After several spring rains, the vegetable garden behind the Daoist temple sprouted a lush carpet of green.
Chen Danzhu picked a basketful, rinsed them with mountain spring water, tossed them lightly in oil, and added a few slices of pickled bamboo shoots. With a simple bowl of peach‑rice, she made herself a modest meal.
That afternoon, she busied herself hanging the remaining greens under the veranda to dry, so they could later be preserved with the spring shoots. Just as the sun was about to set, Abbess Jingxin hurried over from the front hall.
“Miss Danzhu,” she said anxiously, “a child down the mountain suddenly collapsed, foaming at the mouth and falling unconscious. His family fears they won’t reach the city doctor in time. They beg you to take a look.”
Chen Danzhu agreed at once. Wiping her hands, she picked up the small basket kept under the veranda, stocked with silver needles and other tools. After a moment’s thought, she asked Jingxin to wait, then went to her garden to gather a few herbs before following her down the mountain.
Tao Mountain was not high, and they were used to walking its paths. From the temple at the summit to the village below took barely a quarter of an hour.
The boy, six or seven years old, had already been carried to the village entrance. His mother wept, his father stood anxiously scanning the slope. When he saw the two women, he cried out, “They’re here!”
Villagers greeted them respectfully—“Abbess Jingxin, Miss Danzhu”—and quickly made way.
“We don’t know what happened,” the father said, eyes red but voice steady. “He was fine when we came back from outside. He sat down with his rice bowl, then suddenly convulsed and collapsed.”
Chen Danzhu set down her basket. “Let me see.” She bent to examine the boy’s mouth, nose, and eyes, then pulled back his clothing to check his limbs. “It’s not a snake or insect bite. He’s eaten poisonous wild greens.”
The mother, still crying, protested: “But he hadn’t eaten yet! I haven’t picked wild greens these past days.”
Chen Danzhu replied, “He must have chewed something while playing outside. I’ll detoxify him first. Once he wakes, you can ask.”
The parents fell silent and stepped aside. They watched as the young woman pricked the boy’s head and hands with silver needles, then crushed a handful of fresh herbs in a small bowl. She pried open his mouth and poured in the juice. Almost immediately, the boy retched, vomiting, then began to cry weakly.
Alarmed, the parents asked, “Miss Danzhu?”
Chen Danzhu propped the boy half‑upright, letting him cry and vomit further. After a while, she wiped him down with a handkerchief and straightened. “It’s fine. He’s awake. Take him to the city doctors for further care.”
Relief swept through the villagers. The parents, overjoyed, thanked her repeatedly as they lifted their son—still groaning but alive—onto a cart and rushed toward the city.
The remaining villagers bowed with gratitude: “Miss Danzhu, thank you for your hard work.”
She smiled and returned the courtesy. “Make sure the children don’t eat things off the mountain. The prettier they look, the more dangerous they may be.”
After more thanks, Chen Danzhu and Abbess Jingxin turned back up the mountain, vanishing into the deepening dusk.
Meanwhile, the couple reached the city with their child. Night had already fallen, and the capital’s bustling nightlife was just beginning. Crowds thronged the streets, and the Qinhuai River glittered with countless pleasure boats, their lights shimmering like a sea of stars.
The couple arrived at a medical hall in the western quarter of the city. The physician on duty examined the child and exclaimed, “Ah! He’s eaten *duanchangcao*—‘Heartbreak Grass.’ This boy is truly reckless.”
They did not know what this plant was, but the name alone was terrifying. Both parents trembled, tears streaming down their faces.
“Don’t be afraid,” the physician reassured them as he continued his examination. “The poison’s spread was already blocked with needles, and most of it was expelled by vomiting. You had someone treat him first?”
The mother, still in tears, replied, “We’re from Tao Village, near Tao Mountain. Miss Danzhu looked at him first.”
The physician nodded. “Good. Very good.” He then carefully took the boy’s pulse, ordered medicine from the attendants, and treated him methodically—without asking further questions.
Was this silence a sign of trust in Miss Danzhu, or of disdain? Those waiting nearby pricked up their ears, puzzled. One finally asked, “Who is Miss Danzhu? Is she a famous doctor?”
The physician pretended not to hear. The couple answered vaguely, “She’s a woman from our village.”
A village woman? Then why seek her out? Was she a shaman? Was she truly effective? The onlookers grew more curious, but no one offered further explanation.
Soon, the physician finished with needles and medicine. The boy regained consciousness, stammering that he had been playing on the mountain that afternoon, plucked a random plant, and chewed it. When his saliva turned red, he grew frightened and stopped.
The physician laughed. “Fortunate child, blessed with great luck. He’s fine now—take him home.”
The parents thanked him profusely, paid the fee, collected the medicine, and left with their son.
One of the waiting patients pressed on: “When you say ‘fortunate,’ do you mean Miss Danzhu detoxified him first?”
The physician smiled and confirmed.
“Then who is this Miss Danzhu? You clearly know of her—you must have seen others she treated. Is her skill truly high? Why haven’t we heard of her in the capital?”
Even a shaman, if effective, would quickly gain fame in the city.
The physician shook his head. “Don’t ask. She cannot have fame.” He paused, then added, “She was once of Prince Wu’s nobility.”
The listener immediately understood. Ten years ago, the rebellion of Qi, Wu, and Zhou—the *Three Prince’s Revolt*—ended with the execution of Prince Zhou and Prince Wu. The emperor then moved the capital here, which was once Prince Wu’s royal seat.
With the move, the nobles of Wu followed, branded with the stigma of treason. They fell lower than commoners, lucky to survive at all, with no hope of wealth or renown. For ten years, many Wu aristocratic clans had been exterminated to erase the remnants.
“This Miss Danzhu must be cherished by the villagers,” the listener murmured.
Indeed, she had surely saved more than one family. Her reputation had not spread because everyone kept silent, lest they bring misfortune upon her.
The physician thought for a moment, then added, “But this Miss Danzhu need not fear. She bears the emperor’s own decree of pardon.”
The listener was astonished. “Why? Who is she?”
The physician’s smile turned mocking. “Her brother‑in‑law is General Weiwu, Li Liang.”
The listener’s face changed, his voice lengthening: “So it is *General Weiwu*…”
Li Liang—his name was known across the empire. It was he who personally severed Prince Wu’s head, presenting it to the emperor and earning great merit. Though rewarded by the new emperor, his reputation was tainted. For when he struck down Prince Wu, he was Prince Wu’s own general, son‑in‑law of Wu’s Grand Tutor, Chen Lietu.
Li Liang claimed loyalty to the throne but, in private, was mocked as a traitor who sold his master for glory. After all, the princes’ ministers were chosen by the princes themselves; they were first vassals of Wu, then subjects of the Son of Heaven.
Li Liang’s betrayal did not end with Prince Wu. He relentlessly accused and destroyed Wu’s noble clans, like a rabid hound. The people of Wu hated him, and even the rest of Great Xia did not respect him.
The patient did not wish to speak further of Li Liang, and instead mentioned another familiar name: “So this Miss Danzhu is the daughter of Grand Tutor Chen? Wasn’t the Chen family all killed by Prince Wu?”
What happened back then was no secret. It was late at night, few patients were waiting, and the case at hand was not serious, so the physician grew talkative: “Grand Tutor Chen’s eldest daughter—Li Liang’s wife—stole her father’s seal and gave it to her husband, allowing Li Liang to lead troops in a counterattack against the capital. Grand Tutor Chen was executed by Prince Wu, and Li Liang’s wife was hanged at the city gates. The entire Chen clan, servants and maids included, were locked inside their estate, hacked apart, then burned. The family was annihilated.”
“The Grand Tutor’s youngest daughter, however, was ill and recuperating at Tao Mountain, so she escaped. When the city fell and Prince Wu was slain, she was captured by Xia troops and brought forth to ask Li Liang how she should be dealt with. At that time, Li Liang was accompanying the emperor into the palace. Seeing the frail, sickly little girl, the emperor remarked, ‘A child is pitiful.’ Li Liang then placed her in the Daoist temple on Tao Mountain, where she has lived ever since.”
At the memory, the patient sighed. Counting on his fingers, he said, “Ten years have passed already. How quickly. I still remember how terrible it was—soldiers clashing, floods raging, corpses everywhere. Even without the emperor’s army, Wu was doomed.”
Though ten years had gone by, remnants of Wu still stirred trouble. Speaking of such old matters was dangerous. The physician coughed lightly: “Heaven itself doomed Prince Wu. Best not to dwell on it. Your illness is minor—take the medicine and rest.”
The patient was about to reply when someone stepped up behind him, carrying the scent of blood. “Are you finished? Move aside quickly. My hand’s been cut by a blade.”
Startled, the patient turned to see a young man, his right hand wrapped in cloth, blood seeping through and dripping onto the floor.
The physician, accustomed to blood, showed no alarm. “How were you injured?” he asked, while the shop boy eyed the stranger warily—carrying weapons was forbidden in the capital.
The young man, about twenty‑seven or twenty‑eight, with a sallow complexion and a Wu accent, replied: “I’m a kitchen helper at Zuifeng Pavilion. I cut myself with a kitchen knife.”
The physician unwrapped the cloth. The wound looked frightening but was manageable. He had the boy bind it properly and prescribed medicine for external injuries.
The young man paid and left. Standing in the bustling street, he gazed toward Tao Mountain, the lantern light flickering across his face.
Chen Danzhu rose early each day, walking the mountain paths twice and fetching spring water. That morning, when she reached the spring, she saw someone had arrived before her.
A young man stood with his back to her, splashing water on his face with one hand, the other hanging at his side, still wrapped in bandages. He said, “Why is this water so cold?”
Chen Danzhu replied, “Tao Mountain’s spring is cold all year round. Brother Jing, you’ve been gone ten years—you’ve forgotten?”
The young man turned. The powder washed from his face revealed fair skin and handsome features. His eyes widened in surprise. “Ah Zhu, you recognized me?”
Chen Danzhu walked forward, set down her twin water jars, and gazed at the crystal spring bubbling before them. “Brother Jing and my elder brother were close friends—always together, often taking me along to play. How could I fail to recognize your voice and figure? Why have you returned? The names of the Wu court physicians and the Yang clan have already been struck from the lists, and the investigations have been withdrawn. Why expose yourself again?”
Yang Jing smiled faintly. “My family is all gone. I fear the world will forget them—so I came back.”
Chen Danzhu lifted the filled jars. “Then Brother Jing has returned for revenge?”
Yang Jing looked at her. At twenty‑five, she had shed her girlishness; the gauzy veil could not conceal her delicate beauty. He sighed softly. “Ah Zhu, are you not afraid of me?”
Chen Danzhu replied, “Afraid you’ll kill me?” She turned gracefully, stepping away. “In these ten years, some have come to kill me, others to persuade me to kill. I’ve seen too much. I’m used to it. There’s nothing left to fear.” Her voice was calm, yet tinged with sorrow.
“Ah Zhu,” Yang Jing called, “do you hate Prince Wu?”
Hate him? Though ten years had passed, the pain of her family’s destruction was unforgettable. Her eyes fixed on Yang Jing, teeth clenched: “Prince Wu listened to slander and slaughtered my clan. Yes, a subject must obey his sovereign, even unto death—but how could I not hate him? My Chen family followed Prince Wu since the enfeoffment of our forefathers, loyal for generations. My father fought bravely during the Five Kingdoms’ War, protecting Wu from harm, losing a leg in the process. How could Prince Wu, on mere rumor without proof, condemn my household—one hundred and thirty souls, master and servant alike—to death? Prince Wu—”
“Ah Zhu.” Yang Jing stepped forward, cutting her off, his voice heavy. “It was Prince Wu’s fault, but he was deceived. It was not baseless—there was evidence. Li Liang held the command token.”
Chen Danzhu gave a cold laugh. “Is that so? Then, when Inspector Zhang murdered my brother, why did Prince Wu not suspect Inspector Zhang of rebellion?”
Yang Jing smiled, tears glimmering. “Ah Zhu, you were all deceived by Li Liang. He was no loyal avenger for your family—he had already pledged himself to the emperor. He tricked your sister into stealing the command token, only to launch his counterattack on the capital.”
Chen Danzhu’s expression turned blank, clearly disbelieving. “Are you of Prince Wu Tai’s faction, or Prince Luo’s?”
After Prince Wu’s death, his territories refused submission, claiming the emperor had betrayed ancestral law and was unfit to rule. They raised two princes of Wu’s line to rally forces. Yet Wu Tai had already been crushed five years ago by Xia’s armies. As for the latest—
“The general who supported Prince Luo must have just killed him and declared himself king, hasn’t he?” Chen Danzhu said. “What has that to do with Wu (Kingdom) or Prince Wu anymore?”
Ten years on, Prince Wu was already a fading shadow. Those who claimed loyalty to him were merely pursuing their own ambitions.
Yang Jing’s gaze grew deep. “Even here in the mountains, you know the world’s affairs. Did Li Liang tell you?”
Chen Danzhu said nothing, only walked on, her slender figure swaying with the jars like willow branches in the wind.
“Ah Zhu,” Yang Jing spoke slowly, “Brother Danyang did not die at the hands of Beauty Zhang’s father. He was slain by Li Liang’s treachery—as proof of his submission.”
Chen Danzhu froze. She turned back, her veil slipping, revealing a face struck with shock.
Back then, the reason Li Liang persuaded Chen Danyan to steal her father’s seal was because Inspector Zhang—father of Prince Wu’s favored beauty—schemed for power. He deliberately left Chen Danyang trapped by Xia forces, delaying rescue until Chen Danyang, exhausted, fought to his death. Yet Prince Wu shielded Inspector Zhang, and Grand Tutor Chen Lietu could only bow to his sovereign’s will.
Li Liang could not swallow the injustice. To avenge Chen Danyang, he convinced Chen Danyan to steal the seal, intending to slip back into the capital and confront Inspector Zhang.
But the plot was exposed. Prince Wu ordered the Grand Tutor executed, exterminated the Chen clan, and hung Li Liang’s wife at the city gates. Enraged, Li Liang rose in rebellion against Prince Wu—
To Chen Danzhu, Li Liang had rebelled for the sake of her family. He was their benefactor, her kin. But now Yang Jing claimed it had all been a lie?
“You’re spouting nonsense!” she cried, her voice trembling.
Yang Jing’s expression was mournful. “Ah Zhu, I’m not deceiving you. While traveling in Qi, I uncovered secret accounts. Li Liang had already pledged himself to the emperor. He killed Danyang, then tricked your sister Danyan into stealing the seal. His return was not to confront Zhang—it was to attack the capital. And your sister was not hanged at the gates. She was shot dead by Li Liang’s arrow.”
Chen Danzhu stared at him, shaking her head. “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it.”
“If you doubt me, summon Li Liang,” Yang Jing said coolly. “Let him swear before Danyan’s grave. Will he dare claim his conscience is clear?”
Chen Danzhu bit her lip, her gaze unfocused. Her sister… her family slaughtered and buried in haste. By fortune, loyal retainers had stolen away the bodies of Grand Tutor Chen and Chen Danyan. Chen Danzhu herself had buried them on Tao Mountain, raising two small mounds.
“Ah Zhu,” Yang Jing’s voice was low, “in five days it will be your elder sister’s birthday, won’t it?”
Chen Danyan had been born in the warmth of spring, her parents hoping she would be radiant and bright. Yet at twenty‑five, she withered, carrying an unborn child.
Chen Danzhu covered her face, sobbing, then drew a deep breath and lifted her head. Her eyes locked on Yang Jing, dark with hatred.
“I will ask Li Liang. And if all this is true, I—” Her gaze burned. “I will kill him with my own hands.”
Meanwhile, the capital’s night bustled on, echoing the day’s clamor. Near the palace, however, it was another world—strictly guarded, the heavy beat of patrol hooves sounding without pause.
Among the grand mansions stood the residence of General Weiwu. In its quiet bedchamber, a man rose softly, draped on his outer robe, and was about to step out when a gentle voice came from behind the curtain: “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He turned back at once, his voice low. “Nothing.” After a pause, he added, “Someone has come to Tao Temple. I’ll go take a look.”
The woman did not rise, only murmured tenderly, “Be careful.”