Chapter 212: The Alchemy Furnace

When Yi Miao said this, her tone was light and casual, but the impact on me was like a thunderbolt—undoubtedly, it was as if a massive bomb had exploded right beside my ear. It turned out to be none other than my grand-teacher Ye Wenxin, the Ye Wenxin who wore a red armband and a military uniform, appearing on Sanqing Mountain alongside a man named Lin You.

If I wasn’t mistaken, this Lin You must have been Ye Wenxin’s husband, the one who later severed ties with her. That would make Lin Danan and Lin Dawei his grandsons. Later, Lin You remarried a woman surnamed Zhao. After Grand-Teacher Ye Wenxin returned to Jiangcheng, within two years, Ji Ruyue arrived. At the time, the most vicious feud was with Ji Ruyue, who used the same tricks against Ye Wenxin and her colleagues.

Even their souls were imprisoned in an old building.

I wondered—was it Ye Wenxin who was wrong, or Gu Rechang? Or perhaps neither of them was wrong, and it was simply the era that was at fault.

Countless souls were just born in the wrong time. They weren’t wrong, yet they tormented each other. My vision blurred with tears; I didn’t know why, but I found myself crying.

I told Yi Miao that Ye Wenxin was actually my grand-teacher.

Seeing me lost in thought, Yi Miao asked if she should continue.

I replied, “Go on. If a story is left half-told, the sin is yours. Maybe right now, countless spirits are sitting around you, listening to your tale. If you stop, it’s not just me you’ll disappoint—it’s them. You should know that wandering spirits love stories too.”

Lian Xiaoyao glanced around nervously and asked, “Are there really wandering spirits around me?”

Yi Miao lit another cigarette, the smoke curling upward as she began her tale once more—or perhaps it wasn’t just a story, but a piece of oral history from a specific time.

Most chose to forget.

But the pain remained.

…

Zhen Yangzi spoke with undeniable certainty, naming names and recounting details. Yi Miao wanted to argue but found no words. He seemed to recall fragments of his master’s teachings—things Yi Miao had asked about but never received answers to. From Zhen Yangzi, he learned some information about the thatched hut behind the mountain and decided to investigate himself.

Zhen Yangzi repeatedly warned him to be careful—Gu Rechang’s alchemy furnace was inside. The man had gone mad in his later years, conducting bizarre experiments, like refining ghosts in the furnace or tossing centipedes inside.

Seeing it was already late, Yi Miao decided to set out the next morning. Zhen Yangzi treated him to a famous Sanqing Mountain banquet, which cost a thousand yuan. Only when Yi Miao saw the old Taoist’s smile did he realize the real purpose of the long conversation—to keep him for dinner and fleece him.

The night passed without incident. Yi Miao woke at five, listening to the temple bells, meditating in silence. By six, he expelled the stagnant energy from sleep and bid Zhen Yangzi farewell.

Before Yi Miao left, Zhen Yangzi whispered, “Brother, last night’s lodging was two hundred, plus breakfast for fifty—two-fifty in total.” Yi Miao nearly stumbled, handing over three red bills. Zhen Yangzi claimed he had no change.

Yi Miao thought to himself—next time, he’d bring more small bills. Cutting the chatter short, he traversed mountains and rivers, nearly falling off a cliff at one point. Two wild monkeys harassed him, but otherwise, the journey was uneventful.

Finally, he reached the peak Zhen Yangzi had mentioned. From afar, he spotted a strange boulder with a figure standing atop it, breathing rhythmically, exuding an immortal’s aura. But when he looked again, the figure was gone.

Yi Miao immediately knelt and kowtowed eighteen times (though he lost count and actually did twenty), shouting, “An immortal still cultivates in this world! To witness one today is my greatest fortune!”

With that, he headed toward the thatched hut behind the mountain. By afternoon, he found it—a secluded spot on the third peak, surrounded by lush trees, fresh air, and tranquility. It was the perfect retreat for cultivation.

In front of the hut was a small vegetable patch, long abandoned, overgrown with weeds. A few withered cabbage sprouts and a dead pumpkin vine were still visible.

Yi Miao called out, “Is anyone here?” But the door remained shut, silent. Not even a bird flew by.

Sweat trickled down his forehead. The eerie stillness unsettled him.

He had expected one or two Taoists to be inside, but the neglected garden suggested long abandonment. Still, he waited cautiously, calling out a few more times before finally pushing the door open.

Inside, an overturned alchemy furnace lay in the center, covered in dust. A few dead centipedes were visible near its mouth, alongside scattered minerals and herbs. The furnace’s intricate, ancient patterns hinted at its age.

Yi Miao wondered—could this be a relic left by Ge Hong? He touched the furnace, feeling its icy chill.

Curious, he climbed inside the furnace, which was just large enough to fit a person. The moment he did, the lid slammed shut with a clang, and the furnace righted itself. Yi Miao screamed, but it was useless.

No matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t break free.

…

Just then, He Xiaomao and Xie Xiaoyu walked in. Xie Xiaoyu pointed outside and said, “Someone’s coming.” Inside, Xiao Jian barked incessantly.

Lian Xiaoyao wanted Yi Miao to continue—had anyone been refined into an elixir inside the furnace?

I hurried outside, where a group of people had arrived. The first I recognized was Feng Wushuang. Behind her were several luxury cars, one bearing the municipal government’s official license plate.

My parents, whose highest-ranking acquaintance was the village head, grew nervous at the sight of such officials.

Feng Wushuang stepped out and called, “Dear cousin, you’ve been hard to find!”

The truth about Feng Wushuang being my cousin—her father being my uncle—was something I’d kept from my parents.

My father gripped a hammer, ready to defend against what he assumed was an arrest.

Feng Wushuang was accompanied by City Secretary Jia and a man in his fifties—well-dressed, refined, with neatly combed hair. The moment the official car stopped, local leaders had already reported it to the county. Soon, more officials would arrive.

The village head shouted, “Someone’s here for the Qinghe family!”

My father yelled, “If you’re here to arrest someone, take me! Leave my son alone!”

Feng Wushuang noticed the bandage on his forehead. “Auntie, what happened to Uncle’s head?”

My mother, confused, asked, “Why are you calling us aunt and uncle?”

I pulled her aside and explained in a low voice. She struggled to accept it. “You mean my birth parents are looking for me?”

Feng Wushuang brought the fifty-year-old man forward. “Auntie, this is my father—Feng Shiqiao.”

Feng Shiqiao rubbed his hands, lips trembling. Seeing me and Feng Wushuang side by side, he hesitated, then finally said, “Sister.” Then, to my father, “Brother-in-law.”

The hammer clattered to the ground. “You’re from Qingyu’s family. She spent half her life searching for you.”

My mother glared at my father. “I never searched! I was an abandoned child. Why would I look for them?”

Without another word to Feng Shiqiao, she stormed inside and slammed the door, the sound reverberating in my chest.

My mother had been an orphan, raised by my grandfather Long Youshui before marrying my honest, hardworking father and giving birth to me. She had inquired about her origins but eventually accepted she’d been discarded.

Feng Shiqiao looked at me, then at my father. I had no idea what to say. Calling him “uncle”? Not a chance.

Feng Wushuang asked, “Cousin, what’s wrong? What happened to Uncle’s head?”

I smirked. “Nothing. I’ll handle it.”

Pushing through the crowd, I borrowed a motorcycle from a neighbor and headed to the Zhe family’s hotel in town. Today was the 27th of the lunar month—time to apologize to Zhe Huaqiang.

My father sighed and went back inside.

For now, the yard was filled with strangers.

I parked outside the Zhe family’s hotel—formerly Leng Quanlong’s, now lavishly renovated. Wu Zhen, in civilian clothes, was there as a mediator.

Seeing me alone, he asked, “Didn’t you bring anyone influential to back you up?”

I laughed. “I’m on my own. No need for backup. Later, when I deal with Zhe Huaqiang and Ma Yan, stay out of it.”

The glint in my eyes made Wu Zhen shudder.

By noon, Zhe Huaqiang arrived in a Cayenne, followed by three vans of relatives. He had already ordered the finest food and liquor.

Ma Yan, in a black leather jacket that couldn’t hide her faded allure, stood beside him. Next to her was a bald man in a thin shirt—steady, composed, his gaze restrained. A master, no doubt, with faintly blackened fingernails. A poison expert, reeking of insects.

I studied Zhe Huaqiang’s arrogance and Ma Yan’s smugness. This bald man was likely an insect master. No wonder Ma Yan dared to provoke me—she had backup.

Zhe Huaqiang pulled out a chair. “You came alone?”

I smiled, eyeing the bald man behind him. Interesting.

Suddenly, a lackey rushed in, whispering, “None of the deputy mayors could come. The poverty relief director and the commerce bureau’s accountant—they all had urgent matters.”