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Chapter 4 - Close Call

"Bone Grinding Plant."

"Flesh Devouring Evil Mandrake."

"Blood-Sucking Vampire Vine."

"Soul-Crushing Devil Root."

"Heart-Eating Yao Flower."

Each name Wudi Egun read aloud made his scalp tighten a little more. As he tossed one terrifyingly named herb after another into the massive bronze cauldron bubbling in his backyard, sweat trickled down his forehead despite the cool night breeze.

The moon hung bright and white above him, its light painting his courtyard silver. The bubbling liquid inside the cauldron glowed faintly red, thickening with every breath.

"Extreme Yin Plant," he murmured, throwing in the final ingredient.

A deep hiss sounded as the leaves dissolved, and the boiling liquid turned blood-red, viscous as molten iron.

Soon, it began to thicken further—until it resembled liquid jade, slowly transforming into a heavy crimson paste. The air filled with a pungent yet strangely invigorating medicinal aroma.

This was Cultivation Paste, or as the scroll called it, Medicine Paste—a body-tempering concoction meant to strengthen bones, flesh, and spirit.

Such pastes were divided into four grades: Ordinary, High, Spirit, and Heavenly.

The one he was making now was merely High Grade. Those with Spirit Grade or higher were cultivators of incredible realms—true masters who could refine their bodies to perfection.

Still, this was his first cultivation attempt. His heart raced in anticipation.

He chuckled under his breath, rubbing his palms together. "Would this be the part where the protagonist screams for hours in unbearable pain… and then laughs heroically through it?"

He grinned wider. "Heh. Maybe I'll do even better. Maybe I'll just endure it silently like a true man of indomitable will."

The thought alone filled him with self-satisfaction.

"Let's see if I'm built different," he muttered.

Without hesitation, he stripped off his clothes. Beneath the moonlight, his body looked rather unremarkable—slim, pale, neither muscular nor frail.

He stared at the bubbling cauldron one last time, inhaled sharply, and leaped in.

The moment his body plunged into the thick, boiling red paste—

—he smiled.

For a brief second, he felt warmth spreading through his limbs. Not pain, not burning agony. Just warmth.

He blinked. "Wait… that's it? Where's the bone-crushing torment? The howling? The writhing?!"

He frowned. "Could it be… that my willpower is so strong I can't feel pain?"

A smug grin crept across his face. "Heh. I really am built different."

He laughed to himself. "Hahaha—wait…"

His smile froze.

"…Why is there a ceiling?"

He blinked again.

"I was outside… in the courtyard… right?"

Slowly, realization dawned on him. He tried to move his hand—but it didn't respond. His fingers felt like stone.

"What…?"

He couldn't move his legs either. Panic crept up his spine. He turned his head with great effort—and caught sight of a mirror placed across the room.

In that mirror, a white figure lay motionless on a bed—wrapped from head to toe in thick bandages.

The white figure was him.

His mind went blank.

"...What the fuck!?"

The door creaked open.

A middle-aged man in simple linen robes entered, holding a bowl of steaming porridge. His expression brightened when he saw Wudi awake.

"Oh! Good, good! You're finally awake."

Wudi's throat was dry. "Wh—where…?"

The man set the bowl down and smiled kindly. "Your parents have been worried sick. You've been unconscious for nine days after… well, after you threw yourself into that cauldron."

He chuckled softly, as if recalling a fond memory. "The neighbors thought you were trying to ascend to immortality on the spot."

"Nine… days…?"

Wudi's eyes widened, his mind blanking for a second time.

He wanted to sit up, to shout, to curse the heavens—

—but the bandages barely let him breathe.

His muffled voice came out weakly: "...So much for indomitable will…"

The man sighed sympathetically. "Don't worry. The Healer said your injuries aren't fatal. Your bones will recover in about a month… if you don't try anything creative again."

Wudi could only stare at the ceiling, eyes hollow.

Somewhere deep inside, a quiet thought echoed:

Maybe next time, I'll just… read the manual first.

The middle-aged man sighed softly, glancing at the bandaged figure on the bed. "Your vocal cords… after screaming like a legendary dragon for three hours straight, have been severely damaged. It'll take about three months before you can speak properly again."

Wudi's eyes widened. Three months!?

Unfazed by the silent panic, the man continued matter-of-factly, as though listing groceries.

"Your bones—shattered in twelve places—are being mended with Bone-Mending Powder. You'll need at least two months of rest."

"Your skin, which had completely melted until only muscle remained… we used Spirit Salamander Ointment to regrow it to a certain extent." He paused, eyeing Wudi with faint pity. "But I strongly advise you not to look at yourself for about a year. Your skin will still be… unpleasant to see until it fully regenerates."

He moved on to the next point like a teacher reviewing homework. "Your veins and meridians were cut and burned beyond recognition, but we restored them using Body-Modification Pills. It's a miracle your body accepted them."

Each sentence felt like a dagger to the heart.

By the time the man finished, Wudi lay completely still, the only movement being the slow, horrified blinking of his eyes.

He thought back to the cauldron—the steaming red liquid, the confident grin, the excitement—and felt his soul leave his body.

Was the consequence this terrifying?

His chest tightened. Then why do those protagonists in the novels survive this kind of thing like it's a warm bath?!

A dreadful realization hit him.

Wait… don't tell me… I'm not the protagonist?

His mind went blank for several seconds.

Gritting his teeth—well, the few that weren't cracked—he tried to curse but only managed a hoarse wheeze. His throat burned as if he had swallowed shards of glass.

Every inch of his body itched, a crawling sensation like thousands of ants dancing beneath his bandages.

Seeing him twitch slightly, the middle-aged man smiled brightly, his voice full of reassurance. "But don't worry. Hall Master Tian has already covered all the expenses for your treatment."

That line made Wudi freeze again.

Master… paid for everything?

He blinked slowly. Did he expect this to happen?

No way… did he actually know I'd jump into it like an idiot?

The thought sent shivers through him. Just how omnipotent is he!?

Before he could think further, the man politely excused himself and stepped out.

Moments later, the door burst open.

"MY SON!"

A woman's frantic voice pierced through the room, followed by hurried footsteps. His mother stormed in, eyes brimming with tears, while his father trailed behind her helplessly.

They rushed to his bedside, his mother immediately grabbing his arm—or rather, what was left of it beneath the bandages.

"My poor child! Why would you do this to yourself!? Are you tired of living? Do you not want to see your parents grow old in peace!?"

Her words fired out like a spiritual technique—rapid, precise, and unrelenting.

"Do you think cultivation means boiling yourself alive!? Are you trying to become soup instead of an immortal!?"

Her husband opened his mouth to say something—then wisely closed it again, retreating a few steps back to safety.

"And what about Su'er, hmm? You think she's not beautiful enough? You don't want to marry her anymore?" she cried suddenly, switching topics so fast it made Wudi's mind spin.

Both father and son froze.

Through his bandages, only Wudi's eyes moved—widened in disbelief, screaming silently, What does this have to do with anything!?

The mother pressed on relentlessly, hands on hips. "I'm telling you, Wudi Egun, you are not allowed to die until you marry Su'er and give me two healthy grandchildren! You hear me!?"

Wudi could only lie there, motionless, praying to every deity in existence to take his mother away before her words finished what the medicine paste started.

He silently screamed within:

Forget cultivation—I just want to survive my mother's love!

******

It took half an hour—thirty whole minutes—for his mother to finally leave the room.

When the door closed and silence returned, Wudi Egun lay motionless for a moment, his bandaged chest slowly rising and falling.

Then, he exhaled a long, painful breath. "Haa…"

That was not the sigh of a patient—

That was the sigh of a man spiritually broken by his own mother.

However, as the seconds passed, his brow began to furrow.

Something inside his mind refused to let go.

He wasn't satisfied.

No—he was furious.

He had suffered burns, shattered bones, melted skin, and lost four layers of pride… all from jumping into a boiling pot of medicine.

Why?

Why did those protagonists from the novels succeed on their first try while he ended up like a roasted chicken?

He clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding audibly beneath the bandages.

His eyes burned with madness. "No… this isn't over."

He turned his head stiffly toward the window where the pale moonlight seeped in. His breath grew shallow, his thoughts unsteady.

And then—he made his decision.

****

It was night again.

The moon hung quietly over the Martial Spirit World, bathing the courtyard in silver light. The stars glittered faintly, as if trying to warn him.

But Wudi Egun, wrapped in bandages and madness, dragged his half-healed body out of bed and into the yard.

His steps were uneven; every movement produced a cracking sound from his weakened bones. Each breath came with searing pain—but he didn't care.

In the backyard, the cauldron still stood where it had last been used. Blackened by fire, its rim was chipped and stained with dried red paste.

Wudi gathered the herbs again—the same cursed ingredients that had once melted his skin—and tossed them in one by one.

"Bone Grinding Plant…"

"Flesh Devouring Evil Mandrake…"

"Blood Sucking Vampire Plant…"

Each name made his lips curl further into a twisted grin.

"Fucking protagonists…" he muttered, his voice hoarse and full of venom as he fanned the flames. "Fucking plot armor…"

He ripped at his bandages, tearing them off strip by strip, revealing the grotesque figure underneath.

His skin was half-formed, stretched tight over raw muscle and exposed veins. His bones gleamed faintly where the flesh hadn't fully regrown. The smell of medicine and burnt meat filled the air.

If one were to look at him now, they wouldn't call him human. They'd call him a lunatic wrapped in pain and defiance.

He laughed dryly, his cracked lips twisting. "And fuck you, consequences."

When the boiling cauldron began to hiss, the crimson paste within bubbling thickly under the moonlight, he took a deep breath.

He stared at it like a madman seeing his destiny.

"Fucking good!" he roared.

And before sanity could catch him, he jumped in.

***

When he next opened his eyes, the ceiling was familiar.

The scent of herbs was familiar.

The face hovering over him—also familiar.

It was the same middle-aged healer, smiling down at him with that unbothered, professional calm of someone used to dealing with idiots.

"Good," the man said cheerfully. "You're awake again."

Wudi's lips trembled. His throat felt like sandpaper. "H… how long?"

The man blinked once, then smiled brighter. "Not too long. Just four months this time."

Wudi froze. His eyes widened as the words sank in.

Four months!?

His mind screamed silently.

Before, he had been unconscious for a week.

Now—four months?

That wasn't progress—that was regression!

His face twisted in despair.

Shit… this was too much. Too much!

And somewhere deep inside, a small voice whispered—

Maybe you really aren't the protagonist after all.

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