She slowly raised her other hand, her fingertips trembling faintly as she lifted the brim of her hat, which had been pulled low. Then she placed her fingers by her ear, hooked the edge of the mask pressed against her skin, and gently lifted it away, gradually revealing her true face.
It was a delicate, graceful face carrying the gentle warmth of a healer, her entire being radiating a fresh, ethereal air.
If Xiao Yao had been here, he would have recognized her at once—she was Xiao Yi Xian, from whom he had parted a year ago.
Ever since Xiao Yi Xian had arrived in the Chu Yun Empire, she had witnessed firsthand the cruelty of cultivation.
There was no mercenary group to protect her here, nor was Xiao Yao by her side. There were only days where the strong devoured the weak, with poison as her constant companion.
At the time, she had tried to use a healer's compassion to aid ordinary people injured in conflicts between factions or harmed by poisonous insects.
She found a secluded mountain ravine and built a bamboo cottage. During the day, she traversed dangerous peaks to gather medicinal herbs; at night, she refined antidote pills beneath the lamplight. Whenever someone came seeking treatment, she asked for nothing in return, regardless of wealth or status.
At first, the villagers at the foot of the mountain were deeply wary of the young woman. But when children on the verge of death from deadly poison opened their eyes again after drinking her medicine;
when hunters bitten by venomous scorpions, their flesh rotted to the bone, quickly scabbed over after applying her ointment, a long line gradually formed outside the bamboo cottage.
Looking at those smiling faces restored to life, Xiao Yi Xian's tightly strung heart finally