Even if someone believes it, as long as he stubbornly refuses to admit it, what can they do to him?

It really doesn’t matter at all.

Right now, he’s in a hurry to get home—not wanting to deal with police questioning for the time being, nor to be harassed by the crime reporters who always trail behind the police. He needs to get into the Demon-Refining Pot as soon as possible—he’s pretty badly injured and needs to absorb the “blood” of the tree spirits to heal himself. This will take a long time and requires a private space where he can disappear.

As soon as he entered the apartment, he immediately locked the door, went to the bathroom, and grabbed a logging axe—the best weapon he could legally buy. Since he often lost them, he bought five at once and kept them standing next to the toilet for easy access. Holding the axe, he calmed his mind for a moment, and then appeared in the valley of the “world inside the pot,” gritting his teeth against the pain as he rushed toward the gloomy forest.

A 1.5% blood absorption rate, doubled to 3%—in the heat of battle, it’s almost negligible, but as long as he has enough stamina, he can keep chopping and chopping, and it really does speed up the healing of his injuries, all-around, whether internal or external.

For healing, there’s no need to go deep into the forest. He just searched around the edge for a while and quickly found a tree spirit, then raised his axe and started hacking away.

A tree spirit’s combat power is far inferior to the “train monster.” In the blink of an eye, he inflicted massive damage, and moments later, as the tree spirits began to gather in anger, he didn’t linger—he turned and ran, switching directions to continue.

After going back and forth like this five or six times, even with his long-trained endurance, he was panting with his tongue out, but his wounds were mostly healed. The dull pain under his ribs was gone, and the scratches on his arm, leg, and shoulder had all scabbed over—just waiting for the scabs to fall off naturally.

Only then did he stop, returning to his tiny apartment, tossing the axe aside, drenched in sweat, gulping down tap water, stripping off his tattered, bloodstained school uniform, and sitting cross-legged to study the pill.

He was just about to go play basketball, and now he can cultivate again?

Is his life script switching back to an urban cultivation journey?

If this were a novel, with all this back-and-forth, the readers’ brains would probably crack open, right?

But… can this pill really be eaten?

Autumn Whitman cautiously examined the pill in his hand, which definitely didn’t look like an “elixir.” Watching the “veins” on its surface slowly swell and contract, it looked incredibly bizarre—more like poison, the kind that would make you bleed black from all seven orifices within three steps.

But… would the Demon-Refining Pot really harm its master?

He pondered for a long time, looking and sniffing, wanting to lick it but not daring to, feeling very uncertain.

The damn Demon-Refining Pot only said it would refine the shadow demon, never mentioned turning it into a tonic. If he ate it, would he drop dead on the spot? Or maybe just turn into a monster?

If it really is harmful, he wouldn’t even get to be a basketball star. But if he doesn’t eat it, and it really is the key to opening the path to the extraordinary, would he just miss out for nothing?

What exactly is the “train monster”?

The Demon-Refining Pot mentioned shadow demons, so is the “train monster” essentially a human corrupted by a shadow demon?

Then what is a shadow demon?

He’s been in this world for more than two years now, so why has he never encountered anything like this before? Did something happen that he doesn’t know about, something he needs to uncover?

Feels like a mystery…

Autumn Whitman mulled it over for a while but couldn’t figure it out, so he just put the pill away for now. With so much uncertainty, he’d better try to understand the situation before making a decision. After all, the pill is in his hands—he can take it whenever he wants, no need to recklessly shove it in his mouth right away.

There’s no need to rush this. It’d be best to do some drug testing first—after all, he only has one life, and when caution is needed, he should be cautious.

He flopped straight down onto the tatami, planning to take a nap first.

He was exhausted earlier and didn’t want to move at all now, but just as he was about to drift off, a burst of electric loudspeaker noise came from outside: Stone-baked sweet potatoes! Sweet potatoes baked on stones! 100 yen, 200 yen, 300 yen stone-baked sweet potatoes! Super sweet and super sticky stone-baked sweet potatoes…

He got up at the sound, opened the door and looked out onto the street, and saw a white mini truck driving around with a sweet potato oven in the back.

This is a common street scene. Hokkaido is one of Japan’s main meat-producing regions, with lots of ranches, and sweet potatoes—whether the tubers, vines, or leaves—are excellent feed, easy to grow anywhere. So the Hokkaido development bureaus have always planted them in large quantities, and “stone-baked sweet potatoes” have become a common street snack in Hokkaido—especially cheap, with a big one for 300 yen to fill you up, or a small one for 100 yen to satisfy your sweet tooth. It’s a pretty good snack.

Autumn Whitman took one look and felt hungry, immediately went downstairs, bought five or six of various sizes, and carried them back to the apartment. Just as he was about to go in, he noticed the door next door was open a crack, and inside was the same little girl from yesterday, peeking out timidly from under the security chain.

This was the third time they’d met. Autumn Whitman still couldn’t figure out what she wanted. He tilted his head and met her gaze for a while, then hesitantly asked, “Is there something you need?”

The little girl shook her head, didn’t speak, but also didn’t close the door—just kept looking at him.