Chapter 3: DouDou Seeks Refuge

The wind off Old Street carried the scent of freshly fried dough, mingling with the damp, earthy smell after rain. It swirled across the bluestone cobbles, kicking up a few brittle, yellowing leaves. Su Wan was crouched in front of Su's Stall, scrubbing the dented, rusted iron skin of the wood-fired stove with a rough rag.

The embers inside the stove bed hadn't cooled yet. A faint, dark red glow pulsed beneath, breathing in and out with the gusts of wind, brightening and dimming like the heartbeat of some sleeping, massive beast. Just as she was about to pack up, gathering the unsold mugwort sachets into a bamboo basket, a thin, small figure slipped out from the shadows at the alley's mouth, skulking like a startled cat.

The child crouched a couple of paces away. Their sleeves were frayed and filthy, revealing patched, old cotton underneath. But their eyes were startlingly bright, locked dead on the stove's interior, fingers trembling with urgency as they pointed at the old hearth.

Su Wan's brows knitted slightly. She didn't turn around; she just paused her scrubbing for a beat, the rag resting on the rust-spotted wall of the stove. Her voice was cold. "Why stand so far away? If you want soup, fetch a bowl yourself. Don't hover around like a stray dog."

Her voice wasn't loud, but it had that penetrating clarity of a lifelong martial artist. It sent the few sparrows foraging nearby scattering in a flutter of wings.

A few drunkard laborers wobbled over, their leather shoes thudding dullly against the wet stones. The stench of liquor hung heavy in the air, drowning out the herbal fragrance. One of them, his face beet red, pointed at the sign and slurred a demand for Su Wan to boil up a free hangover cure, spittle flying as he bellowed.

Su Wan didn't even lift her eyelids. She kept scrubbing the stove top, her fingers pressing down as if the men didn't exist. The only sound was the faint scrape of cloth against metal. The drunk was furious at the dismissal. He reached out, trying to grab the herb bundles on her workbench, his fingertips brushing the tight red string tying one together.

Doudou, hiding in the shadows, lunged out from behind, throwing himself in front of Su Wan. He spread his arms wide, shielding the few bundles of herbs. A stifled whine rumbled in his throat, but his eyes were fierce, like a small beast guarding its food. He glared at the drunkard, his feet digging into the soft mud beneath him.

Su Wan let out a cold laugh. She gently shoved Doudou aside—her touch soft, but impossible to argue with—then straightened her posture. The night wind lifted the hem of her clothes. Her gaze sharpened as it swept over the drunkards. Her voice was quiet but carried a chill. "Medicinal diets don't make you drunk, but they can kill you. If you don't believe me, you can test it. But you bear the consequences yourself."

The drunkards were cowed by her aura. They looked at each other, the sobering chill of the late night seeping in as the alcohol haze faded. Finally, they retreated with curses, their steps unsteady. One of them bumped into an empty aluminum can, which rolled away with a harsh, shrieking rattle.

Doudou stayed planted in front of Su Wan until he was sure the threat was gone. Only then did his rigid body slowly relax, but those eyes never left the stove's interior. A deep, stubborn obsession lived in them.

Just then, Jiang Yan happened to pass by Old Street, stopping at a corner of the stall. The streetlamp hung yellow and dim, stretching his slender shadow long across the ground. He wore a white coat, a medical chart tucked under his arm, its cover not closed. His gaze swept calmly over the scene. He didn't act like the others, shocked by the drunkards' behavior, nor surprised by Su Wan's cold demeanor.

Only after the drunks had dispersed did he step forward slowly. His shoes made no sound as they hit the ground. He tucked the chart under his armpit, his voice warm and restrained. "Director Su, do you need intervention here? I was watching the child's reaction... it seems a little special."

Su Wan glanced at him but didn't answer. Instead, she crouched down, bringing her eyes level with Doudou's. The anxiety burning in those eyes made a soft spot in her heart tremble.

Doudou pointed a shaking finger at the pot of calming decoction Su Wan had just finished boiling. Then, in front of her palm, he traced a shape with his finger. Su Wan watched the vague gesture, her brow furrowing, but a flash of inspiration sparked in her mind.

Jiang Yan leaned in, his eyes fixed on the color of the soup. "This formula leans warm," he said mildly. "If we're aiming for deep tranquility, we need a bitter, cold herb to balance it out and pull the fire back to its source. The child's instinct aligns perfectly with the diagnosis you'd get from his pulse."

The corner of Su Wan's mouth lifted in a very faint, subtle curve. She didn't offer praise, just nodded. She reached into the bottom of her medicine box and retrieved a small bag of extremely fine Coptis. As her fingertips touched the cool paper, her thoughts drifted for a moment to her master's dying words: "A stable mind brings correct medicine."

She tossed a minuscule amount of the Coptis into the boiling soup. Her movements were crisp, without a shred of hesitation. Jiang Yan watched from the side, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes, but he said nothing. Doudou stared at the stove, his body leaning forward, breathing rapid and shallow. It was as if that pot of soup held his life.

A few seconds later, a strange, oily sheen rippled on the surface of the once-ordinary medicinal diet. The aroma grew deep and complex, no longer just a single herbal note, but a stabilizing presence that struck straight at the heart, making everyone who smelled it unconsciously slow their breath.

At that exact moment, although the fire hadn't died out, faint ink-colored characters began to seep from the inner wall of the stove bed. They appeared like ink bleeding through wet paper, emerging slowly. Su Wan held her breath, the surrounding noise seeming to vanish into the distance. Her eyes widened, glued to the line of text.

Jiang Yan shifted his body, his attention snagged on the mysterious script. His medical chart nearly slipped from his grasp. The characters clearly spelled out the name of a lost Meridian-Guiding Herb. The strokes were ancient and archaic, carrying a solemn, old-world authority, glowing with a faint, eerie light in the darkness.

Amidst the swirling smoke, a single golden Firework condensed above the stove eye. It hung there, refusing to fall, radiating a weak but warm light. Su Wan reached out. Her finger passed through the smoke, touching nothing solid, yet the light was undeniably there. A surge of indescribable excitement swelled in her chest. This was the signal that her grandmother's Kitchen King Ledger had truly awakened.

Jiang Yan looked at the Firework, no greed in his eyes, only curiosity and respect. "What does this mean?" he asked softly.

Su Wan didn't answer. She just clenched her fists tight, her nails digging into her palms, leaving deep red marks. The pain kept her grounded.

Su Wan pulled a yellowed scrap of paper from her chest. It was the redemption voucher for the Kitchen King Ledger. She swept the golden Firework into her sleeve, then stood before the stove, chanting a heart-mantra. Her voice was barely a whisper. Moments later, a page covered in ancient formulas fluttered out from the depths of the stove, landing perfectly on the workbench without a speck of dust.

She unfolded the paper. Her fingers traced the bold, old ink characters until her gaze locked on the final line. Her face went rigid. Jiang Yan leaned in to look. The paper clearly listed a requirement for Ten-Year-Old Aged Ginger, with a note specifying that it had to be aged, not fresh, or the medicinal power would dissipate completely.

Su Wan looked up, deep worry surfacing in her eyes for the first time. This particular herb had been extinct in this city for years.

She carefully folded the ancient formula and tucked it close to her body, handling it with the tenderness one might show an infant. Doudou watched her with wide eyes, filled with a mix of worship and confusion. He didn't ask questions; instead, he silently helped Su Wan clear the bowls and plates from the workbench.

Jiang Yan closed his medical chart, gave Su Wan a slight nod, and turned to leave. His steady back disappeared into the depths of the night. Su Wan watched him go, her mind churning. This stove was definitely not just a cooking tool. It was a treasure trove. And she had to find that Ten-Year-Old Aged Ginger. Otherwise, this first ancient formula was nothing but a waste of paper.

The night wind swept the leaves across the ground. Su Wan tightened her collar, her gaze fixed on the road ahead, resolute. The path was long, but the direction was clear.

The night was as dark as ink. Su Wan wrapped her clothes tighter and hurried through the bluestone alley. The cold wind bit at her heart, but she dared not stop. The words "Ten-Year-Old Aged Ginger" on that ancient formula looped in her mind over and over. What did ten years mean for a ginger root?

It meant enduring the damp, dark confines of a cellar, subjected to the tempering of time. All the raw sharpness and impulsiveness stripped away, leaving only the purest warming-yang essence. In a city where even vinegar was only sold in three-year batches, searching for ten-year-aged ginger was like trying to sell dreams to a fool.

Passing the Dry Well Teahouse at the end of the alley—a place that kept its doors closed year-round—the hinges let out a harsh, creaking groan. Su Wan stopped her feet. The scent of tea mixed with decades of mildew hit her face. There was no light on inside the teahouse, just the dim flicker of a candle in the corner, illuminating a hunched figure.

It was Uncle Zhou, the famous eccentric old man of the town. He usually sold the lowest-grade tea, but in the circle of Chinese medicine, he had a legendary status of being just short of unrefined. Su Wan took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

"Uncle Zhou." Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the darkness.

Uncle Zhou didn't lift his head. The teapot in his hand hovered steadily, steam curling upward. "Young Lady Wan. Why aren't you asleep at this hour, lurking in my dead-end place?"

"I need ginger." Su Wan stared directly into his milky eyes. "The kind that's been buried underground for a full ten years, where even the ginger mother has turned into black soil."

Uncle Zhou's hand shook violently as he poured the tea. Hot liquid splashed onto the table, hissing softly. He slowly raised his head. A flash of sharpness had cut through the haze in his dull eyes. A cold, ambiguous smirk twisted his lips. "Ten-year-aged ginger? That's Soul-Breaking Ginger. It can guide the soul back to its seat, or it can hasten death and steal a body. Su Wan, with that rickety stove of yours, are you trying to refine medicine, or ghosts?"

Su Wan's heart jolted, but she kept her voice steady. "It has nothing to do with ghosts. It's only to save lives."

"Save lives?" Uncle Zhou scoffed, slamming the teapot down. The tea stains on the table dried into the shape of a withered branch. "There are plenty of people in this world who want to save lives, but few who dare to use Soul-Breaking Ginger. That stuff is long gone. Three years ago, Old Lin from the east of the town used up the last two pounds of the root stock to compile a calming medicine. Even Old Lin himself paid the price with his life."

Desperation washed over Su Wan like a tide. She gripped her collar, her knuckles turning white. She turned to leave, but Uncle Zhou's slow, drawn-out voice stopped her from behind. "However..."

Su Wan spun around. Uncle Zhou was staring at the faint golden light seeping through the fabric of her sleeve. Greed and fear warred in his eyes. "I heard you received incense-fire from your stove? If you offer thirty percent of that incense-fire as an offering, this old man might know where the remaining stock is."

"Thirty percent?" Su Wan gasped. That golden Firework was her only leverage right now.

"If not thirty percent, it's a no." Uncle Zhou held up three withered fingers. Then, his tone shifted. He slowly straightened up, his hunched back appearing strangely upright for a moment. He lowered his voice, each word falling like shards of ice. "Go to the old locust tree next to the Mass Graveyard on the west side of the city. There's an old well there, sealed off for a century. A bronze box is pressed against the bottom.

Remember, at the third quarter of the Zi hour, the cold at the bottom of the well is at its peak. If you can't withstand it, you stay down there forever."

With that, Uncle Zhou sat back down, acting as if the conversation had never happened, returning to arranging his tea set. Su Wan stood frozen in place, her heart hammering violently, her palms slick with cold sweat. Mass Graveyard on the west, Zi hour, old well... all the clues converged into a dangerous vortex. And she had no way out.

She pushed open the door. The cold wind rushed into her chest, clearing the fog in her head. In the distance, the drum of the night watch boomed heavily. Zi hour was approaching. Su Wan gritted her teeth and melted into the darkness, running toward the west of the city, that place shrouded in ghost stories. She knew the price behind that ancient formula was far heavier than she imagined. And the real trial was just beginning.