Shennong compiled the herbs he had tasted into a volume, categorizing them by their effects.
Those that treated colds went in one category, those that treated diarrhea in another, and those that treated external injuries in yet another.
For every medicine, he recorded its place of origin, appearance, smell, toxicity, primary uses, and method of application.
He wrote very slowly, weighing every word for a long time, because this was something meant to be passed down.
He had tasted no fewer than ten thousand kinds of herbs, and those that made it into the book had all been selected after careful deliberation.
They had to be common and easy to obtain, highly effective, and suitable...
The clan members watched his increasingly gaunt figure, their hearts aching unbearably.
He was no longer the frail, sickly child he had once been, but he was even thinner than he had been in childhood.
After tasting hundreds of herbs for so many years, his stomach had been badly damaged. Nothing he ate had any flavor anymore.
"Please rest."
Shennong shook his head, his writing hand never stopping.
"There are still more than three hundred kinds left to record."
"Then let someone else help you write them down."
Shennong set down his pen and looked at the young man who was trying to persuade him. He merely smiled, then continued writing.
The Shennong Materia Medica contained a total of three hundred and sixty-five herbs and three hundred and sixty-five prescriptions, each one tested with his own body.
He had been poisoned seventy times, and six of those times, he had nearly died.
On the back cover of the final volume, he carved a line of words.
"May future generations know no illness; may this book never be needed."
After writing the final word, he put