Chapter 2: One Glance Sees Through the Fake, the Clan Is Shaken

Deep in the night, a thunderstorm loomed on the horizon, not yet fully arrived. The air hung heavy with damp earthy scents and a suffocating silence. Inside the study, candle flames flickered wildly, casting dancing shadows across the mottled walls as if the fire itself was shrinking from the low pressure in the room.

Su Qingwan stared dead at the two shattered pieces of jade. Her fingertips had gone white from gripping them too hard, and the pain in her palm forced her to take a deep breath, suppressing the churning mix of rage and chill building inside her. The jade fragments were cold as iron, yet they failed to reflect her twisted reflection.

Lu Ting’s voice was cold, like ice laced with poison. Every word pierced her eardrums with surgical precision. It was a naked threat, but also a twisted invitation.

Outside, the first heavy raindrop slammed onto the upturned eaves with a dull thud.

She slowly lifted her head, avoiding Lu Ting’s bottomless gaze. Her attention drifted to the scattered jade dust at her feet, and a faint, cold smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. The smile didn’t reach her eyes; instead, it made her expression seem even more distant and resolute.

Lu Ting sneered, “A lonely person who can’t even protect herself. Wait and see how your so-called purity will rot, inch by inch, right here in Jingcheng.”

Su Qingwan brushed the dust from her sleeve with a movement so calm it bordered on indifference. It was as if the humiliated, down-on-her-luck woman who had just fled a broken engagement party never existed. She smoothed the slight wrinkles in her collar; as her fingertip brushed the rough texture of the fabric, a tiny tremor flared up, but she crushed it instantly with pure will.

She looked Lu Ting dead in the eyes. A flash of gold vanished from her irises, and her voice cut through the air, clear and sharp: “If I can’t rely on shelter, I’ll stop asking for it. Alone or not, I can protect myself. If Young Master Lu wants to watch me rot, feel free to hold me to that promise.”

After speaking, she shifted her body slightly. A strand of hair, lifted by the wind, fell across half her face, though it couldn’t hide the coldness in her eyes.

Lu Ting tapped his fingers lightly against the edge of the desk, the sound dull and rhythmic like a wooden mallet, though the tempo was erratic and hinted at underlying agitation. The attendants, as if granted a sudden amnesty, retreated quickly. Trays were removed steadily, the sound of footsteps fading away until they vanished at the end of the long corridor. In the center of the hall, only a yellowed ancient book and three rustic medicine pots remained. The dim candlelight flowed over the surface of the pots, reflecting the mottled passage of time.

With slender fingers, Lu Ting tore a page from the ancient book with a careless motion. The sound of the paper ripping was particularly harsh in the silence. He flicked the page toward Su Qingwan. It arced through the air and landed at her knees, the edges curling slightly as if still resisting the weight of the ground.

Lu Ting said flatly, “This is the Lu Family’s ancestral emergency formula, rumored to be able to bring the dead back to life. Since you have some skill in Dust Discernment, analyze it immediately. Remember: only a true formula will stand the test. If it’s a sham, you bear the consequences.”

Su Qingwan didn’t reach for the paper. Instead, her gaze swept over the small space, and her Twin Medicine Pupils flared with sudden golden light. The previously blurry names of the herbs instantly became sharp and clear. She didn’t rush to act, but stood still, her vision piercing through the surface of the paper.

She saw the fractured fibers in the ancient paper, the old, penetrating smell seeping through the ink, and even more, a faint, sickly halo of impurities floating around the herb labeled “Panax notoginseng.” The halo looked like mold on rotting flesh, radiating a nauseating, deathly aura.

Su Qingwan’s fingertip twitched slightly—an instinctive reaction to her evolving resonance. She forced her heart to steady, her gaze slicing through the formula like a knife. She let out a cold scoff and reached out directly, pinching the page of the old prescription between her fingers. The paper felt damp to the touch, carrying the distinct moldy smell of the library.

With her other hand, she casually plucked a piece of Panax notoginseng from a nearby medicine pot. The herb was a dull earth-yellow, rough on the surface, and it carried an unnatural heaviness.

Su Qingwan looked Lu Ting in the eye, her tone firm and confident: “Young Master Lu, the Panax notoginseng in this formula is actually old, low-grade stock. It hasn’t aged enough, it’s mixed with impurities, and it will damage your vital energy. If used, it won’t just be ineffective; it will backfire on your meridians, stripping you of your internal power. This formula is absolutely not usable.”

Lu Ting’s eyes darkened abruptly, and his aura pressed down heavily on the room. He didn’t step back; instead, he closed the distance by one step, his shadow engulfing Su Qingwan. He demanded, “On what basis? It’s just a yellowish lump. How can you be sure of its age and quality? Talk without evidence—who would believe you?”

The sound of wind and rain seemed to grow louder, pounding against the window frames like rapid war drums.

Su Qingwan didn’t answer. She simply placed the piece of Panax notoginseng on a small jade plate at the corner of the desk and picked up a silver pestle. With a flick of her wrist, the pestle came down, instantly crushing the seemingly ordinary herb into fine powder. The silver pestle clashed with the jade plate, sending a clear, sharp ring echoing through the cramped space.

Su Qingwan lightly brushed the jade plate. The powder was dull in color, lacking any star-like luster, and instead exuded a stale, deathly air. She pointed at the pile of powder and laughed coldly, her words direct: “See? Real Panax notoginseng, when crushed, must show vermilion-red specks on the cross-section and have a rich aroma. This pile of medicinal waste is murky in color, with no stars and no smell. It’s a fake, mixed with sand and rotten root fibers. If this entered your body right now, it would be a slow-acting poison.”

Lu Ting’s expression didn’t change, but a sharp glint flashed briefly in his eyes. It was fleeting, like a meteor cutting across the night sky, quickly covered by deep black. He slowly pulled out a sealed jade vial from his sleeve. The vial body was warm and moist to the touch, yet a chill seeped from within. He placed the jade vial in front of Su Qingwan and nudged it slightly, the crisp collision sounding like a test of her reaction.

Lu Ting’s voice softened, but carried an unrefusable pressure: “Since you can distinguish between real and fake herbs, then formulate a remedy on the spot. This is a counteragent for the highly toxic Gut-Severing Grass. You must use a silver needle, held in mid-air, to measure the dose. Sense the flow of the medicine’s energy and mix it with precision. If your hand trembles even a fraction and the toxin enters your body, you’ll die instantly. Do you dare?”

Su Qingwan looked back warily. Outside, a roll of thunder cracked, and lightning split the night sky, illuminating her cold, clear features and the brief moment of resolute determination in her eyes. She didn’t move immediately. Instead, she closed her eyes and circulated the needle. The silver needle hovered three inches above the mouth of the vial, as she finely sensed the fluctuating medicinal energy. The surrounding air grew heavy; even the dust seemed to freeze.

Su Qingwan opened her eyes. Her fingertip tapped the vial lightly, and the jade lid opened on its own. The medicinal scent was crisp and clear, with not a trace of murk or impurity. She precisely plucked at the meridians of the medicinal energy, separating out the key detoxifying ingredients. Her movements flowed like water in clouds, without a single extra motion. The silver needle leaped lively between her fingers, like conducting a silent symphony.

Lu Ting reached his fingertip into the vial to feel the pure medicinal power. A long-unseen curiosity bloomed in his eyes. It was mixed with complex emotions—seemingly an inspection, yet also a desire. He put away the ancient book, his voice low: “Let’s cooperate, Su Qingwan. I can give you a position—one that could overturn the landscape of traditional medicine in Jingcheng. In exchange, I want your life, and all your medical skills.”

Su Qingwan’s mouth curved slightly upward. She didn’t agree immediately, just retracted the silver needle and looked quietly at Lu Ting. In the rain, her figure looked particularly slender, yet stubborn as iron.

Lu Ting seemed to sense something, his brow furrowing slightly as if suppressing a sharp pain within his body. He lowered his head to hide that momentary distortion of his face. When he raised his eyes again, his voice was so soft only the two of them could hear it, carrying a fraction of vulnerability that was barely perceptible: “Do you dare to cure my illness?”

The rain began to ease. The dripping sound from the eaves was like shattered jade hitting the ground, each drop striking at the heart. Su Qingwan didn’t answer. She slowly took a plain handkerchief from her sleeve and gently wiped the medicinal residue from her fingertips. The handkerchief was white as snow, but where it had been wiped, a very faint blue-green pattern emerged. It was the muddled energy accumulated in her meridians from years of dealing with poisons.

Lu Ting’s gaze locked dead on that blue-green pattern, his pupils contracting. As a master of medicine, he knew this was not a good omen; it was a sign of “Hundred Poisons Entering the Body.” Yet this woman before him possessed an aura that was pure to a frightening degree, as if the poisons hadn’t just failed to erode her foundation but had been refined into some bizarre medicinal power. This contradiction made the string in his heart tighten further.

“My illness,” Lu Ting suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse, as if sandpaper had rubbed against a rough wall, “is Heart Meridian Reversal. Three years ago, I forcibly reversed my innate medicinal power to save a person. The cost was that with every heartbeat, my life force flowed away a little. Now, only a final thread of true energy supports my body.

All the doctors in Jingcheng, including my elders who I once revered as gods, say I have sealed off my own future. No one dares to treat me.”

He paused, a shard of cold light flashing in his eyes as he swept them over Su Qingwan: “And you. Just now, with that one needle movement, you actually suppressed the latent poison outbreak in my body. Su Qingwan, what else are you hiding?”

Su Qingwan finally moved. She walked toward the desk, her fingertips brushing over that ancient book. Her gaze skimmed the few herbs with falsified ages that Lu Ting had displayed, and a cold smile curved at the corner of her mouth: “Lord Lu has quite the hand for such tricks. Using counterfeit medicinal ingredients, yet refining such pure power. Your skill in brewing medicine has truly opened my eyes. But if you want me to treat your illness, first look at these three herbs.”

She casually picked up three dark red medicine pills and placed them on Lu Ting’s palm. The pills rolled into a jade plate, making a crisp sound.

Lu Ting lowered his head, his expression changing abruptly. Those three herbs—his proud formulation plan—were all traps. The first, “Nine-Leaf Grass,” had insufficient aging, its properties floating and superficial, unable to withstand the impact of the subsequent violent medicinal power. The second, “Cold Marrow,” was from the wrong origin; its impurities were not cleaned, and it would inevitably disturb the body’s qi mechanism. The third, “Ambergris,” was substituted with inferior goods; the scent was similar, but inside there was no dragon’s roar sound, and the medicinal effect was laughably weak.

“You...” Lu Ting gripped the pills tight, his knuckles turning white. The frustration from being seen through was about to break through his reason. He had thought this was just a test, never expecting this woman could see through his deliberate deceptions down to the finest detail.

He had hidden it so deeply that even his closest servants only knew he was sick, not the source of the disease, let alone that he had planted a fatal hazard three years ago.

Watching his tense profile, Su Qingwan’s alertness didn’t fade in the slightest, even with his confession. She knew well that Lu Ting’s candor right now was not born out of trust, but out of a plea for help in despair—or rather, a test of her bottom line.

“Lord Lu,” Su Qingwan’s voice was calm, without a single ripple of emotion, “Medicine is a craft, and also a way. You play with people’s hearts, use medicine as a chess game, and treat all beings like sacrificial animals. I don’t trust your sincerity, nor your life. If you want me to step in, start by investigating this old case.”

Her fingertip slashed through the air, pointing to a hidden compartment at the corner of the desk that had been dampened by the rain. There, hidden, were the credentials of Lu Ting’s illicit transaction from three years ago.

Lu Ting’s head snapped up. The coldness in his eyes shattered, replaced by an expression woven from near-mad desire and fear. Outside, the last dying roll of thunder passed, startling the cold crows roosting under the eaves. He slowly stood up, his towering figure engulfing Su Qingwan, breathing with a suppressed, extreme pant. He asked in a low voice: “Do you dare to cure my illness?”

Su Qingwan met his gaze. She didn’t answer; she just flicked the silver needle lightly between her fingers. The needle tip shone with a cold, fierce light, pointing directly at Lu Ting’s throat.

“I dare. But the precondition is that you kneel first.”