The air in the apothecary's hut seemed to freeze instantly. The familiar scent of herbs was now replaced by a nauseating smell of blood.
The old apothecary withdrew his hand from taking the pulse, a strange flush appearing on his aged face—a sign of extreme excitement: "Good, excellent! In just one month, your spiritual energy has become so abundant! This is truly a godsend!"

With the heavy thud of the door closing, Wen Buhuo's heart sank. He used the opportunity to retreat, creating distance between them, and forced himself to remain calm, his voice slightly trembling as he asked, "Master, what do you mean by this? Where is Li Zhuang?"
The old apothecary let out a strange, owl-like laugh, the gentleness in his eyes completely gone, replaced by a chilling madness: "Li Zhuang? That fool couldn't withstand the effects of the medicine and is already rotting in the mud behind the mountain. As for you... you're a clever boy, you probably guessed the truth long ago, didn't you?"
"Since that's the case, there's no need to pretend anymore!" Wen Buhuo's eyes suddenly turned cold.

In fact, before the old apothecary entered, he had already dripped the deadly green liquid into the tea. But the old apothecary, having lived a long life, was extremely suspicious. He merely glanced at the teacup and then knocked it to the ground.
"Die!" Wen Buhuo no longer hesitated, his short sword flashing out from his sleeve like a venomous snake, aiming straight for the old apothecary's throat.
The old apothecary clearly didn't expect this usually docile disciple to attack first. He dodged quickly, avoiding a fatal blow, but his shoulder was still cut, leaving a bloody gash.
"You're courting death!" the old apothecary roared, glancing at the black blood on his wound, and sneered, "Your medical and pharmaceutical skills were all taught by me. Trying to use poison against me? You're just showing off in front of a master!" He quickly tapped his shoulder a few times, then took out a red pill and swallowed it. The deadly poison was suppressed by him.

Seeing that the poison attack was ineffective, Wen Buhuo hardened his heart and charged forward with his sword. The swordsmanship and agility he had practiced day and night for the past month erupted to their fullest extent at this moment. Two figures moved swiftly, their forms blurring in the dimly lit medicine room. Wen Buhuo, relying on his youthful vigor and agility, surprisingly managed to hold his own against the old alchemist.
"Bang!"
The old alchemist suddenly changed tactics, a faint blue light emanating from his palm, carrying a bone-chilling cold as he struck Wen Buhuo's chest. This was his signature technique—the Ice Palm.

Wen Buhuo groaned and was sent flying backward, shattering a medicine cabinet. A surge of extreme cold rushed through his meridians to his heart, making it almost impossible for him to breathe. Ignoring the pain, he grabbed the pre-made fire-element pills from his pocket and swallowed them all at once, forcibly suppressing the cold poison.
Just then, the old alchemist suddenly coughed violently, even bending over, his body swaying precariously.
"A good opportunity!" Wen Buhuo struggled to his feet, about to launch his final attack.
"Ding-a-ling—"
A strange ringing sound suddenly echoed through the medicine room. Wen Buhuo felt a strong gust of wind from behind. Before he could turn around, an extremely muscular masked man appeared behind him as if by teleportation. Those were hands like iron pincers, incredibly strong; Wen Buhuo's meager struggles were like child's play in their grip.

With a "crack," Wen Buhuo's arms were firmly held, followed by a heavy blow to the back of his neck. His vision went black, and he completely lost consciousness.
After an unknown amount of time, Wen Buhuo slowly regained consciousness in the biting cold. He found himself bound by four thick iron chains, his limbs stretched out in a "spread-eagle" position on a cold stone platform.
Looking around, this seemed to be a secret chamber beneath the medicine room. The ground was covered with twisted, ancient runes drawn in a dark red liquid—perhaps human blood. Those symbols seemed to writhe like living things under the dim candlelight, exuding an ominous and evil aura.

The old alchemist was standing with his back to him, arranging various strange artifacts and medicine bottles on a table. He had changed into a dark black robe, the graying hair at his temples looking particularly sinister in the firelight. "Awake?" The old alchemist turned around, his eyes gleaming with an almost pathological devotion. "Don't be afraid, it will be over soon. You will become the perfect ingredient for me to prolong my life and rebuild my foundation..."
Wen Buhuo stared intently at the old alchemist, his heart filled with terror.