Chapter 3: First Diagnosis — The Old Craftsman’s Bones Sing

The silhouette of the car from that rainy night had long since vanished into the muddy depths of the alley, but Su Tingbai remained standing by the window. The slight chill of the Lithospermum salve in her arms seeped through her clothes and into her palm, a coldness that wound its way up her veins like an icy serpent coiling around her heart.

The outline of that dark-patterned jade pendant seemed burned into her retinas, like a prying eye watching her silently from the darkness. The fear hadn't receded with the rain; instead, it had crystallized in her marrow, freezing her senses layer by layer.

Outside, the damp, cold air carried the metallic scent of wet earth through the gaps in the window frame. The candlelight flickered, stretching her thin shadow into something distorted and long.

She took a deep breath, her chest heaving as she forcibly suppressed the panic threatening to break through. Her fingertips brushed against the rough wrapping paper of the Lithospermum salve; the fibers sliced into her skin, bringing a tiny prick of pain that snapped her out of her trance. The coldness in her eyes was now sharper than the rain outside—a calculated, tempered calm.

Since the prey had shown itself, the hunter's game was inevitable. She had to carve out her own path. She turned and blew out the lamp, letting the darkness swallow all light, leaving only the heavy, drum-like thumping of her heart beating against the silence.

The next morning, the pharmacy had just opened. The streets were filled with the faint, clean scent of herbs, though it couldn't mask the damp chill clinging to the common folk. A dragging set of footsteps approached, breaking the morning bustle. Amu, the apprentice, leaned against the doorframe as he walked in. The chilblains on his arms had ruptured into patches of dark red, oozing a cloudy yellow fluid that gave off a nauseating, fishy stench.

His face was a ghostly gray, and his knuckles were too stiff to bend. He trembled with every step, as if the ground beneath him might collapse at any moment. A few doctors nearby took his pulse, all of them frowning and shaking their heads. They diagnosed it as a common cold that had penetrated the collaterals and prescribed several doses of warming tonics to dispel the dampness.

Amu took the prescriptions with a bitter expression, the veins on the back of his hands bulging. But before he could even drink the medicine, the pain surged back like a tide. Cold sweat poured off him as he stared blankly at the packets of herbs, as if he were looking at a death warrant.

Su Tingbai leaned against the medicine cabinet, watching coldly. Her fingertips tapped the counter—*tap, tap, tap*. The chaotic echo of the medicinal Qi sounded like needles stabbing at her ears, causing her to knit her brows, her knuckles turning white from the pressure.

Amu looked up through his pain. When he saw Su Tingbai, a flicker of desperate hope crossed his eyes, like a drowning man clutching a piece of driftwood. "Miss Su," he rasped, his voice broken and thick with suppressed tears, "they all say it's just a cold, but I've had two bowls of medicine and it feels like insects are gnawing at my bones."

Su Tingbai didn't answer. She simply cast a detached glance at his ruptured arms, her gaze cutting through the wound like an ice blade. She stood up with an elegant, distant grace, her hem brushing the counter without causing a single ripple.

She took a silver needle from the cabinet. Instead of inserting it into an acupuncture point, she pressed her fingertip gently against the Cun, Guan, and Chi points of Amu's wrist. The moment her skin touched his, the Spirit Herb Wind-Listening Technique activated instinctively. She closed her eyes, her consciousness sinking into a labyrinth constructed of medicinal Qi.

The world around her blurred and reorganized. Countless hair-thin lines of light interlaced in the void—the trajectories of medicinal properties flowing through the meridians.

Suddenly, a dense, sharp sound of gnawing erupted in her ears, as if some transparent frost-insect were wriggling deep within the marrow. The sound was bone-chilling and carried the scent of ancient decay. This was no ordinary cold; it was a carefully concealed toxin. This was an ancient frost-poison that had settled into the bone. Ordinary warming tonics would only feed the poison—like trying to put out a fire by adding more fuel. The more he supplemented, the more toxic it became.

Su Tingbai opened her eyes, a hint of mockery flashing in her gaze and a cold curve touching her lips. She looked at the doctor who had just written the prescription and said in a frigid tone, "Doctor Wang, just how many frost-insects do you plan to add to his bones with your warming tonic?"

Doctor Wang’s expression shifted. His beard trembled as he snapped, "Su Tingbai! You are a mere apprentice—how dare you question my diagnosis? Frost-poison must first be released from the surface; that is an iron law. Who are you to interfere?"

Ignoring his rage, Su Tingbai walked straight to the table. With a decisive, swift motion, she tore the prescriptions for the warming herbs to shreds. The sound of the paper ripping was crisp and final, echoing sharply through the noisy pharmacy. She dipped her brush in ink and wrote with fluid, sweeping strokes, listing only three of the cheapest ingredients: Red Peony Root, Bone-Penetrating Grass, and old ginger.

She drew a heavy circle around the edge of the prescription, noting strict instructions for the heat: "Boil on high heat for five quarters, then simmer on low until the liquid is thick. Must use a clay pot; iron is forbidden."

Someone nearby sneered, their voice dripping with undisguised contempt. "You call this a prescription? Three coins' worth of junk to treat bone pain? The Su family is certainly generous, giving out scrap herbs to fool people."

Su Tingbai set down the brush. Before the ink had even dried, she swept her gaze across the mocking faces. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was freezing. "Believe it or not. If you don't, you can get lost right now. I don't take nonsense here—only lives."

Amu clutched the crumpled, cheap prescription and stumbled home, followed by the strange looks of the crowd. His guardian was a former subordinate of Elder Zhou named Uncle Zhao. Though he doubted this absurd prescription, Amu's agony had left them with no other choice.

Uncle Zhao stared at the three unremarkable herbs, his jaw clenched and the veins in his neck pulsing. Finally, he told his family, "We'll treat this like a dead horse and try to make it run. If this medicine doesn't work, we'll go to Elder Zhou's estate and bang on the gates, risking our lives to get him to treat him."

When the medicine was brewed, Uncle Zhao wasn't present, so he had to carefully guide the process based on the notes Su Tingbai had left. His eyes were full of apprehension. Amu tremblingly lifted the bowl; the liquid was dark and thick, smelling pungent and bitter, mixed with the slight acidity of the Red Peony Root that stung the nostrils.

Amu took a sip. A moment later, a miracle happened. The sound of the frost-insects in his body gradually faded, replaced by a gentle, warming medicinal power that surged into his marrow like a tide, flushing out the corners eroded by the poison. The knife-like pain vanished, replaced by a tingling sense of clarity, like the comfort of sitting by a fire in winter.

He tried to move his stiff fingers. His joints gave a slight pop, and he found he could bend them normally. Amu's eyes widened in disbelief as he looked at his hands. He slowly clenched his fist and then opened it; tears flowed unexpectedly, blurring his vision. "It doesn't hurt... it really doesn't hurt anymore!" he cried.

Uncle Zhao collapsed to the floor in shock, muttering, "This prescription... it truly possesses the power of the gods."

The news spread through the pharmacy rapidly. The crowd was unsettled, their whispers surging like a tide. The apprentices who had been mocking her yesterday now looked at Su Tingbai with a mixture of awe, confusion, and scrutiny.

Su Tingbai remained cold and distant, organizing the herbs and sorting the sliced pieces as if the recent shock was just a mundane occurrence, leaving no ripple in her rhythm. At that moment, a tall figure silently appeared at the counter. His footsteps were so light they were nearly inaudible, yet the air in the room seemed to freeze for a second.

Shen Qingye was dressed in plain clothes, his face stern. His deep gaze fell upon the leftover dregs of the medicine in Amu's bowl, as if he were examining a precious artifact. Using the excuse of testing the medicine, he reached out and took the bowl of dark brown liquid, pressing his ear to the rim to listen quietly.

Three seconds later, Shen Qingye set the bowl down. His eyes were unreadable, but a faint flash of admiration and wariness flickered within them. The flow of the medicinal properties was flawless, striking the root of the illness without a single deviation. It was the prototype of "Medicinal Qi Resonance," a step in the evolution of the Spirit Herb Wind-Listening Technique. He looked at Su Tingbai, his voice low and tinged with amusement. "Su Tingbai, did you create this prescription yourself?"

Su Tingbai met his gaze. Her fingertips trembled slightly within her sleeves—an instinctive reaction to danger—but her face remained as calm as still water. "If Mr. Shen is interested, perhaps you should ask Elder Zhou yourself."

The corner of Shen Qingye's mouth curled into a half-smile. Without confirming or denying, he turned and left. His stride was steady, each step feeling as though it were landing directly on Su Tingbai's heartbeat, leaving behind an invisible weight of intimidation.

As evening fell and the twilight closed in, an elderly man in a plain robe arrived for a visit, carrying a gold-embossed invitation that shimmered under the dim light. The man claimed to be a former subordinate of Elder Zhou, sent on the Elder's orders.

He looked around, his gaze finally landing on Su Tingbai. His tone was solemn and full of expectation. "Miss Su, Elder Zhou has heard of your peerless skill in listening to medicine. He has ordered me to deliver this invitation, inviting you to his estate tomorrow for a discussion. If you can pass Elder Zhou's test, you may be accepted as his disciple."

Su Tingbai took the invitation. As her fingertips touched the heavy gold lacquer, her heart surged like a lake hit by a stone, the ripples spreading outward. Elder Zhou, a titan of the traditional medicine world, was currently the only guide who could help her counter Shen Qingye's unfathomable background. He was the key to breaking the deadlock.

She looked up, her eyes clear and determined, her voice steady. "Thank you for the introduction. I will be there on time tomorrow." Beside her, Uncle Zhao rubbed his hands in excitement, nodding repeatedly with a rare smile on his face. Although Shen Qingye had gone, that lingering sense of oppression still hung over her head like an unsheathed blade.

Su Tingbai tucked the invitation into her robes, placing it right next to the Lithospermum salve. The two items rested close together, as if foreshadowing a future of entangled fates. The fear of the rainy night had transformed into a cold resolve, and Elder Zhou's invitation was the first piece she had placed on this life-and-death chessboard. The wind rose again, making the pharmacy's banners snap and howl in the air.

She knew that from this moment on, there was no turning back. The only way was forward, to find a sliver of survival within the storm and to truly grasp the key to this gamble of life, death, and trust.