Behind tightly closed doors and windows, a thunderous explosion erupted as if heaven and earth were collapsing, like ten thousand thunderbolts striking at once, shaking roof tiles until they trembled and dust rained down. Who could have expected the battle between witch and plague demon to be so earth-shaking? The watching ward residents turned pale with terror, their souls nearly leaving their bodies, while the more timid turned and fled immediately.

Soon after, the door creaked open with a pungent sulfur smell rushing out. Zhou Qingyang emerged unharmed and completely intact. She closed the door behind her and immediately ordered the homeowner to stuff pre-prepared wet rags into all door and window cracks, sealing the entire house airtight.

She brushed gunpowder particles from her clothes and announced loudly to everyone: “Don’t panic—I’ve eliminated this plague demon. The house is sealed for three days to completely dispel evil qi.” The onlookers all gazed at her with awe and reverence, the surroundings falling silent with no one daring to speak.

Zhou Qingyang understood that common people had meager resources—asking them to burn clothing and household items would be tantamount to killing them. So under the pretense of exorcism, she detonated firecrackers indoors where patients had died, using sulfur fumigation to thoroughly eliminate epidemic qi.

At this time, fireworks were still fashionable novelties for wealthy families in the eastern and western capitals. The Hebei folk had never heard of such things—the deafening roar alone left them trembling in fear.

Zhou Qingyang repeatedly instructed everyone that all drinking water and food must be boiled before consumption, or plague demons would poison them.

Having witnessed Zhou Qingyang’s miraculous medical skills, Han Jun sincerely invited her to join the Zhaoyi forces as a military physician.

Zhou Qingyang’s expression changed, unhesitatingly refusing outright: “If I save one soldier, he turns around and kills several more people—how should this karmic debt be calculated?” She strode away without giving the commander any face.

Han Jun thought this person must be the princess’s attendant, speculating that perhaps having such an extraordinary expert was how the princess could “return from death.” His heart was filled with emotion.

Through Zhou Qingyang’s efforts—eliminating disease sources and dispelling epidemic qi—the plague was strangled in its infancy before it could spread.

Bao Zhu lingered in Zhongqiu County another two or three days, confirming no increase in deaths before packing to resume their journey.

Commander Han distributed the city’s salt and firewood reserves as emergency relief to Dunye Ward, ordering “Hot Water Formula” and “Salt Water Formula” carved onto stone tablets erected in the open space before the county office to benefit more people.

Such charitable acts naturally earned widespread folk praise. Storytellers and theatrical performers linked the marvel of “firecrackers driving away plague demons” with “Han Zhu,” creating a new wave of dramatization following “The Wrong Golden Branch.” Combined with officials’ deliberate flattery, the witch’s plague-eradication achievements were soon transferred to local administrator Han Jun through grafting flowers onto trees. The tales spread farther and more fantastically until even he couldn’t stop them.

Hearing street discussions that confused genders, Bao Zhu felt indignant on behalf of Taoist Master Qingyang.

Zhou Qingyang herself didn’t care, riding her green donkey with a carefree laugh: “Those skilled in warfare achieve no glorious victories; skilled physicians gain no brilliant fame. When we descended the mountain years ago, we didn’t seek such empty reputation. Now in retirement, I care even less for such worthless things.”

She looked at Yang Xingjian with some puzzlement: “Wasn’t that Han fellow sent to help on your orders? Why don’t I see you rushing to claim credit with superiors?”

Yang Xingjian thought that as a mere capital official, without the princess present, how could he command regional military commanders? Besides, his superior was right there—telling the truth was impossible. So he feigned indifference: “Supporting the endangered, rescuing the suffering, and relieving disasters is a gentleman’s duty. Fleeting fame and thin profit are external matters—nothing worth fighting over.”

Hearing these discussions, Bao Zhu fell into silence. While “seeking fame and fishing for praise” was derogatory, deep in her heart, she secretly hoped to be remembered, wished to be commemorated on stone tablets, even dreamed of leaving her name in history. She didn’t want to be forgotten in obscurity or become a mere decorative vase supporting protagonists in theatrical works.

This thought was too absurd—even she found it incredible, since legally she was already a dead person.

With their travel pass, the group smoothly entered Chengde, drawing ever closer to Youzhou.

After a long while, Bao Zhu suddenly recalled street rumors. During folk New Year celebrations, driving away ghosts with firecrackers was common custom—bamboo placed in fires would burn and produce crackling sounds.

But the sound of Zhou Qingyang’s firecrackers was thousands of times louder than ordinary bamboo sections. Curious, Bao Zhu inquired: “Were those firecrackers filled with gunpowder?”

Zhou Qingyang nodded slightly.

Bao Zhu’s interest grew as she pressed: “What materials create such formidable power?”

Zhou Qingyang’s expression darkened, her tone becoming harsh: “Why are you asking about this?”

Bao Zhu glanced at her prosthetic limb and said unhurriedly: “I saw a broken alchemy furnace in your courtyard. To destroy such thick bronze vessels would be beyond human strength. On this journey, I’ve only seen Fire-Wielding Warrior Luo Tuotuo handling such things—presumably you share some connection.”

Seeing her such keen observation, Zhou Qingyang quite appreciated it and told the truth: “Sulfur fumigation has remarkable effects in dispelling epidemic qi and miasma. Years ago, while researching sulfur fire-suppression methods, I accidentally created a formula that immediately blew off one foot. This substance both ignites and serves as medicine, so I named it ‘gunpowder.'”

Hearing this, Bao Zhu was stunned—she hadn’t expected this miraculous formula to be Zhou Qingyang’s creation, with the original intention of healing and saving lives, even paying a physical price for it. Taoist Master Qingyang was not only an excellent physician but possessed the skills of both witch-doctor and alchemist, her vast learning rivaling Chen Shigu.

Zhou Qingyang paused, then solemnly added: “As for the formula—heavenly secrets cannot be revealed.” She had a vague premonition that if this formula spread, future casualties from it would far exceed all the patients she’d treated in her lifetime.

Wei Xun interjected from the side: “So Master’s gunpowder formula was copied from Master Uncle.”

Zhou Qingyang felt somewhat regretful: “Back then he had nothing to do and wandered over to learn medicine from me. Finding it interesting, he took it as a toy.” She glanced at Wei Xun, thinking that his senior brother had been even younger than this boy then, still with a child’s nature. Who could have foreseen that years later, such natural talent would end in madness and self-destruction?

Having successfully suppressed plague in Zhongqiu County, the entire group felt high-spirited. After entering Chengde territory, they unconsciously paid special attention to disease and environment.

This day, just after settling into an inn, they heard noisy voices outside. Shisan Lang ran out to watch the excitement, returning to report to Bao Zhu: nearby was a filial son who, because his mother was ill, intended to cut his own flesh to serve her—neighbors from all around had come to watch.

Yang Xingjian sighed: “Cutting away a large piece of leg meat—if not careful and the wound festers, the whole leg is ruined. Though this filial act is moving, it contradicts ‘body, hair and skin are received from parents’ and violates natural harmony.”

Bao Zhu asked Zhou Qingyang: “I’ve always wondered—can human blood and flesh truly cure illness?”

This topic made Zhou Qingyang ponder thoughtfully for a moment. She slowly said: “Can’t say it’s completely useless. For poverty diseases and consumption, people nearly starved to death—eating some meat is never wrong.”

Bao Zhu was dumbfounded: “So illnesses human flesh can cure—wouldn’t buying mutton or pork from the market work the same?”

Zhou Qingyang sneered: “That’s the logic, but then there’d be no gimmick of cutting flesh to serve parents.”

Shisan Lang suggested from the side: “Since Master Uncle is here, why not visit and take a look? If you could cure his mother’s illness, he wouldn’t need to risk cutting his flesh.”

Zhou Qingyang flatly refused: “Like hell. Doctors don’t knock on doors—why should I invite trouble and ruin their celebration?”

Bao Zhu asked strangely: “Mother falls ill, son cuts flesh—what kind of celebration is this?”

Zhou Qingyang explained impatiently: “Cutting flesh to serve parents is filial conduct that officials commemorate. His one cut brings momentary pain but exchanges for a lifetime exemption from taxes and corvée labor. If the leg becomes disabled, he won’t have to serve as a soldier—isn’t this cause for celebration? So he announces it loudly for neighbors to witness. If I go cure his mother’s illness and her son dies on a battlefield later, the mother might jump up and fight me desperately. I’ve encountered this countless times—I won’t touch such bad luck.”

After these words, Bao Zhu, Yang Xingjian, and Shisan Lang were dumbstruck.

Bao Zhu murmured: “The folk practice of cutting flesh for parents is actually for this reason? Taxes and corvée labor force people to self-mutilation.”

Zhou Qingyang said: “Taxes and corvée can still be endured—at least people stay alive. Northern military governors frequently wage war, conscripting soldiers constantly. Having disabilities isn’t necessarily bad—they call it ‘blessed hands’ and ‘blessed feet,’ lasting longer than those with complete limbs.”

She sipped tea, saying with cold expression: “Nine out of ten human ailments cannot be cured by medical arts.”

Besides opposing the court, military governors also attacked each other, while internally facing constant mutinies by arrogant soldiers and generals. Under internal and external troubles, a regional governor normally maintained fifty to sixty thousand heavy troops. The civilian burden of supporting such massive armies was imaginable.

Previously, Yang Xingjian had repeatedly hinted and tempted with high positions and generous salaries, earnestly inviting Taoist Master Qingyang to accompany them to Youzhou, but she remained unmoved. Bao Zhu repeatedly pondered these words, her stomach heavy as if she’d swallowed a lead pill.

After four or five more days of arduous travel, the group finally reached Jingxing Pass, one of the world’s nine strategic barriers.

This was a narrow passage through the Taihang Mountains, like a winding giant serpent guarding the throat connecting Jin and Ji regions. Since ancient times it had been a strategic battleground, witnessing countless battles and the rise and fall of kings and defeated bandits.

Bao Zhu had often read of this pass’s mighty reputation in history books. Now personally entering the extremely precipitous mountain path, she saw Mian River split through valleys while stone walls on both sides appeared axe-cut and knife-carved. Passing travelers could only form single file, proceeding in sequence to cross. Indeed as described in historical records: “On Jingxing’s path, carriages cannot travel side by side, cavalry cannot form ranks.”

Zhou Qingyang, riding her green donkey and seeing this magnificent spectacle, suddenly raised her voice in a long whistle. Her internal force was profound, the heroic sound spiraling and ascending through the mountain path, reverberating nine times. Yet the valley echoed with no response, like a solitary crane’s cry—ethereal and lonely.

Bao Zhu felt the sound too desolate and melancholy. After the whistle gradually faded, she had a sudden inspiration and shouted twice: “I am Bao Zhu! I am Bao Zhu! I want to leave my name!”

The valley returned echoing sounds: “I am Bao Zhu! I am Bao Zhu! I want to leave my name!”

Shisan Lang giggled and joined the fun, shouting: “I am Shanyuan! I am Shanyuan! I want to be an abbot!”

Their voices were full of pure joy, diluting Zhou Qingyang’s whistle’s loneliness. She couldn’t help but smile, instructing Bao Zhu on breathing and voice projection to make sounds louder and more lasting.

Several people competed to shout toward the mountain valley, even Yang Xingjian abandoning reserve to loudly voice his ambitious wish to soar ninety thousand li high. Only Wei Xun stood silently aside, quietly watching Bao Zhu—his heart’s desire couldn’t be spoken aloud.

The group sang as they walked. Just as they were about to exit the pass’s narrowest point, suddenly an extremely strong stench hit them. Zhou Qingyang and Wei Xun’s faces changed drastically, but the stench’s source lay directly on travelers’ necessary path with no detour possible.

They saw a stone platform by the roadside densely packed with layer upon layer of hundreds or thousands of rotting human heads. Lower skulls had decayed beyond recognition while upper ones still vaguely showed the deceased’s living appearance, forming a small hill emanating death’s aura. Bao Zhu immediately paled with horror, hair standing on end.

Shisan Lang, from the Setting Sun Courtyard, was normally accustomed to corpses, but this hellish horrific scene was his first encounter. He asked in shock: “What is this?!”

“A victory monument,” Zhou Qingyang said coldly. “This ailment is incurable in the human world.”

Yang Xingjian took a long time to recover, using book knowledge to explain to Bao Zhu: “After wars, the victorious side piles defeated enemies’ corpses into mounds to display military achievements. Jingxing Pass is a natural fortress—Chengde forces deliberately built this victory monument here to demonstrate military might and intimidate enemies.”

The corpse stench was suffocatingly thick. The excitement from their mountain echo game was completely swept away. No one wanted another glance at that mound of bones and flesh, quickening their pace to leave hurriedly.

Zhou Qingyang’s plan was to enter the Taihang Mountains for hermitic seclusion—Jingxing Pass was her journey’s end. At the moment of parting ways, Yang Xingjian stopped the ox cart at an open space, distributing dried provisions to everyone as a rest break.

Wei Xun stepped forward, saying to Zhou Qingyang: “I’ve escorted you to the agreed location—time to give me that formula.”

Zhou Qingyang was silent for a moment, then said: “Escort Master Uncle a bit further into the mountains. That formula is very long—I need time to explain it clearly.”

She lifted her chin toward where Bao Zhu and others rested: “This place is open with clear views where all passersby can be seen clearly. You can return in time.”

Author’s Note:

Regarding gunpowder’s invention, mainstream belief is that Tang dynasty alchemists accidentally discovered it while making elixirs. Since no specific person is definitively credited, I hope everyone won’t mind me granting this honor to the female Taoist in this fictional story.