Servants rushed in and out of the courtyard. The room inside was packed with physicians and medicine boys.

Imperial Physician Li had been carried over by sedan chair in the middle of the night, his eyes barely able to stay open. After reviewing the prescription, he was going through the customary procedure of informing the household head about the rare medicinal ingredients that would be needed.

He had barely gotten through the opening words when a voice from across the room cut in: “Don’t bother looking for substitutes. She is afraid of pain, so the wound-healing herb must be used in full measure, and the medicine catalyst cannot be shortchanged either. I have already sent men to retrieve the Soul-Returning Pill.”

The wound-healing herb was worth more than its weight in gold — recklessly applying it to someone’s wounds was already extravagant enough — but he wanted to use the Soul-Returning Pill as well?

Imperial Physician Li was so alarmed he opened his eyes fully at once: “Lord Zhang, although this young lady’s injuries are severe, they are far from the point where the Soul-Returning Pill is necessary.”

“It must be used.” Zhang Zhixu did not look up. “She traded her life for it — of course she can use it.”

If someone were truly on death’s threshold with the King of Hell already coming to claim their soul, then yes, it would be appropriate — but —

Imperial Physician Li shook his head: “This young lady has an extremely strong will to live. Give her a little more time to recover her strength, and she will open her eyes.”

Nothing like his own sullen, moping state that required endless coaxing — Chen Baoxiang was the wild grass that could grow in any crack, the stone that no fire could burn through. Give her even the smallest thread of hope and she would claw her way back to life.

Zhang Zhixu trembled as he released his grip, and only then realised he had been holding on too tightly — the blood on his palm had dried and stuck, and his hand and hers had become fused together in one mess.

He promptly asked Jiuquan for a warm cloth and began to ease them apart bit by bit, gently blowing on the stuck places as he worked, terrified of causing her pain.

Jiuquan very much wanted to point out that Chen Baoxiang’s entire body was covered in wounds, and that even if he simply tore their hands apart, the pain likely couldn’t compete with all her other injuries.

But looking at the reddened rims of his master’s eyes, he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it.

A medical woman came forward carrying needles.

Chen Baoxiang’s skin had been lacerated badly, and quite a few stitches were needed.

Zhang Zhixu looked at the needle tips and the catgut thread, his own flesh involuntarily tightening in sympathy: “Add more wound-healing herb — Master, her pain-relief needles need to go two fen deeper than they would for anyone else. And ice? Jiuquan — bring ice.”

No one in the room had yet understood who the young woman in the bed was to Zhang Zhixu, but seeing the second young master this agitated, they understood at once, and immediately made generous use of every pain-relieving resource available.

In a moment between the bustle, Sun Sihuai could not help casting a glance at his own disciple.

By rights, given his physical condition, he should have spent at least several days in pampered rest before being able to get out of bed at all — yet here the man was, sitting perfectly bolt-upright at the bedside, motionless, for more than half a shichen already.

Chen Baoxiang had certainly done him a great kindness, but this was excessive — when had Zhang Zhixu ever cared this much about whether another person lived or died?

Gong Lan had not entered the room, and could only stand outside on tiptoe, craning her neck to see.

“What do you look like.” Zhang Yuanchu pulled at her arm. “Just go back and wait, won’t you?”

“What do you know.” Gong Lan waved him off and kept looking. “This is our son bringing a young woman home for the first time.”

You call that blood-soaked scene in there bringing a girl home?

Zhang Yuanchu opened his mouth, then closed it.

Sun Sihuai wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped out. He had barely taken two steps before Gong Lan pulled him aside: “Old sir — what do you say?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “What is there to say? That young lady is far more tenacious than he is. The moment the vitality-restoring herb and the wound-healing herb were applied, her condition stabilised. It’s simply that the external injuries are numerous — she will inevitably suffer.”

Gong Lan’s spirits lifted, then she frowned in puzzlement: “Then why is Fengqing still in there — not washing, not changing his clothes? How filthy.”

“Just now Jiuquan tried to get him out as well. Care to guess what Fengqing said?”

“What did he say?”

Sun Sihuai rolled his eyes and imitated the tone exactly: “Such a small amount of filth — why would I bother caring about it?”

Gong Lan and her husband were both stunned.

Everyone in the household knew that the second young master of the Zhang family had a deep aversion to dirt. Even a layer of dust left unswiped from a cabinet was enough to draw his disdain in ordinary times — how was it that now, covered in grime head to toe like a muddy clump, he could just say it was nothing?

Gong Lan excitedly seized her husband’s sleeve: “He’s had a breakthrough — a great big breakthrough!”

Zhang Yuanchu was shaken nearly off his feet by her rattling. “What do you mean?”

“Honestly, talking to you is a complete waste of my breath.” Gong Lan released him with disdain, then immediately turned to instruct the servants. “Prepare the medicine properly, and have some light, easily digestible food ready as well. On no account is anyone to be negligent.”

“Yes.”

The voices outside were very loud, but they fell on Chen Baoxiang’s ears from a great distance.

She felt as though she were walking on white clouds, blood flowing freely down her body, yet she felt no pain at all.

A radiant, glowing golden Buddha was calling her name.

She skipped and hopped toward it, and found a face of extraordinary beauty — pale and serene, with an air of compassion. Downcast eyes looked upon her and asked, gently: “Do you have a wish?”

“Of course — I want to be rich!” She spread her arms wide in a sweeping arc. “I want this much — this much gold.”

Even as she said it, she knew it could never come true, and laughed softly to herself: “The Great Immortal’s powers are just a little too feeble, I’m afraid.”

The golden Buddha let out a soft hum, and with a wave of its hand, a square elmwood box appeared before her — four-cornered and solid, heavy with weight.

“What is this?”

“Open it and see.”

“……Chen Baoxiang — wake up. Then open it and see.”

Sacred chants drifted and echoed, yet landed with solid weight in her ears.

Chen Baoxiang reached out, as though in a dream.

She touched an actual box!

She opened her eyes in astonishment, but the world immediately began to spin, and a wave of dizziness made her feel sick.

“Careful.” Someone reached out to steady her arm.

The voice was low and deep — she felt she had heard it somewhere before, though it sounded somewhat different.

She paused to steady herself, then looked up with effort.

A beautiful jade-carved Bodhisattva had opened its eyes and was sitting at her bedside, with an elmwood box placed across its lap — exactly like the one she had seen in her dream.

She stared at that box for quite a long while, before finally managing to turn her eyes toward the person beside her.

“You……?”

The anxiety in Zhang Zhixu’s heart finally dropped back into place with a thud.

She could wake. She would not become senseless. She would not die.

But then he felt a flash of irritation: “I knew it — not ten jin of vitality-restoring herb could do what one jin of gold could!”

Then he looked down and saw his own inner robe, soaked with blood and caked in filth, and the colour rose swiftly up his neck. He got to his feet at once, picked up the box, and walked away.

“Hey——” Chen Baoxiang feebly raised her hand, but couldn’t catch hold of the box.

“Miss, please don’t worry.” Jiuquan quickly tucked the quilt around her. “The master has something to attend to — he’ll be right back.”

His master?

Chen Baoxiang should have known who his master was. But she had lost a great deal of blood and the wound had begun to inflame slightly — her mind was completely unable to turn the pieces over — and she could only press her fingers against the edge of the bed frame.

A maidservant helped her settle back against the soft pillows, and dabbed at her lips with a cloth moistened with tea.

In a daze, she drifted back to sleep.

This time, the dream was not peaceful.

She dreamt that the second young master of the Zhang family had woken, and was glaring at her, holding the promissory note that the Great Immortal had forged: “You bold and shameless commoner — you deceived me out of my money, squatted in my home, and even had the audacity to pass yourself off as my woman.”

“Someone — come! Take her away and give her eighty strikes of the board. Then hang her at the city gate for three days, so that every person of rank in Shangjing can know exactly what she is!”

No.

Chen Baoxiang struggled with all her might: “The board is going to hurt so much — can we do fewer strikes?”

“Hanging at the city gate is too humiliating — if it absolutely must be done, could you at least put a black cloth over my head?”

The high-and-mighty Zhang family’s young master gave a cold laugh: “Do you think I am someone easy to reason with?”

“Jiuquan — carry it out.”

Pain crashed over her in overwhelming waves. Chen Baoxiang wept until tears streamed down her face, sobbing and wailing.