The Almighty Martial Arts System - Chapter 150

The Shu Palace Hotel stood on grounds that were once a royal city—not the Three Kingdoms-era palace of Liu Bei, but the most magnificent princely residence built during the Ming Dynasty. Facing south with a scale rivaling Beijing’s Forbidden City, its architecture had been a masterpiece of elegance: intricate gardens, arched bridges over murmuring streams, birdsong among blossoms—a veritable paradise.

Yet history had not been kind.

When rebel forces stormed it during the Ming collapse, the last Prince of Shu plunged into a well, and flames consumed most of the complex. A century of warlord conflicts in Jin City reduced it further, until only commoners inhabited its ruins. The final erasure came during the last century’s upheavals, when guards dynamited the remnants to build a “Science Hall.”

Now, beyond a few lingering street names, no trace of the Shu Palace remained.

But few knew of the Shu Palace Hotel.

Unrated by star systems and unknown to most, its interiors rivaled the opulence of the ancient palace itself.

…

In the hotel’s most lavish suite—adorned with masterful landscape paintings and antique porcelain worth fortunes—an incongruous figure hunched over a worktable: a disheveled, stick-thin old man barely 1.6 meters tall. His sparse gray hair hung like frayed threads, his outdated clothes (likely decades old) would make passersby mistake him for a homeless scavenger.

Yet here he was, surrounded by obscene luxury, meticulously mixing a dozen herbs with the focus of a master poisoner.

Knock. Knock.

The man’s head snapped up. Without haste, he selected two seven-inch silver needles from a case before approaching the door.

To a skilled TCM practitioner, needles were both scalpel and sword—tools of healing or killing with equal precision.

“Who?” His voice rasped like sandpaper, parched as a desert wanderer’s.

“Me,” boomed a baritone reply.

“Who is ‘me’?”

“A patient.”

The old man’s lips twitched. Though he specialized in toxins, he enjoyed the pretense of medicine.

Cracking the door, he eyed the hulking visitor—a muscle-bound giant towering over him. “Why now?”

“Business.” The giant grinned, idiotically cheerful. “Won’t invite me in?”

After hesitation, the old man—”Poison King” Wu—stepped aside.

“I said not to disturb me until day seven,” Wu hissed once the door closed. “Pay the balance then.”

“About that balance…” The giant’s grin widened. “We can’t pay.”

Needles flashed into Wu’s grip. “Explain.”

“Easy. Your poison failed.” The giant chuckled, though his eyes tracked Wu’s right sleeve. “Ye Zhennan’s alive.”

“Impossible!” Wu’s face purpled. “Fantasy Seven Herbs infiltrates organs within days. No antidote exists!”

“Yet a man named Jiang Fei cured it today.”

“Jiang… Fei?” Wu spat the name. “Some youngster?”

“Under thirty.”

“Lies!” Wu’s needles quivered. To suggest a novice could undo his masterpiece was blasphemy.

The giant’s grin vanished. His face contorted grotesquely, voice dropping to a snarl:

“Your job isn’t to doubt—it’s to fix this. The target lives, and our employer is furious.” He leaned in. “You’re only breathing because they hope you’ll correct your mistake.”

Wu’s sneer didn’t waver. “Threatening me?”

“Can those needles really kill me?”

“Try—”

The giant moved.

Despite his bulk, he darted in a zigzag, evading Wu’s twin needles—now embedded three centimeters deep in the wall. A meaty hand clamped around Wu’s throat…

Yet the old man’s left palm now cradled a jade vial.

“Ever heard of Nine Insects Death Mist?” Wu wheezed.

The giant froze. Released him.

“Find a solution,” he growled, stomping out. “Or no poison will save you.”