A cold winter wind blew across the Ezo Sea. The high, distant Northern Country was empty and desolate. The thousands of armed forces facing each other down, whether Kingdom men or Wajin, were like specks of dust on the shore. Even the ten great ships opposing one another were only tiny grains of rice, dotted along the banks of the vast river. And yet the trade taking place here now was wealth counted in tens of thousands of strings of cash, an exchange that would shape the future fate of two continents.
"This... noble lord of the Mongol Tatars... please extend your left hand, and allow this servant to take your pulse..."
A warm, gentle voice, a cool little hand, softly rested on Zuwaro's wrist. His brow lifted, and he looked at the medical woman taking his pulse. Her pretty face, soft brows and eyes, her posture as compliant as willow twigs, and her light, slight figure stirred no other thoughts in him, only suspicion.
"Hm? This is a Shaman physician from the great Joseon tribe? This appearance... is far too different from the Shamans of the north, isn't it? Especially that timid obedience, that frail body, that way she doesn't even dare look me in the eye—where is even the slightest confidence of a priestess? Let alone compared with the most important Shamans in a tribe... Is she truly an inheritor of important medical arts among the Joseon tribes?"
Zuwaro frowned, deeply doubtful of her identity as a physician, and a trace of killing intent rose in his eyes. The medical woman Caishan lifted her head, glanced at the "Tatar chief's" vicious expression, and her thin body trembled again before she said in a low voice, "Please... please change to your other wrist... I still need to take your...