"Thrice Fernted Senna, Black Blue Spotted Fly Agaric, and a bit of Blood Fla Tiger Blood," Li i replied breezily.
Han Yu only recognized the last ingredient—it had been used in previous pills. The first two, however, made alarm bells ring in his half-delirious mind.
"Doesn’t Senna usually treat constipation? And Fly Agaric is... just straight-up toxic?" Han Yu asked, his voice growing more desperate by the second.
"They do. But the combination is quite potent despite the side effects," Li i said, chuckling like she was narrating a cooking show from hell.
Han Yu groaned and slumped further onto the floor, whispering to no one in particular.
"I’m going to die. I’m going to die, and they’ll find foaming at both ends..."
Li i patted him on the back sympathetically—then handed him another pill.
"Don’t worry. I’ll take notes for your funeral."
A while laterHan Yu lay sprawled on the floor, contemplating the many life choices that had led him to this mont.
Mainly the ones involving free food and minor financial incentives.
Li i, however, was undeterred by his apparent brush with death. She had already pulled out another gleaming, suspiciously wobbly pill from her bag and was enthusiastically scribbling in her notebook.
"We’re making incredible progress," she chirped, as Han Yu whimpered like a dying ferret.
"No... more..." Han Yu moaned, voice weaker than his spiritual defense.
"Oh, co on. You’ve already survived worse. Statistically, you’re probably immortal by now."
"That’s not how statistics work!" Han Yu protested feebly.
"Sure it is! Now drink this." Li i handed him a murky brown liquid that slled like despair mixed with expired cough syrup.
Han Yu stared at it, then at her, then at the liquid again.
He took a tentative sip.
Imdiately, his eyebrows tried to run away from his face.
"WHAT IS THIS?!" he gagged.
"Just a minor detox solution. Very effective! Probably won’t dissolve your tongue. Probably."
Han Yu gagged again but finished it in one shot, his pride long since dead and buried behind the Twin Leaf Peak latrines.
Sohow, through a miracle of the heavens—or perhaps sheer stubbornness—Han Yu didn’t die. Instead, he sat shivering in a blanket, sipping slightly less horrible tea, while Li i humd and organized her notes.
"Good news!" she announced brightly. "You’ve absorbed nearly thirty percent more Vital Energy than before. Bad news—your digestive tract might now operate on Schrödinger’s principles."
"I don’t even know what that ans anymore," Han Yu muttered, eyes hollow.
A few nights later, Han Yu found himself standing once more in the grim clearing on the sect’s outskirts, the underground ring buzzing with sinister excitent.
The crooked organizers barely gave him a glance as they pushed him toward the lineup.
"You’re fighting tonight, little servant," a tall, scarred man said with a grin full of missing teeth.
"I just ca to watch..." Han Yu tried.
"Not tonight. You got a good reputation now. People paid to see you get smashed."
Han Yu wanted to run.
He wanted to bolt into the night, disappear into a new life selling stead buns in a distant village under a fake na.
But when he turned around, two beefy cultivators blocked his path, each flexing muscles roughly the size of Han Yu’s hopes and dreams.
"One fight," the scarred man said, clapping him on the back so hard Han Yu nearly tasted his childhood. "One fight, and you’re free."
Han Yu gulped. "One fight," he repeated weakly.
The makeshift arena was a crude dirt circle illuminated by cheap spirit lamps and surrounded by a roaring crowd of servants, rogue cultivators, and sketchy rchants who looked like they’d sell you a sword and steal your shoes in the sa transaction.
Han Yu was pushed into the ring, clutching a handful of Li i’s new "throwing pills" like a terrified street magician.
His opponent?
A burly early-stage Qi Refining realm cultivator, tattoos snaking up his arms, a wicked grin on his face, and a big wooden club studded with iron nails.
Han Yu’s soul briefly considered leaving his body again.
"Hey! This isn’t fair!" Han Yu shouted to the organizers.
"Fair?" The organizer laughed. "This is underground fighting. If you wanted fairness, you should’ve joined a bake sale."
The bell rang.
His opponent charged.
Han Yu’s mind went blank except for one flashing neon word: THROW!
He hurled a handful of pills at his opponent’s face.
BOOM!
A cloud of pink smoke exploded, followed by a loud squawk! as the opponent stumbled, coughing and flailing.
Han Yu didn’t waste the chance. He bolted forward, grabbed a handful of dirt, and threw it straight into the man’s eyes.
Then, before anyone could blink, he latched onto the man’s back like a rabid koala and started hamring his fists into the guy’s temples with wild, uncoordinated swings.
The crowd scread.
So cheered.
So booed.
The tattooed cultivator finally managed to grab Han Yu by the collar and fling him across the ring like a sack of bad decisions.
Han Yu skidded across the dirt, groaning. His head spun.
His opponent charged again, swinging the club.
Han Yu barely rolled out of the way, scrambled up, and—without thinking—threw another pill.
POP!
A flash of light blinded half the crowd and sent his opponent staggering.
Han Yu didn’t hesitate. He sprinted up, grabbed the club, and smacked the man on the kneecap with all the strength of a desperate, caffeinated squirrel.
CRACK!
The tattooed cultivator howled and collapsed.
Han Yu fell on top of him, panting, and raised his hand in victory—or possibly delirium.
Either way, the organizers called the match.
Han Yu staggered off the field, bruised, bloodied, but sohow victorious again.
The spectators were losing their minds.
Soone threw a handful of spirit stones at his feet in appreciation.
Soone else threw a half-eaten bun.
Han Yu would’ve eaten the bun if he didn’t think it might actually finish him off.
As he limped back to the betting tables, he muttered to himself.
"I need a raise. And life insurance. And a therapist. Preferably all three by sunrise."
From the shadows, unknown eyes watched him with growing interest.
Because if there was one thing the underground world loved more than blood and money...
It was a rising underdog.
And Han Yu, for better or worse, had just painted a giant glowing target on his back.
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