The medical manor’s great door slowly opened, and a woman in red walked out. She was tall and graceful with delicate features, though her skin was startlingly pale as if she rarely saw sunlight. A red cinnabar dot marked her brow, lending her an alluring air. As she reached the doorway, her brows furrowed and her eyes widened, adding a touch of willfulness to her demeanor. “Who’s making such a racket at the door?”

“Miss, might your elder master be at home?” Su Changhe asked with a smile.

The woman paused, then laughed. “Oh, oh, oh, so you’re looking for Master Bai? He’s out making his rounds. Would you like to come in for tea while you wait?”

“No need. We’ll wait here,” Xie Changze replied.

“All right then, I’ll go help you look for Master Bai.” The woman stepped out, carrying a medicine chest on her back—it seemed she had been planning to leave anyway. She walked straight past Xie Changze and Xie Jinke. Xie Jinke instinctively reached for his sword but was gently restrained by Xie Changze.

Su Changhe glanced at Su Zhe, his fingers twirling as his dagger dropped back into his palm.

“Then we’ll trouble you, Miss,” Su Zhe gripped his Buddhist staff and shook it slightly. Another golden ring flew out, grazing the woman’s cheek before returning to Su Zhe’s hand. He examined it—there was a spot of blood.

“What are you doing?!” The woman touched the wound on her face and shouted angrily at Su Zhe.

Su Zhe reattached the ring to his staff and took out a medicine bottle, tossing it to her. “Sorry, sorry, my hand slipped. This is a Fragrant Congealing Balm. Apply it to your face, and within half an hour, it will heal completely.”

“You’re crazy!” The woman glanced at the bottle and walked away, cursing under her breath.

After she was gone, Su Changhe turned to Su Zhe. “Uncle Zhe, are you certain she’s not Xin Baicao’s junior uncle?”

“Xin Baicao himself is nearly fifty. How could his junior uncle be such a young girl?” Xie Jinke sneered.

“Could she be wearing a human-skin mask?” Xie Changze wondered.

“No.” Su Zhe ran his hand over the golden rings. “No human-skin mask can deceive my eyes, not even the Thousand-Face Ghost of the Mu family.”

Su Changhe laughed. “I’ve noticed that whenever you meet a beautiful woman, Uncle Zhe, your Mandarin suddenly improves remarkably.”

Su Zhe smirked. “Nonsense talk.”

A mile away, the woman in red casually tossed the medicine bottle in her hand. “Fragrant Congealing Balm? As if I, Bai Hehuai, would need such a thing?” She laughed, dropped it to the ground, and crushed it under her foot.

In the wilderness stood a dilapidated Taoist temple.

Named the Pure Yang Changshou Palace, it was dedicated to Lü Zu, the foremost of the Eight Immortals. There must have been glorious times here once—the temple was built on a grand scale with high courtyard walls. But time had taken its toll. Though the walls still stood tall, they were now mottled and faded, suggesting the temple had long since lost its worshippers.

The sun was setting now, its amber light casting a celestial glow over the decrepit temple. The woman in red appeared on the mountain path, unhurriedly approaching with her medicine chest. When she reached the temple, she called out loudly, “I’m here!”

At her shout, a gust of wind swept past, and a figure in green clothing landed before her. He wore an ox-head mask and carried a sword at his waist, its hilt carved with the character of “Ox.” The masked man looked at the woman in red and frowned. “Why didn’t your master come himself?”

The woman in red waved her hand, smiling. “My master turned to ash long ago. He can’t come—only your master can go meet him.”

The ox-masked man’s hand went to his sword hilt, killing intent suddenly surging. The woman in red seemed unconcerned, merely yawning. “Are we checking the patient or not? If not, I’m leaving.”

“Ox, let them in.” A cool voice sounded from within the courtyard.

“Now that’s a pleasant voice—must be a handsome fellow!” The woman in red walked straight past the ox-masked man into the courtyard.

Instead of the handsome man she expected, she found only a figure carrying an oil-paper umbrella and wearing a demon mask. But her voice grew even more cheerful as if she could see through the mask to the face beneath: “Indeed, such a handsome fellow!”

The masked man studied her for a long while before saying slowly, “Follow me.”

The woman in red raised an eyebrow. “Shame he’s not much of a talker.” She adjusted her medicine chest and followed him inside. The temple was empty save for a tall statue of Lü Zu covered in dust, its altar bare—even the valuable incense burners had long since been stolen. Yet in this vast empty temple, the woman in red felt countless eyes watching her.

“I think this temple has ghosts,” she muttered.

The masked man ignored her and led her through the main hall, taking several turns before arriving at a side chamber. Two green-clad swordsmen stood guard, one wearing a horse mask, the other a tiger mask, their sword hilts carved with the characters of “Horse” and “Tiger” respectively. They seemed to deeply respect the demon-masked man, immediately bowing and making way as he approached. The woman in red followed him inside.

The side chamber was extremely dark, lit only by three candles. A white-haired old man reclined in a bamboo chair, appearing somewhat frail, though his eyes still held an eagle-like sharpness. These eyes examined the woman in red for a long while before the old man suddenly smiled, his gaze softening into the gentle look of a grandfather seeing his granddaughter. The knife-like wrinkles on his face smoothed in that instant.

“He’s better than you—he doesn’t need a mask, he can change his face by himself,” the woman in red said to the demon-masked man.

The masked man started, shook his head slightly, and moved to stand beside the old man.

The elder sat up, still smiling warmly at the woman, seemingly unbothered by her words. “It’s been a long time. When I last saw you, you were just a snotty, dirty child.”

The woman in red pouted. “Last time I saw the Patriarch, he was still a god of killing, ready to draw his blade at any moment.”

“I’m still ready to draw my blade now—only my hair has whitened, and my hands are still crimson,” the old man’s tone carried a hint of ruthlessness.

“Then let’s skip the pleasantries and check your pulse, see if the current Patriarch can still draw his blade!” The woman in red set down her medicine chest and produced a red thread from her sleeve, wrapping it around the old man’s wrist. She placed her fingers on the thread and closed her eyes. A moment later, she opened them and withdrew the thread. She kicked open the medicine chest and waved her hand, causing over a dozen silver needles to rise from it. With a sweep of her sleeve, she sent all the needles into the Patriarch’s chest.

The entire sequence flowed like running water, executed in one fluid motion. The demon-masked man had been watching silently, but when the needles flew out, killing intent suddenly emanated from him. Yet since the old man hadn’t spoken, he didn’t move.

“Put away your killing intent. If you startle me and my hand trembles even slightly, your Patriarch is as good as dead,” the woman in red’s tone carried an implicit threat.

“My apologies,” the masked man bowed his head slightly.

“You’re quite polite.” The woman in red pursed her lips, then walked to the elder’s side. With a sweep of her long sleeve, the silver needles returned to her palm. She examined them with a slight frown, sniffed them, then suddenly flung them away.

The old man smiled. “Does my blood carry a faint plum blossom fragrance?”

“Snow Falls on a Plum Branch—Patriarch, how are you not dead yet?” The woman in red’s voice carried surprise.

The elder didn’t seem to find her disrespectful, as if “How are you not dead yet” was a genuine question. He replied, “With decades of inner power, I can barely hold on.”

“Snow Falls on a Plum Branch—Second Master Tang’s unique supreme poison, said to be first in the Tang Clan and second in the world, its potency second only to Mirror Flower Moon of the Wen family head. They say only Second Master Tang himself could cure it. Where is he?” the woman in red asked.

“I killed him,” the old man said matter-of-factly. “My mission was to kill him, but before he died, he infected me with this poison.”

“Oh?” The woman in red frowned slightly. “Even the Patriarch of Dark River must accept assassination missions?”

“Can you cure him, Miss?” the masked man suddenly interrupted her questioning.

“In our Medicine King Valley, we say: as long as they’re not dead, they can be cured!” The woman in red stroked her chin, seeming to imitate some male physician’s manner of speaking. “But Snow Falls on a Plum Branch is quite the challenge. Still, it’s not impossible, as long as…”

“As long as what?” the masked man asked.

The woman in red put her foot on the medicine chest and declared brazenly: “As long as the payment is enough!”

The masked man paused before finally responding: “Money is no object.”

“Then it can be done,” the woman in red said smugly.

The masked man looked at the elder, then at the woman in red, still hesitating. “Shouldn’t we wait for your master to examine him?”

The woman in red’s smile faded as she scratched her head. “My master has long since returned to the earth. Why do you keep wanting him to crawl out of his grave?”

The masked man started. “Xin Baicao’s junior uncle is dead?”

“Hahaha, Muyu, you’re mistaken.” The old man laughed. “This is Xin Baicao’s junior uncle, the previous Medicine King’s martial sister, and the closed-door disciple of Li Yuzhen, the founding master of Medicine King Valley.”

“Physician Bai Hehuai pays respects to the Patriarch of Dark River, and to—” The woman in red bowed, looking up at the masked man and saying softly, “to the honorable Puppet of Dark River?”