A master of both medicine and martial arts, he picked up a beautiful CEO as his wife.

Cen Zhao stood frozen in place.

His powerful "Cloud Opening Style" was caught by two fingers just three inches from Ye Feng's chest.

It wasn't a block, it wasn't a defuse. It was a grip. Like gripping a fluttering bird.

Cen Zhao's strength completely dissipated. He could feel that his internal energy, which had been circulating to its limit, was hitting a wall that had been exposed to the sun all day under those two fingers—hot, thick, and heavy.

He tried to pull his hand away, but couldn't.

"Your timing is good," Ye Feng commented seriously, "but you were too hasty when you used it. The first three-tenths of that palm strike was for show, and the last seven-tenths was the real attack. But your eyes moved first."

Cen Zhao's face turned from red to white. Ye Feng released his grip. Cen Zhao staggered back three steps, his chest heaving like a bellows. He looked down at his hands—they were perfectly fine, without a single scratch.

But it is precisely because there is no injury whatsoever that it is most chilling. The ancient road was utterly silent.

The dozen or so Nirvana Mountain disciples stared wide-eyed. They could see it clearly: from beginning to end, that "junior uncle" hadn't moved an inch, hadn't taken a breath, and... even his other hand was still in his pocket.

Cen Heming stared at Ye Feng, his eyebrows, which had been lowered to a very low position, suddenly lifted.

He was an expert. An expert could see more—the instant those two fingers pinched the palm wind, a wisp of extremely pure true energy was released from Ye Feng's fingertips, crawled half an inch against the flow of Cen Zhao's palm, and got stuck on the meridian of his wrist.

That was the peak of the sun. But within that peak of the sun, there was also a wisp of extremely warm and gentle Yin energy, which did not belong to Nirvana Mountain at all.

One forceful, one gentle, intertwined. Cen Heming's breathing became slightly disordered.

The murals covering the walls, the old covenant that Nirvana Mountain had guarded for countless generations… he had only heard about them once in his entire life from his senior brother.

"Who taught you this martial art?" Cen Heming asked, enunciating each word clearly.

"Master left it in the hall," Ye Feng answered crisply. "Half of it. Still half left."

Cen Heming remained silent for a long time. So long that the mountain wind chilled everyone's robes before he finally spoke: "Come with me up the mountain."

He turned to leave, then stopped, adding without turning back:

"The fact that you could hold Cen Zhao in your palm only proves that you have a strong fist. The Nirvana Mountain's wealth wasn't built on fists."

"Taking over the family fortune, we need to pass a test."

The path up the mountain was longer than he remembered. Ye Feng followed behind Cen Heming in silence. As they rounded the third ridge, a commotion suddenly arose ahead.

It wasn't the noise from the mountains. It was human voices, and a child crying.

At a bend in the ancient road, a dozen or so people lay sprawled on an open ground, covered with thin blankets. A large pot sat nearby, and several women were busily boiling water. An elderly man with gray hair knelt beside a sick person, pinching his philtrum.

"They're from Tingxue Town," a young disciple following behind explained in a low voice. "A strange illness broke out in the town seven days ago. First, people felt cold, then their limbs stiffened inch by inch, and by the fourth day, they couldn't speak. Two people have already died."

"The town hospital sent him to the county hospital, but they couldn't find the cause of the illness." Another disciple chimed in, "There was nothing else they could do, so the old folks in town said there were immortals on Nirvana Mountain, so they carried him up the mountain to pray to them."

Ye Feng stopped in his tracks. He quickly walked over and squatted down next to the nearest patient.

He was a man in his thirties, with a pale, ashen face and purple lips. His hands were curled up like chicken claws, and a very faint, almost invisible layer of black mist emanated from under his fingernails.

Ye Feng placed his fingers on his wrist. In an instant, his expression changed.

It's not an illness.

"What?" The old man kneeling beside him looked up.

"This isn't an illness," Ye Feng said, flipping the man's eyelids again. "It's an injury."

He raised his head and looked towards the main peak. Deep in the clouds, he couldn't see anything.

"The deathly aura has leaked out." Shen Yu also squatted down, his face grim. "Junior brother, you mean, that thing inside the mountain—"

"Let a little bit seep out." Ye Feng put the man's hand back under the blanket. "Just a little bit. Let it seep down with the earth's energy, first invading the extremities, then moving deeper. These people are weak and can't withstand it."

Cen Heming stood a few steps away, remaining silent until now. He finally spoke slowly, "I also came to see you three days ago."

"What did you see?"

"I can see it's incurable." For the first time, a hint of weariness appeared in the old man's voice. "My Nirvana Mountain lineage's medical skills were passed down from our ancestor, but by the time they reached me, I had only learned the basics. I used three prescriptions and managed to suppress it for two days. On the third day, it started leaking again."

He looked up and stared directly at Ye Feng.

"This is the pass."

"Your master's strength lies first and foremost in his ability to help the world, not in his ability to fight. If you can handle the lives of the people in this town, I, Cen Heming, will not stop you from inheriting the family lineage."

"If I can't catch it—"

"Then you'll remain a wandering quack doctor from the mountains. Go back to your Dongyang."

In the open space, more than twenty pairs of eyes were fixed on Ye Feng. The relatives from the town didn't understand anything about inheritance or tribulations; they only understood one thing: this young man might be able to save lives.

A woman holding a child suddenly knelt down.

"gentlemen……"

The child was held tightly in her arms, his face pale, his hands tucked into his sleeves, unable to open them. The woman knelt, unable to utter a complete sentence, only repeating those two words over and over, until her voice became inhuman.

Ye Feng reached out and helped her up. He didn't say anything fancy like "it can definitely be cured," he just glanced back at Lin Yuqing.

Lin Yuqing understood, stepped forward, and naturally offered her wrist. Ye Feng took her hand and closed his eyes briefly.

That warm, yin energy flowed through him along the invisible line of the He Mai meridian. When he opened his eyes, they were already serene.

"Senior Brother Shen, go to town and bring up all the patients who can still walk."

"Uncle-Master Cen," he turned to Cen Heming, "lend me three medicinal herbs, and also the alchemy room of the mountain gate."

Cen Heming raised an eyebrow: "What medicine?"

"I'll take as much old ginger as you can get, as long as it's been three years or more," Ye Feng said, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves to his elbows. "And sulfur and aconite."

Cen Zhao, who was listening nearby, was taken aback: "Old Jiang? Aconite? You're treating a death curse, using these crude herbs—"

"The Deathly Fiend is Yin," Ye Feng said without looking up. "I'll take the Yang one."

"Can you hold on?"

"It won't last." Ye Feng finally raised his head and glanced at him. His calm gaze made Cen Zhao's heart skip a beat. "The medicine will only last for two hours."

"Over two hours, I personally extracted the black energy from each of them, one by one."