Chapter 2: No Herb Is Wasted

Chen Yan peddled his e-bike back to Huichuntang, the rear wheel crunching over an empty soda can in the alley mouth. The sharp crack rang out loud in the quiet of the night.

He held the handlebar with one hand, the other tightly gripping the antiseptic wipe Su Wan had given him. Blood had soaked through half of it, sticking to the wound in his palm, the edges already dried into a hard shell. Normally, he’d have tossed it without a second thought, but not today—a pack of wipes cost four-fifty, while his delivery fee for one order was six bucks. If he was late, two got deducted, leaving him with four. So he folded it up, shoved it into the side pocket of his delivery box, figuring he could wash it out, dry it, and use it again later.

The shops on both sides of the alley were shut, their rolling metal doors plastered with white papers advertising "Premise for Sale." Huichuntang’s main door was ajar; the running lights weren’t on, just a sliver of yellow light leaking from the window of Master Zhou’s side room. Chen Yan pushed his bike into the back courtyard. The instant he planted his foot on the ground to kick the stand down, the gash in his palm felt like it had just been pricked by a needle. He looked down. A bead of blood was oozing from the base of his palm, dripping onto the concrete and blooming into a dark red spot.

The courtyard was piled with stuff hauled back from a wedding banquet.

Six bamboo medicine baskets were stacked crookedly against the wall, the lids still covered with half-peeled red "Double Happiness" stickers. Master Zhou had organized this whole wedding—Huichuntang had fallen on hard times these past few years, but the old man still had his dignity. The Su family booked the hotel, and Huo Zhenting sent people to deliver the "congratulatory gift": six baskets of Astragalus. They claimed it was the first harvest of the year from Zhenting Pharmaceutical, meant to add some face to Huichuntang. When Chen Yan took delivery, the scent had seemed off, but Master Zhou didn't say a word, so he didn't reach out to touch it.

Now that the wedding was called off, these herbs were just unwanted waste, tossed against the wall. Not even anyone was claiming the baskets.

"Master?"

No one answered. The light was on in Master Zhou's room, but the old man had a non-negotiable thirty-minute foot soak after dinner. Chen Yan didn't disturb him; instead, he crouched down in front of the pile of baskets. A sudden whiff hit his nose.

The Astragalus smelled wrong.

Normal Astragalus has a sweet, slightly beany earthiness. This batch smelled dull, with a sour, moldy undertone. He reached out, pried open the top basket lid, and grabbed a handful. The slices were uniform, the angled cuts smooth, the color a decent yellow. But Chen Yan had been chewing Astragalus since he was a kid, and he spotted the flaw immediately—there was a dark ring around the edges of the slices, like it had been pressed into shape before it was fully dried. The inside was fermented. He rubbed his thumb over the surface; it felt slick and damp. He leaned in closer to sniff, and the moldy smell was even stronger than it had been inside the basket.

"This batch is ruined."

Behind him came the slapping sound of Master Zhou’s slippers, the old man coming from his room. He was wearing a blue cotton shirt that had been washed until it was faded white, a thermos in his hand. He stopped by the baskets, sniffed once, and huffed. "I told you not to use it before the wedding. Huo Zhenting's guys inspected the goods on the spot and insisted it was just normal spoilage because of the heavy rains this year."

"I've been cutting Astragalus my whole life," Master Zhou tapped the basket edge with his thermos. "Whether it's been muddied or moldy, do I need them to teach me? I could smell it from thirty feet away."

Chen Yan held up the handful of Astragalus slices. "Take a look. Can it be saved?"

Master Zhou pinched a slice, held it up to the light for a long while, then broke off a tiny piece and popped it in his mouth. He chewed twice, spat it out, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and his face darkened. "Save it? Don't be silly. The outside looks fine, but the mold roots have gone in deep. If this goes into medicine, it'll ruin people. Throw it out."

Throw it out? Six baskets, easily over a hundred jin. Chen Yan did the mental math—it was labeled as a free gift, but Master Zhou had reciprocated with a jar of twenty-year-aged wine, which wasn't cheap. Tossing it all meant that money was down the drain.

Master Zhou saw the look on his face and gave him a tap with the thermos. "Stop it with the schemes. Moldy medicine is poison. Huichuntang has a hundred-year reputation; we're not going to trash it over this."

"I'm not saying I'll put it in medicine," Chen Yan tossed the slices back into the basket. "I just want to sort through it. I'll pull out what's usable, and burn the rest for kindling. Can't let the baskets just rot here too."

Master Zhou stared at him for two seconds, probably deciding his attitude was respectful enough, and turned to head back inside. "Be careful, don't tear your hand open again. Your palm is still bleeding. Wrap it up first."

Chen Yan looked down. He was. A bead of blood was still rolling down his fingers. He grabbed a short length of white cotton twine from beside the basket and wrapped it around his hand, pulling it tight. The motion was too rough; a bamboo splinter poked into the wound. He hissed, instinctively grabbing the splinter to yank it out.

Right then, the frequency spectrum in his palm buzzed.

It wasn't that chaotic hum he’d experienced at the hospital before. This time it was clear, like someone had tuned the radio dial to the right station. The medicinal frequency of the Astragalus poured up from his palm where he was gripping the splinter, splitting into three distinct lines: one warm, entering the spleen and lung meridians—the normal Astragalus profile, weak but foundational; one turbid line, carrying a damp, sour energy—mold, caked on the surface and the cut faces; and a third, finer impure line, sharp and pungent—clearly over-sulfuring, seeping into the fiber gaps.

He closed his eyes.

First breath: the three lines settled into place, distinct in thickness and quality.

Second breath: he "saw" the boundaries. The moldy line and the impure line were confined to the surface and the cut edges; the mold roots hadn't actually penetrated the "core" of the herb. Processing failure, localized mold, uncontrolled sulfur treatment, but the active ingredient core was intact, just wrapped up in impurities.

Third breath: a thought popped up—if he could read it, could he break it apart?

He opened his eyes, pulled the splinter out, and another bead of blood welled up. He ignored it and held three slices of Astragalus in his palm. He dared not grab more—back at the hospital entrance, he’d vaguely felt this thing was linked to his qi and blood, and grabbing too much felt dangerous.

His heart was hammering. He didn't know how to "act," but the frequency spectrum in his palm felt alive. As his qi and blood surged into his palm, the impurities seemed to recede to the edges. He tried to wrap the moldy line with his qi.

Pain. It shot from his palm up to his wrist, like gripping a handful of hot iron sand. He gritted his teeth and held on, pressing his qi inward. The moldy line *hissed*, shrinking back a bit, then snapping forward, nearly slipping out of his grasp. He took a breath and changed tactics—no more hard pressing. He wrapped the moldy line in his qi and slowly pushed it outward, like kneading dough, squeezing the moldiness out of the fibers bit by bit. This time it worked. The moldy line retreated to the edge, and with a flick of his fingertips, it dispersed.

Sweat dripped from his forehead onto the Astragalus slices. A sweet, metallic taste rose in his throat; he couldn't hold it back and coughed a mouthful of blood onto the edge of the basket.

Dark red. Not a lot, but it looked scary.

He wiped his mouth and looked at his palm. The three slices were still there, but the color had changed—the dark rings had faded, the cut faces revealing a uniform pale yellow. The fiber cross-section was fine and dense, smelling of dry, beany sweetness. It looked clean, as if it had just been dug up, peeled, and dried. He wiped off the blood and popped a slice in his mouth to chew.

The taste hit him and he froze. Chen Yan had eaten Astragalus his whole life; he could distinguish wild variety blindfolded—sweet with a faint hint of numbing bitterness, ending with a lingering sweet aftertaste. This batch was cultivated, no matter how you tweaked it, it shouldn't reach wild-grade quality. But the slice in his mouth had a strong, piercing aftertaste, and the crisp clarity in the fibers rivaled even the wild Astragalus he’d seen at the herb market last year.

Chen Yan stared at his palm for a long while. It looked ordinary. The cut was still seeping blood, the edges swollen white from soaking. Nothing extra was there. That feeling of being able to "see things" had receded like a tide the moment the blood came out. Now, all he had was a pounding temple and a body feeling drained and weak, like his muscles had been pulled out.

He leaned on the basket to stand up, put the three treated slices into a clean paper packet, then pried open the second basket and grabbed another handful. Same batch, same ring patterns on the cuts, same moldy smell, same sulfur impurities. He tried to touch another handful, and just as his palm reacted, his temple throbbed violently—no good, his qi and blood were bottoming out. He threw the Astragalus back, brushed the dust off his hands.

That was all his quota for the day.

Chen Yan squatted on the ground, taking a long time to get his breath back. He wrapped the treated slices separately and just tucked them into his robe when the back courtyard light snapped on.

Master Zhou had appeared at the back door of the main hall at some point. The old man held a magnifying glass and a small brass scale. He had that casual, "just checking" look on his face—probably had just come out to pour his foot-soak water. But when Chen Yan turned around, Master Zhou’s nose twitched first.

"What is that smell on you?"

Chen Yan didn't have time to answer before Master Zhou rushed over, snatching the paper packet out of Chen Yan's arms. The old man opened the packet, pinched a slice, held it up to the light to inspect the cross-section, then brought it close to his nose to smell. Then he crushed a piece and licked it with his tongue. Finally, he pulled out the magnifying glass and studied the fiber texture on the cut face for a full thirty seconds.

The back courtyard was quiet except for the crickets.

Chen Yan stood beside him, the blood on his palm still wet, a layer of cold sweat on his back.

When Master Zhou looked up, the color had drained completely from his face, as if he’d seen something he wasn't supposed to.

"This Astragalus..." The old man's voice shook. He looked down at the cross-section again, flipping over the remaining slices in the packet, examining them from every angle. "Gansu, Longxi origin. Wild roots, three years or more. Harvested in autumn. Processed using the old methods—sprayed with brine, dried naturally, no sulfur—"

He suddenly stared at Chen Yan.

"Where did you steal this?"