In his eighty-ninth life, he reincarnated as a physician, hanging a healing pot to aid the world, saving the dying and tending the wounded.
He traveled across the land, seeking medical knowledge and remedies, studying the art of healing until he mastered the ability to bring the dead back to life.
He had once disregarded his own safety and entered plague-ridden regions to treat the sick; he had also treated impoverished commoners for free, never taking a single coin.
He saved countless people in his life, yet could not save himself.
In his later years, he was stricken by grave illness. Knowing his days were numbered, he still took the pulses of his patients.
At death's door, he recalled the reincarnations of ninety-nine lives—the joys and sorrows of every lifetime, every meeting and parting—all of them like clouds drifting before his eyes.
Ninety-nine reincarnations, ninety-nine different lives.
He had been an emperor and enjoyed splendor and wealth; a swordsman, settling grudges with abandon; a commoner, enduring hardship and suffering; a scholar, well read in poetry and books; and a physician, saving the dying and healing the wounded.
He had tasted every bitterness, sweetness, sourness, and spice of the mortal world, and experienced all the warmth and chill of human relationships.
The memories of every life were deeply branded into his soul, stripping away the arrogance and sharpness of his youth, leaving him steadier and more compassionate.
At last came the ninety-ninth life, his final life.
He was born into a martial family. His mother carried him for ten months before finally giving birth to him.
Yet his maternal grandfather, harboring resentment because his daughter had defied his will, actually conceived evil intentions and wanted to kill him just after he was born.
His grandmother protected him with her life, but