"Such a beautiful young girl must already have suitors lining up outside the door," the old woman remarked, her voice carrying a sly, knowing lilt as she carefully measured liquid into a porcelain vial. The thick scent of ginseng and dried orange peel wafted through the room. "You might not believe what I'm about to tell you, but I was a beauty too, you know," she added, tilting her head with a toothless grin.
A guttural laugh escaped her—rough and raspy, like an old bell rung too many times. The sound cut through the haze of Xue Tuzi's thoughts, dragging him back into the present. His eyes blinked slowly, settling on her as if seeing her for the first time.
With a crooked, trembling finger, she pointed at the far wall, where an old portrait hung slightly askew between two bunches of drying herbs. "There, see? That's what I looked like."
He followed her gesture. The painting, done in fading watercolors, depicted a small woman with her hair pulled so tightly back that her scalp shone like polished marble. Her cheeks were round with youth, her eyes sharp and narrow, the corners lifted with barely-concealed arrogance. Even in her prime, the slight curve of her back had already begun to form—a quiet foreshadowing of the stoop she bore now.
Xue Tuzi studied the portrait a moment longer, then turned to speak—but she cut him off before he could even draw breath.
"Unfortunately," she said with a dramatic sigh, "no man could ever match my beauty, so I never married. Tragic, really. But you, young lady… surely you have someone?"
Her milky eyes sparkled as she stared at him. In truth, she could barely see—just a faint outline, a blurred shape swimming in the dim shoplight. Faces had become puzzles of light and color, blending like ink dropped in water. But she peered at him with the stubborn conviction of someone who still believed they saw clearly. She didn't need detail, only the idea. And in her mind, Xue Tuzi was pretty enough to be pursued.
Caught off guard, Xue Tuzi's cheeks bloomed a deep, traitorous red at the mention of suitors. The image of Shudu—the man who haunted every corner of his thoughts—flashed unbidden into his mind. That single flicker of pink on his face didn't go unnoticed. The old woman's smirk widened, her eyes gleaming with victorious mischief.
"Aha! I knew it. That glow doesn't lie. Of course someone's already claimed such a delicate flower," she crooned, wagging a bony finger at him. "So tell me—is it a dual cultivation partner? Or a husband?"
Xue Tuzi nearly choked on his own tongue. His throat tightened, and his ears burned hot. Husband?! Cultivation partner?! His relationship with Shudu was… complicated. Undefined. Unspoken. And also somehow involving a half-joking wedding proposal where Shudu offered to be his wife. It was all very… layered.
Tuanzhu, who had poked her large round head out of the qiankun pouch, stared up at him with wide, unblinking judgment.
"N-no, we're not—" he stammered, eyes darting away. "It's not—"
But the old woman wasn't really listening. She nodded sagely, as though reading the inner turmoil written all over his poor, flushed face. Her milky eyes twinkled with smug satisfaction. "Mnnn. Your husband must be eager to have you bear his children."
Xue Tuzi blinked. "Huh?"
She hobbled closer, stroking her chin thoughtfully, her gaze sweeping over him like a butcher surveying meat. "But so skinny," she murmured, before suddenly reaching out to pinch his side. "And flat-chested."
His brows twitched dangerously. His jaw clenched.
Before he could raise a word in protest, she cackled triumphantly. "Lucky for you, I have just the thing!" She yanked open a drawer and pulled out a small, ominously shimmering bottle. "This here is Supreme Ancestor's Extend the Bloodline Essence. Guaranteed results—after intercourse."
She presented the bottle like a sacred relic, her gnarled fingers holding it aloft with a grin that stretched like old parchment.
Xue Tuzi opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Finally, he sighed in resignation, his voice thin. "That's… that's not it."
The old woman's ears perked at that. Her eyes narrowed. She slammed one knobby fist into her open palm with an "Ah-ha!" as if she'd cracked some great mystery. "I see, I see! It's not the soil, it's the tool! His dual cultivation sword has gone blunt, hasn't it?"
Xue Tuzi's soul briefly left his body.
She shook her head in solemn sympathy, clicking her tongue. "Poor thing. Happens to the best of them."
Before he could gather the strength to tell her off—or possibly die—she had already turned back to her drawers, rummaging with the speed of a merchant who'd sniffed fresh prey. "Lucky for you, I have the perfect solution!" she announced, pulling out another bottle, this one filled with suspiciously glowing pills.
"This here's Dragon's Awakening Revival Pill—normally a hundred silver taels, but for you? I'll part with it for fifty. And that's not all!"
Like a magician mid-performance, she dramatically unveiled a growing collection of vials and salves: "Phoenix's Vigor Salve, Black Tiger's Stamina Pill, and Twin Jade Procreation Elixir—so you can have twins, in one go!"
Xue Tuzi stared, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He glanced down at the assortment of remedies now cluttering the counter like the inventory of a very aggressive marriage counselor.
He sighed.
He nodded.
He handed over the money.
By the time he left the shop, he had one measly silver tael left jangling in his pocket. The rest—Xue Laohu's hard-earned silver—had been sacrificed to the enthusiastic apothecary and her libido-enhancing snake oil collection.
As he stepped outside, bag heavy with remedies he would never use, the old woman waved cheerfully from the doorway. "When the little ones are born, don't be a stranger! Come visit Grandma Wu!"
Xue Tuzi groaned, dragging a hand down his face as Tuanzhu let out a tiny squeaky snort from the pouch.
Just as Xue Tuzi was leaving something strange caught his eye—a crooked little stand wedged between a fishmonger's cart and a fruit vendor. The air around the stand was still and unnervingly cold, as if the wind had decided it was too afraid to pass by.
Seated behind it was a woman draped in layers of tattered, mismatched fabrics that looked like they'd once belonged to curtains from three separate dynasties. Her face was caked in a pasty layer of white powder so thick it cracked at the corners of her mouth when she moved. Her lips, once painted a bright crimson, had faded to a patchy pink that clung on for dear life. Sharp, overly drawn eyebrows arched suspiciously high on her forehead, and her long nails—painted a chipping black—tapped impatiently against the table like the ticking of a death clock.
Xue Tuzi's breath caught. Something about her—compelled him to walk forward. She looked up with the air of someone who had seen far too much, her powdered face unmoved.
Xue Tuzi cleared his throat softly, then spoke in a voice full of hesitance and misplaced hope. "There's a man," he began, "whom I wait for. Day and night… Can you tell me… when he will come back to me?"
The woman did not answer. Instead, she extended one long, skeletal hand with the sort of theatrical indifference. "Oh," Xue Tuzi mumbled, startled. He awkwardly fumbled his coin pouch, lips pressed tight as he retrieved his last silver tael—the very final coin spared from Grandma Wu's potion bazaar of shame. Tuanzhu poked her head from the qiankun pouch, watching the scene unfold with the quiet judgment of someone who'd warned him this was a bad idea.
The woman snatched the coin with surprising speed, examined it with her crusty fingers, and slipped it somewhere into the folds of her robes.
She inhaled deeply, dramatically, as if about to summon ancient wisdom from beyond the veil.
"He nears…" she began, her voice suddenly low and mysterious, "like the sun dipping below the horizon… steady… inevitable."
Xue Tuzi's heart leapt. He leaned in, clutching Tuanzhu closer.
"But—" she continued, pausing ominously, "I would avoid doing laundry. If I were you."
Xue Tuzi blinked. "Laundry?"
Before he could clarify, a sharp gust of wind slammed into him out of nowhere. He threw up his sleeve to shield his face, instinctively pulling Tuanzhu close to keep her from being blown away like a tuft of dandelion fluff.
And just like that—when the wind died down—the stall was gone. Completely vanished. No table. No powdered woman. Not even a lipstick stain left behind.
He hurried back toward the mountain, his steps light but swift, the satchel of medicinal pills and elixirs clinking gently at his side. The sun hung high in the sky, blazing down despite the autumn cool breeze. He squinted up at the sun, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Sweat dripped from his brow, tracing slow, glistening paths down the side of his face, pooling in the hollow of his throat and soaking into his collar. The path was steep, and the rocky cliff offered no shade, but still he climbed, dragging his burden behind with determined energy.
"Tuanzhu," he murmured, voice breathless but warm. At the sound of her name, the little Gu worm stirred. She peeked her gelatinous head from the qiankun pouch, blinking sleepily before peering up at him with soft translucence. His cheeks were already flushed—whether from the exertion of the climb or the anticipation that his beloved would arrive today, not even he could say. Perhaps both.
Tuanzhu said nothing, merely blinked and dangled from the pouch, swaying gently with each step he took. As soon as he forgot to speak again, she gave up waiting, letting herself rock quietly until they reached the sect.
Xue Laohu was waiting for him just past the gates, arms crossed and scowl deep enough to crack stone. The scolding came swift and sharp.
"You let the apothecary swindle you?" Xue Laohu barked. "And you spent the last coin on a prophecy from that fraud fortune teller?"
"This disciple begs Shizun for punishment."
"For your punishment," Xue Laohu snapped,, "you'll wash all the bedding from the medical hall. Every sheet. Every blanket."
And so he did.
He knelt beside the washbasins, sleeves rolled high, hair tied back and clinging to the back of his neck with sweat. The sun showed no mercy. It burned down from above like a vengeful god, and soon his tunic clung to him like a second skin, damp with sweat and water. Each sheet he dunked into the basin fought him like a stubborn beast—heavy, tangled, and soaked with the scent of herbs and fever-sweat. He scrubbed until the pads of his fingers wrinkled and raw pink blisters began to rise. Water splashed up onto his face, salty with soap, and rivulets of sweat rolled down from his brow, stinging his eyes.
Beside him, Tuanzhu had taken to chasing bubbles with glee, the faintest puff of mist erupting with each tiny pop. Eventually, worn out from the chase, she nestled herself deep in the warm folds of a laundry basket, her plump little body rising and falling with gentle snores.
Xue Tuzi twisted the bedding tightly between his hands, squeezing out the suds and dirty water. The weight of each blanket left his arms aching. He moved between the rows of laundry lines, balancing on his toes to hang the sheets evenly. The sun dipped lower now and the linens shimmered with lingering wetness as he patted them down carefully. Each one smelled faintly of juniper and wildflower soap. He worked slowly, methodically, until the final sheet was hoisted up and fluttered lazily in the breeze.
He stared at his blistered hands, flexing his fingers with a grimace. "So this is what she meant by 'beware of doing laundry,'" he muttered under his breath.
Still, he smiled. The ache in his muscles was tolerable. The sting in his palms, almost sweet. Somewhere beneath the toil, a pulse of excitement thrummed—his beloved would come today. Surely.
He was smoothing the last heavy blanket over the line, running his palms down the thick fabric, when a shadow fell over it—tall, narrow, unmoving. A breeze stirred, catching the edge of the blanket, and through the pale linen, he saw the outline of a figure. Long black braid. Strong shoulders. Stillness like a blade waiting to strike.
His breath caught.
The blanket fluttered again, and his eyes went wide, heart leaping up into his throat. His feet moved of their own accord, stumbling forward.
"Shushu, I—!" he cried, voice cracking with emotion, eyes brimming.
But before he could finish, before he could reach out, a hand shot through the blanket—long, sharp, and merciless. It pierced through his stomach with surgical precision. The pain was white-hot, blooming like fire.
His mouth fell open, eyes round in disbelief, blood gurgling at the edges of his lips. Behind him, the pristine white blanket slowly bloomed with crimson, the stain spreading outward like a flower unfurling in spring.
Blah Blah Blah:
My first attempt at a cliff hanger. How did I do? Ha Ha.