Chapter 30: The Gentleman

Those few people were walking slowly.

Uncle Ma seized the opportunity to pull out a match and light a lamp.

The kerosene lamp was too cumbersome, so they didn’t bring it.

But inside Uncle Ma’s bundle were several white candles, fist-sized, thick and short.

After lighting them, he dripped a bit of wax onto the table, pressed the candle’s base down, and it stood steady.

The people in the woods noticed the light and quickened their pace.

Chu Tianshu seemed to catch a fleeting flash of intense joy on the faces of the two men leading the donkey.

“Old uncle, it’s cold and the road’s slippery—we miscalculated our pace. Can we rest here for the night?”

The sickle-wielding man called out from twenty or thirty paces away.

Uncle Ma said, “Traveling far from home, who doesn’t run into trouble? This place was already abandoned—we fixed it up a bit to rest. Come on in.”

They led the donkey close to the tea shed and helped the man on its back down.

The man wasn’t short, but he hunched his back, walked with a shuffling gait; even these few steps, carried by others into the tea shed, produced a rasping breath from his throat and chest, like thin iron wires grinding together—unbearable to hear.

Chu Tianshu was removing needles from Zhong Jinqiu’s arms; his gaze swept over and met theirs.

The man being supported was fine, but the two supporting men stared fixedly at this side.

“Brother.”

The sickle-wielding man said, “You’re doing acupuncture? Are you a physician? Could you check on our elder brother?”

Chu Tianshu smiled, “I don’t know acupuncture at all. These needles were inserted by the town’s senior physician for my second uncle—he said they must stay in for a long time. We were in a hurry to return, so we brought the needles along and pull them out ourselves when the time comes.”

“Don’t even mention it—the old doctor was afraid we’d lose the needles, so we had to pawn a dried lamb leg at his clinic.”

Back home, Chu Tianshu was happy to treat patients.

But here, in these wild mountains where even the path was unclear, encountering someone riding a donkey uphill? Better stay cautious.

Uncle Ma and Uncle Zhong, both seasoned travelers, were wary of the others too.

Especially Uncle Zhong—that look… hmm?

Chu Tianshu frowned slightly; Uncle Zhong’s gaze was off.

Not his usual casual, detached scrutiny—but a direct, fixed stare at the gasping man’s face, growing more serious the longer he looked.

As if he could see a painting on the man’s face.

The sickle-wielding man looked anxious: “Brother, don’t pretend you don’t know—when you pulled out the needles just now, that twist of the needle tail? You’re no novice…”

Zhong Jinqiu suddenly said, “Xiao Chu, saving a life surpasses building seven-tiered pagodas. You studied acupuncture for years—help him out.”

Chu Tianshu and Uncle Ma both turned to Zhong Jinqiu at once, their eyes flickering with faint light.

They exchanged a glance—no aura of dark magic, and Zhong Jinqiu was no man easily swayed by sorcery.

“Then I’ll try.”

Chu Tianshu rose slowly and walked to the opposite side of the table, first taking the sick man’s pulse.

Zhong Jinqiu also moved to the table’s edge, leaning in to observe closely.

Five people crowded around a broken table.

Chu Tianshu told them to step back; by candlelight, he examined the sick man’s eyelids and tongue coating, felt his pulse again, and fell into thought.

“This illness…”

Chu Tianshu lifted his gaze again, studying the men before him.

The two men in straw capes showed anxiety, but their waists and bellies were taut—clearly on guard.

Especially the sickle-wielding man—his right arm hidden beneath his cape, utterly still, for reasons unknown.

Zhong Jinqiu was also acting strangely; his face was grave, but his eyes seemed vacant, lost in thought.

Compared to all of them, the patient was the most normal.

His eyeballs were cloudy, his face yellowish-waxy, his lips dark—all symptoms of labored breathing.

He looked like he was enduring pain, but not desperately so—like someone who’d seen too many doctors and had grown resigned.

Yet this man was the most abnormal of all.

Chu Tianshu held up one finger.

The patient said, “One.”

Chu Tianshu held up two fingers.

“Two.”

He held up four fingers.

The patient tried to smile, but it triggered a cough—he wheezed twice, then said, “Of course it’s four.”

Chu Tianshu sighed, frowned, stood up, and paced left and right, unconsciously moving far away to the tea shed’s far corner.

“Second uncle.”

He waved to the other side, “Come here for a moment.”

Zhong Jinqiu walked over, controlling his throat with masterful skill, voice like a whisper: “What is it?”

Chu Tianshu replied in the same hushed tone.

“This man isn’t sick—he’s poisoned. The poison has sunk deep into his five organs and six bowels, even spread to his skull and bone marrow.”

“A normal person poisoned this deeply would be little different from a corpse—only his pupils haven’t yet dilated.”

“Yet this man can breathe, walk, and still think clearly. His physique isn’t that of a martial artist—he must be a powerful sorcerer. If he’s upright, fine. But if he’s evil…”

Chu Tianshu asked seriously, “Uncle Zhong, do you know him?”

Zhong Jinqiu fell silent.

Uncle Ma stepped closer: “What’s going on?”

Zhong Jinqiu spoke low: “Ah… this story is long…”

Uncle Ma had never married in his youth, had no family.

But Zhong Jinqiu once had a happy family—and because of them, he kept alive the bold ambitions of his youth, still striving for fame and achievement.

His wife and son fully supported him, relied on him.

His son, Zhong Jiye, especially admired the way his father led a band of brothers across south and north.

Among his peers, Zhong Jiye became a leader himself, guiding his young companions with force and discipline.

Once, Zhong Jiye discovered one of his brothers was addicted to opium, stealing money to smoke. He pleaded, beat him, tied him up—all useless. The brother corrupted others too.

Zhong Jiye flew into rage, gathered all his young brothers, and smoked opium repeatedly before them, determined to prove it could be quit.

"But this fool's martial skill is barely at the entry level—he couldn't even handle the power of the Lingyang Pill, how could he possibly withstand such a deadly poison?"

Zhong Jinqiu lowered his eyes, “At the time, I still clung to ambition, neglected my family too much. In the end, my son died, my wife fell ill and passed—nothing remained but hatred.”

Uncle Ma remembered: “That year I visited you—I heard you killed the opium den owner in town, then hunted down every supplier along the drug pipeline.”

“But when I found you later, you hadn’t killed many more people?”

Zhong Jinqiu gave a weary smile.

Because when he arrived, he didn’t see the fat, cruel opium dealers.

He saw only vast fields of opium flowers blooming everywhere—the scene, beautiful yet terrifying.

Once-pristine terraced fields had all become opium plantations; the growers were nothing but farmers.

You never truly feel pain until it hits you.

Before that year, Zhong Jinqiu had cursed opium for corrupting the nation—but never truly considered: how many people in all of Yizhou were growing it?

Had it already surrounded him?

“...How could I avenge this? I fled before stepping into those fields.”

Zhong Jinqiu said blankly, “I was afraid.”

Uncle Ma said, “But later, you said someone had avenged you?”

Zhong Jinqiu’s eyes flared, solemnly: “Yes. That man must have seen such fields too—far more than I did. But he wasn’t afraid.”

“He became the Military Governor of all Yizhou. With one order, though opium wasn’t fully eradicated, not a single den dares display its sign in daylight anymore!”

“He was a strong man, a righteous man, someone I will forever revere!”

Uncle Ma glanced at the patient at the table, suspicion dawning.

He lowered his voice further, almost whispering with barely-there breath.

“Are you saying… that man over there… is Cai Yin? Cai Shanjun?!”

“The former Military Governor of Yizhou’s Junzheng Prefecture?”

“But how? He went to Jingcheng, held high office and wealth—even the President treated him well…”

Zhong Jinqiu cut in firmly, “I’ve watched his speeches many times—I’ve memorized his face. Even with disguise, he can’t fool me.”

Uncle Ma stared: “No wonder you told Xiao Chu to help…”

“I only asked Xiao Chu to lend a hand. With Cai Shanjun’s status, to be reduced to this? His troubles are obvious.”

Zhong Jinqiu’s weak hand, hidden behind his back, unconsciously clenched—movement stiff and difficult.

“If Xiao Chu can help, help a little—then we part ways immediately. Don’t get tangled in their affairs!”

“After all…”

Zhong Jinqiu raised his eyebrows, voice softening.

“After all, he never truly knew me, never did me any great favor. Helping him this much is enough—we’ve fulfilled our bond.”

Uncle Ma fell silent.

Colluding with insiders to kill an old eunuch might have over a 60% chance of success—but meddling in Cai Shanjun’s affairs? No one could say how likely survival was.

If only these two had encountered this, they could have charged in with fire and fury—even if they died, it would at least be an unusual way to go.

But Chu Tianshu is still young, still has time to grow slowly; he shouldn’t face this now.

Old Zhong spoke that way because he clearly understood this.

Yet little Chu is perceptive—if he sees through Old Zhong’s true feelings and offers to help, this matter becomes too difficult…

“Grand Commander?!”

Chu Tianshu’s voice rose sharply.

The two old men, who had been avoiding the young man’s gaze, looked up in shock.

The patient’s breathing paused for a moment.

Both men in straw capes went on guard—one hand gripped his sickle, the other reached into his chest.

Chu Tianshu returned eagerly to the opposite side of the table and smiled: “So you’re our former Grand Commander of Yizhou? I heard you did much good during your tenure—have you come back to reclaim power?”

The two men still didn’t know how to respond.

The patient blinked, then answered: “There are important matters to handle.”

“But if you’ve made it this far into the mountains, you’ve already entered Yuan Nan City’s sphere of influence.”

Chu Tianshu’s smile didn’t fade: “Why not try contacting Commander Xu of Yuan Nan City? With his troops backing you, everything would be easier.”

The sickle-wielding man hesitated: “Who exactly are you three? This kind of thing…”

“Because that Xu is untrustworthy.”

The patient answered directly, paused, then burst into a fit of coughing before continuing: “Yizhou isn’t yet an ironclad kingdom. While gathering intelligence secretly in Jingcheng, I found this man growing more untrustworthy by the day—if I go to his headquarters like this, I’ll be dead for sure.”

Chu Tianshu’s smile widened as he clapped his hands: “Excellent. So once you’re in power, you’ll eliminate him, right?”

The sickle-wielding man frowned: “Do you have a grudge against them?”

“I meant to kill him and his deputy—but over the past month, I’ve killed more than one person a day on average. I’m actually getting tired of it.”

Chu Tianshu looked at his fingers, speaking slowly: “After all, I’m a physician.”

“If I can achieve justice and satisfaction merely by healing, isn’t that far more comfortable?”

Moreover, this man’s status closely resembles that of General Cai Shanjun from our homeland’s history—the one who defended the nation against Yuan Zhonglu.

He’s practically a living, breathing experience boost.

And… come on, I can’t let these two old men, past their prime, be forced to speak insincerely and live in gloom, can I?

Twenty years of spiritual sensitivity to yin corruption never turned me into a cold-blooded beast—now that I’ve trained in a fiery, passionate fist art, why should I restrain myself further?

(End of Chapter)