"The Treatment of a 'Hero'"

The next day was overcast, a heavy gray day. On a narrow mountain path, two horses galloped past, with the lanky Zhang Xiaohua riding the one behind.

Zhang Xiaohua's face was still a pale gold, no different from the day before. Senior Brother Quan, riding three or four horse-lengths ahead, kept looking back at Zhang Xiaohua trailing behind, his face full of impatience. He shouted, "Can't you go any faster? It'll be noon before long, and Baiyue Peak is still quite a distance away. Even taking this shortcut won't save us much distance."

What the older Wuming Hall disciple said was true. This was indeed a shortcut, but it was extraordinarily rugged and bumpy, trading hardship for distance. Zhang Xiaohua had only just been injured—how could he endure traveling like this? An hour earlier, he had even coughed up a small mouthful of blood. After that, he did not dare urge his horse any faster. Seeing this, Senior Brother Quan had long since changed from urging him onward to muttering incessantly in his ear.

Zhang Xiaohua shot him a cold glance and did not answer. He merely guided his horse carefully, choosing the smoother stretches of road.

Near midnight the previous night, he and Senior Brother Quan had arrived at Wuming Hall's outpost. Senior Brother Quan did not care whether he lived or died. He casually tossed him into a small room, then went off to sleep soundly himself, apparently deeply dissatisfied with the task of escorting Zhang Xiaohua.

After arriving in the small room, Zhang Xiaohua had not intended to take any pills. He had meant to use his injuries to deceive the Pill-Refining Hall disciples. If he took Blood Replenishing Pills or the like and immediately stopped his injuries from worsening, would that not ruin his scheme? Yet