Mr. Wu

Professor Zheng hurriedly jumped to his feet and ran to the clinic beside the residential complex to fetch a doctor.

When he returned with the doctor, he was astonished to see that his little grandson had regained consciousness and was sitting obediently before Mr. Wu. Meanwhile, Mr. Wu wore a solemn expression as he pinched, patted, and thumped Zheng Qing's head and body.

"Do you know what is wrong with my grandson, sir?" Professor Zheng keenly sensed something and looked deeply excited.

Mr. Wu remained silent for a long while before slowly beginning his explanation.

According to him, Zheng Qing had been born with deficient qi and blood, but his spirit was strong, causing an imbalance of yin and yang. His Yin energy surged upward, bringing on the headaches. Originally, reciting texts and practicing calligraphy every day had effectively depleted Zheng Qing's spirit, but studying and writing also consumed his qi and blood. The two offset each other, which was why Zheng Qing's condition had only worsened.

"Is there any way to remedy it?"

"A congenital deficiency of qi and blood cannot be made up through medicine or minerals acquired later in life."

"So there is another way?"

Mr. Wu said nothing.

"Please save me, sir." Professor Zheng rose, pulled Zheng Qing down to his knees, and deeply bowed himself.

Mr. Wu let out a long sigh. "The tree may wish to be still, but the wind will not cease."

After helping Professor Zheng up, Mr. Wu laid down three rules with him.

First, do not speak of it. Second, the method must not be passed on. Third, do it for sustenance, not for display.

The first rule, do not speak of it, meant that Professor Zheng could not tell others about Mr. Wu treating Zheng Qing. Mr. Wu solemnly explained that some things would lose their efficacy once spoken aloud.

The second rule, the method must not be passed on, meant that the treatment involved secrets and that the Zheng family was not to pry carelessly. Moreover, from Mr. Wu's veiled words, he had inherited a lineage of Daoist teachings. If Zheng Qing wished to make up for his congenital shortcomings, he would need to enter Mr. Wu's sect and abide by its precepts.

The third rule, do it for sustenance, not for display, meant that Mr. Wu was treating Zheng Qing only because they had met, so that he could have a clear conscience. He did not wish to be troubled by other patients because of it. He acted for his heart, not for fame. If the treatment showed any effect and the Zheng family brought other patients to disturb him, he could only leave early.

Having stated his three requirements, Mr. Wu fell silent.

Professor Zheng was still pondering when Zheng Qing, regardless of anything else, knocked his head against the ground seven or eight times, repeatedly calling, "Teacher!"

Professor Zheng dragged him up with a wry smile. Only after asking did he learn that Mr. Wu's massage just now had been remarkably effective. Zheng Qing seemed not to have felt that kind of freshness in a very long time. So the moment he heard that Mr. Wu had a way to treat his headaches, he immediately kowtowed.

And so the old professor could only nod in agreement with a wry smile.

Thus, in midsummer of his eighth year, Zheng Qing became Mr. Wu's disciple.

Mr. Wu's knowledge was exceptionally broad. Astronomy, geography, history, encyclopedic lore—so long as a customer who entered the bookstore started a topic, he could follow it and chat for ages. If the customer happened to be a charming young woman, Mr. Wu would smile generously and sweet-talk her until the girls trembled like flowers in the wind.

Mr. Wu's interests were equally broad. Singing, playing instruments, chess, calligraphy, painting, even all kinds of ball games and the tedious miscellaneous chores of the bookstore—anything encountered in every aspect of life seemed capable of stirring his keen interest. Professor Zheng had once sighed, "Mr. Wu is truly a remarkable man."

Most importantly, Mr. Wu's medical skills truly were superb.

After becoming his disciple, Zheng Qing's headaches did not recur for a single day.

Professor Zheng and Zheng Qing's parents were immensely grateful. But because Mr. Wu insisted on accepting no tuition, the Zheng family could only send gifts during holidays and festivals to express their thanks.

Mr. Wu's method of treatment was very unusual. He did not give Zheng Qing acupuncture or massage all day, nor did he prepare medicinal decoctions of metals and stones for him. Instead, he followed Professor Zheng's usual approach: calligraphy practice!

Only, what Zheng Qing practiced was not the three thousand common Chinese characters found in textbooks, but a battered old Rune Copybook.

The Rune Copybook had a total of three hundred and twenty-four pages, with four Rune on each page, for a total of one thousand two hundred and ninety-six Rune Characters. The structure of every Rune Character was extraordinarily complex, and there were often tiny variations between its strokes, making Zheng Qing's practice even more difficult.

Mr. Wu still seemed dissatisfied. He specially found Zheng Qing a thin, soft brush and required him to learn one Rune every day. Everyone who practiced calligraphy knew that hard-pen writing was easy, while soft-brush writing was difficult to master. Though the thin, soft brush eased Zheng Qing's physical fatigue, it increased the drain on his spirit severalfold.

Learning the Rune each day was not the end of it. At Mr. Wu's demand, there was a dictation test every day, a small exam every five days, and a major exam every ten days. Failure to write from dictation earned a beating with the ruler, and failure on an exam earned one as well.

Mr. Wu had said that if he could not pass the major exam every ten days, there was no need for him to come back.

Remembering the torment of his headaches, Zheng Qing was terrified, and so he naturally became serious about practicing calligraphy.

More than three years passed in a flash. By the time Zheng Qing was twelve, he had thoroughly mastered all thousand-odd Rune in the Rune Copybook. His headaches had not recurred for three years either.

Over those three-plus years, the longer Zheng Qing stayed at Mr. Wu's side, the more anomalies he discovered.

For instance, Mr. Wu seemed never to have eaten anything.

Mr. Wu cooked excellent meals, complete in color, aroma, and flavor, yet the food he made was often enjoyed by Zheng Qing and the Yellow Flower Cat in the bookstore. Zheng Qing had never once seen Mr. Wu eat.

Then there was the Yellow Flower Cat in the shop, which was also very strange. When Zheng Qing was ten, the cat had come from nowhere and darted into the bookstore, scampering about everywhere and refusing to leave. Mr. Wu stopped trying to drive it away, and the cat settled in openly. As time passed, Zheng Qing increasingly felt that it had become a spirit. More than once, he had seen the tabby dig out the key to the attic from a drawer, stand upright, seize the key in its paws, unlock the door, and take dried fish. The cat never hid this from him. On the contrary, it often waved its paw at him in greeting.

Most importantly, Zheng Qing had once seen Mr. Wu beckon to his teapot. The teapot, a full ten meters away from him, then wobbled through the air and floated into his hand.

The more Zheng Qing knew, the more reverent he became, and his attitude toward Mr. Wu grew increasingly respectful.

There were always this or that kind of fantasy in a young boy's heart. Thus, these anomalies slowly accumulated in Zheng Qing's mind, gradually became familiar, until he grew used to them and no longer thought much of them.

That continued until his twelfth birthday, when Mr. Wu said he wanted to give Zheng Qing a gift.

It was a morning shrouded in heavy fog. Mr. Wu took Zheng Qing's hand and told him to hold on tight. Somewhat nervous, Zheng Qing gripped Mr. Wu's large hand. After leaving the bookstore and walking a few steps, they entered the garden of the residential complex.

On both sides of the garden path stood holly tree hedges over a meter tall, trimmed neatly by the gardeners. They turned left and right along the path, passed through a round archway, and the mist curling around them seemed to vanish in an instant.

Zheng Qing was still wondering how he had never seen that archway in the garden before when Mr. Wu let go of him, clasped his hands in greeting, and saluted a gaunt old man approaching from ahead.

Zheng Qing looked around. Before him lay a quiet, ancient street.

At the entrance to the street stood a paifang supported by two bare stone pillars. On its plaque, three large, vigorous characters read: "Huizi Market."