Sage of Medicine

Beneath the starlit sky, the scene of carnage played out once more. Both sides were still locked in desperate combat. When Zhang Ling was struck in the back shoulder by a dagger, he managed, through the haze of pain, to discern the source of the attack even as he remained on horseback. With a single glance, he caught sight of those cold, piercing eyes.

The assassin behind Zhang Ling yanked the dagger free and, ignoring the interloper, charged straight at Liao Wenqi. Liao Yingdong rushed forward to shield Liao Wenqi, engaging the weapon-wielding assassin. Before Song Linjie could rein in his horse, Snowstep skidded to a halt. Song Linjie leapt from the saddle and quickly helped Zhang Ling to the side.

Several assassins surged toward Song Linjie, but Snowstep spun with a flurry of hooves, sending them flying. In the next instant, however, the horse’s legs were slashed open, deep wounds gouged into its flesh. Both forelegs buckled as a long blade was thrust into its side. The assassin who felled the horse stepped onto Snowstep’s body, withdrawing his blade and kicking out, blood dripping from the tip.

Song Linjie, with no time to spare for Zhang Ling’s horse, helped him beneath a tree, ripping open the blood-soaked tunic at his back. He stared in shock: the wound was mottled with blue and purple, and multicolored lines radiated outward, snaking up to Zhang Ling’s neck in an instant.

The dagger was poisoned!

Song Linjie shook Zhang Ling desperately, calling his name, but received no response. He could only try to squeeze the poisoned blood from the wound as best he could.

On this tumultuous night, more than forty corpses already littered the ground—most of them the black-clad assassins who had appeared so suddenly. The dozen or so survivors from the Azure Falcon Gang gathered near Song Linjie, while the remaining assassins began to converge, closing the circle.

The black-clad assassins formed a ring, trapping the last few members of the Azure Falcon Gang, as well as Zhang Ling and Song Linjie, at the center. Two men entered the ring; one wore no mask, his lips marked by a long, swirling vertical scar. He smiled wickedly and said, “Master Liao, I warned you before—hand over the manual, and things needn’t have come to this. But if you surrender it now, we’ll let this end.”

The leader, seeing Liao Yingdong’s gaze fixed on the black-clad man beside him, whose eyes were oddly asymmetrical and whose brow bore a slanting scar, smirked and said, “Curious who he is, Master Liao? Go ahead, guess for yourself.”

Liao Yingdong clenched his fists so tightly that his fingers pierced his own flesh, blood dripping from his palm as he forced out three heavy words: “Yan Jicheng.”

The scarred man removed his mask, revealing an emotionless face. Liao Yingdong trembled, his voice shaking with fury: “So it is you! You’re the one who betrayed our every movement along the way!”

Yan Jicheng gave a soft laugh. “Brother Dong, this may be the last time I call you that. I told you before—surrender the manual, but you refused. From one hundred and twelve men, to fifty, and now barely a dozen remain. All because of your selfishness—or perhaps your reckless courage.”

Liao Yingdong shouted back, “What do you know? Do you realize what would happen if we handed that manual over to these people?”

Yan Jicheng sighed. “Even now, you won’t listen. You’d risk even Wenqi and Wenya’s lives?”

The leader waved Yan Jicheng back, then said, “It seems Master Liao has chosen to resist to the death. In that case, you leave us no choice. All of you, die.”

He gave the order: “Attack.”

For a long moment, nothing happened. The leader turned to see his men collapsing one by one, motionless—including Yan Jicheng, all of them utterly without breath. Each bore a faint, nearly invisible line of blood at the throat: subtle, but fatal.

Within a hundred paces, hundreds of spectral shadows flickered in and out of sight—so swift that some blinked, doubting their own eyes, but the phantoms danced on, visible only as fleeting images, like ghosts.

The leader barely had time to turn before a hand clamped around his throat. The grip belonged to another masked, black-clad man. The assassin tried to struggle, but found his limbs bound by invisible threads, unable to break free. His voice rasped, “Who are you?”

The man said nothing. With a twist of his wrist, the leader’s neck snapped. He flung the corpse aside. Liao Wenqi recoiled in shock, stepping back, only to feel a sharp pain in his hand—a fine red line, as if traced by a blade.

In a flash, the masked man appeared beside Song Linjie, who was using inner force to draw the poison from Zhang Ling. The masked man took over, seventeen silver needles of varying shapes flying from his sleeve and hovering in the air. Twelve pierced Zhang Ling’s acupoints; the other five were delicately placed around his heart.

He gently felt the pulse, startled. Rolling up Zhang Ling’s sleeve and examining his neck, he exhaled three heavy words: “Yunluo Rainbow.”

Of the world’s three deadliest poisons, the one known as Yunluo Rainbow would, within moments, send colored threads racing throughout the body, sealing the heart and rendering rescue impossible. The second, Gut Severer, made its victims feel their flesh and organs torn apart, even in unconsciousness. The third, Immortal’s Bane, was said to kill even the gods.

But every poison has its antidote. The masked man, who had once scoured the world in search of cures for these three venoms, had indeed found them all—though each required rare ingredients.

True energy poured from his palm into Zhang Ling, forcing a swirl of colored blood from the wound on Zhang Ling’s shoulder. Zhang Ling slowly regained consciousness, though not fully awake, grasping the man’s hand tightly—a look of deep concern in the eyes behind the mask.

Song Linjie, awed by the man’s formidable force and uncanny skills, only managed to ask softly, “How is Zhang Ling?”

The masked man glanced at Song Linjie, about to reply, when Liao Yingdong interjected, “Thank you, hero, for saving our lives.”

He released Zhang Ling’s hand and seized Liao Yingdong by the throat, his eyes wild. Liao Wenqi started forward but Liao Yingdong stopped him, asking, “Why, great hero, are you doing this?”

The masked man’s grip tightened as he spoke sharply: “Don’t think I haven’t noticed—you bear a wound on your back, one that clearly has nothing to do with these assassins. And to use Yunluo Rainbow—one of the world’s three deadliest poisons—against your humble little gang? How highly they must think of you!”

Liao Yingdong instinctively struggled, but found himself, like the assassin before, bound by invisible threads. As he moved his head, three silver needles hovered before his eyes. Staring at their unique forms, a realization dawned. He said, “Heavenly Silkworm Thread, Falling Silver Needle—so you are the Sage of Medicine.”

Liao Yingdong’s tone shifted, goading him: “Who would have thought the Sage of Medicine would stoop to murder?”

The Sage of Medicine’s fury flared. “Murder? If anything happens to him, I’ll see every one of you buried with him!”

Liao Yingdong, terrified, stammered, “This has nothing to do with them. I only attacked him to save my son. I dare not ask your forgiveness, but beg you, spare the innocent.”

The Sage’s grip grew tighter, nearly fatal, his tone savage: “I told you, you’ll all die for his sake!”

As his breath was nearly cut off, Liao Yingdong finally gasped out, “I can save him!”