As the old alchemist chanted the obscure incantations, the dark red runes on the ground suddenly glowed with an eerie blood-red light. Wen Buhuo felt as if his soul was being pierced by thousands of steel needles simultaneously; the excruciating pain instantly plunged him into endless darkness.

In the abyss of his consciousness, his soul was constantly being torn apart by a cold, sinister force—the old alchemist's soul attempting to devour his will. In his despair, the innocent smile of Xiaoya flashed through his mind, along with the warmth of the three brothers huddling around a fire on a snowy night. A surge of indignant rage ignited in his chest—the immense spiritual power he had accumulated by frantically consuming pills and using the small green bottle to accelerate the growth of spiritual herbs, completely erupted at this moment.

"No! This is impossible!" The old alchemist's terrified scream echoed in the darkness. "You're just a mortal! How could your spiritual power be stronger than mine in just one month? Where did your spiritual power come from?!"
It turned out that the pills Wen Buhuo had been consuming daily, while causing him immense pain, had unknowingly pushed his spiritual consciousness and spiritual energy to an extremely high level, conversely suppressing the old alchemist, whose lifespan was nearing its end and whose soul was weak.
When Wen Buhuo opened his eyes again, the blood-red light in the secret chamber had extinguished. He was so weak that he couldn't even move his fingers. Before him, the old alchemist lay dead, blood flowing from his seven orifices, his eyes still wide open, filled with unwillingness and fear.

The masked man beside him still stood like a statue, motionless. Wen Buhuo gasped for breath, his gaze falling on the small golden bell that had fallen beside the old alchemist's corpse. Enduring the intense pain, he reached for the bell and gently shook it.
"Ding—"
The masked man stiffly moved, obediently walking over and forcefully breaking the chains that bound Wen Buhuo.
It took Wen Buhuo a long time to barely recover a trace of strength. He rummaged through the secret compartment in the hidden room, and besides a few pieces of broken silver, he found several somewhat tattered cultivation manuals: one, the "Wind Manipulation Technique," could increase movement speed, and another, the "Fireball Technique," could gather spiritual energy to launch small fireballs—these were the most basic techniques for cultivators.

He walked up to the masked man, his hands trembling, and slowly removed the cold iron mask.
The mask fell to the ground, revealing a familiar, honest face.
"Li Zhuang..." Wen Buhuo's voice trembled.
It was indeed Li Zhuang, but his eyes were vacant, his skin a deathly gray, his body ice-cold, without any breath or heartbeat. He had been transformed by the old alchemist into a "corpse puppet" that only obeyed the bell. Wen Buhuo gritted his teeth, his eyes red-rimmed. In this world, one of his only few relatives had been reduced to this state.
Finally, he found a note under a seal in a hidden compartment of the table.

The handwriting was frantic yet powerful:
"Buhuo, if you see this note, it means my soul-possession attempt has failed, and I have perished at your hands. You are a cunning and resilient young man; I miscalculated. But you have been struck by my Ice Palm, and the cold energy has entered your bones. Without an antidote, you will surely die within a year as your meridians freeze. Here are my personal seal and some silver. If you want to live, go to my old home and find my wife. Upon seeing the seal, she will give you the antidote. The world is merciless, and the path of cultivation is even more so. Do not blame your master for being ruthless. If you still have any conscience left, after getting the antidote, please take care of her and her daughter..."
Wen Buhuo looked at the note and let out a bitter laugh. He put away the seal and the cultivation manuals, picked up the short sword and the small green bottle from the ground, and took one last look at Li Zhuang, who stood there like a wooden man.

"Li Zhuang, I'm taking you home."
He rang the bell and, carrying the soulless body, slowly walked out of this underground secret room filled with evil. The sunlight shone on his pale face. He was sixteen years old now, and although his cultivation level was still low, the warmth of ordinary human emotions had gradually faded from his eyes, replaced by a profound wariness and determination towards this cruel world.