The Immortal of Plague begins by establishing the root of lung fire.

The bitter taste of the pills and medicine exploded in his throat, and Song You forced himself to swallow them down with a glass of cold water on the table.

The medicine worked its magic in my body, and the burning pain in my lungs was actually relieved.

A thought struck him: this method would work.

But then the hospital corridor in front of them began to distort, the scene shook violently, and signs of collapse appeared at the edges.

This is the last gasp before it's over.

Without thinking twice, Song You rushed to the medicine cabinet again, grabbed a few more boxes of antibiotics and painkillers, tore open the packaging, stuffed a handful of pills into his mouth, chewed them hard, and swallowed them.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!" The pharmacy's glass was smashed with a loud bang.

Zhang Lihong's face, contorted with rage, was pressed against the glass as he roared, spittle flying from his mouth, "Song You, you fucking insane! Get out here right now, or you'll never get a permanent position!"

"I'm going to make sure you can't work in the entire healthcare system, you hear me?!"

Normally, such words would have ruined a resident physician's future, but now, looking at that furious face, Song You felt only satisfaction. He wasn't even sure if the other person would ever see him again, and this impotent rage only made him laugh.

He raised his middle finger at Zhang Lihong outside the glass. Watching Zhang Lihong's face instantly turn purple and his curses intensify, Song You smiled easily, and everything before him returned to pure darkness.

......

The moment his consciousness returned, Song You felt the suffocating sensation in his chest again.

But unlike before, the burning pain that felt like it was burning my lungs to ashes had subsided considerably, turning into a tolerable dull ache and weakness.

Song You suddenly opened his eyes. There were no bright lights, only the tall, dark dome of the hall.

He still lay on the cold ground of the Po Cang Temple, surrounded by deathly silence.

The treatment during his final moments of lucidity was truly effective; his body is now steadily recovering, and the burning pain he had experienced is slowly subsiding.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when a sudden, violent churning sensation filled his lungs.

A warm, sweet-smelling substance surged uncontrollably from deep within my lungs into my trachea, rushing straight to my throat.

His body's instincts told him he was going to vomit, and just as Song You was about to turn his head to spit it out, a clear and somewhat innocent voice rang in his ear.

"Hey, don't throw up."

Song You froze.

"If you spit it out, the root of the illness will be gone, but you won't be able to cultivate immortality anymore, and your master will be unhappy."

Song You turned around at the sound and saw a short figure, one of the Taoist boys who had carried the sedan chair earlier. He was squatting down next to him with his head tilted to the side.

A pair of clear, black and white eyes were curiously scrutinizing him, and a purely cruel smile was on their face.

"If you can't cultivate immortality, the silkworms that survive won't taste good."

The root cause!

A sudden realization dawned on Song You: what he was about to vomit was the root of the illness the outer elder had mentioned, and only those who successfully established this root could cultivate immortality.

In this situation, Song You could only grasp at anything that could protect him.

He immediately shut his mouth tightly, using all his strength to fight the urge to vomit.

The lump was extremely hot, stuck in my throat, and every swallow was torture; my throat and esophagus spasmed under the impact of this force.

This was an incredibly painful process, but Song You held on tightly to the back of his tongue, forcing himself to swallow it back bit by bit.

After an unknown amount of time, the urge to vomit finally subsided, and the root of the illness slid back into the lungs through the trachea.

The moment it completely returned to its original position, Song You's lungs ignited again.

But this time the burning pain disappeared, and a strange warmth appeared. This warm current spread rapidly from the lungs to the limbs and bones, dispelling the chill in the hall.

He survived, and truly took root in the disease, becoming a sapling of the Po Zang Temple.

Song You let out a long sigh of relief, feeling that his body had recovered somewhat.

He wanted to thank the young Taoist priest who had enlightened him, but when he turned around, there was no one beside him.

All that could be seen was a small figure hopping and skipping towards the platform in the distance. Everyone who passed by stopped to look, humming a strange, off-key tune.

Song You felt a little relieved; he was safe for the time being.

He now understood what "sick silkworm" meant. Just like cordyceps, the cultivators here didn't care about people's lives or deaths; they would plant the root of the disease in people.

What happens next depends on fate. Listen to the boy; the threat we face is not over yet.

Song You kept this in mind before looking around.

Even though he was mentally prepared, his stomach still churned upon seeing it.

The main hall was filled with people lying haphazardly; of the more than two hundred young men and women who had come with him, only a few remained.

The vast majority of people did not survive the ordeal of planting the stove. Their bodies lay stiff on the ground in various contorted postures, their skin turning an abnormal gray or bluish-purple, and the air was filled with a strong smell of decay and the sour stench of disease.

Occasionally, a few faint groans could be heard from the crowd, but they only added to the despair of the place.

His gaze swept across the area and quickly found that familiar figure nearby.

Jiang Yangjiao is still alive, but she's barely clinging to life.

She huddled beside Song You, her body convulsing, a hoarse sound escaping her throat. Those eyes, which had once held expectation, now held only bitterness and despair.

Song You moved slightly, then immediately stopped.

save?

No matter how he was saved, he survived only by absurd means.

He currently has no medication and no ability to help others.

He moved closer and lowered his voice: "Calm down, don't think about the sensations in your body, distract yourself and think about something else."

These were the words he used to say to comfort patients suffering from terminal illnesses; they were empty and useless.

As expected, Jiang Yangjiao did not react to his words at all, but only struggled instinctively, scratching in vain with her hands on the cold ground. Every breath was a torture for her.

Seeing her in pain, the last bit of pity that belonged to a doctor in Song You's heart quickly evaporated, and he forced himself to look away.

"In this place, you can only rely on yourself."

Looking back on the experience of that brief resurgence, perhaps this is the glimmer of hope, but now is not the time to delve into it.

The elder on the high platform, resembling a ball of flesh, seemed to have exhausted himself, his eyes closed as he breathed heavily. The other Daoist disciples beside him had also found places to meditate, none of them paying attention to the immortal seedlings scattered all over the hall.

This was an opportunity. Song You could still feel the pain in his body, but the newborn warmth gave him the ability to move.

Without the slightest hesitation, taking advantage of the fact that everyone's attention was not on him, he held his breath and moved quietly, barely managing to support his body.

He didn't stand up; instead, he crawled silently toward the nearest body in a prone position.

To survive, he had to scavenge everything useful.