Mortal: Starting with the Seven Mysterious Sects, I proved my Dao through sacrifice.

Ever since Murong Fan and Li Feiyu successfully divided the spoils last time, it was as if Pandora's box of rapid sacrifice had been opened, releasing an irresistible desire.

Murong Fan's cultivation speed was advancing by leaps and bounds. The feedback from the altar made his internal energy increasingly pure and profound, and he seemed to be only one step away from the legendary innate realm.

He entered and exited the mountain gate more and more frequently, using the strange power of the altar to "train" in the Black Wind Mountain area, but in reality he was looking for any "resources" that could be sacrificed.

Whether it was ruthless bandits blocking the road or caravans seeking ill-gotten gains, few who were targeted by him escaped unscathed. Li Feiyu revered him like a god, obeying his every word. The two worked together more and more seamlessly, and their gains became increasingly substantial.

On this day, Murong Fan and Li Feiyu once again "returned with a full load". Murong Fan was preparing to find a secluded place to perform the sacrifice, but when he passed by a desolate mass grave, he heard a faint groan.

"Hmm?" Murong Fan paused, his sharp gaze sweeping towards the source of the sound. The mass grave was littered with withered bones, overgrown with weeds, and filled with a chilling atmosphere; ordinary people would avoid it like the plague.

"Senior Brother Murong, it sounds like someone's there." Li Feiyu also heard the voice and gripped the long blade at his waist more tightly, somewhat warily.

Murong Fan gestured for Li Feiyu to be quiet, then stealthily crept over. Behind a half-collapsed earthen grave, he saw an old man in a tattered gray robe, curled up there, his chest heaving, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, clearly suffering severe injuries. The old man was barely breathing, hanging by a thread.

Murong Fan didn't want to meddle in other people's business; his time was precious, and he devoted every minute to improving his strength. But when his gaze swept over the few items scattered around the old man, his pupils contracted slightly.

Those were several uniquely shaped herbs that emitted a faint, exotic fragrance. Murong Fan had seen a similar record in an ancient book. It seemed to be a kind of "Blood Soul Grass" that had been lost for a long time and could repair veins. It had miraculous effects on healing injuries and enhancing internal strength.

"Good stuff." A thought flashed through Murong Fan's mind. This old man might be a "moving sacrifice," or at least, these herbs around him were.

He walked over slowly. The old man seemed to sense the movement, raised his head with difficulty, and looked at Murong Fan with his cloudy eyes. A trace of vigilance flashed in his eyes at first, and then turned into deep despair and resentment.

"Who...are you?" the old man asked hoarsely, his voice barely audible.

Murong Fan did not answer, but looked down at him and said coldly, "You're badly injured, you're about to die."

The old man gave a bitter laugh, coughing up a mouthful of blood: "Cough cough... This old man... is truly no longer able to go..." He gasped for breath, his eyes suddenly sharpening as he stared intently at Murong Fan. "Young man, I see you... have extraordinary bones... possess remarkable temperament... have spiritual roots... are indeed a... promising talent..."

Murong Fan frowned slightly. Why was this old man spouting all this nonsense before he died? What kind of good thing is this? Was it a trap, or a desperate measure? After asking himself these three questions in quick succession, he impatiently urged, "Speak quickly if you have something to say, I don't have time to waste with you."

The old man seemed unconcerned by Murong Fan's attitude. He struggled to extend a withered hand, pointing to something in his robes: "This old man... has spent his entire life... studying... poison and medicine... cough cough... inside... lies... the culmination of my life's work..." He was referring to something tightly wrapped in oilcloth in his robes, "Unfortunately... it was... harmed by treacherous people... all my knowledge... will... be lost..."

……

After a brief conversation, it was learned that the old man came from a family of cultivators in the Yue Kingdom. His grandson, Yu Zitong, was of mediocre talent but was determined to improve himself. It was said that after leaving the family, he was plotted against and suffered an undeserved disaster.

The old man was heartbroken and disappointed. He went out alone to look for his grandchildren, but unfortunately he was ambushed by his enemies and was seriously injured and on the verge of death.

Murong Fan's eyes flickered slightly, the words "cultivation families" stirring a ripple in his heart. Although he lived in the mortal world, he had heard rumors about cultivators. Those beings who transcended the mortal realm and had lifespans of hundreds or even thousands of years were worlds apart from martial artists.

Seeing the change in his expression, the old man forced a bitter smile onto his pale face: "Young man... you must have heard of... the matter of cultivating immortality..." He coughed violently again, the bloodstain on his chest spreading rapidly. "I... Yu Tianhua... the Yu family, though a small clan... has a history of... over five hundred years... I know that rise and fall are irreversible!"

"Yu Zitong is your grandson?" Murong Fan suddenly asked, his voice still cold, but with a hint of inquiry and reminiscence.

"Indeed..." A flicker of pain crossed the old man's eyes. "That child... was cunning and shrewd... arrogant and proud... single-mindedly seeking to bring glory to his family... ten years ago, he stole the clan's... Foundation Establishment Elixir recipe... ran away from home... saying he wanted to... establish his foundation on his own..." He spoke haltingly, pausing for breath after every few words, "As a result... the elixir recipe... brought... a deadly disaster... I investigated... and thus... I fell into... an ambush..."

"The world of cultivation... is inherently... a world where the strong prey on the weak... I... deeply regret my past actions... while searching for him... my sect... suffered... severe damage."

Murong Fan remained silent for a moment, his gaze falling on the oilcloth bundle in the old man's arms. Although he didn't know what was inside, the old man's hand, which was tightly gripping the bundle, was trembling incessantly. He could tell at a glance that these things were indeed more important than life itself to a dying man.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked bluntly.

A sudden glint of light flashed in the old man's cloudy eyes, as if in a final burst of life: "Find Zitong for me... If he is still... alive... then save his... life..." He paused, his breath growing weaker, yet he still stubbornly gripped Murong Fan's wrist, his withered fingers bursting with astonishing strength. "If he... is dead, please... please... please help me... avenge... him... This package... the contents... will all be... yours..."

Murong Fan looked down at the hand; the skin was dry and shriveled like orange peel, and there were still traces of dark green under the fingernails—marks left from years of exposure to deadly poison. He didn't agree immediately, but asked, "How do you know I'll keep my word?"

Upon hearing this, the old man chuckled softly, a laugh tinged with a touch of desolation and cunning: "In my life... I've seen countless people... In your eyes... there's ambition... there's caution... but... there's nothing... about hypocrisy..." He released his grip and laboriously pulled the oilcloth bundle from his robes. "Such a person... should either... not be one... or if one is... be one to the very end..."

The oilcloth package was stuffed into Murong Fan's hands. It was heavy, and he could vaguely feel several hard books and some bottles and jars inside.

"The Poison Classic...The Medical Canon...one volume each, the Everlasting Spring Technique...two volumes...a total of thirteen layers, which...also contain...spell cultivation." The old man's voice grew weaker and weaker. "In addition...three bottles...of the Blood Burning Pills that I have refined...which can stimulate...potential...at the cost...is shortening lifespan...use with caution..." The old man's breath was weak as he explained the uses of the various treasures in the package in fits and starts.

Murong Fan untied a corner of the oilcloth and, by the moonlight, glimpsed the densely packed small characters on the yellowed paper, as well as several wax-sealed jade bottles. He rewrapped them and put them into his pocket.

Murong Fan looked at the old man's gradually unfocused eyes and asked, "Who harmed you?"

The old man's lips moved as he uttered his last few words: "Enough... enough... enough... the world of cultivation... is inherently a place where the strong prey on the weak... where everyone fights and struggles... if Zitong dies... the sect will perish... if Zitong lives... he will... revitalize the Yu family... and in the future... he will... avenge his great grudge." Before he finished speaking, his head tilted to the side, and he breathed his last.

Murong Fan stood quietly for a moment, then reached out and closed the old man's wide-open eyes. He stood up and looked around. This desolate forest was secluded and quiet, a perfect place to dispose of the body. But after hesitating for a moment, he ultimately did not do anything, only moving the old man's body to the ground under an old locust tree.

Recalling the three questions he had been asked in quick succession, and how such a shrewd old man had not tested or probed him, it seemed that he had been overthinking things. The old man's dying request must have been out of necessity. "Murong Fan muttered to himself.

Just as he made up his mind, the old man vanished into thin air in an instant.

"That old man was really something. I didn't even have a chance to agree or refuse him before he died. If I really encounter Yu Zitong in the future, should I save him or not? What if his interests conflict with mine?" Murong Fan was deep in thought at this moment.

"Perhaps this world of cultivation is far more cruel and alluring than the mortal world." Murong Fan looked down at the heavy oilcloth bundle in his arms, his mind racing.

The dying wish of the old man, Yu Tianhua, was both an opportunity and a potential source of trouble for him. But at this moment, none of that mattered—what mattered was that he needed the key to another world. And suddenly, he had the answer!

Murong Fan touched the oilcloth bundle in his arms, turned and left, a faint smile playing on his lips. The inheritance of the cultivation family, the art of poison, the art of medicine, the Longevity Technique, the Blood Burning Pill—these gains and information far exceeded his expectations.