Chapter Twenty-Two: One Year

Later, the Scholar of Herbal Lore, relying on his extraordinary wisdom, meticulously investigated the circumstances surrounding the sudden deaths of the Miao family’s elite cultivators. Through repeated deduction and rigorous reasoning, he arrived at a conclusion that left every member of the Miao clan utterly astounded: All those who practiced the “Classic of Qihuang,” regardless of identity or talent, without exception, suffered violent deaths once they reached a certain level of mastery. No matter who you were or how gifted, once you cultivated the Classic of Qihuang to a significant degree, death was inevitable.

Faced with this bitter and helpless truth, the Miao family was finally forced to make a cruel decision: from that day forth, no disciple of the clan was permitted to study the Classic of Qihuang. For a time, the scripture became a forbidden subject, not even to be mentioned. Yet this decisive action had come too late. Among the prodigies of the Miao lineage, all but the Scholar of Herbal Lore himself—who for other reasons had never practiced the scripture—had already cultivated it. Watching generation after generation of the clan’s brightest hope perish, even the Scholar of Herbal Lore could do nothing but sigh in despair.

Those who survived the catastrophe were precisely the ones deemed unworthy of learning the sacred texts—mediocre in talent, passed over by the family’s judgment. Ironically, it was this very judgment that preserved their lives.

Witnessing the once-mighty Miao clan, in the span of only a few centuries, fall from the heights of glory to utter ruin, the Scholar of Herbal Lore had no choice but to make the second most painful decision of his life: to withdraw from the world, taking the surviving members of the clan into seclusion.

The reasons for this retreat remained hidden from outsiders. To the world, it simply appeared that the Miao clan, weary of the spotlight, had chosen to retreat together with their treasured Classic of Qihuang. Thus, the name of the Classic faded into the mists of time, becoming a beautiful legend in the southern continent. Yet, from the scant references scattered throughout the “Chronicles of the Southern Reaches,” later generations could faintly discern the extraordinary power of this scripture—a true treasure of the cultivation world.

Miao Shilin was lost in thought. He had spent more than a hundred painstaking years seeking an heir for this scripture. Finally, he had found a person with the fabled “Physique of the Medicine King.” But could he truly allow this person to inherit the Miao clan’s greatest treasure, the Classic of Qihuang? Was he destined to make the same agonizing decision as the Scholar of Herbal Lore before him?

Though the scripture was notoriously difficult to master—every practitioner succumbing to a violent death within a decade or so—there had once been those like the Ancestor and Patriarch of Medicine who succeeded. If, against all odds, this new heir succeeded, he would become a legendary figure, the heir of the Medicine King, famed throughout the southern continent. Yet would that not be tantamount to raising a tiger in his own home, courting disaster and regret?

Miao Shilin let out a long sigh, closing his eyes for a long moment, forcing his excitement and agitation to subside. He would rather let the scripture remain buried forever in the river of history than take such a risk—never could he pass this precious legacy to the son of his mortal enemy.

Thus, the days slipped by one after another. Che Wuyou’s existence in the Miao household became increasingly awkward. By virtue of his special status, his unique presence, and the particular enmity he had incurred among the Miao disciples, many went out of their way to give him “special treatment.” Some did not stop at insults and verbal abuse, but would even strike him.

Che Wuyou, naturally proud and unyielding, could not endure such bullying. In the beginning, he resisted fiercely—no matter how badly he was beaten, he would never bow his head, answering with defiant curses. Later, perhaps through resignation, realizing resistance was futile, or perhaps out of growing despondency, he merely gritted his teeth and endured, waiting for the abuse to pass.

Gradually, seeing him neither resist nor retaliate, the disciples’ enthusiasm for beating him waned—after all, tormenting someone who would not fight back lost its appeal. Yet, with violence fading, mockery and contempt only grew more frequent and biting.

Miao Shilin turned a blind eye to these matters, tacitly condoning the general attitude of the clan toward Che Wuyou. At first, tormenting Che Wuyou had been for the sake of avenging Miao Zongbao, who was well-loved among the disciples, and many of their own brothers had indeed perished at the hands of Che Yeming. But in the end, bullying Che Wuyou became little more than a source of amusement, a way to assert their own authority before others.

Whenever Liu Lanzhi happened by and saw her brothers troubling Che Wuyou, she could not help but feel pity. Perhaps it was because, on the day Che Wuyou first arrived, he had nearly been killed by their mistress, and she herself had not pleaded for him—this had always troubled her. So, whenever she saw someone bullying Che Wuyou, she would speak a few words on his behalf. The other disciples, knowing their little junior sister was both talented and beloved by their master and mistress, would usually let the matter drop when she intervened.

Liu Lanzhi had neither father nor mother; since she could remember, she had been raised by Miao Shilin and his wife. She did not know what her birth parents looked like, nor what it felt like to have them, but she vaguely sensed that even if she did, they might not have cherished her as much as her master and mistress.

Liu Lanzhi was unfailingly obedient and filial to Miao Shilin and his wife, and with her prodigious talent, her cultivation advanced by leaps and bounds. Though young, she was already the center of admiration among her siblings, surpassed only by a handful of older, more advanced disciples.

Having lost their beloved son, Miao Shilin and his wife lavished even more affection on their gifted apprentice, treating Liu Lanzhi as their own daughter. They not only guided her openly in the arts of cultivation, holding nothing back, but even bestowed upon her the clan’s treasured “Herbal Classic.”

This move made the other disciples green with envy. They all knew their master’s true skills lay within the Herbal Classic, and gaining the right to learn it was exceedingly difficult. At that time, fewer than ten disciples had ever received instruction in it. Watching their junior sister’s cultivation soar after obtaining the Herbal Classic, they could only look on with red eyes, lamenting their own lack of talent.

In the blink of an eye, a year had passed, and Che Wuyou was now six years old. Not only had he survived the collapse of his spiritual sea, but his mental state was far better than a year ago, and his attacks grew less frequent and severe. Clearly, the medicine Miao Shilin had given him was quite effective, though Che Wuyou himself felt little joy—perhaps he had no hope for the future left in his heart.

The small vial of healing pills from Miao Shilin had long since been consumed. Whether because the pills were too precious, or because Miao Shilin was indifferent to his fate, Che Wuyou had not received any further medicine, nor had he seen Miao Shilin more than a handful of times over the past year.

Whenever their paths did cross, Miao Shilin’s gaze upon Che Wuyou was always complicated, an emotion Che Wuyou could clearly sense, though he could not understand what it meant or why it was there.

On this day, Che Wuyou had just finished washing the clothes of his senior brothers. Sitting beneath the eaves, he rubbed his numb, aching arms, then propped his chin on his hands, gazing up at the rising sun. In that cold heart of his a faint thread of hope flickered: “A year has finally passed. Mother said she would visit on this day each year, but will Father come too? Will they take me away with them today? If only they would—how I long to leave this place! If I stay any longer, I might not last—I might just die here.”

As Che Wuyou pondered, lost in his thoughts, the door to the courtyard suddenly swung open. Who could it be? No one had come by in days. His eyes shone with hope—could it be his mother? He sprang to his feet, nervously watching the entrance…

But it was a young man who entered, his features handsome enough, though his lips curled in a peculiar smile. At the sight of him, Che Wuyou’s expression changed. It was Han Feng, one of Miao Shilin’s disciples. Though not the most gifted among his peers, Han Feng was still considered highly talented.

Che Wuyou’s heart sank. He remembered that day outside the ancient city, when Ye Hongyu had threatened to tear Han Feng limb from limb. Ever since, Han Feng had harbored a grudge, frequently seeking out Che Wuyou for trouble. Though he had not appeared for several days, Che Wuyou had hoped the matter was forgotten. Clearly, Han Feng was not so forgiving.

Not daring to be negligent, Che Wuyou bowed respectfully, his expression stiff. “Senior Han, may I ask what brings you here?”

Han Feng eyed him askance, smiling slyly. Yet at Che Wuyou’s question, his face suddenly darkened. “Senior Han? You think you’re worthy of calling me that? Looks like it’s been too long since I taught you your place—you’ve forgotten your lessons.”

Without warning, Han Feng strode forward, seized Che Wuyou by the hair, and flung him to the ground like a rag doll. Che Wuyou landed heavily, sliding across the courtyard before coming to an abrupt halt.

For a long moment, he was too stunned to breathe. Blood mingled with dirt smeared his face, and his mouth was full of earth. He spat the bloody mud onto the ground, unable to contain his misery.

Han Feng sneered, watching Che Wuyou sprawl in the dirt. “Well, aren’t you bold? You think that with the junior sister backing you, you can ignore everyone—even spit at me? You really don’t know what’s good for you.” With that, he stepped forward and kicked Che Wuyou hard in the chest.

Che Wuyou’s body convulsed, pain exploding in his heart as if it would burst. Like a crab thrown into boiling water, he curled into a ball, motionless for a long while. Only after a considerable time did he manage to draw a ragged breath, the air burning through his insides like molten fire.