Wang Xian could not help but let out a faint sigh.
He rose and walked over to the fellow, lowering his gaze to study him for a moment.
The pain on the youth's face was plain to see. Veins bulged on his forehead as if he were enduring some unimaginable torment.
After thinking it over, he took out the purple-gold gourd and poured a cup of spirit wine.
The wine's crisp fragrance spread the instant it emerged, even suppressing the pungent medicinal stench from the tub.
He carefully lifted the youth's head, brought the cup to his lips, and slowly fed him the wine.
One cup.
Two cups.
Three cups.
Only after feeding him all three cups did he let go. The youth's breathing gradually steadied, and the pain on his face faded considerably.
Wang Xian put away the gourd, left with his hands behind his back, and made a circuit around the courtyard.
Then he raised his head and shouted toward the mountain, "Hey, old man, your little disciple is about to die. Aren't you going to do anything?"
His voice echoed through the mountain forest, startling several birds into flight.
After an unknown amount of time, the old man's voice drifted in on the wind, still carrying that indifferent tone. "Better if he dies. Saves me the trouble!"
Wang Xian froze for a moment. As expected of an old monster who had lived for a thousand years—none of them were good people.
But he knew that if the old man truly did not care, he would never have acted. The spiritual herbs in that medicinal tub, the opportunity to temper one's bones and cleanse one's marrow—how could just anyone obtain such things?
The old man's words were harsh, but that did not mean he held no hopes in