Mu Qingyue leafed through the ancient medical texts, her brows knitting as she compared formulas and ingredient lists. The deeper she searched, the clearer it became—and the more dissatisfied she felt.
"The herbs needed to make Qingrong Ointment…" she said slowly, a faint crease forming between her brows, "don't seem to be in the medicine hall."
Xiaosu floated to her side at once, expression unusually serious for such a chubby little spirit. "Silverfrost Fruit is difficult to preserve," it explained. "Its storage conditions are extremely strict. Before we encountered you, the Celestial Physician Space remained sealed for a long time, so certain rare ingredients—especially the more delicate ones—couldn't be retained."
Mu Qingyue's gaze sharpened. "Then where can I find it?"
"If Master wishes to harvest Silverfrost Fruit," Xiaosu replied promptly, sounding as confident as a living encyclopedia, "you can go to a mountain range in the northwest called Jiangqi. These next two months are precisely its fruiting season. If you miss it, you'll have to wait until next year."
As a spirit bound to medical knowledge, Xiaosu could recite the distribution of rare spiritual herbs across Huaguo as naturally as breathing. For anyone seeking to refine pills and pursue cultivation, it was the best kind of assistant—one that could not be bought with gold.
Mu Qingyue lowered her eyes, thinking.
A few heartbeats passed. Then she nodded, decision settling cleanly into place. "All right," she said. "We'll leave tomorrow and go find the herb."
She had wanted, sincerely, to stay in the village a few more days—to accompany her foster parents, to repay their love with time and presence. But the scar on her face was a thorn embedded in her heart. Every time she saw it, she remembered the staircase, the sabotage, the humiliation. The sooner it vanished, the sooner she could breathe without that constant, irritable ache under her skin.
As for that intoxicatingly handsome man by the river—
There was nothing to be done. Fate would either bring them together again, or it would not.
If they were destined to meet, they would meet.
If not, she would not linger for a fleeting temptation.
When Mu Qingyue finally withdrew from the space, the sky outside was already paling. Dawn hovered at the edge of the world, thin and fragile, as if hesitant to fully arrive.
She collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep at once, exhaustion dragging her down like a stone sinking into water. She did not wake until the sun stood high overhead—nearly midday.
By the time her foster parents returned from the fields, Mu Qingyue had already prepared a full table of dishes. The food was simple village fare, but fragrant and abundant, the kind of meal that made a home feel warm. She walked to her foster mother, linked her arm through hers, and smiled brightly.
"Dad, Mom—try my cooking."
"Oh, good, good," her foster father said, delighted.
"What a good child," her foster mother murmured, eyes shining with affection.
The couple sat down with eager smiles. They ate, chatted, and spoke of ordinary things—the price of grain, the state of the weather, whose cow had wandered into whose field. The talk was mundane, yet it soothed Mu Qingyue in a way luxury and status never had.
When she judged the moment appropriate, Mu Qingyue brought out two small bottles and placed them gently on the table.
"Dad, Mom," she said softly, "I have something I need to take care of. I have to leave today. These two bottles are health supplements—I spent a lot of money on them. Take one pill a day. It will be good for your bodies."
Her foster parents' faces immediately tightened with distress, as though she had just confessed to wasting a fortune.
"Silly child," her foster mother scolded tenderly, "we told you not to buy us expensive things. Save your money for yourself. Keep it for your future."
Mu Qingyue smiled, calm and reassuring. "It's fine," she said. "I'm not short on money."
She knew them too well. They were frugal to the bone; if she didn't speak with confidence, they might try to "save" the pills and never take them properly. She wanted them strong. She wanted them to live long enough to enjoy peace.
After the meal and the farewells, Mu Qingyue bought a ticket and left the village.
The Mu family didn't care where she went. They hadn't cared for years. In a way, that neglect granted her freedom. She could use this time to roam—collecting spiritual herbs wherever she could find them, traveling at leisure, treating the sick as she passed through towns and villages, and steadily improving her medical mastery.
What Mu Qingyue did not know was that the moment she departed, someone began searching for her.
Hard.
Heifeng nearly ran his legs raw, questioning villagers one by one, promising generous rewards to anyone who could provide a clue. Yet no matter whom he asked, every answer was the same—blank, bewildered, insistent denial.
No one had seen a girl in a white veil who practiced medicine.
No one knew where she had gone.
In the end, Heifeng returned to the villa at the foot of the mountain, looking thoroughly defeated. He stood before Quan Yeting and reported carefully, trying to keep his voice steady despite the dread tightening in his chest.
"Seventh Master," he said, "I asked every villager. I told them anyone who provided information would be heavily rewarded. But they all claim they've never seen a girl wearing a white veil who knows medicine."
Quan Yeting stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, his black shirt slightly open at the collar. The pale light outside sharpened the cold lines of his face until he looked carved from ice. He listened to Heifeng's words without interruption, then calmly struck a match and lit a cigarette.
He said nothing.
Smoke curled upward, drifting across his features, turning them half-illusory—beautiful and distant, like something not meant to be approached.
Heifeng felt his throat tighten under that silent pressure. The chill radiating from his master's presence was so intense it made it hard to breathe. Still, he forced himself to speak again, lowering his voice as if softness might reduce the danger.
"Seventh Master… I think the girl may have been a passing expert. Perhaps she didn't want anyone to see her true face. If she intentionally hid her identity, then finding her could be… very difficult."
For a moment, only the sound of rainless wind against glass existed.
Then—
Quan Yeting gave a low laugh.
It was not warm. It was not amused. It was the kind of laugh that carried a faint threat, like metal sliding from a sheath.
He exhaled a thin stream of smoke. In the blurred haze, his flawless face looked almost mythic—like the light god Baldr from Western legend, too radiant to stare at directly, too cold to call merciful.
"Keep looking," he ordered.
Heifeng's spine went rigid. He bowed his head instantly, not daring to argue, not daring to hesitate.
"Yes."
He retreated quickly.
After the door closed, the room fell silent again.
Quan Yeting remained at the window, gaze fixed on the distant horizon beyond the glass. Slowly, his lips curved—just barely, a hint of dangerous amusement.
"Little girl…" he murmured, voice soft as smoke and sharp as a blade. "I'd like to see where you think you can run."