Chapter 456

Fellow Cultivator 8: Healing the Nation — Deceitful Hilla

Fellow Cultivator 8: Healing the Nation — Deceitful Hilla

Yang Yizhong stared at the large pile of medicinal herbs before him and blinked.

To prevent any potential meddlers from learning the detailed list of medicines used in the palace, he had personally selected two squads of Personal Guards to sweep the city's southern medicine warehouse clean of every herb related to cold disorders, taking fifty taels of each. But when the bundles and packages were actually spread out before him—a man who couldn't even distinguish ephedra from bupleurum, let alone pick out which pile was notopterygium and which was angelica—he still froze for a moment before coming to his senses. And that momentary freeze let the Imperial Father-in-Law Pan, who had been glaring at him all along, spot the flaw.

"I've long heard that Commander Yang is unwaveringly loyal, beyond the reach of ordinary men. This old man has now witnessed it firsthand. But don't forget, Commander—you may take your time here slowly matching herbs against medical texts, but His Majesty's illness cannot afford delay!" The fire in Imperial Father-in-Law Pan's eyes nearly burned into something tangible—he was clearly being suspected of his character and insulted for his professional competence to his face, yet he held back from a full rupture out of fear of the Imperial City Bureau's reputation. Putting himself in the other's shoes, if not for the mention of His Majesty, Yang Yizhong might almost have felt a trace of pity.

But at this moment he only spoke in a flat tone: "In that case, please have Physician Pan confirm. If no herbs are missing, once the Imperial Pharmacy Bureau academician here supervises the weighing of the proper amounts, they can be sent to be decocted according to the prescription."

"—Ginseng, mint, poria, pinellia... all present." Pan Yongshou carefully identified each one, snorted, and forced an admission through clenched teeth. Yang Yizhong relaxed slightly inside, waved his hand, and signaled the waiting Personal Guards to begin sorting the herbs. For a moment, from the trusted commander standing behind him to the blue-clad servants who had blundered into the scene and been ordered not to leave, the entire courtyard full of people who had hardly dared to breathe seemed released from the immobilization spell in *Journey to the West: Subduing Demons Miscellany*. Some hurriedly issued orders, some smiled obsequiously and responded carefully, calling out for counting, moving, and sweeping—immediately busy, or pretending to be busy.

But the Imperial Consort's father, watching the crowd deliberately skirt around the small storm center in the middle of the courtyard, couldn't swallow his anger. "His Majesty is in the prime of life. Catching a seasonal ailment now and then, treated promptly, will surely be no great matter." He turned and swept his eyes up and down Yang Yizhong twice, then gave a cold laugh. "As for Commander Yang, this old man observes that your face is hot and your heart agitated—what a pity that we're missing one ingredient, alum, and one, arisaema. Otherwise, I would certainly prepare a careful dose of Jade Mushroom Pill for Commander Yang. Wouldn't that serve both public and private ends?"

Having said this, Imperial Father-in-Law Pan didn't even wait for Yang Yizhong's reply before flicking his sleeves and leaving.

"Pfft."

Yang Yizhong turned his head and looked at the Imperial Pharmacy Bureau academician not far away, who had been coaxed and strong-armed by the Imperial City Bureau into supervising the herb selection and decoction. Under his gaze, the man immediately shrank his neck like a frightened quail, trying to reduce his presence. Yang Yizhong couldn't help sighing. He didn't need to have memorized the *Materia Medica* or the *Sacred Benevolent Prescriptions* like the other man to understand that Pan Yongshou was cursing him for having phlegm disorder. But he immediately turned back, suppressing his weariness, and continued watching the Personal Guards weigh the herbs, leaving the academician behind—he had long sworn that this time, from selecting the herbs to decocting the finished medicine, not a single step would escape his eyes. How could he bother with such a trivial insult?

"Roasted licorice, thirty taels!"

He had asked about the prescription beforehand and memorized the roles of sovereign, minister, assistant, and envoy within it. Licorice was the envoy among these dozen-odd herbs, harmonizing interior and exterior, and it was sweet.

And that person... should also like sweets. Just after coming out of the well, he had been thinking of ice cream. But back then, when Lady Pan had made it herself, in the end he hadn't touched a single bite—he had given all the sweets the beauty had painstakingly made to the soldiers of the Red Heart Company. As far as Yang Yizhong knew, when the current Red Heart Company gathered privately to drink, and the talk reached its height, with men ranking themselves by seniority and boasting of their merits, there was always one or two old-timers who would jump up, bragging about having tasted a personal reward from the palace noble, and praising the flavor of the ice cream to the skies. But years of tacit understanding as colleagues let him know full well that Liu Yan, who in the Imperial City Bureau reports never said a word and only handled the bill, was just like him—neither of them ever wanted to hear the word "ice cream" again in this life.

The court, battered by wind and rain, had fled south in disgrace, with the Jin in hot pursuit. The "amnesiac" Son of Heaven had shared out snacks and spent the night in the Red Heart Company's camp to show he shared hardships with the men, which instead stirred up treacherous thoughts in ignorant fools. Suppressing rebellion, offering reassurance, anxiety over personal fate, fear that the collapsing heavens could not be saved. That night, in the eyes of those who truly understood the big picture, the taste was truly hard to describe.

That night, Yang Yizhong, separated by the tent curtain, made up his mind.

"Ligusticum, thirty taels! Peeled poria, and ginseng with rootlets removed, thirty taels each!"

Three assistant herbs: ligusticum moves blood, poria dispels dampness, ginseng reverses the current and rescues the boat, securing the foundation and aiding the vital energy.

In the boat crossing the Huai River through snow, that person's words had made the young Censor-in-Chief weep. Yang Yizhong stared blankly at the other's figure, feeling as if the strange patterned metal disc hidden against his body had been heated red-hot by those words, faintly resonating with the surging hot blood in his heart. The moment the little boat left the shore, he understood—even though he had never believed in strange forces and spirits, that autumn a miracle had truly been born from a well, opening its eyes before him.

Later, the world said that his old superior Zhang Jun, Zhang Boying, loved wealth and was skilled at gambling, staking a single city of Xiacaicheng to win a lifetime of riches, honor, and merit. But only Yang Yizhong knew that he had observed, suspected, and hesitated—yet as early as at Mingdao Palace, he had wagered the nearly two hundred years of national fortune of the Zhao Song on Heaven's will, with a single thought of four characters.

Fortunately, Heaven's will had not betrayed him.

"Bupleurum with sprouts removed, peucedanum, platycodon, and bitter orange, thirty taels each!"

Four minister herbs, aiding the release of the exterior and regulating the lungs, moving the stagnant qi in the chest.

The Battle of Yaoshan shocked the world. At that time, his fresh wounds had just healed, and he accompanied that person in sending stacks of white paper with written names in a steady stream to the newly built shrine on the rear mountain. It was a dull, repetitive task, and before long he became as familiar with that shrine as with the imperial tent. As the casualty roster of the Imperial Guard was constantly updated, the names that person had to copy grew ever more numerous, and he took on the task of carrying the Personal Guards back and forth between the tent and the shrine halfway up the mountain. When the local laborers and craftsmen spread the news that the Son of Heaven had personally written the spirit tablets, nearby families and commoners of the Western Army came in twos and threes to pay their respects in advance. As long as they didn't head toward the imperial tent, that person didn't let them stop them. Later, more and more Western Army officers and men came to pay homage, and even Qu Duan used the pretext of reporting military intelligence to make a circuit—according to the Personal Guards present, the greatly meritorious Commander Qu entered the shrine, uncharacteristically silent, only squinting as he searched for familiar names, staying inside for a full half-hour.

One day, he had just delivered a new stack of name rosters. Because this roster included Personal Guards under his command who had fallen in battle, he lingered a while longer, wanting to calculate from the craftsmen's carving progress where these spirit tablets would be placed. After he roughly estimated the positions, thinking there was nothing pressing at the imperial tent, he struck up a conversation with an old craftsman who had just changed shifts.

From the conversation he learned that the craftsman was from Xihe Circuit. He had three sons and five grandsons at home. His eldest son and two grandsons had died in the king's service in earlier years. In the Battle of Yaoshan, his second son had been conscripted as a laborer, his third son had followed Grand Coordinator Liu, and he himself had become a soldier-craftsman. Only his old wife and a few daughters-in-law remained at home to care for three young grandsons.

The old craftsman's eyes were failing with age, and he couldn't make out the fine armor Yang Yizhong wore, nor did he recognize his rank. He only found the deliberately adopted Linzhou accent somewhat warm and familiar, and assumed he was also a young Western Army man who had come to pay respects to fallen comrades. He chattered on for a long time, telling of the Jin's ferocity in years past, worrying about his old wife and young grandsons at home, and finally asked him to inquire about his third son—there were rumors that Grand Coordinator Liu's army had been routed, and he was terrified, worrying day and night for his third son.

He knew that Liu Xi's shattered Xihe Circuit army was resting nearby. If there was still no news by now, the old craftsman's son was most likely doomed. But facing the other's hopeful eyes, he was momentarily at a loss and couldn't think how to speak.

The old craftsman, hearing him silent for so long, squinted to read his expression, then sighed. Instead, he forced an ugly smile at him. "Young man, I've asked many people these past days. Deep down, I roughly know how things stand. Don't trouble yourself making up stories to comfort this old man. If my son... if my son is truly gone, then every day I carve these tablets carefully, I am carving my son. I want to tell him—that was the name written by His Majesty's own hand. His Majesty hasn't forgotten him."

His heart shook. He looked up at the spirit tablets surrounding the courtyard, and in a daze thought of his own grandfather and father, whose names he had written himself to summon their souls for joint burial. He was lost in thought when he heard the craftsman, turning sideways, muttering to the spirit tablet behind Hou Dan's statue. "In years past, we could never win. As soon as His Majesty came, we won. Son, rest easy. This time, the true dragon Son of Heaven has finally led us to beat back the Jin. This old man heard the army scholar say that from now on, there will be peaceful years..."

He couldn't bear to listen further. Using the excuse that he would miss the time to return to camp, he hastily clasped his fists, turned, and walked out of the shrine. But as soon as he stepped out, he found that person standing silently outside, not knowing how long he had been listening outside the shrine.

He quickly apologized. That person casually waved his hand, telling him to rise, but looked at him for a long time without speaking. Finally, he only said, "Zhengfu, this shrine enshrines the spirit tablets of those who fell in this Battle of Yaoshan. As for those who died for the nation since the Jingkang Incident—scholars like Li Ruoshui, your father and grandfather, and the countless common people who sacrificed—I have long intended to hold a great memorial ceremony in Dongjing in the future."

His heart ached. He bowed low, but felt a release in his chest, knowing that person had guessed what he had been thinking earlier. With Wanyan Loushi's head taken this time, if his grandfather had a spirit in heaven, he could close his eyes in peace. And the Battle of Yaoshan had turned from offense to stalemate—just as that craftsman had said, in the future, this land his father and grandfather had guarded would have peaceful years.

His bow was sincere.

"Notopterygium, thirty taels! Angelica, thirty taels!"

Two sovereign herbs, dispelling wind and cold, supporting the upright and expelling the evil.

In the years at Bianliang, he watched the thickening smoke of human habitation in Dongjing City, thought of the newly recovered Han homeland of Xingqing Prefecture, led the Imperial City Bureau in confiscating property and arresting people without restraint, dared to meet the eyes of the Chief of the Imperial Clan at court, and considered himself utterly without shame before the Zhao Song's rivers and mountains. Only once, in the fifth year of Jianyan, did he lower his head, showing exceptional deference before the newly returned Empress Dowager at Baima Ferry, allowing a wisp of pity as thin as morning mist to pass through his heart, yet unable to stop himself from mocking his own hypocrisy.

Because when it came down to it, whether the one standing before him, holding his hands and asking, was the noble Empress Dowager or an earnest mother, he didn't truly care.

And that person was the same.

Earlier, when that person had instructed him to go and welcome the Empress Dowager, his tone was candid, his expression calm, and his voice carried not a trace of the self-awareness or guilt of a demon who had seized a body.

And when he returned that afternoon, he dismissed everyone, reporting in detail the Empress Dowager's appearance and clothing. Finally, the selfishness that should have remained in the night got the better of him. He looked up at that person, wanting to confirm whether, before the coming test, his co-conspirator was prepared.

That person looked back at him, his expression as usual, and gently said to Yang Yizhong, "You've worked hard," just like any other day. Then he waved his hand, dismissing him. In the daylight of the great hall, that person and the red robe and gold belt seemed to merge into one, like a born emperor.

But the next day, at Baima Ferry, he drew a blade from Yang Yizhong's waist, cut the emperor's robe, declared words that shocked the world, swore an irreconcilable break with the old Song's era of abundance and ease, and in his impassioned speech, his concern for the millions of people on both sides of the Yellow River was so undignified that he seemed utterly unlike a Son of Heaven who should rule together with scholar-officials.

The innocent noblewomen of the imperial clan who had been taken—that person didn't care. The blood relative Empress Dowager of this body had just returned—that person gave her no face. From Zhang Rong of Liangshanpo entering the list of entrusted ministers to a maidservant in Dongjing City becoming a case used to attack the Chancellor and him, fact after fact had long proven that his focus was utterly different from the world's. Since the autumn of the first year of Jianyan, Yang Yizhong had cast some of the sages' words behind him. And since the original learning had been passed down, he had even begun to doubt whether any of the great Confucians of past dynasties had truly understood the Great Way. But when that person held the great sacrifice at Yuetai, Yang Yizhong's eyes looked upon countless named and nameless spirit tablets, and he recalled the courtyard of the Yaoshan shrine.

Heaven hears as my people hear; Heaven sees as my people see.

The sages were born with knowledge. Could they know whether beneath the twelve-tasseled crown was a demon, or...

But after all, there was no sage in this age. Minister Lu didn't seem about to become a sage on the spot—even if he did, the inside knowledge he had wouldn't necessarily be more than Yang Yizhong's. That person bled when his finger was cut, needed food when hungry—so what constrained him should still be the laws of the human world.

So he found the newly revised criminal statutes and, through various connections, collected many collections of strange tales like *Records of the Ten Continents* and *Youyang Miscellany*. Late at night, listening to that person's breathing, he tallied the sentences in the criminal code for the demon hiding in the emperor's shell and for those who knew but did not report.

Sorcery, bewitchment, regicide, treason... the principal and accomplices would likely face more than execution or exile three thousand li.

He had always kept these thoughts buried deep, refusing to let bizarre fantasies and fears invade his daylight. But circumstances pressed before his eyes. In the palace, the Son of Heaven, unconscious, had just taken sovereign herbs, claiming to support the upright and expel the evil.

So, which was upright, and which was evil?

Who... was worthy to be ruler?

And among the sovereign herbs was precisely angelica—he lowered his eyes slightly, unwilling to keep staring at the light brown root on the scale that, by its very name, made his heart restless, yet not daring to truly let it leave his sight.

If only one person lives, who should live?

He knew his own heart.

The long process of selecting and weighing the herbs finally ended. The Imperial Pharmacy Bureau academician had already turned and, escorted by a Personal Guard, headed toward the decoction room. Yang Yizhong nodded to the other Personal Guards before him, who were holding the weighed herbs and waiting for his instructions, signaling them to follow. He also stood up, but before heading to the decoction chamber, he gave a low, stern order to one of the two trusted commanders who were also waiting for his command.

"Keep a close watch on the Pan clan. If there's any unusual movement, report to me immediately."

That commander respectfully acknowledged the order and left to carry it out.

But he certainly knew the other's true thoughts—if this were an ordinary household, with the young master's illness not yet cured, and his trusted attendants having mortally offended the physician who came to treat him, then relatives and friends would surely step forward, offering flattering words without cost to smooth things over. Moreover, the physician was also the convenient father-in-law. Though the young master's attendants served him day and night, how could they compare to the soft warmth of the bedmate?

The other trusted commander, whom he had sent out two days ago to investigate but who had returned empty-handed, had already advised him without concealment: "Commander, your loyalty in serving the sovereign, forgetting yourself for the nation, moves your subordinate. But after all, the distant cannot come between the close. And Physician Pan is the Imperial Consort's own father. Your Majesty's favor toward you is unmatched. But this is just my humble opinion—no matter how deep the imperial favor, if you offend the noble ladies of the palace, over the long years, by the bedside..."

He still remembered that man looking at his expressionless face, stammering, the words accusing the sovereign gradually fading until finally, panicked and reckless: "This subordinate spoke rashly. Your Majesty is wise and resolute, surely it will not come to this. This subordinate is muddled, but my utter loyalty to Your Majesty and the Commander may be witnessed by Heaven..."

He kept a stern face and berated the man for a quarter of an hour, lecturing him on the great principles of ruler and subject, and only then spoke a few soothing words to placate his most trusted commander. Turning back, he let out a bitter laugh in his heart. Thinking again of those two words, "by the pillow," he felt an indescribable absurdity. For a moment, he did not know whether to be glad that his true relationship with that man was so well concealed from the entire Imperial Guard, or to be utterly despairing of his most trusted subordinate's judgment.

However, with that precedent before them, no one ever again tried to persuade him to change his mind. The Imperial Guard, from top to bottom, only offered words of admiration and praise to his face—Commander Yang was unwaveringly loyal, unafraid of imperial relatives and powerful nobles, sacrificing himself for the state, a model for them all. When the news spread, even Li Guang and Ma Shen, who usually regarded him as a mere hawk or hound, cast more complicated glances his way these past few days—though the censors' memorials demanding his execution for the Imperial Guard's harassment of the people had not decreased by a single one; on the contrary, they were submitted even more urgently.

He understood. This was all the proper duty of loyal ministers serving the state.

In later operas, that man would surely be a wise and martial sovereign, while the grand councilors and censors in the Golden Throne Hall would each be loyal ministers born to serve their age. Han Yue, Li, and Zhang would ride the wind and clouds with their lord, while he, the treacherous sycophant, would inevitably have someone paint his face white and play him out in detail.

Beneath the stage, the common rogues would surely toss out a few curses and laughs, the Neo-Confucians would not spare a few sighs, lamenting that Yang Yizhong's unworthy descendants had disgraced the ancestral name of the old Duke Yang.

He understood it all.

He had once cared.

He had even been jealous.

Yue Fei, Yue Pengju. At first, he had entertained an utterly absurd suspicion, but quickly realized his guess could not be true. Yet that man trusted this common farmer from Hebei to an extraordinary degree. After falling into the well, the first person he asked about was him. At Yanling Changshe, he had staked his very life and fortune on him. Later, Yang Yizhong, using the occasion of the "Utmost Loyalty to Serve the State" banner, carefully observed Yue Pengju, deliberately seeking closeness with this general who enjoyed the highest imperial favor. And the other reciprocated, actively bringing up their joint campaign to suppress Li Cheng, clearly also interested in befriending him, the Son of Heaven's close minister. Though after just a few sentences, he understood that this man was by nature serious and upright, by no means a smooth-talking flatterer, he still felt a measure of inexplicable disappointment and resentment.

Later, the Imperial Guard reports on his desk piled higher and higher. Military Governor Yue's reputation for army discipline spread ever wider. The sovereign's trust in this man grew deeper and deeper. After the destruction of Xia, he was almost ready to sincerely concede. But last year, after the Son of Heaven's tour of the river, he heard the attending Liu Yan rarely speak of the experience in just a few sentences, and also brought a personal letter from Zhang Jun. Piecing together the truth from Liu Yan's troubled expression and his old superior's veiled complaints in the letter, on the third day after receiving the letter, he could no longer restrain himself. He again violated the rule he had set for himself, advising that man to think twice on a night when politics should never be mentioned, even preparing himself to be asked again, "Do you want to be a virtuous minister?"

But beyond reason and yet within his vague expectations, that man paid no attention at all. He didn't even notice that what Yang Yizhong brought up this time was any different, treating it like their usual casual chat. His tone was matter-of-fact. Speaking of Yue Pengju and his army was like a child showing off a beloved toy. When he finished, there was even a hint of embarrassment, and he instead asked Yang Yizhong what he thought an ideal army should be like.

"Orders are obeyed, actions are forbidden; every attack is victorious." He hesitated for a moment, inwardly despising his own scheming in deliberately baiting the other for a response by exploiting his understanding of that man, yet he gave an answer so conventional it was boring.

As expected, that man indeed laughed.

It wasn't mockery, nor was there any malice, but it did carry a hint of an almost imperceptible arrogance that only someone extremely familiar with this sovereign would notice.

Laughing at him, laughing at them, laughing at this world.

And this kind of laugh, he recognized.

In fact, all the close ministers around the Son of Heaven recognized it, but they tacitly agreed never to mention it to outsiders. Once, when this smile appeared, he deliberately watched Zhang Jun, the Privy Councilor, and Lü Haowen, the Grand Councilor, and indeed detected subtle changes in their body language.

He withdrew his gaze, confirming that everyone was in the know.

And Minister Lin, who was present, later exchanged a glance with him—a glance that even carried a trace of sympathy.

To this day, he was unwilling to ponder the meaning of that sympathy, nor did he know how much of that man's origins the former Academician, widely regarded as meticulous and most attuned to the emperor's intentions, had guessed, or how much of the relationship between him and that man he had figured out. But the other never brought it up. On the rare occasions of official interaction, it was always with the distant courtesy typical of civil officials. Anyway, since the other's visiting card never included a biography of Han Yan or Han Zigao, and his holiday gifts were only ordinary brushes, ink, and books, he could deceive himself and pretend not to know.

He had just pulled his thoughts back when he heard the other's laughter stop, and then he spoke.

"No, Zhengfu. 'Orders are obeyed, actions are forbidden; every attack is victorious' is good, but it's not enough. The army in my heart—its soldiers come from no distinction of military households or commoners; they are all sons of the people. They would freeze to death rather than tear down a house, starve to death rather than loot. They know why they fight. They raise their spears to cut down the injustices of the world, not for one family or one surname. Thus, they rescue the people from hanging upside down, and overthrow tyrants like Jie and Zhou—"

"And wherever the banners go, the people welcome the king's army with food in baskets and drink in jars." He imagined the appearance of such an army, softly finishing the Son of Heaven's final words.

That man laughed again, this time genuinely. He nodded, his eyes shining with light, with recollection, with nostalgia, with approval, with hope, with the light of a kindred spirit—that was probably the light of a paradise above the thirty-three heavens, the light that made him lean in without regard for himself. Then he turned his head, looked seriously at Yang Yizhong, and told him that Yue Pengju and his Yue Family Army were the closest... the closest to what he wished for.

Yang Yizhong confirmed once again that he would never understand him and Yue Pengju. But he no longer felt jealous.

Because Military Governor Yue would never understand that side of Zhao Jiu the man. Grand Commandant Yue could see the wise sovereign who had recognized his talent, could build the king's army in the Son of Heaven's heart. If Yue Pengju were a little more presumptuous, he might dare to claim he shared the same heart and virtue, the same path and purpose, with the Son of Heaven. But those secrets belonging to the man, to Zhao Jiu, only Yang Yizhong could see.

That man swallowed a word, and the way he couldn't be bothered to hide his revision in front of Yang Yizhong—only he could see that.

He looked at the Imperial Guard attendants carrying the medicinal herbs, who were already a few steps away, and then spoke flatly to his sole remaining most trusted subordinate:

"And, keep a close watch on Ningde Palace and... Chengping Palace."

Hearing this, the subordinate jerked his head up, his eyes looking over in disbelief. But Yang Yizhong, expressionless like last time, stared at him for a few breaths. That man swallowed, but in the end did not argue. He clasped his hands in a salute and then quietly departed.

They didn't understand that he had no capital left for taking risks. They didn't know that he had gambled once and already spent his entire life's luck, along with two hundred years of the Zhao Song dynasty's fortune.

In the previous game of victory and defeat, Heaven's will had not failed him. But Yang Yizhong had the self-awareness that even the protagonist of an opera, a legend in the history books, could not be so favored by Heaven as to stake the world on a second gamble and still win.

Back then, a bound rebel from the Red Heart Corps knelt to one side, his face under the firelight a mixture of fear and defiance. When asked the reason for his rebellion, he still forced a loud self-defense, bitterly claiming that rise and fall were all fate, that the Zhao Song's national fortune was exhausted. That time, he absolutely refused to believe it. So, with the four words "national enmity, family hatred" in his mind, he took a gamble.

Two days ago, the physician he had consulted about the illness, having withheld specific details and only asked about prescriptions, saw how terrible his complexion was and actually advised him that life and death were matters of fate, and human strength might have its limits. As soon as the words left the physician's mouth, the Imperial Guard attendant following him nearly drew his sword. Yang Yizhong, instead, smiled faintly, waved his hand behind his back, and turned to leave. This time, he was even more unwilling to believe it, but another four words were stabbed into his heart: he could not afford to gamble.

He quickened his pace, catching up with the Imperial Guard attendant carrying the medicine. He watched the processed branches, stems, and roots fall into a clean earthen pot, the clear water poured in, the decoction bubbling with fine foam and steam. He let the steam and the scent of the medicine seep into his hair, sleeves, and collar with the passage of time marked by the water clock. He watched unblinkingly, every step of that brown-black medicinal decoction from leaving the pot to being stored in a jar, and then he took up a silver spoon.

That day, he tried to suppress the drowsiness brought on by the medicine, piecing things together in a half-dreaming, half-waking state, struggling to sketch out the prototype of a demon in his mind, but he simply could not do it.

He only saw light, and Zhao Jiu's smiling eyes.

That man was arrogant and willful, sometimes unreasonable, his temper growing by the day. He believed in many strange and peculiar rules. During the day, he never hesitated to order Yang Yizhong about. At night, he did not tell him his origins.

"Commander, Minister Lin left the residence half an hour ago."

Yang Yizhong once again put down the silver spoon and medicine jar in his hand, and blinked.

"Saddle the horse. To the Western Bureau, Grand Councilor Zhang's residence."

That man was unique, matchless in the world.

(The End)

Note:

The cold remedy formula used in the story is the Ginseng Antitoxic Powder formula, sourced from Volume Two of the "Prescriptions of the Peaceful Benevolent Dispensary" compiled by the Song Imperial Medical Bureau.

The original text is as follows:

Ginseng Antitoxic Powder: Treats seasonal colds, headache and stiff neck, high fever and aversion to cold, body aches and pains, as well as cold-induced congestion and cough, nasal congestion and heavy voice, wind-phlegm headache, nausea and fever, all are treated.

Bupleurum (root removed), Licorice (honey-roasted), Platycodon, Ginseng (root removed), Chuanxiong, Poria (skin removed), Bitter Orange (pulp removed, stir-fried with bran), Peucedanum (root removed, washed), Notopterygium (root removed), Angelica (root removed).

The above ten ingredients, thirty liang each, ground into coarse powder. Each dose: two qian, one cup of water, add a small amount of fresh ginger and mint, decoct together until seven-tenths remain, strain, take regardless of time. For more cold, take hot; for more heat, take warm.

The Jade Mushroom Pill comes from Volume Four of the same book.

Ginseng Antitoxic Powder is still used today and should be considered a classic cold remedy formula. See "Clinical New Uses of Ancient Chinese Medical Texts—Essentials of the Prescriptions of the Peaceful Benevolent Dispensary" (Guizhou Science and Technology Press, 2007).