Chapter 49: The True Record of Breaking Into Shaolin

Chu Tianshu had originally planned to test with ten gold bars whether he could bring things from this world back with him, and how much.

Now it seemed the token’s mechanism was quite thorough on this point, explicitly requiring qi-shu deduction.

Yet from the growth rate of the qi-shu bar, it appeared the so-called qi-shu gain counted only immediate effects.

For example, if today you saved a child who would one day become a monumental figure.

But since he was merely a child now, the qi-shu bar wouldn’t change much.

The large reward from escorting Cai Shanjun was largely because, even before fulfilling the great task of opposing the traitor, Cai Shanjun himself was already a figure of considerable influence.

“Once the qi-shu bar is full, you must return within three days; only actions that take concrete effect during those three days count as overflow qi-shu.”

“So even if I list all the prescriptions now, if those rare herbs aren’t fully gathered within three days, this influence isn’t truly realized.”

As Chu Tianshu pondered these thoughts, he had already picked up the steel pen borrowed from Director Xie.

Even if he received no qi-shu feedback, he had to write down the prescriptions.

And he needed to write even more.

Such as penicillin’s effects, contraindications, and extraction methods.

This world had never heard of such a thing.

If we refer to the timeline of his homeland, it would be over a decade before anyone in this world began publishing related papers, and many more years before it attracted attention.

Penicillin, sometimes called penicillin, could save countless lives if its production process were mastered ahead of the coming chaos.

Even crude homemade penicillin was called a transmigrator’s divine tool on his homeland’s internet.

But crude extraction yielded modest results—impure and unstable.

Some traditional Chinese medicines could produce similar effects.

For instance, monks at Changzhou’s Tianning Temple in the Ming Dynasty discovered that fermented mustard brine, when timed correctly, had miraculous healing properties.

Though achieved through purely natural fermentation, it could barely be considered primitive antibiotics.

To make penicillin truly potent, far surpassing those complex solutions,

one needed large-scale strain screening and high-standard purification.

Chu Tianshu could write down all the key points, but ordinary town wealthy families or even minor warlords lacked the capacity to achieve this.

Only after Cai Shanjun regained power could his status possibly gather the conditions for large-scale production.

After writing for a while, someone knocked at the door and brought his evening meal.

A large bowl of red rice, two large bowls of potato-braised pork, and a clay pot of bamboo shoot-and-chicken soup.

Chu Tianshu sniffed the aroma, eagerly picked up his chopsticks, and took a big bite of meat—“Ah-wu!”

Then his chewing motion paused slightly.

The potato and pork were stewed soft, just a faint fishy odor, probably due to insufficient spices.

Paired with rice, he ate quickly; without chewing thoroughly, it still tasted delicious.

The chicken hadn’t been stewed long enough—the broth wasn’t thick.

But that was fine; the meat remained tender and chewy, full of fresh flavor.

Chu Tianshu slowed his eating to savor the chicken.

“Sigh, Meng Shuangjiang said he’d treat me to every delicacy in town—I wonder how many I haven’t tried yet.”

Chu Tianshu was even less certain whether he’d ever return to that town.

Forget it—once home, I’ll treat myself to a good meal.

He missed those bold, heavy seasonings.

After finishing, he picked up his pen again and wrote for a while before sleeping.

The next morning, he went to see Cai Shanjun and delivered what he’d written.

Cai Shanjun was drinking tea in the regimental courtyard; seeing him arrive, he gestured for him to sit and took the prescriptions to read.

“Huh?”

Cai Shanjun flipped to the back pages, his expression surprised, “You understand Western medicine?”

The last few large sheets contained dense text, plus diagrams and instructions for instruments.

The vessels’ design clearly followed Western chemical engineering styles.

Yet they seemed even more precise and strict than any Western instruments Cai Shanjun had seen.

“I understand some, but the production process of this medicine was perfected by many great minds.”

Chu Tianshu knew that before penicillin achieved mass production, its value would be hard to grasp, so he spoke with grave seriousness.

“Let me put it this way—this medicine acts faster and more broadly than certain talismans drawn by skilled medical sorcerers!”

Cai Shanjun’s expression shifted.

A sorcerer specializing in medicine could cure countless ailments with a single talisman.

Take the “Relieve Wound Pain” talisman:

Slash wound? Stick it. Gunshot wound? Stick it. Crushed by a rock? Still stick it…

It prevents pus, reduces swelling, stops bleeding—just stick it on.

But sorcerers were rare; medical sorcerers were rarer still.

Spells that harm invisibly were easier to learn and spread; people loved them more than healing spells.

If this medicine truly had talisman-like effects—and could be mass-produced—

“Tianshu.”

Cai Shanjun said earnestly, “When I return to Kunming, will you join the Martial Academy as an instructor? All benefits negotiable—I’ll have people swiftly recruit overseas-trained medical talent.”

“I need you to guide them in producing this medicine!”

Chu Tianshu drank two cups of tea, then picked up the teapot, saying, “That won’t work—I have strict sect rules; I must return home in two days.”

“You’re leaving?”

Master Ma walked over, holding a small wine jar—somehow acquired—his face filled with astonishment.

“So suddenly? We haven’t even reached Kunming yet!”

Chu Tianshu smiled, “It’s a sect secret—hard to explain. Sorry.”

Master Ma placed the jar on the table and opened his mouth.

“...Well, no matter. At your age, you should be traveling more.”

Master Ma paused, then brought up another matter: “But if you’re leaving so soon, what about the secret manual the Grand Commander promised you?”

Chu Tianshu sighed, “If there’s no time, there’s no time.”

But Cai Shanjun said, “There’s time.”

“As long as you’re not leaving today, there’s time—I mentioned this to an old friend in my telegram yesterday.”

Cai Shanjun looked toward the courtyard, “Given his nature, he’s surely racing here day and night.”

“He’ll arrive by noon at the latest.”

Chu Tianshu glanced toward the courtyard, about to speak again, then suddenly turned his head outward.

Master Ma also looked in the same direction.

Even Zhong Jinqiu inside the room stepped out, frowning in curiosity.

All of them sensed an unusual presence rapidly approaching.

Calling it a “presence” wasn’t quite accurate.

They couldn’t describe what it was—only that something, definitely something, was drawing near.

Or perhaps, many things?

Outside, soldiers cried out in surprise.

Thousands upon thousands of white butterflies fluttered through the air, arriving in a swirling dance.

These were no gray moths—they were snow-white butterflies, their translucent wings etched with lace-like patterns.

Cai Shanjun rose and laughed aloud, “Principal Li!”

Amid the fluttering butterflies, a man stepped into the regimental courtyard.

He had thick short hair, white eyebrows and beard, skin weathered by sun, his long robe’s hem tucked into his belt.

First principal of the Yizhou Martial Academy, master of Fengchi Garden, “White-Haired Laozi” Li Genyuan.

“My General Cai, you’ve finally left the comforts of the capital?”

Li Genyuan greeted with a chuckle, then grasped Cai Shanjun’s wrist.

Chu Tianshu and Master Ma both felt a force like a mountain stream flowing from Li Genyuan—

not fierce, not surging, but steady, endless, like a mountain stream.

Vast numbers of butterflies rose and settled on Cai Shanjun’s head, eyebrows, shoulders.

On his upturned palms, wrists, and shoe tops.

No snow today, yet the butterflies turned him into a white-haired man.

Chu Tianshu was astonished to feel Cai Shanjun’s poison being diluted by Li Genyuan’s power and absorbed by the butterflies.

Thus, the rarest herbs in the prescriptions might not even be needed.

The remaining poison in Cai Shanjun’s body could likely be cured with other herbs alone.

“You two must be Brother Ma and Brother Zhong.”

Li Genyuan left Cai Shanjun surrounded by butterflies and walked over.

“I’m older, so I’ll presume and call you both ‘Brother.’”

“And this one—must be Doctor Chu Tianshu.”

Li Genyuan smiled broadly, “I’ve heard all about your affairs. The two finest secret manuals in the Martial Hall ought to be given to Doctor Chu as well—that’s true utilization of resources.”

He handed over two bound books.

“These are copies, but identical in every word to the originals.”

Chu Tianshu took them and opened one—it was a technique manual titled “The Secret Incantations of Zongheng.”

The other didn’t look like a fist technique at all, but more like a personal journal or collection of notes.

“Records of Breaking Into Shaolin.”

Chu Tianshu opened this one first and immediately saw a long passage.

“I had long heard of Shaolin’s reputation and wished to test it. I donned armor, carried a staff, and strapped on my sword as I climbed the mountain.”

After breaking the Eighteen Arhat Formation, the elder monks of each hall appeared, and, out of respect for my age, I was told to remove my armor, lay down my staff, and discard my sword.”

Within two hundred paces, I fought them barehanded and defeated them all at Shaolin.”

The ancestral seat of Chan Buddhism truly boasts exquisite fist arts—but the monks lack sufficient courage and resolve; none here are my match.”

Later, reflecting on their fist techniques, I recorded them in this book, so that future Shaolin disciples, if they lose the knowledge or fail to grasp the essence of the art, may consult this manual and see the Arhats and Vajras before them!”

(End of Chapter)

(End of Chapter)