The Duku Elder?
Yes—he was indeed the most mysterious figure of Nanzhao’s Medicine Clan, the one who paid no deference even to the royal family: the supreme master of Duku, the Duku Elder!
Whether the Duku Elder or Baili Weisheng was his truest identity, no one knew.
As for his actual age—whether he was a young scholar in disguise, or truly a decrepit old man—that too, no one could say.
“Sha Qiuzi, is our friendship really worth shutting the door on like this? What exactly happened?” Baili Weisheng asked coldly, his voice no longer hoarse and eerie, nor as carefree as usual, but sharp and cold as polar ice, sending a chill through anyone who heard it. Perhaps this was his truest self, after all.
The words clearly struck deep, for Sha Qiuzi behind the door took a long while to respond.
Medicine and poison had always been kindred arts, and it was because Sha Qiuzi had visited the Duku grotto several times to seek an audience, exchanging techniques in medicine and poison, that the two had become acquainted. Back then, Sha Qiuzi hadn’t even known that the Duku Elder was Baili Weisheng—not until Baili Weisheng himself had once come here looking for him, and revealed his true identity.
Throughout the entire realm, aside from the medicine boy who personally attended the Duku Elder within Duku, only Sha Qiuzi knew that Baili Weisheng was the Duku Elder—that this secret existed at all.
Baili Weisheng’s expression darkened, and he said nothing more. After a long while, Sha Qiuzi finally spoke. “Old friend, go on home. We’ll see each other next year!”
With that, a loud “bang” echoed from within—unmistakably the sound of the hidden door slamming shut.
At that moment, Baili Weisheng’s hand had, without him quite realizing it, curled into a fist pressed against the neighboring door. His bright eyes narrowed slightly, a dangerous glint flickering within, and he murmured to himself, “Go on home…”
Whether Sha Qiuzi had deliberately let something slip, or whether it was simply his own suspicion, he seemed to sense something. A moment later, his figure flickered and vanished.
No one could say whether Baili Weisheng was heading back to Nanzhao, or going to find Xuanyuan Lige instead.
That night, after leaving, Xuanyuan Lige had walked steadily northward, a long trail of footprints behind him quickly swallowed by the blowing sand. He walked without direction, his purple robes and silver hair caught and tossed by the ceaseless northwest wind, streaming wildly into the sky. From a distance, he looked like a fallen immortal cast down from the ninth heaven into the mortal world, utterly ruined, beyond anyone’s power to save.
Suddenly, a needle-sharp gust of wind roared past, carrying yellow sand with it, and at last he could no longer stand. His tall figure was knocked to the ground, a trickle of blood spilling from his pale lips, and his whole body began to tremble.
His illness had flared up again!
These past few days he had forgotten everything—forgotten who he was, and worse, forgotten to take his medicine.
It was only now, it seemed, that he was truly recovering from the memory of that night, only now that he remembered who he was, only now that he returned fully to this real world.
He began fumbling in his sleeve for the medicine vial, but his hands trembled so badly he no longer had the strength to hold anything. The vial slipped from his grasp into the sand, and in the blink of an eye, was already covered in a thin layer of it.
The wind was too fierce—not just for the small vial, but for him too. In the brief time he’d lain there unmoving, sand had already begun settling over his body and hair.
The blood at his lips, only a trickle at first, gradually spread wider. His illness only worsened as time went on.
They said thirty years—but that was only the most optimistic estimate. Heaven only knew which day he might simply be gone. Perhaps heaven truly didn’t know, but he himself understood his own body better than anyone.
That was precisely why he’d chosen to leave everything behind like this, to let go of it all, and walk aimlessly into the boundless desert.
Soon he no longer had the strength even to hold himself up. Where he’d been lying on his side, his body now slowly slumped down, until he lay flat on his back, completely sprawled out.
The medicine vial beside him had long since vanished beneath the sand, and he himself, purple robes and silver hair alike, had turned entirely golden with sand.
Lying flat on his back, gazing up at the deep blue sky, he saw a lone hawk spread its wings and soar past. A faint smile touched his blood-stained lips—part joy, part release, part serene indifference; the purest smile of all.
A hawk soaring free beneath the vast heavens, unbound by anything—that had once been his dream too.
If there was a next life, he would never be born into a royal house again—even if he had only ten years to live, he would soar into the sky and fly wherever he pleased.
He kept smiling, sand clinging to the blood at the corner of his mouth, gathering thicker and thicker, until it grew too heavy for him to smile any longer—whether from the weight of the sand, or because his very last strength had finally left him, he couldn’t tell. Watching the hawk circling above, he slowly… slowly closed his eyes…
“Beiyue, what did Sha Qiuzi say?” Ziqing asked flatly.
They had only just left Xijing territory, and the moment they reached Da Zhou’s official road, they pressed on without pause toward Nanzhao.
“It’s not a curse. It’s most likely some kind of toxin, passed from father to son but not to daughters. To find a cure, we’d need at least a sample of the Empress of Dongqin’s blood,” Jun Beiyue answered seriously.
Even if Ziqing hadn’t asked, he would have kept investigating regardless. Xuanyuan Lige couldn’t be allowed to die—his research into Lishang was far more thorough than Ziqing’s own. Besides, he had no wish to remain in the man’s debt, nor did he want Ziqing to carry regret for the rest of her life.
Regret and remorse weren’t the same thing. There was nothing between Ziqing and him worth regretting—even if everything happened all over again, she would make the very same choice.
But regret, that was different.
Regret was knowing full well there was nothing to regret, nothing that should be regretted, and yet still dwelling on it, still feeling a pang of longing.
“The Empress of Dongqin’s blood…” Ziqing murmured to herself. Getting hold of the Empress of Dongqin’s blood truly wouldn’t be easy.
Just then, Yingzi suddenly arrived, looking helpless. “My lord, Prince Baxian has sent word again—he says the Empress of Dongqin hasn’t shown herself for five days now.”
“Has she gone to the northern border?” Jun Beiyue’s brow furrowed abruptly.
Prince Baxian had clashed with him once before, out at the western frontier, but hadn’t actually retired from court after all—he’d remained in the government. Jun Beiyue had originally intended to promote a number of younger officials, to inject some fresh blood into what had become a rather stagnant court, but Prince Baxian had refused to step aside.
With Jun Beiyue constantly away dealing with external threats, he’d had no time to spare for internal matters, and so had temporarily allowed Prince Baxian to remain in his post.
Though Prince Baxian didn’t have a thorough grasp of the broader political landscape, he was, at the very least, quite capable when it came to handling court affairs and balancing the various factions within.
If he simply minded Da Zhou’s court properly, that would be a blessing for the nation.
But if he kept meddling in Da Zhou’s foreign affairs, in the movements along the four borders, that would inevitably tie Jun Beiyue’s hands.
The Empress of Dongqin had personally deployed her troops at the northern border, sitting on her throne each day facing Da Zhou’s northern gate, awaiting an explanation from Jun Beiyue. But now she hadn’t appeared for five days, though the military formation remained in place.
Something was clearly wrong here.
“Did Prince Baxian say anything else?” Jun Beiyue asked.
“Nothing else. He just passed along the news and said it’s for my lord to decide,” Yingzi reported.
A cold smile touched Jun Beiyue’s lips. “Then send word down: prepare for war at the northern border. Tell General Baihu to wait—this prince is coming.”