The first light of dawn crept through the paper windows of Chen Wei's modest apothecary, casting long shadows across shelves lined with countless ceramic jars, each bearing careful brushwork labels in his precise calligraphy. The morning mist still clung to the cobblestones of Willow Creek Town's medicine street, but Chen Wei had already been awake for an hour, following the same ritual he had performed every day for the past seven years.
His hands moved with practiced precision as he selected ingredients for the day's preparations. From a high shelf, he retrieved a jade-green jar containing three-year-old wild ginseng roots, their gnarled forms twisted like tiny human figures. Each root had been carefully cleaned and dried according to methods passed down through five generations of his family's medical lineage. The morning's first task would be preparing strengthening tonics for Elder Huang, whose constitution had been weakening with each passing winter.
Chen Wei's workspace occupied the rear half of his shop, separated from the customer area by a carved wooden screen depicting cranes among pine trees. The work surface, worn smooth by years of use, bore the subtle stains and scratches that spoke of countless medicinal preparations. To his left, a bronze mortar and pestle—his grandfather's most prized tool—waited alongside an array of graduated measuring cups made from polished bamboo. To his right, a small brazier glowed with carefully maintained embers, its heat regulated by sliding bronze vents that controlled the airflow with mechanical precision.
He began by examining the ginseng root in the growing daylight, turning it slowly in his palm. The surface should be pale golden, with a subtle honey-like fragrance and firm texture that yielded slightly under gentle pressure. This particular root met all his standards—its six-year growth evident in the number of branching rootlets, its wild harvest confirmed by the natural irregularities that cultivated ginseng never possessed. Satisfied, he placed it on a silk cloth and reached for his cutting knife.
The knife itself was a work of art, forged by the famous blade-smith Liu Tieshan specifically for medicinal use. Its edge was honed to surgical sharpness, capable of slicing ginseng paper-thin without crushing the delicate cellular structure that contained the root's vital essences. Chen Wei held the root steady with his left hand while drawing the blade through it with his right, each slice precisely two millimeters thick, cut against the grain to maximize the surface area for proper extraction.
As he worked, the familiar sounds of Willow Creek Town awakening filtered through his windows. The rhythmic thock-thock of Carpenter Yang splitting wood, the gentle clip-clop of Old Man Zhou's donkey carrying water buckets to the market, and the distant calls of vendors setting up their stalls in the town square. These sounds had become the soundtrack to his morning preparations, as much a part of his routine as the careful measurement of medicinal ingredients.
The sliced ginseng went into a special ceramic vessel designed for slow extraction. Chen Wei added precise amounts of aged rice wine—exactly three and one-half finger-widths, measured using the traditional method his master had taught him. The wine was no ordinary vintage; it had been infused with lingzhi mushrooms for two full seasons, giving it a slightly bitter undertone that would complement the ginseng's natural sweetness while enhancing its qi-strengthening properties.
While the ginseng began its slow infusion, Chen Wei turned his attention to preparing remedies for his other regular patients. From memory, he knew that young Mother Liu would arrive before the morning market opened, seeking medicine for her three-year-old son's persistent cough. The boy had what Chen Wei diagnosed as a "wind-cold" pattern—a condition where external cold had invaded the lung meridian, causing the clear, thin mucus and the particular dry cough that worsened in the early morning hours.
For this, he would need a combination that expelled cold while strengthening the child's naturally weak constitution. He selected a jar of dried tangerine peel, aged for five years until it had achieved the deep amber color that indicated proper maturation. Younger peel would be too harsh for a small child's delicate system, while older peel might be too weak to effectively move the stagnant qi in the lungs.
Next came white mulberry leaf, harvested after the first frost when the plant's energy had consolidated into its leaves. Chen Wei examined each piece carefully, looking for the characteristic pale green color and delicate texture that indicated proper preparation. Leaves that were too dark had been over-dried and would be too heating for a wind-cold pattern, while leaves that were too light had been harvested too early and lacked sufficient potency.
The third component would be chrysanthemum flowers, specifically the small wild variety that grew on the mountainsides surrounding the town. These flowers had a cooling nature that would balance the warming properties of the other ingredients while clearing heat from the upper respiratory tract. Chen Wei kept them in a special wooden box lined with silk, as exposure to moisture would ruin their medicinal properties.
He began grinding the ingredients in a specific sequence, starting with the hardest substances and progressing to the most delicate. The tangerine peel went first into his grandfather's bronze mortar, its aged surface providing the perfect texture for reducing tough plant materials to powder. Chen Wei used a circular grinding motion, applying steady pressure while rotating the pestle in a clockwise direction—a technique that his master claimed helped preserve the ingredient's yang qi.
The sound of grinding filled the quiet shop with a rhythmic whisper, punctuated by the occasional scrape when a particularly stubborn piece of peel resisted pulverization. Chen Wei ground with patience, checking the texture frequently by running a small amount between his fingers. The final consistency should be fine enough to dissolve completely in hot water, but not so fine as to become powder that would cloud the medicinal tea.
As he worked, Chen Wei's mind wandered to the philosophical principles that guided his practice. Traditional medicine taught that all illness arose from imbalance—too much heat or cold, excessive dampness or dryness, stagnant qi or rebellious qi flowing in the wrong direction. The physician's role was not to fight disease with brute force, but to gently guide the body back to its natural state of harmony.
This philosophy extended beyond mere technique into the realm of ethics. Chen Wei had sworn the traditional oath upon completing his apprenticeship: to treat all patients regardless of their station in life, to charge fair prices that did not exploit suffering, and to maintain absolute neutrality in the political conflicts that frequently swept through the martial arts world. In a realm where sect affiliations often determined who received medical care, Chen Wei's shop was known as neutral ground—a place where even blood enemies might find themselves sitting side by side, waiting for treatment.
The morning sun had climbed higher while he worked, and soon Chen Wei heard the familiar shuffle of approaching footsteps. Elder Huang arrived precisely at the same time every morning, his cane tapping against the cobblestones in a rhythm that Chen Wei had learned to recognize from three streets away. The old man suffered from kidney yang deficiency—a condition common among scholars who spent their lives hunched over books in cold libraries, depleting their fundamental fire through excessive mental work and insufficient physical activity.
"Good morning, Elder Huang," Chen Wei called out as he heard the shop's front door creak open. "Your tonic is nearly ready. Please take your usual seat."
Elder Huang's voice carried the tremulous quality that came with advanced age, though his mind remained sharp as ever. "Ah, Chen Wei, always punctual with your preparations. My bones tell me rain is coming—the old injury in my left knee has been aching since before dawn."
Chen Wei nodded knowingly as he strained the ginseng mixture through fine silk cloth, removing every trace of solid matter to leave only the clear amber liquid that contained the root's concentrated essence. "The autumn dampness affects many people with old injuries. I'll prepare some external liniment for your knee after we address your internal deficiency."
The tonic required one final step—the addition of aged honey to bind the ingredients and make the bitter medicine palatable. Chen Wei used honey that had been stored in sealed jars for three years, allowing it to develop the complex flavor profile that enhanced rather than masked the medicinal ingredients. He stirred the mixture with a silver spoon, watching as the honey dissolved completely, leaving no trace of cloudiness that might indicate contamination or poor-quality ingredients.
"Here, Elder," Chen Wei said, presenting the warm tonic in a fine porcelain cup painted with lotus blossoms. "Drink this slowly, allowing each sip to warm your lower dantian. The ginseng will strengthen your kidney yang, while the wine will help circulate the medicine throughout your meridians."
Elder Huang accepted the cup with hands that showed the slight tremor characteristic of his condition. He breathed in the aromatic steam before taking his first careful sip, his expression showing the immediate recognition of quality ingredients properly prepared. "Excellent as always, young Chen. I swear your skill surpasses even your honored grandfather's."
Chen Wei bowed respectfully at the compliment, though privately he knew his abilities still fell short of the master who had trained him. His grandfather had possessed an almost supernatural ability to diagnose conditions simply by observing a patient's complexion and listening to their voice. Chen Wei could perform competent diagnosis and treatment, but he lacked that intuitive leap that separated good physicians from truly great ones.
While Elder Huang finished his tonic, Chen Wei began preparing the knee liniment. This required a completely different set of techniques, as external medicines needed to penetrate through skin and muscle to reach affected joints and meridians. He selected ingredients known for their ability to move stagnant blood and expel wind-damp conditions: dried ginger for its warming yang energy, cinnamon bark to guide other ingredients to the kidney meridian, and most importantly, a small amount of musk—an extremely expensive ingredient that could open blocked channels and restore proper qi circulation.
The musk came from the endangered white deer that lived in the highest mountain peaks, and cost nearly as much as gold by weight. Chen Wei used it sparingly, measuring out exactly three grains—enough to activate the other ingredients without creating excessive heat that might damage delicate tissues. Each grain was perfectly round and deep amber in color, with the penetrating musky scent that had given the ingredient its name.
Chen Wei placed all the ingredients in a special ceramic vessel designed for making external medicines. Unlike the smooth-sided containers used for internal preparations, this vessel had a roughened interior surface that helped break down tough plant materials through friction. He added high-proof grain alcohol as a carrier medium—the alcohol would help the active compounds penetrate through skin while evaporating quickly to avoid leaving a sticky residue.
The grinding process for external medicine differed significantly from internal preparations. Chen Wei used a wooden pestle rather than bronze, as the softer wood would not generate heat that might damage temperature-sensitive compounds. His grinding motion followed a figure-eight pattern rather than circular, creating a shearing action that broke down fibrous materials more effectively than simple crushing.
As he worked, the aromatic compounds filled the shop with their distinctive scents. The sharp bite of fresh ginger, the sweet warmth of cinnamon, and underlying it all, the primal musk that seemed to awaken something deep within the nervous system. Chen Wei had learned to appreciate these fragrances as indicators of quality and proper preparation—a medicine that smelled wrong usually was wrong.
"Young Master Chen," Elder Huang said as he set down his empty cup, "I've been hearing troubling rumors from the capital. They say the Righteous Sword Alliance is mobilizing against the western demonic sects. If war comes to our region, I fear for the safety of neutral establishments like yours."
Chen Wei paused in his grinding, considering the old scholar's words. Political conflicts in the martial arts world had a way of affecting everyone, even those who tried to remain uninvolved. Sects would demand to know where a physician's loyalties lay, and neutrality was often seen as cowardice or, worse, secret allegiance to the enemy.
"I treat illness and injury, not politics," Chen Wei replied diplomatically. "My door remains open to anyone who suffers, regardless of their sect affiliation or personal beliefs. Medicine recognizes only the difference between health and sickness."
Elder Huang nodded approvingly, though concern remained evident in his lined features. "Your principles do you credit, but principles sometimes must bend before practical realities. The young hotheads in these martial sects don't always appreciate subtle distinctions."
Chen Wei finished grinding the liniment ingredients and began the careful process of extraction. He added just enough alcohol to cover the plant materials, then sealed the container and placed it over low heat. The extraction would take exactly one hour, during which time the alcohol would draw out the active compounds while the gentle heat would help break down cellular walls to release trapped medicines.
While the liniment processed, Chen Wei attended to his other morning preparations. From his extensive memory of patient conditions, he knew that Merchant Wang would arrive seeking digestive remedies for the stomach problems that plagued him during his frequent business travels. The man ate rich foods at irregular hours while under constant stress, creating a classic pattern of stomach heat with qi stagnation.
For this condition, Chen Wei prepared his signature digestive formula: aged tangerine peel to move qi, hawthorn berries to reduce food stagnation, and a small amount of rhubarb root to clear heat from the stomach meridian. The key was achieving the proper balance—too much rhubarb would cause loose stools, while too little would fail to clear the accumulation of heat and food stagnation.
The hawthorn berries required special attention, as their potency varied significantly depending on the season of harvest and method of preservation. Chen Wei selected only berries that had been picked at peak ripeness, when their red color was deepest and their natural sugars had fully developed. These berries were then dried using a specific process that involved alternating periods of sun-drying and shade-drying, preserving both their medicinal properties and their pleasant sweet-tart flavor.
He sliced the dried berries with the same precision he applied to all his preparations, each piece uniform in size to ensure even extraction when brewed into tea. The tangerine peel received similar careful attention—Chen Wei examined each piece under the growing morning light, selecting only sections that showed the characteristic oil glands that contained the active compounds responsible for moving stagnant qi.
The rhubarb root was perhaps the most critical ingredient, as its effects could range from mildly laxative to dramatically purgative depending on the dose and method of preparation. Chen Wei used only properly aged rhubarb that had been stored for at least two years after harvesting. Fresh rhubarb was too harsh and could cause severe cramping, while ancient rhubarb lost its effectiveness. The root pieces he selected were golden-brown in color with a distinctive bitter taste that indicated proper maturation.
As he worked, Chen Wei reflected on the complexity of his art. Each ingredient had not only its primary medicinal effects, but also secondary actions that could either enhance or interfere with other components in a formula. A skilled physician had to consider not just what each herb would do individually, but how the combination would behave as an integrated system within the patient's unique constitution.
The morning progressed with its familiar rhythm of preparation and patient care. Mother Liu arrived as expected, her young son clinging to her robes with the listless demeanor that indicated his cough was worsening. Chen Wei examined the child with gentle hands, noting the pale complexion and slightly labored breathing that confirmed his initial diagnosis of wind-cold invasion.
"The cough is worse in the mornings?" Chen Wei asked, though he already knew the answer from his observation of the child's symptoms.
Mother Liu nodded anxiously. "Yes, Master Chen. He wakes coughing and can barely catch his breath. The medicine from the town's other physician hasn't helped at all."
Chen Wei suppressed his irritation at his competitor's probable misdiagnosis. Dr. Zhou was a competent enough practitioner for simple conditions, but his training had been incomplete and he often confused external cold patterns with internal heat patterns, leading to treatments that worsened rather than improved the patient's condition.
"This is a wind-cold pattern affecting the lung meridian," Chen Wei explained patiently. "The previous medicine was probably too cooling in nature, which drove the cold deeper into the system rather than expelling it. My formula will warm the interior while opening the pores to allow the pathogenic cold to escape naturally."
He prepared the child's medicine with extra care, adjusting the proportions to account for the small patient's delicate constitution. Children's digestive systems could not handle the same concentration of bitter herbs that adults tolerated, and their yang qi was naturally weaker, requiring gentler warming techniques.
The chrysanthemum flowers went into the formula whole rather than ground, as the child's stomach might be sensitive to the fine powder. Chen Wei selected the smallest, most tender flowers and examined each one individually, discarding any that showed the slightest sign of mold or insect damage. For a child this young, even minor impurities could cause digestive upset that would interfere with the healing process.
"Brew one small handful in boiling water for exactly seven minutes," Chen Wei instructed as he wrapped the prepared medicine in clean paper. "Let it cool until it's comfortably warm, then give him half a cup three times daily between meals. The taste will be bitter, so you may add a small amount of honey, but no more than one fingerwidth."
Mother Liu paid with copper coins that she counted carefully from a worn cloth pouch, her gratitude evident in her deep bow. "Thank you, Master Chen. Your medicine has never failed us."
Chen Wei accepted the payment with a slight nod, knowing that for this family, the copper coins represented a significant expense. He often wondered if he should charge less for patients of limited means, but his master had taught him that medicine given too cheaply was not valued properly and patients might not follow the treatment protocols carefully.
The morning continued with a steady stream of familiar faces. Blacksmith Zhao arrived seeking salve for burns on his forearms—occupational hazards that Chen Wei treated with a cooling paste made from aloe, honey, and powdered pearl shell. The pearl shell was expensive, but its ability to draw heat from burns while promoting tissue regeneration made it invaluable for craftsmen who worked with fire.
Widow Chen came for her monthly supply of blood-moving herbs to address the abdominal masses that had been growing slowly over the past two years. Her condition was beyond Chen Wei's ability to cure, but his herbal formula helped manage the pain and prevented the masses from growing more rapidly. He prepared her medicine with particular compassion, knowing that each month might be among her last.
Scholar Liu requested his usual brain tonic—a complex formula designed to enhance mental clarity and memory while nourishing the kidney essence that supported intellectual function. The formula contained expensive ingredients like polygala root and dragon bone, but Scholar Liu never complained about the cost, understanding that quality medicines required quality ingredients.
Each patient interaction followed the same careful pattern: observation, questioning, diagnosis, treatment, and instruction. Chen Wei had learned to read the subtle signs that revealed each person's constitutional patterns—the quality of their voice, the color of their complexion, the way they moved and carried themselves. These observations, combined with traditional diagnostic techniques like pulse-taking and tongue examination, allowed him to treat not just symptoms but the underlying imbalances that created disease.
By midday, the liniment for Elder Huang had finished its extraction process. Chen Wei removed the container from heat and allowed it to cool before straining the liquid through fine silk cloth. The resulting liniment was clear amber in color with the penetrating aroma that indicated successful extraction of the active compounds. He tested a small amount on his own wrist, feeling the immediate warming sensation that would help drive out cold and dampness from arthritic joints.
"Elder Huang," Chen Wei called as he bottled the finished liniment in a small ceramic vial. "Your knee medicine is ready. Apply it twice daily, morning and evening, rubbing gently until the skin absorbs all the liquid. You should feel improvement within three days."
The old scholar examined the liniment with interest, inhaling its distinctive scent. "Musk, certainly. Cinnamon and ginger as well. You spare no expense in your preparations, young Chen."
"Quality ingredients produce quality results," Chen Wei replied simply. "Inferior medicines waste both time and money while prolonging suffering unnecessarily."
As the afternoon progressed, Chen Wei found himself with a rare moment of quiet reflection. The lunch hour had brought a natural lull in patient visits, and he used the time to organize his herb inventory and prepare for the evening's more complex preparations. Some medicines required overnight processing, and others needed to be prepared during specific times of day to maximize their potency.
He moved through his shop with the unconscious grace of someone completely at home in his environment. Every jar, every tool, every preparation surface had its specific place and purpose. The organization was not merely aesthetic—it was functional, allowing him to locate any ingredient quickly during emergencies or complex preparations that required precise timing.
The shop itself reflected seven years of careful arrangement and gradual improvement. The front area where patients waited was designed to be calming and reassuring, with soft lighting from paper lanterns and walls painted in soothing earth tones. Scrolls painted with medicinal plants hung between the windows, both decorative and educational for patients interested in learning about their treatments.
The rear workspace was purely functional, organized for efficiency and safety. Ingredients with similar properties were grouped together, with the most commonly used items at easy reach and dangerous substances secured in locked cabinets. A comprehensive library of medical texts occupied one wall, ranging from classical works like the Yellow Emperor's Classic of Internal Medicine to more recent commentaries by respected physicians.
Chen Wei's personal favorite was his master's handwritten treatment manual, filled with case studies and insights gained through forty years of practice. The old physician had recorded not just his successes, but also his failures and the lessons learned from each difficult case. Reading these notes reminded Chen Wei that even masters made mistakes, and that medical practice was a lifelong journey of learning and refinement.
As evening approached, Chen Wei began his final preparations of the day. Tomorrow's first patient would be Captain Ma, a retired military officer whose old war wounds caused chronic pain during changes in weather. The man's condition required a complex formula that took eight hours to prepare properly, so Chen Wei began the process each evening to ensure the medicine would be ready when needed.
Captain Ma's formula combined several different preparation methods in sequence. First, certain herbs needed to be roasted over low heat to enhance their warming properties. Chen Wei used a specially designed bronze pan with tiny holes that allowed even heat distribution while preventing the herbs from burning. The roasting process filled the shop with aromatic smoke that gradually shifted from green and raw to the toasted, nutty scents that indicated proper preparation.
Next came herbs that required wine processing—a technique that used aged rice wine to guide medicines to specific meridian systems while reducing their harsh properties. Chen Wei heated the wine to exactly the temperature where wisps of steam began rising from the surface, then added the designated herbs and stirred continuously with a wooden spoon. The timing was critical; too little processing left the herbs too harsh, while too much processing destroyed their medicinal potency.
The final step involved combining the processed ingredients with raw herbs in precise proportions, then slow-cooking the entire mixture overnight in a special ceramic pot. The pot was designed with a tight-fitting lid and narrow neck that prevented the escape of volatile compounds while allowing excess moisture to evaporate. Chen Wei would check the preparation several times during the night, adjusting the heat and stirring to ensure even extraction.
As he worked, Chen Wei reflected on his decision to follow his family's medical tradition rather than pursuing the martial arts path that attracted so many young men in the region. His grandfather had been a respected physician, his father had continued the tradition, and Chen Wei represented the fourth generation to practice traditional medicine in Willow Creek Town.
The choice had not been easy. As a young man, Chen Wei had been fascinated by the martial artists who occasionally passed through town—their superhuman abilities, their dramatic adventures, and the respect they commanded wherever they went. Several masters had even offered to take him as a student, recognizing his natural intelligence and dedicated temperament.
But ultimately, Chen Wei had chosen the quieter path of healing over the exciting path of warfare. He found deep satisfaction in alleviating suffering, in solving the complex puzzles that each patient presented, and in maintaining the ancient traditions that connected him to thousands of years of medical knowledge.
This choice had shaped his perspective on the political conflicts that frequently erupted in the martial arts world. While sect members fought over territory, resources, and ideological differences, Chen Wei saw only the human cost—the injuries he treated, the families destroyed, and the promising young lives cut short by violence.
His neutrality was not indifference, but rather a conscious philosophical stance. Chen Wei believed that medicine transcended politics, that a physician's duty was to heal rather than judge, and that maintaining neutral ground was essential in a world increasingly divided by sectarian conflicts.
As the sun set behind the mountains surrounding Willow Creek Town, Chen Wei completed his evening preparations and began the familiar ritual of closing his shop. He checked each preparation one final time, ensured that all heating sources were properly regulated, and reviewed his appointment schedule for the following day.
The shop settled into its nighttime quiet, filled with the subtle sounds of slowly simmering medicines and the gentle fragrance of dried herbs. Outside, the town was preparing for evening as well—lanterns flickered to life in windows, the aroma of cooking food drifted from kitchen chimneys, and the streets gradually emptied as families gathered for dinner.
Chen Wei made his way to his living quarters above the shop, carrying a cup of simple tea brewed from jasmine flowers—a mild relaxant that would help him unwind from the day's concentrated work. His rooms were modest but comfortable, furnished with simple wooden furniture and decorated with calligraphy scrolls emphasizing themes of harmony and balance.
As he prepared for sleep, Chen Wei felt the deep satisfaction that came from a day spent in meaningful work. His medicines would help his patients through the night, his preparations for tomorrow were complete, and his small corner of the world remained a place of healing in a troubled time.
He had no way of knowing that this was the last peaceful evening he would spend in Willow Creek Town, or that tomorrow would bring a patient whose treatment would shatter his quiet life forever. In his innocent contentment, Chen Wei could not imagine that his commitment to healing all who needed it would soon make him the most hunted man in the martial arts world.
The gentle autumn breeze stirred the paper windows as Chen Wei fell asleep, surrounded by the comforting presence of his medicines and the quiet confidence that came from seven years of successful practice. Tomorrow would be just another day of healing—or so he believed in the final moments of his peaceful existence.