experience of another life. His guesses about Dong Muming were far from accurate; he simply took him for a teacher come to catch truants.

Dong Muming, shrewd and perceptive, saw through his thoughts. At this age, no outer disciple could possibly access the Winter Cloud Pavilion. He must have calculated the guards’ shift changes and snuck in to skip class.

But that was precisely what Dong Muming admired about Wei Mingyuan.

Turning his back, Dong Muming spoke slowly. “Wei Mingyuan, you’ve left class during an elder’s lesson without permission and entered the Winter Cloud Pavilion without authorization. Do you know your crime?”

Wei Mingyuan’s heart sank.

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He hadn’t expected all his careful planning to come to nothing, caught so easily.

He put away his dagger, cupped his hands, and bowed deeply. “Disciple acknowledges his fault and awaits punishment, teacher.”

In this world, all teaching elders were called teacher by the disciples. Only upon formal apprenticeship could one call someone master.

Dong Muming rebuked him sternly, “What use is knowing your fault? Tell me, how many times have you come here?”

“The...the second time.” Wei Mingyuan felt a bit embarrassed; he’d only been here an hour, fearful of being caught—yet here he was, running straight into Dong Muming.

“In just half a month you’ve come twice. If you persist, what will become of you?” Dong Muming feigned anger.

“I...I was wrong.” All Wei Mingyuan could think was: alas, my lack of learning, all I can say is ‘I was wrong’ to get by.

“So what have you learned?” Dong Muming asked offhandedly.

“Huh?” Dong Muming’s unexpected question left Wei Mingyuan bewildered.

But seeing the elder’s imposing presence, he could only answer honestly. “I’ve taken a liking to a blade technique called Mortal Blood Blade. But it’s extremely abstruse, and the pavilion’s records on it are scarce.”

Dong Muming cut him off, a trace of excitement in his tone. “You’re training in Mortal Blood Blade? Say no more; show me everything you’ve learned—right now.”

“Here?” Wei Mingyuan asked, uncertain.

Dong Muming scoffed. “Do you think a brat like you could destroy the Winter Cloud Pavilion? There’s plenty of space—begin. If you perform well, perhaps I’ll let you off.”

“Disciple obeys.” If Wei Mingyuan didn’t understand now, he’d hardly have survived this long. Ordinary teachers would never give him such a chance. Clearly, this man was a figure of authority in the sect; he must seize the opportunity.

As Wei Mingyuan hesitated, Dong Muming beckoned, and a short blade leapt from the weapon rack into his hand.

He tossed it to Wei Mingyuan. “Catch.”

Wei Mingyuan snapped to attention, catching the blade in one hand. It was only two feet long, simply made, utterly unadorned—yet the length suited his ten-year-old frame perfectly.

“What are you waiting for?” Dong Muming stood hands behind his back, gaze fixed on the promising youth.

“Yes, sir.”

Wei Mingyuan threw himself wholeheartedly into the demonstration.

An ordinary short blade in his hands became a whistling force of wind.

A faint red aura clung to the blade, shrouding Wei Mingyuan in a mysterious energy. Yet he was not swayed by the blood mist; his eyes remained clear and sharp.

In less than half a cup of tea’s time, he’d demonstrated most of the form. The blade’s sweep tore through the air with a piercing whistle, and even standing ten meters away, Dong Muming could sense the blade’s keen intent.

Much of the technique was mere form, but to reach this level already was no easy feat. Many worked for years without such achievement.

Dong Muming stroked his graying beard, eyes filled with unspoken pride. In all his hundred-plus years, he’d taken countless disciples, but few had ever amounted to anything.

Most were trapped below the transcendent realm, living only a few decades.

But now, in Wei Mingyuan, he saw hope. The boy was not only mature in mind but possessed rare insight.

The Mortal Blood Blade was notorious for its sinister nature; many were lured by its power to kill above their rank and blindly chose that path, regretting it ever after.

Yet Wei Mingyuan was not only unbewitched by the technique, but wielded it with ease. Clearly, he was a born prodigy with the blade. With a little guidance, he could become a rising star.

And now, while Wei Mingyuan was at his most vulnerable, offering him a favor would be worth ten in the future.

If he extended an olive branch, Wei Mingyuan would surely accept with joy.

“How many years since I’ve met someone truly worthy of inheriting my mantle? Xiuming, where are you now?” Gazing at Wei Mingyuan, Dong Muming grew lost in memory, recalling his most accomplished disciple. Even the sweat-soaked Wei Mingyuan was momentarily forgotten.

Only when the demonstration ended did Dong Muming return to himself.

He coughed lightly to mask his feelings, then said, “Hmm, very good. I’ll help you this time; just pretend you were never here. I’ll speak to the school on your behalf.”

But Wei Mingyuan seemed barely moved. He’d hoped the elder would take him as a disciple and teach him, but could only sigh in regret.

Still, he bowed respectfully. “Thank you, teacher.”

With that, he placed the blade back on the rack and left the pavilion without looking back.

Watching Wei Mingyuan’s somewhat dejected figure, Dong Muming could only let him go. “Alas, it’s not impossible for me to take you as a disciple now. But with Mingli still recovering here, Xi Menghe will surely exploit all my weaknesses to force me to hand him over. If I take you as a disciple now, I’d only be pushing you off a cliff.”

Outside, the rain poured, thunder and lightning splitting the sky, while a shadow lurked in the darkness, watching...

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