In the northwest of Tianyun City lay a scorched wasteland, forgotten by the spiritual aura of the celestial sects.
The alleys here were so narrow that only two men could walk abreast, perpetually shrouded in a dark, grey dampness. At the end of one such alley hung an unremarkable shop sign, its lacquered wood cracked and weathered, bearing three words devoid of any Daoist rhythm: "Half-Life Clinic."
Han Yuan stood before the door. Every breath of turbid air he took felt like a thousand steel needles piercing his chest simultaneously.
As a Great Perfection stage sword cultivator, he once split mountains with a single strike, commanding the subservience of thousands. But now, beneath his grey robes—once capable of withstanding heavenly lightning—his Daoist body, as translucent as glass, was oozing a deathly dark purple from within.
"The innate Spirit Root... has rusted." He curled his lips in self-mockery, blood sliding through the gaps of his teeth.
Three days ago, his forced attempt to break into the "Return to Truth" realm had failed, resulting in a backlash from the Laws of the universe. In his eyes, it was an irreversible collapse; in the eyes of the great Alchemist Masters, it was known as the "Five Decays of Heaven and Man, the Dissipation of the Dao Foundation."
Suddenly, the image of a small, timid face from his clan flashed in his mind—his only bloodline. If he fell, that child would have no hope of survival in the predatory world of cultivation.
Creak—
Han Yuan pushed open the unlocked wooden door.
Inside, there was no magnificent alchemy furnace, nor were there floating restrictions. Only a young woman sat behind a crystal table, holding a pair of extremely fine silver tweezers, focused intently on a withered "Cold Mist Grass."
She wore a simple white hemp robe, her sleeves tightly bound, her long hair held up by an old, slightly worn wooden hairpin. It was the only item her master had left her upon his death. Even though the uncontrollable pressure of a Great Perfection cultivator emanating from Han Yuan made the entire room tremble, she didn't so much as lift an eyelid.
"Cultivation too high, slaughter too heavy. Get out."
The woman's voice was cold, like a frigid scalpel, instantly slicing through Han Yuan's final shred of dignity.
Han Yuan endured the agonizing pain of his sea of consciousness fracturing. He dropped to one knee, his voice hoarse but carrying a desperate plea: "Han Yuan of Tianyun seeks the Divine Physician... for a continuation of life. Not for this remnant body, but for a young daughter at home. Han... cannot die yet."
The woman's hand paused. She looked up, revealing a face so clear it was almost transparent. In her eyes, there was no emotional fluctuation, only the absolute, rational coldness of someone examining a biological specimen.
She stood up and walked slowly toward Han Yuan.
"Don't move," she said softly.
Han Yuan instinctively reached for his protective sword qi, only to find a faint black flash darting from her fingertips. It was the "Sinking Shadow Needle."
In that instant, Han Yuan discovered with horror that his spiritual power fell into a momentary silence the second her fingertip brushed past. Su Qing didn't look at Han Yuan's face; her gaze was fixed on the purple wound at his left shoulder. In her vision, there was no flesh there—only countless broken, twisted, and even toxin-spotted threads of the Laws.
"Too dirty," Su Qing frowned, her tone carrying an unabashed disgust. "Your 'Celestial Gange Sword Scripture' went astray. You opened three spiritual whirlpools near the Zifu point. Back then, you thought it was a brilliant move. In my eyes, it was digging your own grave."
She reached out, her finger pointing toward Han Yuan's chest from a distance. "Those three whirlpools have turned into gangrene. They are corroding your very foundation of the Laws. It's like iron rust jammed into a precision gear. Lie down. Do not let your instincts trigger a reaction. Otherwise, the resulting burst of karma will turn you into ashes."