Gu Zhao pushed through the fighting crowd and rushed toward the bow of the ship, kicking the assassin square in the jaw. With a sharp crack, the man’s neck snapped from the force of the blow.
The assassin fell into the water. Another masked man swung a long blade down at him. Gu Zhao raised his scabbard to block it, then drew his sword and thrust forward in one motion, piercing the man clean through. Blood burst out, soaking Gu Zhao’s clothes.
In the blink of an eye, he had killed two men.
The guard captain, Xiong Kun, had also dealt with the attackers around him and hurried over to stand watch, asking:
“My lord, are you alright?”
Gu Zhao knelt beside Xie Ze, pressing down on the wound at his waist, and ordered:
“Leave one alive. Kill the rest quickly. Get ashore as soon as possible and find a clinic.”
Half of Xie Ze’s clothing was already soaked red with blood. It flowed through Gu Zhao’s fingers, impossible to stop.
With such a severe injury, Gu Zhao had expected this pampered young master to cry out in pain or panic. But though Xie Ze’s face was pale and his eyes were already losing focus, he did not make a sound. He simply grasped Gu Zhao’s hand over the wound and said weakly:
“Cousin… go back… one li… there’s… a Zhu family clinic… I saw… a light… on the second floor…”
…
Zhu Qingyu had just blown out the lamp and gone to bed when a loud crash sounded downstairs, followed by hurried footsteps rushing up.
Zhang Shen had recently gone to the salt fields and had not returned. These past few days were the clinic’s monthly inventory period. Zhu Qingyu had worked late into the night organizing medicines and had simply stayed overnight on the second floor of the Zhu Family Clinic.
Five people lived on the first floor: an old man who guarded the door and delivered medicine, two older women who gathered and prepared herbs, and two young female apprentices learning medicine.
All five had been taken in by Zhu Qingyu under various circumstances and worked at the clinic, though she treated them more like employees.
Hearing the urgency in the footsteps, she assumed one of the women downstairs had urgent business. She quickly got up and lit a lamp. Just as the light flared, the door burst open with a bang. A tall man, his robes stained with blood, holding a sword, his hands also covered in blood, rushed in.
At first glance, she thought he was a bandit and immediately said:
“The money is in the chest. Take it and leave. Please don’t hurt anyone—”
Then she paused.
“…You are… Minister Gu?”
Half a year had passed, and Gu Zhao’s hair had grown longer and was now tied up, so she had not recognized him immediately.
Gu Zhao, however, recognized her at once. Yet he stood there, sword in hand, saying nothing, unable to move.
Not because he would not—but because he could not.
For a fleeting moment, reality overlapped with his dreams. It struck him like lightning. His mind went blank, his blood surged, and his heart pounded wildly, as if it would leap from his chest.
Just like in his dreams—it was her again.
Her long hair fell loose like silk, wearing strange, thin underclothes, holding a lamp, glowing in its light, looking at him in confusion.
The clothing was shorter than usual—her upper garment exposed her fair arms and smooth neck, while the trousers revealed everything below the knees, showing her slender calves and pale, rosy feet.
Zhu Qingyu recognized him and, seeing the blood all over him, became even more alarmed:
“Minister, why are you here? Are you injured?”
In an instant, the illusion shattered—it was reality, not a dream.
He had thought he was coming to a clinic, but instead had barged into her private room and seen her dressed only in underclothes. Realizing the impropriety, Gu Zhao immediately turned his back.
Seeing his silence, Zhu Qingyu assumed he did not recognize her and added:
“My lord, we met in the capital.”
Gu Zhao, still facing away, clenched his trembling hands, unable to steady himself. He felt certain he had been possessed. He replied:
“I know you. This is a clinic—is there a doctor? Someone is injured.”
Behind him came the rustling of clothing as she dressed, along with her voice:
“I am the doctor. Please wait.”
The Zhu Family Clinic—she was the doctor?
The woman who treated his grandmother in the capital—Madam Zhu?
Realization struck Gu Zhao all at once:
“You are Madam Zhu?”
By then, Zhu Qingyu had put on her outer robe, tied up her hair, and passed him on her way downstairs, replying:
“Yes. Where is the patient?”
When Zhu Qingyu saw Xie Ze, he was lying in the consultation room on the first floor, his face pale as paper, already unconscious. Two burly men were frantically pressing cloth against the wound at his waist, but the bleeding had not stopped, soaking through the fabric.
Two strong older women forced their way through the room full of armed men—one stout and holding a kitchen knife, the other sturdy with a hoe—standing protectively around Zhu Qingyu and eyeing the surroundings warily.
Two smaller young women could not squeeze in. One held a large stick and peered in from the doorway.
The stout woman, Tian Mama, immediately complained:
“Madam Zhu, Uncle Qi has been seized by them! Are you alright?”
The loud crash Zhu Qingyu had heard earlier was Tian Mama kicking over a copper basin as a warning when she saw strangers break in and capture Uncle Qi.
Zhu Qingyu looked at Gu Zhao, but before she could speak, he said:
“It was urgent. I offended you. Xiong Kun, release him and apologize properly.”
A man in the room responded and left to carry out the order.
Zhu Qingyu nodded reassuringly to the two women and bent down to examine Xie Ze’s wound. It was wide and deep, but fortunately had not injured any vital organs. However, the patient had lost too much blood and was in critical condition. The bleeding had to be stopped immediately.
She gave orders:
“Tian Mama, bring clean bandages—more of them. Zhao Mama, fetch hot water.”
Then she instructed the two young women at the door:
“Sumu, prepare anesthetic and wound medicine. Lin Lan, bring my medical kit.”
The two older women and the two young apprentices carried out their tasks without hesitation, pushing through the room full of men as if they were not there.
Zhu Qingyu turned to Gu Zhao:
“The patient has lost too much blood. The wound must be stitched, or the bleeding will not stop. Minister, do you permit me to proceed?”
At present, no other physicians used suturing to treat wounds. Zhu Qingyu had experienced enough resistance over the years to know that unconventional methods could alarm families. If not explained in advance, they might interfere mid-treatment.
Gu Zhao did not seem alarmed. He only asked:
“You intend to stitch the wound—are you confident?”
There are no certainties in medicine. Zhu Qingyu never exaggerated her abilities. She answered cautiously:
“I cannot guarantee success. But if I do not stitch it—he will die.”