For a fleeting moment, Jin Buhuan felt a wave of despair wash over him, unable to resist the thought: When she asked, "Why don't you turn around and see what I look like?" he should have risked his life to turn and look.
He stood upon the ridge for a long while before finally returning to Jiajin Valley.
The stream ran blood-red. The monks who had accompanied him lay scattered across the valley floor. Chen Si remained in the same position, gravely wounded and unconscious.
Jin Buhuan stood by the pool, surveying the devastation surrounding him. He felt little compassion, thinking instead: Everyone's been shot, even Chen Si lies seriously injured and unconscious, yet I'm the only one completely unscathed. How can I possibly explain this if questioned?
The frosty moonlight illuminated his cheek, his beautiful almond-shaped eyes flickering with calculation.
How could he possibly appear the careless dandy at such a moment?
After brief deliberation, he bent down and extracted an arrow from the unconscious man beside him. After a lengthy pause, he measured it against his own body, finally driving it hard three inches below his left ribs!
Blood instantly stained his robe crimson.
Jin Buhuan feared pain above all things in life, yet he gritted his teeth and endured it for the moment. After a while, he wrenched the bloodied arrow free and cast it to the ground.
Zhou Man had already traveled far. Upon leaving Jiajin Valley, she had even looted silver and coin from several fallen monks and retrieved the cloak she'd discarded earlier.
Another of Chen Si's golden arrows remained embedded in it.
However, the first arrow he'd shot at her had disappeared deep into the forest, too inconvenient to locate.
She carried two bows and twenty arrows, donned her cloak once more, and slipped through the forest. Only after traveling more than ten miles eastward did her body finally relax from the intense confrontation. When the night breeze caressed her face, she registered the sharp pain in her left arm.
Cold sweat broke out across her skin.
In the moonlight filtering through the trees, Zhou Man examined the wound, discovering blood had stained her sleeve a dark purple. The arrow wound proved far deeper than she'd imagined, bleeding profusely.
A wound like this couldn't go untreated.
With less than four days remaining until the two-week deadline agreed upon with Elder Wei Xuan of the Wang Clan in Shendu, her wound would inevitably arouse suspicion.
While cultivators could draw spiritual energy from heaven and earth into their bodies, possessing healing abilities far superior to ordinary humans, it wouldn't suffice to completely heal this wound in four days.
She needed medicine.
After brief consideration, Zhou Man altered her route, heading toward the ancient city of Xiaojian.
Nipan Street teemed with activity—the most dangerous place often proved the safest.
Outside the city, she sought out a deserted, dilapidated temple. As always, she wrapped her bow and arrows in her cloak and concealed them among the temple's beams before entering the city and making for Nipan Street.
The entire street boasted only one clinic, located at the end of a forked road.
Its name seemed both fitting and unfitting, yet somehow appropriate regardless:
Sick Plum House.
When Zhou Man reached the street corner, she glimpsed from a distance a medicine gourd hanging from tiled eaves ahead—the symbol of "helping the world with a medicine gourd."
The hour grew late, and few people lingered before the clinic.
Outside, beneath the eaves, many poor, sick beggars with nowhere else to go had gathered. Most were half-dressed, appeared ill, and lay upon tattered bamboo mats.
A medicine boy had established a medicine stove and was brewing decoctions outside.
As Zhou Man approached, the bitter aroma of medicinal herbs reached her.
The boy fanned the medicine stove with a palm-leaf fan, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. When he glanced up and saw her, he pointed inside with practiced ease: "The consultation and prescription are on the left, the medicine is on the right, and the doctor is inside."
Zhou Man nodded her thanks and entered.
Unexpectedly, as she crossed the threshold, a heartbroken cry emanated from within.
Zhou Man looked toward the source of the sound.
A child, no more than six or seven years old with a pigtail tied at the back of his head, stood before the examination table, weeping bitterly. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, but the tears wouldn't cease.
Lying upon the table was a small yellow bird, barely palm-sized, its furry head drooping, its wings stained with blood, wailing pitifully.
Behind the table stood a young man.
Because his head was bowed, Zhou Man couldn't see him clearly. She could only discern a simple wooden hairpin securing his hair and an old Taoist robe of washed-out blue cloth. He was quite tall, though so gaunt he called to mind the very meaning of "sick plum."
The child sobbed, filled with guilt: "Is it dying?"
The young man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached out and cupped the crying bird in his palm, gently placing his other hand over it and closing both together.
A soft spiritual light flickered between his fingers.
The bird's mournful cry suddenly ceased.
The young man smiled and spoke softly, his voice clear and gentle: "Look."
He opened his thin palm.
The yellow bird, barely alive moments before, suddenly stirred to life, teetering on the edge of his palm. With a flutter of its tiny wings, it soared into the air.
The child's eyes widened in astonishment, tears forgotten.
The young man also raised his head, watching the soaring bird.
Zhou Man finally saw him clearly: his brows relaxed, his face gentle and peaceful. Though a hint of illness lingered on his slightly pale complexion, the smile gracing his lips lent a touch of poignant compassion.
The little yellow bird, delighted at its restored life, flapped its wings and circled around the clinic before landing directly upon Zhou Man's shoulder. It shook its furry little head and preened its goose-yellow feathers with its clean beak.
Zhou Man startled.
The young man then noticed the new arrival in his clinic and looked up at her.
The child, whose eyes had been red from crying moments ago, now burst into laughter: "It's okay, it's okay!"
The little yellow bird chirped—whether in response remained unclear.
The child chased after it.
The little yellow bird flapped its wings and departed Zhou Man's shoulder once more.
The child ran to the door, then remembered something. He stopped, turned around and called to the young man: "Thank you, King Bodhisattva!"
The young man laughed gently. "Go, be careful next time."
The child nodded vigorously and ran away with the joy of what had been lost now found.
Only Zhou Man, the young man, and a little medicine boy grinding herbs before the medicine cabinet remained in the clinic.
Zhou Man found the title "King Bodhisattva" rather peculiar.
The young man, realizing she had witnessed everything, appeared somewhat embarrassed. "These are merely trifles. My cultivation is rudimentary. I'm sorry to have embarrassed myself before you, young lady."
Zhou Man recognized he had channeled spiritual energy to repair the bird's wound. His technique was indeed crude, so she felt no surprise.
She simply asked, "Are you the doctor here?"
The man nodded slightly. "Yes. Are you seeking consultation or prescription medicine?"
Zhou Man wasted no time: "I have a knife wound. I'd like to prescribe medicine to stop bleeding and promote tissue regeneration, something that will heal quickly."
The man glanced at her left arm.
Blood had already stained half her sleeve.
He frowned unconsciously, as though about to inquire further, but seeing Zhou Man's expression indicated she wasn't prepared to elaborate, he swallowed his words: "Please wait a moment. I'll write the prescription."
Beside him lay pen and paper. An ordinary goat-hair brush and a stack of locally produced rough-edged paper, yellowed and unevenly thick—hardly considered high-quality. A black iron sword token pressed upon the top sheet.
Zhou Man noticed it immediately.
She recalled that Jin Buhuan seemed to carry something similar, hanging at his waist alongside the ancient bamboo brush and red gold abacus. However, the gaunt young doctor before her appeared to use it merely as a paperweight.
He dipped his brush in ink and wrote. He seemed to know the medicines by heart, showing no hesitation as he wrote.
He only suppressed a cough from time to time, as though somewhat unwell.
After a short while, he completed the prescription. He summoned the medicine boy grinding herbs before the medicine cabinet: "Prepare the medicine according to this prescription. Three sets will suffice, no more."
The medicine boy accepted the prescription and replied, "Yes." He gestured for Zhou Man to wait on the right, then began selecting medicines according to the prescription.
But when he reached for a certain medicine, the medicine boy muttered softly, "Isn't it a knife wound?"
Zhou Man's head snapped up.
The medicine boy didn't notice. Though he didn't quite understand, he still opened a compartment in the medicine cabinet. He extracted the last of the medicine from the drawer labeled "Tian Gan Cao," placed it together with the other medicines, and formed a neat package.
He handed the medicine package and prescription to Zhou Man: "For external use, apply the medicine three times daily, and for the herbal decoction, take one dose per day."
Zhou Man said, "Thank you."
She paid, collected the medicine package and prescription, and departed.
Yet after walking beneath the eaves of Nipan Street for some distance, she sensed something amiss.
Zhou Man retrieved the prescription and examined it more closely.
The handwriting upon the paper was exceptionally beautiful—elegant and cold, with a sense of ruggedness and desolation. At the end appeared the characters "Wang Shu," which seemed to be the young doctor's name.
This was kept as a record in case complications arose later.
However, her eyes didn't linger on the name, but focused on the medicine written in the third line—
Tian Gan Cao.
At this hour, few people remained on the street. Zhou Man walked forward for a while before spotting a middle-aged stall owner selling medicinal pills, packing up his wares.
An idea formed. She approached and asked, "Do you have any herbs?"
The stall owner inquired, "What kind of medicine do you need?"
Zhou Man replied, "I want to treat a knife wound. I'd like to buy some licorice."
The stall owner immediately laughed. "Licorice is enough to treat a knife wound. Why would you need Tian Gan Cao? The efficacy of Tian Gan Cao is twice that of ordinary licorice. It's only used for blunt injuries or deep wounds, such as arrow wounds..."
Hearing the words "arrow wound," Zhou Man's eyelids twitched, though her expression remained normal. She appeared somewhat embarrassed: "I apologize, I made a mistake."
The stall owner simply shook his head. "It's no matter."
He gathered the pills from his stall, hoisted his box, and departed.
Zhou Man stood there, withdrew the prescription and examined it once more, but the warmth in her eyes gradually receded.
The doctor had known she was injured by an arrow!
The doctor belonged to Sick Plum House, which stood on Nipan Street. Nipan Street belonged to Jin Buhuan's territory, and Jin Buhuan maintained close ties with aristocratic families.
The connections in her mind formed all too clearly.
She turned her head to regard the clinic with the medicine gourd hanging in the distance, slowly crumpling the prescription in her hands. Zhou Man's expression remained blank as she carried the medicine back to the dilapidated temple outside the city, retrieved the bow and arrows she'd hidden among the beams, donned her cloak once more, covered her face with a scarf, and returned to Nipan Street.
Night had deepened, and no more patients visited the clinic. They were preparing to close.
The atmosphere grew extremely quiet.
Only the medicine boy at the door continued brewing medicine.
When Wang Shu emerged to check, the medicine boy was using a piece of cloth to cushion his hands, attempting to lift the lid of the medicine jar for inspection. His movements proved somewhat hasty, and his grip faltered. The lid began to fall, about to shatter on the ground.
The medicine boy nearly cried out.
Fortunately, a thin hand reached out in time and caught the lid steadily.
The medicine boy looked up and finally saw Wang Shu. "Doctor Wang!"
Wang Shu coughed softly once more before setting the lid aside. The boy had required cloth to hold the lid, knowing it was exceedingly hot. Wang Shu had handled it with bare hands, his fingertips reddening with burns. He merely frowned slightly, seemingly unbothered. "Don't panic. Be careful. It's acceptable if it falls, but take care not to burn yourself."
The boy felt a wave of shame and embarrassment.
Wang Shu turned to observe the ragged, sick beggars sprawled beneath the eaves. A gap in the crowded bamboo mats caught his attention, standing out conspicuously.
Startled, he asked, "Where's the xun player?"
The boy looked up at him and whispered, "They've been taken away."
Silence descended.
Wang Shu stood there for an extended moment, then turned and headed back inside.
The boy called after him, "It's going to rain tonight, so take an umbrella."
Wang Shu didn't respond, but a moment later emerged from the clinic with a folded oil-paper umbrella tucked under his arm.
He carried a lantern and said, "I'll go take a look and return shortly."
The medicine boy watched him descend the stairs and murmured sorrowfully: "The Clay Buddha crossing the river, yet still thinking of others..."
Zhou Man concealed herself in shadow, observing this man emerge from the clinic and walk along the deserted Nipan Street toward the far end. She couldn't help frowning.
Where was he going at this late hour?
But she reconsidered: regardless of this man's destination, at such a late hour, walking alone through the streets, if any unusual movement occurred, it would prove highly convenient for her to act.
Wang Shu walked ahead.
Zhou Man followed behind.
The long street lay dark, lights extinguished on all sides. Only a thin, sparse figure could be seen walking through the deep night. The lantern wasn't particularly bright, illuminating only a small area nearby, as though it might be swallowed by darkness at any moment.
This person's cultivation was indeed shallow—he remained completely unaware someone followed him.
He traversed the long street and turned right.
Before him stood a dilapidated building. A white paper lantern with a large hole hung askew by the door, covered in cobwebs. The plaque above appeared ready to fall. It proved to be a charity cemetery.
Zhou Man felt momentary surprise.
Wang Shu, however, carried his lantern and walked straight through the entrance.
She frowned and hesitated briefly, but still followed, concealing herself behind the shadow of a broken window. Simultaneously, she raised her bow, drew an arrow with her backhand, and nocked it on the string. She wasn't hurried to act, but prepared to observe what manner of person he truly was.
Several new coffins rested in the charity cemetery, though they were merely thin coffins of ordinary wood. Most of the deceased were simply wrapped in straw mats, casually placed upon the ground.
Only one corner differed.
A withered, sickly old man lay there, wearing only two tattered hemp garments and a clay xun hanging at his waist. He reclined upon a straw mat, eyes closed, his chest still rising and falling. He yet breathed, but increasingly weakly.
He was waiting to die.
Wang Shu, unaware of the danger beyond the window, approached. He watched for a moment, set down the lantern, and crouched down.
The old man finally opened his eyes with great effort. Seeing it was Wang Shu, he actually extended his withered hand toward him.
It resembled a gesture seeking help.
Wang Shu lowered his head and extended his hand for the old man to grasp, but felt emotion rising in his throat. He spoke with bitter voice: "It's all my fault. My medical skills are inadequate, my cultivation is superficial, and I always cripple people. I can't save myself, let alone others..."
The originally clear voice contained infinite bitterness.
By the final sentence, it had grown as light as dust floating in air, as though it could be dispersed by any gust of wind.
Zhou Man suddenly froze.
The lantern on the ground cast the young doctor's thin figure upon the wall, transforming it into an enormous dark shadow pressing heavily down upon him.
She watched for an extended time, and finally her fingers loosened. She slowly lowered her bow and arrow.
In the dilapidated charity cemetery, the dying old man shook his head with difficulty, then raised a long finger like a dead branch and pointed to his waist.
Wang Shu then noticed the clay xun.
The rough black surface, through years of the old man's handling and playing on Nipan Street, had acquired an air of antiquity from countless seasons of wind and rain.
Zhou Man had abandoned her original plan. She put away her bow and arrows, turned, and prepared to leave.
At this moment, the sound of a xun suddenly emerged from behind.
At first, only two notes sounded, then slowly the broken tones connected, flowing out through the holes in the window.
Her footsteps halted abruptly.
The xun's melody was deep and prolonged, as though echoing the sudden night wind outside, sometimes high, sometimes low, evoking memories of falling flowers and leaves, of dying spring silkworms...
How much untold sorrow and suffering existed in this long, lingering world?
Zhou Man's heart churned. She blinked, then finally couldn't help looking back.
Behind her lay weeds, overhead a crescent moon.
The thin silhouette of Wang Bodhisattva was cast upon the tattered window paper.
Blowing earth into a xun produces the sound of Kun.
As the melody gradually concluded, the withered old man's eyes had long since closed, yet a smile seemed to curl at the corners of his mouth.
Wang Shu held the xun in both hands and slowly set it down. Then he bent to retrieve the candle from the lantern, walked to the table, and lit the eternal lamp resting there.
The charity cemetery housed deities, Buddhas, and Bodhisattvas, their golden forms long since peeled away.
He stood before the lamp, gazing up at their faces, which had already grown indistinct.
Only when wind blew in from outside, rattling the tattered window paper, did he collect the lantern once more and head outside.
A drop of water splashed onto the dusty steps outside the building.
Wang Shu noticed and wondered: Is it going to rain?
He looked up toward the sky.
Indeed, wind had driven clouds in, obscuring the waning moon. Soon, a gentle rain began to fall, shrouding the entire Nipan Street in hazy mist.
The faint glow from the eternal lamp in the charity cemetery shone behind him.
The Clay Buddha opened his umbrella and, carrying the lamp, walked into the rain.
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