Chapter 61

Yu Zitong’s primordial spirit was trapped in a narrow corner, flitting about like a fly with broken wings, slamming into every surface. Each time it tried to flee, a black liquid would surge from the side and force it back, followed instantly by a deadly flash of cold light that repeatedly slashed at the glow, steadily dimming its green radiance.

He felt despair. Though the relentless strikes of the opponent’s blade had weakened his primordial spirit considerably, he cared little for that. What left him helpless was the relentless erosion of the black liquid.

Ever since the liquid had splashed onto him, he had felt a numb, itchy weakness spreading through his primordial spirit, slowly draining his remaining magic power. Worse still, it blocked his ability to cast spells—time and again, his incantations failed, as if he were bound by invisible chains.

“Why are you killing me? Why…?”

Facing Han Li’s cold, merciless assault, Yu Zitong’s voice echoed from the glow—hoarse, filled with bitter resentment. But Han Li said nothing, answering only with the accelerating slashes of his blade.

Soon, Yu Zitong’s voice faded, growing weaker and weaker, until only a faint whimper remained—and then silence.

Han Li did not stop immediately. He struck the faint, candle-flame-sized remnant of the primordial spirit with over a dozen more slashes. Only when he saw the last trace of green light could no longer be extinguished did he sheathe his soft sword, winding it back around his waistband.

Only then did Han Li speak coldly:

“I never cooperate with anyone who swears a cursed oath upon their own parents. Let alone believe the promises of a scoundrel like you—after what happened to Master Mo.”

With a chilling gaze at the final flicker of Yu Zitong’s primordial spirit, Han Li turned without hesitation and walked to the stone door, shoving open the heavy slab.

As the stone door swung open, several beams of brilliant sunlight streamed in, striking the remnants of the primordial spirit. Instantly—“puff!”—the feeble green glow vanished in a flash, dissolving into wisps of blue smoke that faded into the air.

Thus, the last trace Yu Zitong had left in this world was erased by Han Li—completely, irreversibly. No one could ever trace him again.

Han Li had only learned that primordial spirits feared light from Master Mo’s actions upon entering the room—extinguishing most of the lamps. Otherwise, he would have had no way to deal with this invulnerable final threat, and would have been forced to live in constant dread.

Yet Han Li’s effortless destruction of the primordial spirit owed much to another vial of Seven Poison Water he had prepared in advance.

This improved version of the Five Poison Water, once seized by Master Mo, now contained a new ingredient: “Tǔgū Flower.” This toxic herb was not only deadly to ordinary people, but also severely disrupted the primordial spirits of cultivators. That was precisely why Yu Zitong could never cast spells properly—and why his spirit fell so easily.

Han Li had sprayed the Seven Poison Water onto Yu Zitong’s primordial spirit only because of tales he’d heard—stories where all demons and monsters feared chicken blood, black dog blood, and similar liquids. On a sudden impulse, he had treated Yu Zitong’s spirit as if it were a ghost.

Whether Yu Zitong, if he knew of this lucky accident, would rage so fiercely he’d bleed to death again—Han Li could not say.

Han Li, of course, knew nothing of these coincidences. He only knew that even if the poison had failed, opening the door would have inevitably destroyed the primordial spirit. It was this thorough planning that allowed him to strike Yu Zitong with ruthless, unrelenting force.

Now, at last, he was free. No longer would he live under the knife at his throat, always ready to die.

Slowly returning to the center of the stone chamber, Han Li stood still for a moment. Then, suddenly, he leapt high—over three feet off the ground—and roared aloud several times, desperately venting his joy. Only then did he truly return to himself—the nature of a sixteen-year-old boy.

“I’m finally free!”

“I’m finally free!”

“I—” Crack. Han Li’s voice cut off abruptly, as if severed by a blade, his jubilation silenced.

A massive shadow, drifting nearby outside the stone door, entered his line of sight—it was the giant known as “Iron Slave.”

Han Li’s expression darkened instantly. Seeing this man’s figure, he felt a dull ache return to his shoulder. He had made a grave mistake—he had once again overlooked the giant’s presence, forgotten to extract from Yu Zitong’s spirit the giant’s origins and weaknesses.

Yet, to Han Li’s slight relief, the giant seemed utterly uninterested in what had transpired inside the chamber. He merely paced endlessly outside, strictly obeying Master Mo’s final orders, never once glancing toward the open door.

Han Li frowned. The situation was difficult. The giant was clearly dim-witted, bound only to obey commands. But for Han Li, such a person was the hardest to deal with—he could not reason with him, nor persuade him to lay down arms. If he fought, he was no match. The only thing that might threaten the giant was the now-empty vial of poison water.

Han Li paced back and forth inside the chamber, his mind churning desperately for a way to subdue the giant—but for now, his thoughts were a tangled knot with no end.

Unintentionally, Han Li’s gaze fell upon Master Mo’s corpse.

A sudden idea struck him.

“Perhaps I can find a way to control the giant on this corpse,” Han Li thought.

He glanced outside—the giant still paced tirelessly, showing no sign of approaching.

Satisfied, Han Li stepped forward, reached out his hands without hesitation, and began carefully, inch by inch, searching the corpse.

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