Chapter Forty: Birth, Aging, Sickness, Death—A Maiden's Awakening

Life in Andu Town was like the water flowing day after day beneath the old stone bridge at the entrance—seemingly unchanged, yet in truth, always moving, carrying away its share of joys and sorrows. My Anhe Hall had become, amid this flow, a quay where people could pause for a moment’s respite.

That afternoon, the wife of Zhang the butcher ran into my clinic in tears.

“Doctor Jiang! Doctor Jiang! Please come quickly and see my old Zhang! He… he’s not going to make it!”

I set aside the medical classic in my hands and stood up at once, grabbing my medicine box. “Don’t panic, tell me slowly—what happened?”

“He… he was fine this morning, drank a little at noon, and after he lay down to rest, I couldn’t wake him no matter what I did!”

My heart sank, and I hurried after her toward their home at the eastern end of town.

Zhang the butcher was a hearty man, the loudest voice in town, but generous by nature. Two years ago, when my roof was leaking, it was he who, without a word, led a few friends to climb up and fix it for me.

By the time I arrived, a crowd of neighbors had already gathered, their faces grave. Zhang lay on the bed, his face bluish-purple, his breathing faint, showing all the signs of a stroke.

“Make way, let Doctor Jiang take a look!” someone called out.

I stepped forward and, with practiced skill, took his pulse, examined his eyelids, and checked his tongue coating. The situation was dire—a textbook case of acute cerebral hemorrhage which, in a rural town of this era, nearly amounted to a death sentence.

In the past, I might have hesitated—should I use extraordinary means to save him? But now, I did not waver for a moment. He was not just any patient; he was old Zhang the neighbor, the man who would gladly slip me the best cut of pork belly with a laugh.

I drew out the silver needles I always carried and spoke to his wife. “I’m going to perform acupuncture. There will be some risk, but it’s the only hope.”

“Doctor Jiang, please—do whatever you must! We trust you!” she sobbed.

I nodded, said no more, and began. My hands moved with lightning speed but the steadiness of stone, the needles sinking with precision into the vital points on his head.

This was pure medicine—not even the slightest trace of spiritual power, only the accumulated understanding of the body’s meridians over years of practice. This was “medical art,” not “magic.”

After a few needles, Zhang’s tense body miraculously relaxed. The bluish tinge on his face faded before our very eyes, replaced by a flush of color.

A moment later, he coughed violently and slowly opened his eyes.

“He’s alive! He’s come back!” The room erupted in joyous cries.

I put away my needles, wiped the sweat from my brow, and wrote a prescription for promoting blood circulation and clearing the meridians. I cautioned, “His life is saved, but from now on, he must never touch alcohol again. He needs careful nurturing, and mustn’t let his temper flare.”

Zhang’s wife thanked me endlessly, nearly falling to her knees. The neighbors looked at me with a new depth of respect and trust.

I waved it off and left quietly.

And so, the days passed in their quiet way. Yi Yi, too, was blossoming into the springtime of her youth. Though she had lived over two thousand years, inside she was still a girl of barely more than a dozen years.

A girl at this age is like a bud about to bloom—her thoughts growing delicate and sensitive. I noticed of late, when she came home from school, she seemed distracted, gazing for long moments out the window at the willows, or blushing for no apparent reason.

I said nothing, only watched in silence.

One evening, I entered her room to check, as usual, on her progress with her cultivation lessons. I found her flustered, hastily tucking something into her book.

“Father.” She saw me and her cheeks flushed, her eyes skittering away.

I smiled and sat at her desk. “What’s the precious thing you’re hiding? Won’t you show your father?”

Yi Yi’s face reddened further. She hesitated a long while, then carefully drew from an exercise book a letter, folded into the shape of a heart.

It was a love letter.

The handwriting was still childish, but the words were sincere. The writer was a boy from her class—a tall, sunny youth I vaguely remembered who loved playing basketball. In the letter, he wrote of his admiration for Yi Yi’s quietness and kindness, and asked if she would go with him to the town library that weekend.

I finished reading, and unlike most parents, I showed neither worry nor anger. I simply refolded the letter and handed it back to Yi Yi.

“Father, I…” She twisted her fingers nervously, unsure what to do.

“What do you think of this boy?” I asked gently.

Yi Yi was caught off guard—she hadn’t expected this question. With her head bowed, she murmured, “He… he’s a good person. He does well in school, and always helps his classmates…”

“Then he sounds like a fine young man,” I nodded, approving her judgment.

Seeing my calm, the tension drained from her.

I continued, “Yi Yi, to be liked and appreciated by someone is something to be happy about—it means my daughter is outstanding. This letter represents a pure, innocent affection. You should be glad for it, not afraid.”

“Father, aren’t you angry?” she whispered.

“Why should I be angry?” I replied. “You’re growing up. You’ll meet many people—some will like you, some won’t; you’ll like some, and not others. That’s just part of life, as ordinary as the changing seasons, as natural as flowers blooming and fading.”

I looked into her eyes and spoke earnestly. “My only request is that you learn how to handle these feelings. First, respect the other person, and respect yourself. Whether you accept or decline, do so with honesty and courtesy. Second, protect yourself—both your body and your heart. And most importantly, don’t let such matters hinder your own growth and learning. Your life is a very long journey, with countless beautiful sights along the way. Don’t linger too early at any one stop, or you may miss all that lies ahead.”

Yi Yi listened quietly, her eyes shining with thought.

“Then… Father, how should I reply to his letter?” she asked.

“That’s your decision to make,” I said with a smile, rising to my feet. “Think it through, then act. Whatever you decide, I will support you.”

I left her room, gently closing the door behind me.