Wang Zheng

In the rear courtyard of World-Aiding Hall, the assembly-line-like production line began to operate.

The water stains on the bluestone slabs had yet to dry, left behind by the morning's washing of medicinal herbs. Drying racks stood beneath the sun, bamboo trays spread with white peony root, angelica, and Sichuan lovage. The sliced medicinal materials were arranged neatly, like thin little round cakes.

Before the herb-cutting tables, several laborers bent at the waist, their blades rising and falling in unison with a steady rhythm. Before the grinding trough, someone pushed a stone roller back and forth, producing a dull rumble.

The medicine sieves swayed, and fine powder sifted down in a soft rush. Heat rose from the earthen kang beds in the drying room, while bitterness mingled with medicinal fragrance, steeping the entire rear courtyard in its scent.

The courtyard held only the sounds of work. Herbs being cut, medicines ground, powders sifted, drugs dried—each performed its own duty, each stayed in its proper place, their rhythm united and regular as a song.

Medicines were picked up and put down, processed without pause. The sounds were like some ancient percussion music, ringing from morning until night.

No one spoke. After all these years, every position in World-Aiding Hall had been squeezed to its very limit.

Those who cut herbs had to cut thirty jin of sliced medicine a day; those who ground herbs had to grind twenty jin of medicinal powder; those who sifted had to sift fifty jin of fine powder. Everyone's workload was fixed. Only by keeping their hands and feet moving without pause could they finish in time.

No one had spare time to chat while working.

Talking meant slowing down. Slowing down meant failing to finish. Failing to finish meant staying late, and staying late came without pay.

A former steward had once said, "If you won't do it, there are plenty who will."

That was true. Being a laborer at World-Aiding Hall counted as respectable work.

There was no exposure to wind and sun, no need to dig in the fields, and it was nothing like carrying huge sacks at the docks until one's back could no longer straighten. It was merely dull and mechanical, without so much heavy labor.

But in times like these, having a place sheltered from wind and rain, a hot meal to eat, and a few copper coins left over each month already made one a hundred times better off than the refugees outside the city.

Inside Chen Chong's room.

A young servant knocked on his door.

A furnace of True Martial Pills had just finished refining. The fire had only just been withdrawn, and the pills were still cooling on a porcelain tray.

The servant was in a hurry. Ordinarily, he would knock lightly, wait for Chen Chong's summons, and only dare push the door open after receiving permission.

But today, the door rattled beneath a chaotic, urgent barrage of knocks. Chen Chong frowned and set down the porcelain tray in his hand.

"Come in."

The servant pushed open the door and entered, panting heavily, his forehead covered in sweat. He had clearly run here all the way.

"Chief Steward Chen, Miss Li requests that you come to Chief Steward Wang's room."

Chen Chong gave him a glance, nodded, wiped the medicinal residue from his hands, and left the room.

It was Chen Chong's first time visiting Chief Steward Wang's room.

The room was not much larger than Chen Chong's quarters, yet the moment he entered, it felt like stepping into another world.

A thick crimson carpet covered the floor. His feet sank softly into it, and even his footsteps were swallowed away.

Four meticulous flower-and-bird paintings hung on the walls, their frames made of rosewood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

A large couch stood against the wall, draped in leopard skin. The leopard's head drooped over the edge, its eyes set with glass beads that glimmered faintly in the darkness.

Beside the couch stood a square table bearing a set of celadon tea ware. Its glaze was lustrous, unmistakably from Ru Kiln, resting atop a brocade mat.

At one corner of the table sat a gilded Boshan incense burner, burning sandalwood as thin smoke curled upward. A white jade screen stood in another corner, inlaid with gems of many colors to form a landscape scene.

It hardly resembled the room of a steward from a pharmacy and clinic. It looked more like a money-burning den for some wealthy old man.

Several people stood inside.

Li Zhaoning stood in the middle of the room, with two men behind her. Both were around forty. One was tall and thin, dressed in a gray-blue long robe, his hands hanging at his sides, his knuckles as thick as bamboo roots. The other was short and sturdy, wearing a brown short jacket, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, with a neck nearly as thick as his head.

Neither showed any expression, yet the faint aura emanating from them made Chen Chong's eyelids twitch.

He sensed them—Tendon-Tremor Realm.

This was an ability bought with money. The improvement of his cultivation technique had given him a more intuitive sense for gauging strength.

The aura of the Tendon-Tremor Realm was rich and dense, like an invisible wall of qi wrapped around the body. Both were Tendon-Tremor Realm, and from their stances and gazes, they had truly fought and clawed their way up.

Chen Chong gave Li Zhaoning a slight bow in greeting, then stepped aside. Only then did he see the seated Wang Zheng.

Wang Zheng braced both hands against the tabletop, an indescribable smile hanging on his honest-looking face. Smoke from the gilded Boshan burner curled before him, blurring his features somewhat.

He looked at Chen Chong, then at Li Zhaoning, his gaze circling between them.

"I wonder, what business does Eldest Miss Li have in coming to my place?"

Wang Zheng emphasized the words "Eldest Miss Li." There was not a shred of respect in his tone; instead, it carried a cold, icy mockery.

Li Zhaoning's expression did not change. Her voice remained steady. "Uncle Wang, you jest. I came this time because I have some questions and wish to ask Uncle Wang for an explanation."

Wang Zheng suddenly laughed. The laughter burst out without warning, echoing through the gaudily decorated room and making the blue smoke above the Boshan burner tremble.

"Perfect." Wang Zheng stopped laughing and stared straight at Li Zhaoning. "I also have some questions I would like to ask the Li Family."

His tone turned cold. "Back then, my ancestors brought this clinic and pledged allegiance. The cultivation techniques were promised to us, so why, after the last Bone-Forging Stage member of my family died, did you begin sealing them away and reclaiming them? The pill manuals passed down by my ancestors—why did the core pill formulas inside become the property of the Li Family?"

Li Zhaoning said nothing.

"And what about the promise that this clinic would forever be governed by the Wang Family?" Wang Zheng's expression gradually twisted. The corners of his eyes twitched, and his honest visage was torn apart, exposing the resentment buried beneath for years.

"Uncle Wang." Li Zhaoning finally spoke, her tone still calm. "We have no way of knowing the agreements made between our ancestors. But you should not have secretly sold True Martial Pills."

"Your hand reached beyond its bounds."

She paused, took out a pill from her sleeve, and held it in her palm. The dark-gold pill had flowing patterns of light across its surface, yet at the end of those patterns was an exceedingly tiny mark, almost impossible to see, like a hair-thin ripple.

Wang Zheng's emotions abruptly settled again. He looked at Chen Chong, his gaze lingering for a moment on that youthful face.

"So young, yet already a master of pill refinement. It seems Wang has been blind."

He pointed at the pill in Li Zhaoning's palm. "The first sentence in the Wang Family's inherited pill manual says: A pill master is one who may follow his heart's desire. It means that while refining a pill, one can control it."

He rubbed his fingers, as though recalling something. "Only when one can refine pills in one's own style and leave a unique mark can one be called a master of a generation."

As though he had thought of something, Wang Zheng sneered.

"It seems the situation is dire now. The Li Family truly no longer cares about appearances."

His gaze swept across the two Tendon-Tremor Realm experts, and the mockery at his lips deepened. "Only Yuan Zhiwu has some talent in martial arts, enough to reach the Tendon-Tremor Realm. Otherwise—"

He did not finish, but the meaning was clear.

"As expected, perhaps the necessary means of reaching success are to stop at nothing?" Wang Zheng shook his head, his gaze somewhat unfocused, as though speaking to himself.

Then he raised his head and looked at Li Zhaoning, a flash of viciousness passing through his eyes.

"I hate it. That day, I should have agreed to those bandits' demands and looted this clinic clean with them."

His voice lowered, as though squeezed out through clenched teeth. "To hope that the Li Family would remember old ties—ridiculous. Ridiculous."

Wang Zheng fell silent again.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The two Tendon-Tremor Realm experts stepped forward and seized his arms from either side.

Wang Zheng did not resist. With his eyes closed, he let them escort him outside.

They left the room and passed through World-Aiding Hall.

From the rear courtyard to the central hall, from the central hall to the front hall, everyone in the clinic saw them clearly.

Stewards, laborers, physicians seeing patients, shop clerks dispensing medicine. All of them were busy with their own work, but their eyes followed.

Wang Zheng was held between the two burly men. His face remained calm, his steps unhurried, as though he were going to keep an appointment he should have kept long ago.

No one knew who started it first. Perhaps a clerk in the front hall, perhaps a laborer in the rear courtyard.

Everyone learned of it. Wang Zheng had been taken away for misappropriating and secretly selling the clinic's pills.

The news rippled outward like waves, passing from one mouth to another, spreading from one corner to the next.

The herb-cutting blades paused for an instant, the grinding wheels lagged by a beat, and the medicine sieves stopped shaking for a moment. Then everyone lowered their heads again and continued their work.

Only that orderly song had gained a few discordant notes.