Chapter Seventy-One: The Elder of Ten Thousand Poisons

Chapter Seventy-One: The Old Master of Ten Thousand Poisons

Wu Hong, dressed in black, fled into the vast, shadowy Blackwood Forest. Not a single expert dared to pursue him, all having been thoroughly intimidated by his earlier display of invincible might.

In the night, the Blackwood Forest was utterly devoid of light. Even the scant moonlight overhead was blocked by the low-hanging leaves, leaving not a glimmer to penetrate the gloom.

Wu Hong dared not return to the Penglai Inn; he feared it was already heavily guarded, and if his whereabouts were discovered, all his plans would be thrown into chaos.

With no alternative, Wu Hong sought out a secluded corner within the Blackwood Forest to hide himself. This nocturnal venture had been a failure—he had found no trace of Li Ruolan’s hiding place.

Though he had made a show of power before the gathered heroes, his identity was now prematurely exposed, introducing further uncertainty into his efforts to rescue Li Ruolan.

That young man from the East possessed truly uncanny martial arts; his inner force was subtle and formless, his cultivation seemingly only at the mid-refining marrow stage, yet Wu Hong had nearly been trapped on the Blackwood Cliff.

The Blackwood Forest stretched for hundreds of miles; even if his pursuers deployed a legion, finding him would be like searching for a needle in the ocean.

In a short while, Wu Hong had already covered over a hundred miles. Though the true energy within his body was nearly depleted, his sheer physical strength was terrifying, still allowing him to move swifter than most skilled martial artists.

Wu Hong continued running through the forest when suddenly, he heard the crackling of flames deep within the woods. He slowed, startled—could pursuers be lying in wait?

Listening intently, he heard no footsteps. His curiosity piqued—who could possibly be here in this pitch-black forest?

Stepping lightly, Wu Hong followed the sound. Soon, he glimpsed an elderly man, exuding the air of an immortal sage, squatting beside a campfire.

The old man’s hair was pure white, his features refined, his skin as smooth as jade. He carried no weapons, only himself and the solitary, peculiar fire.

“Young friend—since you’re here, there’s no need to hide! Though I am old, my ears are keen!” the old man called out.

Wu Hong was startled. He didn’t know what method the old man had used, but he had detected Wu Hong’s presence.

“Old sir, spending the night alone in a forest—what a mood you have!” Wu Hong was no naive novice; he was always on guard against anything strange or illogical.

“Heh, young friend, no need to be suspicious. Come, share a drink with an old man,” the elder continued inviting him.

Wu Hong thought, “It’s just one old man—what have I to fear? I didn’t flinch before all those masters on the mountain; let’s see what scheme he might have.”

He sat down on a large log beside the fire.

The elder took a good look at Wu Hong’s face, then exclaimed, “You are—?”

Wu Hong was unafraid of being recognized; at worst, he’d fight his way out.

“Youngster—Wu Hong, at your service!” he replied with a cupped fist.

Sure enough, the old man’s face betrayed clear surprise upon hearing Wu Hong’s name.

“Haha—how fortunate for this old man, to meet the notorious scourge of the martial world in person!”

The old man, though startled, did not turn pale or make any move upon hearing Wu Hong’s name. Wu Hong’s candor had an unexpected effect; most in the martial world, upon hearing he was Wu Hong, would have called for his blood.

With a flick of his hand, the elder tossed Wu Hong a trussed wild pheasant. “I’m no good at roasting things. You take care of it—consider it filial piety from the younger generation.”

Wu Hong caught the bird with a slight smile, unperturbed by the old man’s words.

The bird had been thrown with considerable force, yet Wu Hong caught it relying solely on his own strength, not expending even a sliver of his depleted inner energy.

He knew the old man was testing him, but thought little of it. He swiftly gutted the bird, skewered it with a branch, and began to roast it over the fire.

What he didn’t notice was the flicker in the old man’s expression when he saw Wu Hong unharmed after catching the pheasant.

As the fat dripped onto the flames with a hiss, a rich, enticing aroma wafted far into the woods, making one’s mouth water.

Wu Hong was surprised. He had tasted countless delicacies but hadn’t looked closely at what sort of bird this was before roasting it. The fragrance was most unusual.

Examining the bird’s talons, he saw they were like an eagle’s. The old man had produced it suddenly, without any visible storage item—clearly, he was no ordinary figure, perhaps possessing a ring of holding.

Wu Hong, being bold and skilled, had no fear of the old man’s tricks.

Before long, the strange pheasant was roasted. Wu Hong courteously offered the first portion to the elder.

The old man, not to be stingy, tore off half and handed it to Wu Hong. The two ate in silence.

“Here, have some wine,” the elder said, tossing Wu Hong a wine flask. When Wu Hong uncorked it, a surge of spiritual energy wafted out—a clear sign of its preciousness.

“Easy, young man, my wine is rather strong...” the old man began, but before he could finish, Wu Hong had already taken a deep swig.

A fiery line seemed to blaze from his throat to his stomach, startling Wu Hong—his body had undergone many enhancements, and yet this wine was so strong!

Seeing the elder’s grimace, Wu Hong thought he’d drunk too much and that the old man was pained at the loss. He quickly apologized, “Old sir, your wine is truly delicious. I drank a bit too much—please forgive me!”

Standing, Wu Hong bowed repeatedly.

To his delight, he felt the spiritual energy in his body begin to recover after that large drink.

This old man was none other than the “Old Master of Ten Thousand Poisons,” a figure who struck terror in the martial world.

He was also Li Ruolan’s master, though Wu Hong had never met him. Few in the world had, for the old master’s eccentric nature and erratic movements left most ignorant of his true appearance.

Those who had seen him were either prominent elders of the martial world or already dead.

From the moment Wu Hong had revealed his identity, the old man had been probing his abilities—the pheasant, the liquor, even the air within dozens of meters of the fire was laced with deadly toxins, none of which Wu Hong had noticed.

Wu Hong, for his part, felt he had met a kindred spirit in the old man. For some time, he had listened to the scorn of the martial world, but now, revealing his name to this mysterious elder, he was met only with mild surprise and no hostility, which greatly pleased him.

“Well, young man, I’ve tested you with several poisons and you’re unharmed! You truly are worthy of my disciple.”

The Old Master of Ten Thousand Poisons cared little for reputation or personal likes and dislikes; so long as someone suited his tastes, that was enough.

He had rarely appeared in the martial world in recent years, and though he had heard of Wu Hong’s infamy, he had never met either the real or the fake Wu Hong.

His measure of a person was their resistance to poison—an absurd criterion, yet many had perished at his hands. Those who survived and crossed paths with him were often either elders of the martial world or vanished masters of a previous age.

“Good drinking, young man. That flask was brewed from a dozen potent herbs over many years. An ordinary person would be drunk as mud after a single sip,” the old man said.

“No wonder I felt a blaze running down my throat,” Wu Hong replied, cheerfully.

“Here, try this one as well,” the old man said, tossing him another wine gourd.

Wu Hong caught it easily. It was as exquisite as the last but radiated a cold chill. His body, having been refined by both Yin and Yang fruits, was immune to cold, so he opened the flask and took another hearty swig.

A cool sensation flooded his throat and spread throughout his body, so pleasant he couldn’t help but praise, “Excellent wine!”

The old master’s astonishment only grew. The rumors painted this youth as a villain, and his own disciple favored him—he had planned to poison him to death. Yet, none of his poisons had any effect.

No longer able to maintain his earlier composure, the old man was growing excited. Such a prodigy, if he took him as a disciple, would surely become the next King of Poisons.

“I feel guilty always drinking your fine wine, old sir. Here, I have a Yin Fruit—let me gift it to you.”

Wu Hong retrieved an ordinary Yin Fruit from his ring. Instantly, a chill pervaded the air, the wind howled, and the campfire shrank before the cold.

The old master’s pupils contracted. “Where did you get this fruit?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“Old sir, I found this Yin Fruit in the Celestial Book Grotto. Please, accept it.”

The old man carefully received the fruit, examining it from all sides.

No sooner had the Yin Fruit appeared than Kun Kun, who had been sleeping in Wu Hong’s sleeve, was roused by the chill. With a flash, he shot out, snatched the fruit from the elder’s hand, and began gnawing on it contentedly.

The old master was stunned. In that instant, he thought Wu Hong had snatched it back. But seeing the strange little beast before Wu Hong—a creature resembling a young vulture, happily munching on the fruit—he was dumbstruck.

A wave of astonishment surged within him. What had he just witnessed? An ordinary-looking vulture eating a Yin Fruit without harm, and—most astonishing of all—it had moved so quickly that even he had not been able to react.