The days that followed blurred together in the gentle, unhurried way that village life often did. Lord Huang's carriage had rolled back into Greenstone Village once more, wheels kicking up small clouds of dust along the narrow lane. This time he carried a heavier pouch—fifty gleaming silver coins, more money than most families in the village would see in ten years. Widow Zhao met him at her door with steady hands, handing over the last of the precious white bottles without a word. She had already used one herself and seen the change in her own reflection; the rest she sold without regret.
Lord Huang returned home that same evening and placed the final bottles into his wife's hands. Lady Huang, who had spent years hiding behind thick veils, applied the elixir with trembling fingers. Over the next week, the transformation was nothing short of miraculous. The twisted burn scars that had marred her face and neck for so long began to fade, the raised, angry flesh smoothing out like silk under gentle hands. By the end of the tenth day, her skin glowed with a soft, natural radiance. The once-disfigured features had become delicate and beautiful, as lovely as a lotus blossom opening under morning dew. When she finally lowered her veil in the courtyard, even the servants gasped. Lord Huang stood speechless for a long moment before pulling her into a quiet embrace.
The news did not stay behind closed doors.
It spread like wildfire carried on the mountain wind—first through the city markets, then along trade roads, and finally into distant towns and smaller villages. Some whispered that the elixir could turn an ordinary face into that of a celestial fairy. Others swore it could restore the beauty of those born ugly or scarred by war. Exaggerated tales bloomed in teahouses and roadside inns: one story claimed a disfigured beggar had become so beautiful after one bottle that a passing noble took her as a concubine; another insisted the serum could even "revive" the looks of the dead and buried. The rumors grew wilder with every telling, each version more colorful than the last.
Word eventually reached Greenstone Village itself.
Uncle Li had gone out early that morning to trade a few bundles of dried herbs at the market edge. He returned an hour later, face flushed and eyes wide, practically bursting through the door of the small house.
"Qinglan! You won't believe what I just heard!" he called out, voice rough with disbelief. "That beauty elixir we sold… it's gone mad. People are saying it's worth one gold coin per bottle now. One gold! Can you imagine? The city lord himself bought the last ones for fifty silver the other day. His wife's face is like a painting now—smooth as a maiden's!"
Liu Qinglan, who had been helping Mei sort fresh herbs on the low table, looked up sharply. Her cultivator instincts caught the undercurrent of danger in the old man's excitement. "One gold… that's enough to buy a small plot of land. If people trace it back to us—"
She stopped mid-sentence as the door creaked open again.
Zhang Wei stepped inside, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He had spent the morning deep in the forest, following old trails until he found it—the same jagged cave where he had first awakened in this body. The air inside had still smelled of damp stone and faint moss. He had stood there for a long moment, hands clasped together in quiet gratitude, whispering a few words of thanks to the nameless boy whose body he now carried. The cave had felt smaller than he remembered, almost peaceful now. After a short while he had turned and walked back, basket half-full of fresh herbs and a couple of wild mushrooms.
He caught the tail end of Uncle Li's words and tilted his head. "What's going on, Uncle?"
Uncle Li repeated the story in a rush, gesturing wildly with his thick hands. Zhang Wei listened quietly, expression calm on the surface while his mind turned over the implications like smooth river stones. The Qi Condensing Pills he had turned into beauty serum had done their job too well. Fame was coming—fast and loud—and with fame came eyes. Hungry eyes.
He didn't say much at first. Instead he set his basket down, washed his hands in the wooden basin, and joined them at the table. "We stop selling the elixir for now," he said simply after a long pause. "Too many people looking. It's not safe for us anymore."
Liu Qinglan nodded once, sharp and approving. Mei looked a little disappointed but didn't argue. Uncle Li scratched his beard, still half-dazed by the numbers he had heard. "Smart lad. Better safe than chased by greedy nobles."
The decision settled over the house like a quiet blanket. No more market stalls for the beauty serum. Not yet.
That same afternoon, Zhang Wei walked to the small clinic they had built together and hung a fresh wooden sign above the door. The letters were carved neatly by his own hand, simple but clear:
Clear Spring Herbal ClinicFree Treatment for the First Three Days
He stepped back, wiped a smudge of dirt from the wood, and nodded to himself. This was better. Safer. Useful. People needed healing more than they needed beauty potions, and helping them openly might keep the wrong kind of attention away.
Word spread faster than he expected.
By the next morning, the first patients began to trickle in. A farmer with a deep cut on his forearm from a harvesting sickle arrived just after sunrise. Zhang Wei cleaned the wound carefully with boiled water mixed with silverleaf fern decoction to prevent infection. He mashed fresh yarrow and applied it as a poultice, then wrapped the arm in clean cloth strips soaked in a mild anti-inflammatory brew of mountain ginseng and wild licorice. The man left with a look of surprised relief, promising to return if it worsened.
More followed. An elderly woman hobbled in complaining of joint pain and swelling in her knees. Zhang Wei had her sit on the low treatment mat while he prepared a warm compress of crushed pine resin, dried lotus seeds, and Clear Dew Grass. He massaged the area gently with a salve made from the same mixture, explaining each step in a calm voice so she wouldn't feel nervous. After twenty minutes of steady pressure and heat, the swelling eased visibly. She left leaning less heavily on her cane, muttering blessings under her breath.
A young mother brought her feverish toddler next. Zhang Wei checked the child's pulse the way Liu Qinglan had once shown him—light fingers on the wrist, feeling for the weak, rapid beat. He brewed a gentle fever-reducing tea from silverthread orchid and a touch of bitter bone vine, sweetening it with a pinch of dried fruit powder so the child would drink it without crying. He also applied a cool cloth soaked in the same liquid to the boy's forehead. Within an hour the fever broke, and the mother wept grateful tears before hurrying home.
By midday the line stretched outside the clinic door. Minor wounds, stomach aches from bad water, lingering coughs, sprained ankles from working the fields—Zhang Wei treated each one with the same steady patience. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his back as the sun climbed higher. His hands moved without pause: grinding herbs, boiling decoctions, wrapping bandages, explaining simple aftercare in plain words. Every time a patient smiled or bowed in thanks, he returned it with a small, tired smile of his own.
Liu Qinglan stood guard at the door most of the day, occasionally stepping in to help lift a heavy patient or fetch clean water. Uncle Li brought fresh herbs from the garden whenever they ran low. Mei darted between the clinic and the house, carrying cups of cool water for her brother and sweet snacks for the waiting patients. The three days of free treatment passed in a blur of activity—sweat, gratitude, and the steady rhythm of people being helped.
When the third day ended and the sun dipped behind the mountains, the clinic had earned its first real reputation. Villagers who had never trusted outsiders now spoke of the "miracle boy healer" who asked for nothing in return. Word traveled beyond Greenstone, carried by grateful farmers and their families. The small wooden building beside Uncle Li's house was no longer just a clinic. It had become something more.
But with fame came shadows.
On the morning of the fourth day, as Zhang Wei was wiping down the treatment table and preparing for another busy session, three rough-looking men appeared at the door. Their clothes were patched but carried the look of hired muscle—broad shoulders, scarred knuckles, and eyes that scanned the room like they were measuring its worth. The leader, a man with a crooked nose and a sneer that never quite left his face, stepped inside without knocking.
"We heard you've got a good thing going here, kid," he drawled, voice low and oily. "Free treatment for three days is over. Time to start charging properly… or maybe share a little of that special knowledge with us. Wouldn't want anything unfortunate to happen to this nice little place, would we?"
Zhang Wei straightened slowly, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. His expression remained calm, but inside the system window flickered once—Qi stat still untouched, waiting. Liu Qinglan appeared silently at his side, her presence suddenly sharp and dangerous. Uncle Li stepped up from the garden path, axe resting casually on his shoulder. Mei peeked from behind the house, eyes wide.
The trouble had arrived sooner than any of them expected.
Outside, the morning light continued to spill across the village roofs in soft, golden waves. Birds still sang. The forest still whispered. But inside the small clinic, the air had grown heavier, the slow rhythm of village life suddenly tightening like a bowstring.
Zhang Wei met the man's gaze without flinching.
The story of the beauty elixir had already changed everything.
Now the clinic itself was about to be tested.
And whatever came next, the four of them—boy, old man, young girl, and wounded cultivator—would face it together, one careful step at a time.