Chapter 101

The shack was humble but well-stocked with common medicinal herbs and a good supply of prepared healing salves.

The madam of Tianxiang Brothel, intent on preserving Wu Huan's life and beauty for profit, had ensured his lash marks were concentrated on his back and buttocks—mostly superficial wounds. His legs, however, presented a more complex problem; the bones in his calves had once been broken and poorly set by a quack doctor, leaving lasting damage that prevented him from walking normally.

The cultivation world boasted countless spiritual medicines and secret techniques, its resources far surpassing those of the modern world.

Song Qingshi, combining the medical expertise of both worlds and having dedicated years to his studies, was the foremost physician in the cultivation realm—no external injury was beyond his healing capabilities.

After confirming Wu Huan's constitution as a Wood Spiritual Root, which facilitated rapid recovery, Song Qingshi felt relieved and opted for the simplest treatment. He swiftly cut away the blood-soaked clothes, rinsed the filth from the wounds with clean water, lanced the festering areas with a small knife, then stitched two deeper wounds with animal tendon sutures. He crushed several wound medicines into powder and applied it. Finally, while Wu Huan was still unconscious, he used spirit-charged needles infused with spiritual energy to briefly numb the legs before swiftly breaking and resetting the bones.

Wu Huan awoke from the searing agony. Hazily, he realized he was naked, wracked with discomfort everywhere, his legs broken anew. Despair flooded him, his eyes reddening. He thought he had escaped the wolf’s den only to fall into the tiger’s lair—this cruel beast, aware of his rebellious spirit, had deliberately shattered his legs to imprison him in the mountains as a plaything, ensuring he could never flee again...

He would drag this beast down with him!

Wu Huan groped around, searching for something hard to use as a weapon, but his body was utterly sapped of all strength.

Song Qingshi, sweating profusely from his efforts, turned and saw he was awake. Hastily, he inserted two more numbing needles.

Night fell by the time Song Qingshi had fully treated all of Wu Huan’s injuries, wrapping him tightly from head to toe. He dressed him in clean, old clothes, then went outside to fetch a straight vine branch, smoothing out all the thorns to fashion a crude cane, which he placed by the bed for later use.

With his tasks done, Song Qingshi turned to studying his own muteness. After repeatedly checking, he confirmed his vocal cords and throat were perfectly fine—his body had no hidden ailments beyond malnutrition. After much thought... he concluded the issue was psychological.

He had experienced something similar as a child, though not as severe, and had gradually outgrown it. Even now, he sometimes grew nervous speaking to strangers, occasionally struggling to articulate, but communication was never truly hindered.

Song Qingshi attempted to vocalize, letting out a few strangled croaks before failing once more.

Frustration deepened, and he grew increasingly resentful of Mo Yuan Sword Sovereign’s unreasonable formation, which defied medical theory and scientific logic, forcibly saddling him with a speech impediment that left him unable to speak and restricted at every turn. It was a bitter irony—he had once admired Mo Yuan Sword Sovereign’s deeds in stories, even harboring a bit of hero worship.

Giving up on fighting illogical constraints, Song Qingshi treated it as an extra-challenging exam question—difficult, but not insurmountable. Having spent years bedridden in his past life, he disliked wallowing in self-pity. Now, at least he could move freely; being mute was far better than the paralysis of his wasting sickness days.

Tomorrow, once Wu Huan awoke and his condition stabilized, Song Qingshi would head to Tianxiang Brothel to rescue Qu Yurong. As a wealthy young master, Qu Yurong surely knew how to read. Then, by writing in the sand and borrowing Qu Yurong’s voice, he could properly communicate with Wu Huan.

The thought instantly lifted Song Qingshi’s spirits. He tended the alchemy flame and cheerfully began concocting Wu Huan’s next dose.

...

The next day, Wu Huan roused groggily in bed. Every movement sent waves of pain through him. His legs were bound with something unfamiliar, numb and immobile. He had no memory of the cruel treatment he must have endured the night before...

Hearing the "beast’s" footsteps approach, panic seized him. He frantically groped around, his fingers closing around a long stick. Without hesitation, he swung it hard toward the sound.

Song Qingshi, clutching a bowl of hot medicine, couldn’t dodge in time. The frantic strikes left him dazed.

As a newly initiated Qi-refining cultivator, barely past Foundation Establishment, his body was barely stronger than a mortal’s, lacking protective spiritual energy. His head throbbed with several fresh lumps, tears nearly springing to his eyes. Tiny spiritual flames flickered around him—a sign of murderous intent. Warily, he glanced outside, then back at Wu Huan, whose eyes burned with fury. After a sluggish moment of realization, he understood: Wu Huan was trying to kill him. Quickly, he retreated to a corner, medicine bowl in hand, not daring to approach this savagely lovely but dangerous patient.

Wu Huan resembled Feng Jun in appearance and speech, but their personalities differed...

Feng Jun had never struck him...

A sting of betrayal flickered in Song Qingshi’s heart, yet he still felt an inexplicable connection between Wu Huan and Feng Jun, making it impossible to stay angry.

He obediently sat in the corner, waiting for Wu Huan’s rage to subside.

Wu Huan swung the stick through the air a few times, confirming the footsteps had retreated, and finally his tension drained.

Gradually, his mind cleared. The thick scent of medicine clung to his bandaged body, and he wore clean clothes. There was no pain or violation where he had feared—though he lacked firsthand experience, the stories from Tianxiang Brothel had painted vivid pictures. Men weren’t like women; there was no blood, and the absence of pain might just mean his assailant was small and... underwhelming? Or perhaps impotent?

Blindness had sharpened Wu Huan’s sensitivity. In his life, he had never met a truly kind person—only wolves in sheep’s clothing, feigning goodwill to claim his body. He couldn’t fathom unconditional kindness, least of all from cultivators who frequented brothels!

He meticulously checked himself for signs of abuse, but found only traces of medicine and treatment. His legs were braced with long wooden splints, likely to stabilize the bones. Puzzled, he finally asked, "What is this?"

Regret followed—how could a mute answer?

Wu Huan lowered his head, lost in thought.

Song Qingshi, after observing cautiously from afar, crept closer with the medicine once more. He scooped a spoonful, blew on it, and brought it to Wu Huan’s lips.

"I hate medicine. It’s too bitter," Wu Huan said, turning his head away, though his heart raced anew. The madam often drugged stubborn newcomers with lust potions—he’d heard countless stories of youths refusing until, rendered helpless and hypersensitive, they succumbed to clients, their dignity shattered forever.

Thus, he feared medicine deeply, refusing it even at the brink of the grave.

Wu Huan recoiled, rejecting the spoon again and again.

Song Qingshi persisted, chasing him with the spoon, making frantic gestures, trying to coax him into tasting the honeyed tonic.

In desperation, Wu Huan lashed out wildly. The bowl tipped, spilling medicine over Song Qingshi, the bed, and the floor, where it shattered.

Song Qingshi stared at the spoon in his hand, stunned.

Wu Huan sensed the other’s crushed disappointment and felt an unexpected pang of guilt. Something felt off, but after his violent outburst, how could he play victim now? Gripping the stick, he opened his mouth—only to fall silent.

Seizing the moment, Song Qingshi shoved the spoonful of medicine into Wu Huan’s mouth.

Wu Huan swallowed reflexively. The taste was cloying yet tangy—not unpleasant. Then, he was gently pushed back onto the bed. The damp blankets were replaced with fresh ones, carrying the sun-baked crispness.

Soon, the sound of sweeping porcelain shards reached his ears.

"Are you angry?" Wu Huan ventured. "If yes, tap once. If no, tap twice."

Song Qingshi promptly tapped the bed frame twice. Though his patient was recalcitrant, he understood. Blindness bred hypersensitivity, and years of abuse had left Wu Huan trust-starved. Anger and paranoia were natural—especially when explanations were impossible.

After a long pause, Wu Huan asked, "Did you make my legs numb?"

Song Qingshi tapped once, then reconsidered. He took Wu Huan’s leg, inserted two more needles, and partially lifted the anesthesia, allowing agony to come crawling back gradually. Then, he handed Wu Huan a small stick, breaking and resetting it repeatedly. Through painstaking pantomime and yes/no questions, he finally conveyed the truth of the leg injury.

Hesitantly, Wu Huan whispered, "So... you were healing me? Not... defiling me?"

Song Qingshi nodded vigorously and slammed the bed frame in agreement. He fetched another bowl of medicine and placed it nearby, then took Wu Huan’s palm and traced the character for "medicine" over and over, hoping to teach him basic words for communication.

Wu Huan, who had never encountered writing, deciphered through touch the repeated strokes until, after dozens of failed guesses, he deciphered: "Medicine?"

Song Qingshi rapped the bed excitedly.

Wu Huan traced the character in the air, heart near bursting with joy. He had often begged others to read to him—sometimes lively tales, sometimes poetry—longing to know what words looked like. He had yearned to read.

But everyone had laughed at the blind boy’s pitiful delusions.

"Medicine," he wrote again and again. "So this is what words are." Eventually, his hand dropped. "But what’s the use? I still can’t see books."

Song Qingshi pondered, then fetched a wooden plaque and incised the glyph into it. Placing it in Wu Huan’s hands, he guided his fingers over the contours, teaching him to "read" through touch.

Until he could refine the Xuantian Taiming Pill, this would have to do. He could teach Wu Huan characters through carving, then commission wooden books from carpenters. Though the cultivation world lacked Braille, Wu Huan was clever—he could learn standard script and avoid illiteracy upon regaining sight.

Song Qingshi preened inwardly at his brilliant idea.

Wu Huan traced the carved character eagerly, then lifted his face toward the light's faint halo, suddenly curious about the other’s appearance. Tentatively, he reached out, touching Song Qingshi’s face, then his body, taking his measure through touch.

Prejudice and fear had blinded him to the truth.

Now, he realized: this was just a frail boy, no older than twelve or thirteen, his body still unfledged. There could be no ulterior motives...

Wu Huan recoiled in horror, unable to face his own foolishness.

The youth summoned his courage, pulling him out of hell and offering kindness.

And what had he done in return?

Scheming, insults, beatings, twisted suspicions—even attempting to kill his savior...

"I—I'm sorry," Wu Huan trembled slightly, regret seeping into his very bones. He had committed too grave a mistake, one so severe he couldn't express his remorse. "It’s my fault, I..." He had no idea how to atone for such wrongdoing. "I’ll do anything you ask."

Song Qingshi immediately picked up the medicine bowl and pressed the spoon to his lips again, determined to make him take the medicine.

After a moment of hesitation, Wu Huan finally opened his mouth, gingerly accepting this kindness...

...

As evening fell, Song Qingshi hurriedly rushed toward Tianxiang Tower.

After finishing the morning medicine, he couldn't help but teach Wu Huan a few more characters. But Wu Huan was both clever and eager to learn—no matter what character, he remembered it after just one or two traces on his palm. One taught earnestly, the other learned diligently, and Song Qingshi became so engrossed in his role as teacher that he skipped meals, subsisting on fasting pills instead. In his excitement, he had completely forgotten something important.

He had to rescue Qu Yurong quickly, or the mission would fail.

When Song Qingshi returned to Tianxiang Tower, he found chaos inside, as if they were searching for someone. At first, he thought they were looking for Wu Huan, but upon listening carefully, it seemed otherwise...

The madam sobbed uncontrollably, "My Yurong! Who in the world dared to steal my golden goose?!"

The brothel attendants and courtesans tried to console her. It appeared that the original villain, Fu Donglai—a rogue cultivator and one of Qu Yurong’s lovers, skilled in stealth—had taken advantage of the fire’s chaos to abduct Qu Yurong that morning. In the original story, Fu Donglai came and went like a shadow, and now he had spirited Qu Yurong away to who-knows-where for pleasure.

This plotline wasn’t in the original...

Perched on the wall, Song Qingshi stared in stunned silence. He had lost the mission target—what was he supposed to do about the exam now?