Chapter 102

Not long after, Zhou Bin left; as he walked away, his back looked desolate. He said he would return to his master's side, then later resume cultivation to calm his restless heart.

I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, but when the words reached my lips I realized I didn't know where to start, so I could only watch him leave like that, silently blessing him in my heart.

This experience could be said to have greatly broadened my horizons. I never imagined that medicine also contained such miraculous methods; the Mixed Ape Great Immortal possessing Zhou Bin could be called an aged wild immortal. If I were to act, I might have to expend some effort, and there's no absolute guarantee I could avoid harming Zhou Bin himself.

However, Pangzi merely used a few tiny silver needles, and that so‑called Mixed Ape Great Immortal was frightened to the point of losing control of its bowels, not daring to take a breath, and hastily left Zhou Bin's body. While it was a narrow escape, it also let me sincerely marvel at the vast and profound Chinese culture from the bottom of my heart.

According to common understanding, medicine among the Five Arts is merely using herbal prescriptions and needle techniques to treat illness and maintain health. Yet who would have thought that this seemingly tangible field possesses an unfathomable intangible power, in no way inferior to the talisman drawing and troop deployment of mountain arts.

Each of the Five Arts possesses the heaven‑defying power to turn white bones into decay; the legacy left by our ancestors is vast and profound. It's not that they are unused, only that we have yet to grasp their essence.

The onlooking crowd gradually dispersed; Pangzi and I tidied up, supported the injured Yao Yirong, the group rested a bit, then prepared to leave the park. But just then, the scene unfolded another highly dramatic episode that left us laughing and crying.

An old grandmother in her sixties, her back bent into a hump, wearing a checkered hemp garment, before we could react, plopped down on her knees before us and tightly grabbed Pangzi's sleeve.

"Oh Great Immortal, please help me, save my poor granddaughter! Please!" she seized Pangzi's collar, pleading while kneeling.

Her action frightened Pangzi and me, and we both hastily knelt down. Ordinary people still hold a reverent heart for elders, and as Daoists we could hardly be exempt. Making an elder kneel before us would shorten our lifespans.

Thus, when the elder knelt before us, Pangzi and I immediately knelt as well, and the three of us engaged in dialogue from this strange yet equal position.

"Great Immortal, I beg you, please save my granddaughter—she's been entangled by those ghostly things until she's neither human nor ghost. I beg you, help us, help us!" the elder clutched Pangzi's collar, sobbing loudly as she pleaded.

Her hands were dry and calloused, covered with a thick layer of corn‑like skin that felt rough to the touch. Besides the torn burlap sack she had set aside, inside it a few plastic bottles could be vaguely seen. It's not hard to guess that this scavenger elder lives in dire poverty and has long been doing hard labor.

We all stood there stunned for a moment, unable to recover, yet the elder misunderstood our silence, thinking we didn't want to get involved, and continued weeping and pleading: "I know you are people of the Dao; please, have mercy, have mercy!"

"Grandma, please rise and speak; we will agree to whatever you say."

Before we could speak, Yao Yirong was the first to reply to the elder. Had it been before, I might have glared at her fiercely, but this time I remained silent. For anyone encountering this poor elder's plea, I think they would not feel inclined to refuse. Unless compelled by circumstance, how could an elder drag her aged body to kneel on the ground and beg desperately?

"Elder, please don't cry; rise and tell us what happened, and we will certainly help if we can." Pangzi's nose also twitched with a sniffle; although the elder hadn't explained clearly what was going on, her desperate plea truly moved our spirits.

Silijing, Yao Yirong, Pangzi, and I joined forces to help the elder onto a nearby bench.

"My granddaughter—when she was born, everyone praised her beauty and cleverness—but who would have thought that five years ago, overnight she went mad?" From the elder's tearful account we finally grasped the general outline of events.

The elder's surname is Zhao; she has a granddaughter to whom she is devoted, and the reason she knelt before Pangzi to plead this time is precisely because of this ill‑fated girl.

Her granddaughter bears a gentle, lovely name—Shishi—but this cute girl, five years ago, encountered some strange occurrences.

According to the elder's recollection, the incident came suddenly. The previous evening, Shishi told her family that she saw the deceased elderly neighbor come to visit her, and that old man even wanted to take her away. At first everyone thought it was childish babble, or perhaps due to her excessive innocence, that she truly had seen the departed neighbor next door. At that time, Grandma Zhao also fetched some pomelo leaves to cleanse her of impurity and washed Shishi with them.

But the next morning, Shishi inexplicably went mad. Yes, a clever, lively little girl suddenly became insane, running about wildly all day, or staying completely silent all day, or performing strange actions.

Seeing this, Shishi's parents and Grandma Zhao grew extremely anxious, even summoning a Daoist to examine her. After the Daoist performed rites, Shishi's body returned to normal and her speech was no longer incoherent. At that point the family's anxiety eased, believing the affliction had been driven away and would not recur.

Yet contrary to everyone's expectations, not long after, Shishi reverted to her former state; when someone was called in to look, she improved briefly, then soon went mad again.

This endless cycle left a five‑year‑old girl vacillating between madness and sanity. Moreover, Shishi's condition nearly exhausted the Zhao family's savings. After all, hiring help requires offering incense money; once or twice is fine, but if it continues year after year, for ordinary people it becomes an unimaginably huge expense.

Furthermore, because of Shishi's illness, her mother could no longer bear having a mad daughter; within two years she remarried elsewhere, leaving only Shishi's father and Grandma Zhao living together.

One must say that Shishi's father and Grandma Zhao are truly great; had they been heartless parents, they would have abandoned the child in some unknown corner to let him self‑destruct. Instead, they not only endure year‑round life with a madman, but also toil everywhere to earn money, hoping to cure the child's illness.

Thus, Shishi's father worked at a construction site by day and waited tables at restaurants by night. From overwork he soon passed away, leaving the pitiful old woman Grandma Zhao to depend on Shishi.

Even though only the elderly Grandma Zhao remained who could care for Shishi, she did not give up. To look after Shishi well and save money for her treatment, the aged grandmother dragged her weary body everywhere seeking work, hoping to feed the child and save any surplus for medical expenses.

But what work can an elderly person do? Who would hire her for business? With no other recourse, Grandma Zhao took a large sack, picking up discarded mineral‑water bottles and paper scraps on the streets by day, and by night pushing a small food cart to sell congee and side dishes on bustling streets, making a living from these two activities.

Sometimes, even in torrential rain, Grandma Zhao still had to drag her rheumatic legs, wear a straw hat, hold a hook, and scour the streets for discarded trash. In scorching heat, this solitary elder risked heatstroke, stooping, enduring strangers' odd glances, lowering her head to run into restaurants to collect leftover beer bottles.

A beer bottle sells for three fen each; a hundred bottles bring three qian. Though a single bottle isn't heavy, a hundred stacked together—while a young person might find it burdensome, for an elder it becomes a weight that even life cannot bear.

Even so, Grandma Zhao is occasionally driven away ruthlessly and indifferently by restaurant owners; even a bottle worth three fen, ordinary people are unwilling to give her charity.

At night, Grandma Zhao would push her congee cart out onto the street in the dead of night to hawk her wares; sometimes she would encounter thugs' abuse. When the urban management officers arrived, she had to drag her frail, aged body along like a wandering ghost, just like the youths.

"My poor son fell ill in bed with a forty‑degree fever, taking only herbal remedies and refusing to go to the hospital for a doctor. He said hospital fees were too high, that he wanted to save money for Shishi's treatment; weakened and strength‑less, he still gritted his teeth and worked at the construction site, until finally he fell from the third floor of the site and died. That heartless boss wouldn't pay us a single cent, even shifting blame by claiming my son wasn't one of his workers..."

As the elder recounted the whole story to us, she also remembered her ill‑fated son, and sorrow welled up; with her dry hands she wiped away several tears.

Not only did she weep, but we observers also wept; Yao Yirong even sobbed quietly, clutching my shoulder and biting down hard.

A solitary elder, in this fiercely competitive society, drags her aged, infirm body through day‑after‑day labor, year after year caring for her mad granddaughter. Though we are not part of this story, we all know it contains hardships we could never imagine. For the sake of her granddaughter, this white‑haired elder, in the final stretch of her life, has discarded all dignity, bowing her head beneath the indifferent, cold gazes of many.