Secret Recipe | Chapter 203 | A Debt of Blood | Novela.app

For several days, the apothecary of Guoran Ju remained uncharacteristically cold, with no smoke rising from its chimneys. Dingweng was a small village; if someone lost a chicken, the news would reach every ear by the next day, let alone a death. Soon, neighbors arrived to offer their condolences, only to be told that Shopkeeper Qin was receiving no visitors during the mourning period and would accept no gifts. The villagers shook their heads and dispersed, assuming she simply disliked her noisy neighbors. Before long, the two young masters of the Qiu family arrived in the village one after another. The eldest master, in particular, brought a retinue of seven or eight burly martial officers. When the group rode into the village, their horses nearly trampled the wooden bridge over the Daixiao River into collapse. Yet, of all these people, not one managed to cross the brushwood gate of that dilapidated little courtyard. The shopkeeper of Guoran Ju handled her elder’s funeral rites entirely alone. Even the funeral procession and burial were carried out in silence. No one knew where she had buried him, nor how she and her useless apprentice had managed to transport the heavy coffin. Then, starting from a certain day, a lamp began to burn day and night behind the broken window of Guoran Ju’s side room. From within the brushwood gate came the faint, incessant sound of a pestle grinding herbs. The dead had been laid to rest, and the vigil had long since ended. What was the purpose of that candlelight? Why the constant grinding? Guoran Ju was no longer open for business, so for whom was the medicine being prepared? Inside the gate, Situ Jinbao did not know either. He only knew to bring water and food into the temporary mourning hall at set times, only to carry them out untouched half a day later and finish them himself. The sun rose, set, and rose again. The petite shopkeeper sat on a rickety wooden stool, grinding medicinal ingredients stroke after stroke, never once standing up, never once pausing her hand. The herbs dried before the rainy season filled half the room, and she processed them with meticulous care. The methods and movements for handling these ingredients were etched into the depths of her body; even if the heavens were to snatch away her soul now, she could continue her work until her last ounce of strength was spent. When a person repeats the same action, the flow of time seems to slow. At times, Qin Jiuye felt dazed, as if nothing had happened, yet also as if an eternity had passed. Was Qin Sanyou truly gone? Hadn't he just gone to work on the boats? In another half-day—perhaps just another half-day—he would return. Whenever this thought occurred, she would look up at the mud-stained iron shovel leaning against the door, the one used for the burial, and pull herself back to reality. In the past, she had always looked down on the pulp novels Jinbao read, feeling that filling one's head with such ethereal, baseless things made a person lose touch with practical life. But looking at it now, the bizarre twists of life itself far surpassed the most dramatic plots in those playbooks. A month ago, she could never have imagined that shortly after seeing off Old Tang, she would have to personally bury Qin Sanyou. When she was a child in Suiqing, the village elders often muttered that if a household held a funeral, another might follow within days. They said it was because the deceased could not let go of their living kin and selfishly chose to take them along. But she couldn't understand it. Old Tang and Qin Sanyou weren't even friends; they were clearly just two old men who couldn't stand the sight of each other. When they lived together at Tingfeng Hall, they had quarreled over whether to plant flowers or radishes in the yard. No matter how lonely Old Tang was on the other side, the person he should have taken was her, not Qin Sanyou. She was the one who had neutralized the Clear Wind Powder. She was the one who had gone to the Sword Appreciation Assembly. She was the one who had insisted on uncovering the truth behind the secret formula. The one who deserved to die was her. But why? Why did the heavens force her to keep her eyes open in this cold, damp room, doing futile work like a fool, enduring every day and night as if they were years? An invisible void appeared out of the emptiness, growing larger and larger, threatening to suck her in. She had to do something... she had to do something to keep herself from falling into that massive, spontaneous black hole. When she had ground medicine until her arms could no longer be lifted, she took the wooden token the coroner had returned to her and rubbed it incessantly. Having lived with Qin Sanyou for so many years, she had never seen him take this token out. But as she examined it closely, she saw it had been polished smooth, clearly kept close to his person for many years. Although Qin Sanyou had died in the river and his clothes were half-shredded by the time he washed up downstream, this token, like his coin purse, had not been lost to the current. This proved he must have kept it securely tucked away. Such an important token must be related to the past Qin Sanyou refused to mention. But when she tried to discern the writing on it, she could only see traces where the characters had been scraped away. It seemed the owner of the token did not want others to know its information, yet could not bear to truly throw it away. Clutching the token, she realized she actually knew nothing of Qin Sanyou’s past. She only knew he wasn't originally from Suiqing and had settled there because of the Yang family. He was close to Situ Jinbao’s uncle, which was why he looked after Aunt Yang and her son. Beyond that, she knew nothing. Before he became her grandfather, what kind of person had he been? What stories had he lived through? Did he have other relatives? She didn't know, and she had never asked. And now, when she wanted to ask, Qin Sanyou could no longer answer. Perhaps she would never know those answers. *Grandfather only wants you to live well. Just living well is more important than anything.* Those were the last words Qin Sanyou had said to her. They were also the life principle he had held onto for most of his life, yet in the end, he had tossed them aside to feed the village dogs. In truth, Qin Sanyou had said similar things many times before. It was just that her ears had grown calloused to them and she never listened, never even giving him a response. She had been too busy. Busy improving her medical skills, busy earning silver, busy looking for a courtyard, busy realizing her ambitions, and busy climbing further and further up the mountain of life. For a long time after growing up, she felt Qin Sanyou’s ideas were old-fashioned and stagnant. They became increasingly unable to truly communicate or understand each other. They were fundamentally different people, like two stones with sharp edges, constantly colliding because they happened to be family. She used to think their end would be one side compromising for the other. She never considered that there was no right or wrong in how a person chose to live their life, especially when they were kin. Finally, one day, the collision between the stones stopped. Qin Sanyou grew old, lost his strength, and could no longer keep up with her pace. He was left behind, further and further, until one day, they could no longer see each other. That day he came to the Protectorate to care for her, she watched him leave from under the eaves, not even stepping out to see him off. And that was the last time they saw each other. No matter what she did, what she said, or what she regretted, this was an irreversible conclusion. The pestle fell heavily, and the stone mortar that should have lasted another ten years actually developed a crack. Something was accumulating drop by drop in the depths of her heart, like a river swelling after incessant rain, about to burst the dam. When Aunt Yang died, she thought she would never experience such pain again in this life. She would wake up crying in the middle of the night, staring at the sky, wanting to ask the heavens if it was all just a dream—that she would wake up and someone would tell her it was only a nightmare. Or perhaps this was just the most difficult hurdle of her life; once she crossed it, the path ahead would be smooth. She still had a chance to learn contentment, to cherish what she had, and to live a good, satisfying life. She had already lost Aunt Yang and her courtyard; she couldn't lose her grandfather too. But the heavens could not hear her heart. Like a malicious child who had set his sights on her, the heavens picked through her few remaining possessions and finally chose her grandfather. Twenty-two years ago, her grandfather had picked her up from beneath a patch of wild grass, and from then on, she had a home. Now, she had no grandfather. Even if she bought the largest courtyard, opened the grandest pharmacy, and raised thousands of chickens, ducks, cattle, and sheep, her home would never be that home again. The coroner had tried to comfort her, saying that death was a release, that at least he wouldn't have to suffer anymore. But she didn't want to know what a person became after death. If one couldn't obtain everything while alive, could they obtain it after death? Was that the truth of death, or just a lie told by the living? Perhaps only the heavens knew. But at this moment, she would no longer question the heavens in the deep of night, for she knew she was destined to receive no answer. When prayer cannot obtain even a shred of pity, pain and sorrow transform into something else. From her first day in the profession, the only lesson she learned from her master that had nothing to do with medical texts was how to calmly accept "birth, aging, illness, and death." Because these things were unavoidable, learning to accept them sooner meant finding release sooner. However, acceptance was one thing; the process was quite another. The day Aunt Yang died, she understood that tears were meaningless. Aside from wetting one's collar, they could move nothing. So this time, from beginning to end, she had not shed a single tear. As a human, she could not control her emotions, but through day after day of training, she could make her heart as deep as the abyss in the face of misfortune. Even endless grief would not be allowed to occupy it completely. She would remember everything about today, storing every drop of emotion in her heart, waiting for an opportunity to shake the world. When the wind began to rise outside the window, the long-burning lamp finally flickered out. The spark representing civilization vanished along with that bone-deep sorrow, replaced by a boundless rage that coexisted with the darkness. The fires of hell burned in her heart. Qin Jiuye sat in the darkness before dawn. Her hands, trembling from exhaustion, finally set down the blood-stained pestle. Three full days and nights had passed. There were no more herbs left in the room for her to crush. Despite grinding half a room's worth of medicine, the searing pain in her heart had not eased in the slightest. She desperately needed to crush more things. Such as a truth. Such as the culprit who killed Old Tang. The small figure curled on the stool slowly stood up and lit the first stick of incense for the newly erected memorial tablet. The wind whistled through the cracks in the broken door. The apprentice, who had stayed awake with her for three days, was dozing in the corner. A gust of wind rushed in, snapping a length of incense ash. The mourning hall, which had not been opened for three days, brightened for an instant and then went dark. The woman's figure was no longer visible in the room. The rain that had fallen for over a month paused briefly for half a day, only for a great wind to rise. Jiugao had never seen such a wind. In this misty land where all things spoke in soft whispers, this wind was like a monster leaping out of ancient legends, or perhaps an omen sent by the heavens to tell those persistent mortals: *You are but a mere ant; do you truly dare to dream of defying heaven?* A fool's dream. Right now, on the muddy path leading away from Dingweng Village, there was just such a fool. She truly had no right to be a fool. Look at how thin and small she was; she looked like she couldn't even hold three bowls of rice. Normally, a gust of wind could knock her over. But no matter how the cruel wind battered her, she did not retreat. Her figure swayed in the gale. If the wind blew her back three steps, she took another three steps forward. When sand blinded her eyes, she groped forward with her eyes closed. When she stumbled and fell, she used her hands to push herself up again and again. This sudden, unannounced gale made the wretched road to Jiugao City feel infinitely long, as if it would never end. A wise person would have given up immediately, turning back to hide at home, at least waiting for the wind to stop before making plans. The people cooling themselves under the large trees by the fields had dispersed. Only a few tenant farmers from the neighboring village remained, leaning on their hoes and plows behind a ruined house to hide from the sand. Seeing the woman's figure from afar, they were first stunned, then, recognizing who it was, began to whisper. Seeing each other every day, gossiping about another's misfortunes might seem like seeking entertainment, but surely sighing a few words about a "pitiful soul" was harmless? Who didn't know that something had happened to Shopkeeper Qin of Guoran Ju in Dingweng Village? It was truly too tragic. Word was she had been dragged into the messy affairs of the city folk, which was why the Qiu family had come to pay their respects. But in the end, wasn't it her own fault for meddling? You insisted on sticking your nose into things that weren't your business, and now look. What does one dead old man matter? Acting like that, she should have died a thousand times over already. The whispering figures blurred in the wind and sand, and their voices were not clear, but Qin Jiuye did not need to turn her head or prick up her ears to sense those faces and voices clearly. Or perhaps, those were the faces and voices in the depths of her own heart. It was her own overestimation of her strength. It was her refusal to listen to warnings, her headstrong persistence that had ultimately killed those closest to her. Yet she was the one who remained alive. Those people had taken Old Tang and her grandfather, but they had left her alone. Was it because they felt she was truly insignificant? Even if she were filled with hatred and misery, she could only grit her teeth and swallow it, never daring or able to cause any waves, not even daring to shout a few curses in the street. So in this unavoidable gale, she should shrink back, hide away, and strive to vanish into the invisible edges and mists, just like the never-remembered Dingweng Village, just like Old Qin who died in the cold river, just like she had done for the past twenty-odd years. On the night Dingweng Village was in danger, Teng Hu had asked her what she was after, giving up a stable life to step into this muddy water. At that moment, she had actually recalled many moments from the past days. At first, it must have been for herself. She wanted to make a name for herself, to find a different way to live, to stand on a high place and call out, to make the world remember her name. Later, though she never admitted it, it must have been for that youth. She could not bear to watch him fall into hell, could not accept losing him in such a way, and so she had walked further and further, step by step. Later still, the person she most wanted to save had left, and the companions who had agreed to walk the same path had departed one by one. She didn't know what reason she had left to persist. On the morning Qiu Ling left, she had actually considered retreating. In the end, people are meant to be contained within the burlap sack of life. "Nothing is a big deal except life and death" was the philosophy of many, and perhaps it should have been hers. She should have listened to Qin Sanyou; just seeking to live well was enough. But Qin Sanyou had failed to uphold his life's creed in the end. He died in the cold river, using his decaying face to tell her: *Things going against one's wishes is the normal state of life; beyond life and death, there is an endless, cruel cultivation.* Fate had brutally torn open her burlap sack, and a piercing light poured through the jagged hole, leaving her nowhere to hide, forcing her to face forests of blades, rains of swords, freezing ice, raging flames, and the demons of the underworld. She could give up on herself, she could give up on a distant love, but she could never give up on this family bond where they had depended on each other for survival. She was driven by the hope of the rising sun, driven by a burning love, and she would also be driven by a hatred that knew no end. The fire of hatred would not be easily extinguished; it would eventually push her toward the end of everything. Another gust of wild wind howling with sand and stone swept past, knocking the advancing woman over. she rolled once and lay face down on the yellow earth. Lifting her palms, which had been rubbed bloody again after healing, a trace of a smile—one of extreme sorrow—suddenly surfaced on her face. This was indeed a warning and a retribution from the heavens. Just as Qin Sanyou’s death was a warning against her overestimating herself, it was retribution for her meddling. But why not punish the Qiu family? Why not punish Teng Hu? Why punish her, a nameless country doctor? Was it because she was the easiest to bully, the easiest to suppress, the perfect candidate to "kill the chicken to warn the monkeys"? Perhaps to those people, the one who died wasn't even a powerless, poor, incompetent old man, but merely an ant that happened to be in the way of their wheels. Their eyes were only on where they were going; they never even realized they had crushed an ant. The heavens are heartless and refuse to open their eyes. She would make them see. The things the heavens were too lazy to manage, she would manage to the end. She would make the instigator of all this understand that there was a price to be paid for what he had done. She did not want to be the "pitiful soul" in others' mouths; she wanted to be that relentless "vengeful creditor." If the other party refused to repay this debt, she would carry this account and pursue them to the ends of the earth. Falling and rising again, over and over—this was her fate. But as long as they did not cut off her legs—one day, two days, three days... one year, two years, three years... eventually, she would stand up. She would stand up in the darkness, rising from the corner where she had to curl her body to survive. If the sunlight refused to arrive, she would let her rage ignite her, lighting the path for the one who seeks revenge and punishes evil. She would make those who trampled upon them pay the price. Even if that price required her to pay twofold to reclaim it. *** **Glossary** Chinese | English | Notes/Explanation --- | --- | --- 果然居 | Guoran Ju | Qin Jiuye's pharmacy/apothecary. 丁翁村 | Dingweng Village | The small village where the story is currently set. 黛绡河 | Daixiao River | The river where Qin Sanyou's body was found. 讨债鬼 | Vengeful creditor | Literally "debt-collecting ghost"; used here to mean someone who relentlessly pursues a debt or revenge. 九皋 | Jiugao | The larger city or region near the village.