Chapter 226: Eighteen Generations of Ancestral Tradition

When going to the Yu family to collect money, a small hiccup occurred. The Yu family suspected Tianlaomiao was extorting them—they'd already taken two thousand taels and now wanted another one thousand five hundred. Was this robbery?

Even a wealthy household couldn't withstand such extortion.

Only when Chen Guanlou reluctantly revealed that he would release Yu Zhaoan to kill someone did the Yu family immediately pay. The power of those words was immense—it seemed the Yu family feared Yu Zhaoan's release so much that they never questioned the truth of the claim. Had they made an irreconcilable enemy?

Chen Guanxin took the money, dazed, and returned to Tianlaomiao.

His mind felt like porridge—he couldn't fathom why a single sentence could hold such weight, worth one thousand five hundred taels.

"Why?" he asked Chen Guanlou.

Chen Guanlou chuckled. "Given Yu Zhaoan's background, if the Yu family had properly bribed the right people, even in the Imperial Prison, he'd suffer—but his legs wouldn't be cut off. The waters here run deep. Don't dig further."

"Chen Tou, are you saying someone from the Yu family wants Yu Zhaoan crippled?" Chen Guanxin wasn't stupid—he'd been educated and was a Chen, so he had some insight.

"It's not that they want him crippled—it's that they want him dead."

Chen Guanxin froze. He couldn't understand. "What grudge? They're both YUs! It can't be that serious. If Yu Zhaoan rises again, the Yu family benefits. Why kill him?"

"Yu Zhaoan's mouth has offended countless people since childhood. There are surely more than one or two who want him dead. Enough. This isn't our concern. Since we've got the money, tell the physician to use the best medicine possible—do everything you can to heal his legs."

"Why are you so kind to Yu Zhaoan? His legs weren't injured by Tianlaomiao." Chen Guanxin couldn't make sense of it.

Chen Guanlou glared at him. "What are you standing there for? Go now."

The physician took the money and used his ancestral formula to treat Yu Zhaoan's wounds, adding reassurance: "Lord Yu, rest assured—your injury will heal. You're a martial cultivator; once the wounds close and your legs recover, you'll walk normally again."

"Can I restore my third-rank strength?" Yu Zhaoan asked anxiously.

The physician stroked his beard and estimated. "Be patient. It should be fine."

Yu Zhaoan immediately relaxed. "Thank you, Physician Mu."

"No need for thanks. I'm just doing my job. Your family pays well—I naturally give my best."

Yu Zhaoan smiled faintly, his eyes turning cold—but he said nothing in rebuttal.

After applying medicine and bandaging, the physician warned: "Don't move or strain. I'll return tomorrow to change the dressings. Take the prescription three times daily. With your physique, you'll recover quickly."

"Thank you!"

The physician packed his medicine case and rose to leave.

Chen Guanlou locked the cell door. "Lord Yu, if you need anything, just call out. The kitchen will handle your decoctions properly."

"Thank you, Chen Tou."

"Don't mention it!"

"Chen Tou truly is a kind-hearted man," Yu Zhaoan suddenly said.

Chen Guanlou, ever opportunistic, climbed higher. "I've always hated seeing others suffer. If I can help, I do. I hope Lord Yu recovers soon and leaves. When you rise again, don't hold a grudge against us."

"Chen Tou jests. In the past, I failed to recognize true kindness, and this misfortune has opened my eyes. If I ever rise again, I will repay you in some measure."

"Just give some silver. No need for special repayment," Chen Guanlou said with a grin.

But Yu Zhaoan grew unusually serious. "Fine. If Chen Tou likes silver, I'll give you silver."

Chen Guanlou waved it off, treating it as idle chatter—who actually expected payment?

He wasn't short on silver now, but his expenses were high: daily wine and meat, occasional visits to brothels, the occasional small estate, and constant purchases of medicine to maintain his body.

The poor scholar, the rich martialist.

Even with the Longevity Dao Fruit and the Ascension Scripture, he still needed supplements—he couldn't skimp on food. Strengthening the body required both medicine and dietary nourishment.

The only pity was that the God of Wealth, Liu Daowen, had "died." If he were still in Tianlaomiao, he'd have made several more side profits. Dead corrupt official—died too easily.

The physician hadn't boasted—his ancestral formula worked wonders. In just half a month, the bowl-sized wound had begun sprouting granulation tissue. No inflammation or pus had appeared.

In Tianlaomiao's vile conditions, it was a miracle.

No wonder it was a secret formula.

The physician was proud. "As long as the wound doesn't fester, the legs are saved. Once healed, continued medication will restore them fully."

Yu Zhaoan smiled for the first time since returning to Tianlaomiao.

"But scars will remain. Please prepare yourself mentally."

"No matter. As long as I keep my legs, a few scars mean nothing."

"Don't worry, Lord Yu—I have excellent scar-removal ointment. If you need it later, just say the word. I'll give you cost price."

Yu Zhaoan: …

Chen Guanlou: …

"Old Mu, what did your ancestors do? How do you have medicine for everything? Your secret ointment alone—sell it outside, and you'd be rich."

"Hehe… ancestral. All ancestral. My family has been physicians for eighteen generations." The physician preened.

Chen Guanlou clicked his tongue. "Just give me two tonic formulas."

Physician Mu stared at him. "Tonic for the body—or tonic for the kidneys?"

"Is there a difference?"

"Big difference. Chen Tou, don't think youth lets you run wild in the brothels. Still, it's good you care for your health. Let me examine your pulse today—for free."

"Pulse diagnosis?"

Chen Guanlou hesitated—would pulse diagnosis reveal his body's secrets?

But he still wanted to try. Who knew when he'd face a similar situation again?

"Come, come. Let's go to the duty room. Diagnose my pulse and write me a tonic formula. I won't shortchange you."

He slung an arm around the physician's shoulder, the two of them like brothers, entering the duty room.

Chen Guanlou cleared everyone out, shut the door, and sealed off a private space.

He poured tea, flattered, and elevated the physician until he floated on air. Then he sat, extended his wrist. "Diagnose me. I haven't visited a clinic in years. I've trained hard—don't know if I've damaged my body."

"You still practice martial arts?"

"Of course. As a Tianlaomiao jailer, I must toughen my sinews and bones. I don't want to be crippled by pain at thirty or forty."

Tianlaomiao's environment was dark and damp—long exposure inevitably caused illness. Hence, jailers were mostly young and strong. Older ones usually switched to lighter duties: guarding gates, warehouses, running errands—less pay, but safer for the body.

The physician understood. He placed his fingers on Chen Guanlou's wrist, squinted slightly, and began pulse diagnosis.

Chen Guanlou watched his expression closely—no frowning, no shock, no look of seeing a ghost.

When the physician finished, he asked eagerly: "How is it?"