“...”
Silence weighed heavily over the execution platform.
Jin Buhuan studied Zhou Man, a subtle, unreadable expression flickering across his face. “I forgot—Junior Sister Zhou was recommended by the Wang family. She should have such courage.”
The first half of his words carried surprise, even approval. But the second half… Zhou Man caught the faint complexity in his tone, the smile on his lips fading for an instant before he quickly recovered.
In the blink of an eye, he was once again the smooth, eloquent Jin Buhuan. “Since Miss Zhou has spoken, then it is my duty to lead the way.”
Zhao Nishang, who had thought all hope lost, stared at Zhou Man in stunned disbelief, tears brimming in her eyes.
Zhou Man stepped forward to help, but Jin Buhuan calmly pulled her back. Turning to the servants, his voice rang sharp: “What are you standing there for? The fifty lashes are done—will you just watch two weak women carry him away? Move!”
His words cut like a whip of their own.
Zhou Man was taken aback, but the servants, cowed by his glare, finally stepped forward. Uneasy but resolute, they lifted Zhao Zhiyi’s limp body.
Jin Buhuan beckoned Zhou Man and led the way.
Zhao Nishang stumbled after them, wiping her tears. “Thank you, Senior Sister… thank you, Young Master Jin.”
Chunfeng Hall stood between the east and west dormitories, built of bamboo and wood against the southern mountain wall. Higher than the rest of the academy, it faced the towering Jianmen Pass. From its steps, one could see the Sword Wall carved with The Road to Shu is Hard and the Sword Pavilion perched above.
Even before reaching the hall, the faint fragrance of medicine drifted on the air.
Outside, physicians conversed beneath the trees. Inside, two middle-aged doctors played chess by the window.
Jin Buhuan entered first, bowing. “Forgive the intrusion, honored doctors. Someone here urgently needs treatment.”
The servants laid Zhao Zhiyi gently on a bamboo bed.
The physicians rose, but their expressions darkened when they saw the whip marks. “These are wounds from the Golden Whip of the Execution Platform.”
“Can he still be saved?” Zhao Nishang asked anxiously.
Their faces cooled. Bowing stiffly, they said, “We are compiling medical texts and cannot spare the time. Please forgive us.”
Zhao Nishang stared in disbelief.
Zhou Man frowned.
The others in Chunfeng Hall lowered their heads, just as they had at the execution platform.
Jin Buhuan sneered, too lazy to argue. He slammed a teacup on the table. “Mud Bodhisattva! Mud Bodhisattva! Come out and save people!”
The nearby physicians scowled at the name, but Jin Buhuan ignored them, shouting again.
At the words Mud Bodhisattva, Zhou Man’s eyes lifted.
A slender figure entered, carrying a bamboo sieve of herbs. His pale face was refined, his blue Taoist robe simple, a black ceramic ocarina hanging at his waist.
He frowned at Jin Buhuan. “What are you doing here again?”
Zhou Man’s thoughts stirred. It really is him. The same man she had once seen at the Sick Plum Pavilion, using a Xuan Tie Sword Token as a paperweight.
Jin Buhuan pointed at the bloodied Zhao Zhiyi. “He’s badly injured. Take a look.”
The man—Wang Shu—set down his herbs and bent over the patient.
The other physicians, seeing him summoned, darkened with hostility. Some snorted and left.
Soon, only Jin Buhuan, Zhou Man, Zhao Nishang, and a young servant boy remained.
Zhou Man sensed that this “clay Buddha” was unwelcome here. But Wang Shu seemed indifferent. He examined Zhao Zhiyi, pried open his eyelids, and his expression grew grave.
Without looking back, he ordered, “Kong Zui, fetch Danxu Powder and my silver needles.”
The servant boy scrambled to obey.
“Apply the medicine to stop the bleeding,” Wang Shu instructed, then steadied his breath, silver needles in hand. One by one, he pierced the acupoints—Yintang, Shenting, Fengchi, Tianzhu.
Sweat soon beaded his brow.
Zhou Man saw he was channeling spiritual power into the needles, but his cultivation was weak; sustaining it was clearly taxing.
From the side, Jin Buhuan sighed mockingly. “The great Medicine King, Master Yiming, actually took such a frail, sickly fellow as his disciple. Who would have thought?”
“He’s the Medicine King’s disciple?” Zhou Man asked.
“More than that,” Jin Buhuan replied. “His only closed-door disciple. For years, Master Yiming left his academy quota empty rather than recommend anyone. This year, he made an exception.”
“Then why do the physicians treat him so coldly?” Zhou Man pressed.
“Because Chunfeng Hall’s head physician, Sun Mao, once competed with Master Yiming for the title of Medical Sage—and lost. He’s never forgotten it. What kindness could his disciple expect here?”
Zhou Man murmured, “Truly like a clay idol.”
They fell silent, watching Wang Shu work.
Needle after needle, yet Zhao Zhiyi remained unconscious.
Zhou Man’s unease grew. Her gaze shifted to Zhao Nishang, kneeling by the bed, whip marks still raw on her skin. She ignored her own pain, hands clasped, eyes fixed on her father with desperate devotion.
For a moment, Zhou Man seemed to hear another voice, faint and broken: Aman, I’m sorry… I’m sorry…
She drifted into memory until a touch on her arm startled her.
Jin Buhuan stood there, offering a cup of tea. He had called her twice already.
“Thank you,” Zhou Man said softly, taking it but not drinking.
The waiting was torture—most of all for Zhao Nishang.
At last, after nearly a quarter of an hour, Wang Shu set down his needles.
Zhao Nishang’s heart was in her throat. “Doctor, how is she?”
Wang Shu remained silent for a long time, his hands tightening on his knees. At last, with quiet apology, he said, “I’m sorry…”
Those two words struck Zhao Nishang like lightning.
She stared at the young doctor blankly, but Wang Shu could not bear her gaze. He lowered his eyes, removed the silver needle from Zhao Zhiyi’s Shenting acupoint, opened his mouth as if to speak, then said nothing—only rising and stepping aside.
As the needle came free, Zhao Zhiyi stirred, eyes fluttering open.
But everyone who had heard Wang Shu’s words knew: this was only the final flare of life before death.
“Nishang…” he rasped.
Her eyes brimmed red, yet she forced a smile, holding back tears. Kneeling by the bamboo bed, she clasped his hand. “Father, you’re awake. You frightened your daughter to death.”
“It’s my fault,” Zhao Zhiyi whispered, sorrow etched across his face. “My confusion has brought you trouble…”
She shook her head fiercely. “No, no. I love the birthday gift you gave me.”
Tears welled in his cloudy eyes. “I’ve made clothes for others all my life, yet in the end, I could not make a beautiful dress for my daughter…”
At that, Zhao Nishang broke down, sobbing.
With trembling hands, Zhao Zhiyi pulled a worn, curled book from his bosom. His voice cracked. “Ni Chang… from now on, you’ll make your own.”
She clutched the book, weeping. “Yes, I’ll make it myself. Just like in the book—I’ll weave the sunset glow into brocade, use the Milky Way’s starlight as thread, dye it with spring river water and autumn mountain leaves… It will be the most beautiful garment in the world.”
Her gentle voice painted the vision for him.
And so, the tailor who had spent her life sewing for others finally smiled. Slowly, she closed her eyes.
The hand she had struggled to raise fell limp.
Chunfeng Hall fell into utter silence.
Zhao Nishang clutched the book, her fingers white, fighting to hold back her tears.
From behind, Zhou Man spoke softly. “Everyone, go out.”
She stepped into the mountain breeze, exhaling at last. The others followed in silence.
Wang Shu stood before the steps, his hands still stained with blood, not yet washed.
Zhou Man picked up a clean handkerchief and handed it to him.
He accepted absently. “Thank you for your trouble.” Only after wiping his hands did he look up, belatedly realizing who stood before him. Recognition flickered in his eyes.
Jin Buhuan, recovering from the heavy scene, asked, “You know each other too?”
Wang Shu said nothing.
Zhou Man answered frankly, “I’ve seen him before. I got medicine from Doctor Wang’s clinic.”
“Got medicine?” Jin Buhuan echoed, surprised.
Zhou Man glanced at him calmly. “I recently severed my right little finger.”
“...”
Jin Buhuan was speechless. He had noticed her wrapped hand before, but never pressed. Now, faced with her bluntness, he dared not ask further.
Wang Shu knew she was lying, just as she had lied before. He would not expose her. He only lowered his head and continued wiping his hands.
They sat outside beneath a tree. Jin Buhuan poured tea, but neither Zhou Man nor Wang Shu touched it.
Inside, faint sobbing lingered, then faded after a quarter of an hour.
A group of maids entered, led by a female official in sky-blue robes carrying a lacquer tray.
Jin Buhuan frowned.
The woman stopped. “I heard Miss Ni Chang brought Zhao Zhiyi here for treatment. Is he inside?”
She was Citong, attendant to Song Lanzhen. Zhou Man recognized her from her past life.
“She’s inside,” Jin Buhuan said.
But Wang Shu added quietly, “The person is gone.”
Citong froze. In her tray lay bottles of healing pills and a folded piece of Caiyun brocade—the very fabric that had caused all this.
Before she could speak, Zhao Nishang emerged, her tears dried, her face calm. She bowed deeply. “Nishang greets Lord Citong.”
Citong hesitated. “Miss Lanzhen sent me with medicine. Your father returned the original brocade and added half a bolt for your birthday. But now…”
“My father made a mistake,” Zhao Nishang said evenly. “Miss Lanzhen is kind and compassionate. Nishang will accept it.”
She held out her hands.
Citong, reluctant but unable to refuse, gave her the tray. “Please accept my condolences.”
Zhao Nishang said nothing.
As Citong departed, the young servant Kong Zui whispered innocently, “Miss Lanzhen is truly kind.”
Wang Shu glanced at him.
Jin Buhuan murmured, recalling words from Jiajin Valley, “A good person…”
Zhao Nishang misunderstood. Staring at the blood-stained brocade, she chuckled bitterly. “Wearing fine clothes, sitting high in court, never knowing hunger or humiliation—of course one can be kind. I could be such a good person.”
Her pale face and desolate smile chilled the air.
Jin Buhuan looked up sharply. Wang Shu remained silent.
Zhou Man closed his eyes, lifted the tea Jin Buhuan had poured, and finally took a sip. Tea from Chunfeng Hall—steeped in medicine, bitter to the tongue.
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