Bailan felt a bit sulky; the cheerful mood he had that morning had vanished.
He stayed on the mountain until the afternoon and then sat on a stone to eat his bread. The mountain was damp and cold. After running through the grasses for a couple of hours, his legs and cloth shoes were wet. Moving kept him warm, but the few kudzu roots and Atractylodes he had gathered left him somewhat unsatisfied.
After Liu Wuge’s intrusion, Bailan had no mood to carefully search for herbs. He ate the packed bread listlessly and decided to head down the mountain early.
He wanted to go back and talk with his father about how to handle the Liu family.
When he returned home, the yard was lively. His father had already returned, along with Mrs. Qin, who had earlier asked for his help with her child.
“Bailan is truly impressive! No wonder Master Jiang raised him himself. From now on, he can help Master Jiang with visits. Master Jiang can relax, and it’s good fortune for our village too.”
Mrs. Qin said modestly, “Oh, it’s nothing. This boy went to treat the child without telling me, and luckily, nothing went wrong. Otherwise, it would have harmed little Erniu.”
Bailan heard his father laughing outside the yard.
Entering the courtyard, he saw the two talking stop. Mrs. Qin smiled brightly when she saw him.
“Bailan, thank you so much! After following your method, in just a few hours, Erniu is lively again. This afternoon, he couldn’t even sit still—he ran with his father to another village to buy a pig.”
“Glad the child is well. It was my duty.”
Mrs. Qin held Bailan’s hand, showing gratitude for a while, and finally left a large piece of pork as both thanks and a fee for his services. Villagers liked giving practical gifts.
After she left, Jiang Zichun stroked his beard and looked at Bailan. “Your courage grows by the day.”
Bailan knew his father was worried he might misdiagnose someone, afraid of mistakes, so he didn’t feel upset or wronged. He recounted today’s pulse readings and the prescriptions he’d given, word for word. Jiang Zichun listened and smiled.
“You did very well. In the past, I only had you assist me, and I overlooked your talent.”
He didn’t forget to praise himself as well: “After all, Jiang family blood doesn’t run weak.”
Bailan’s lips curved into a smile. Talent? He had little of it—he’d only made up for it with diligence.
Back then, he couldn’t read and could only help his father dry herbs and grind powders. He couldn’t read prescriptions at all. He could feel pulses and dictate prescriptions, but he couldn’t write them himself. Having someone write for him was inconvenient, and he wasn’t a famous doctor with a personal apprentice either. Later, when he was taken to the Ning family, he never had the chance to see patients alone.
Though his father could read, he was busy; between seeing patients and supporting the family, he never had the leisure to teach him properly.
It wasn’t until he arrived at the Ning estate that fate led him to learn how to read.
The Ning family was scholarly—even the senior maids could read, some even versed in poetry. Being illiterate often made him the target of teasing. The estate valued study, with a private school for young relatives. Daughters and sons alike could attend. That was the advantage of a wealthy household.
When Bailan had nothing to do, the school was conveniently near his courtyard, separated by a low wall. Every day he went to sneak lessons. Since it was basic instruction for young children, he could keep pace despite being a newcomer. The Ning family’s teacher was top-notch, worth more than could be bought outside. He eventually learned to read, watching the children grow and even sit for exams.
Had he not found this outlet, he might have gone stir-crazy confined in those four walls.
After learning to read, a new batch of children began instruction, so he stopped starting over and spent time perusing medical texts, essays, and histories. The Ning estate had no shortage of books; obtaining them was as easy as a farmer digging up a cabbage.
The household didn’t mind him collecting medical texts—they assumed he was helping his father and thought him dutiful. They didn’t understand that he collected poetry and histories for his own sake. Some even joked that he was pining after Ning Muyan, using books to soothe his feelings, earning him laughs.
Having something to occupy his time, Bailan ignored the teasing. In the eyes of the wealthy idle household, he had always been a source of amusement. Initially embarrassed, he eventually grew accustomed to it.
Having been born to a farmer family, surrounded by rough folk, his skin was thick enough to withstand the delicate sensibilities of the elite. That’s why when the Ning estate fell on hard times, he didn’t despair or contemplate suicide like some household members.
Now, after all those hardships, he finally had a place to put his skills to use. Smiling, he rubbed his hands together. “Father, does this mean I can go out with you to see patients?”
“If you wish to learn, I am happy to teach. Even if not treating others, having a skill can help you care for yourself.”
Bailan nodded in agreement.
But then he remembered the earlier matter and frowned. “Father, I met Liu Wuge on the mountain today. I’m not sure if there was some misunderstanding.”
He told the story, softening the harshest words. His father raised an eyebrow when he finished.
“Why would someone be like this? I only mentioned your age to Old Man Liu, nothing else. How could he assume you’d promised him? If it worked out, fine—but if not, what would the other villagers think?”
“The Liu family can’t be allowed to cause trouble. I’ll go tomorrow to refuse them, so as not to stir things up.”
Bailan exhaled in relief. “Then I’ll go with you, Father.”
“No, this kind of matter you shouldn’t handle yourself. I’ll take care of it.”
Jiang Zichun paced the room, still uneasy, unable to sit still.
Bailan, washing vegetables in the kitchen, noticed his father leave again—surely to visit the Liu family—and grew slightly anxious. He wiped his hands on his waist, removed his apron, and followed.
Father and son walked toward the Liu residence.
The Liu family was one of the village’s largest, with many relatives, fields, livestock, and trees. Their house, with white walls and blue tiles, was impressive, giving the village head some respect—or else many matters could not be executed.
Bailan trailed behind, watching the Liu household’s longservants open the gates. Hearing that his father wanted to speak with Liu Jin, they didn’t let him in, only relaying a few words: Old Man Liu was not home, having gone to a manor east of the village, and they didn’t know when he’d return.
Just then, from the back of the house, father and son arrived—Old Man Liu Jin and Liu Wuge himself.
Jiang Zichun smiled faintly. “Fortuitous. I thought Old Man Liu wouldn’t return soon, but it seems my timing is just right.”
Liu Jin, hands behind his back, was a landlord who worked in the fields alongside villagers. Though better off than most, he lacked the refinement of city dwellers. Sun-darkened and wearing simple clothes, his face looked even more somber. He barely glanced at Jiang Zichun, showing no warmth.
“There’s no illness in our house. No need for a doctor. Leave.”
“Old Man Liu, I’ve come today to discuss Bailan’s matter.”
Liu Jin assumed it was about bringing Bailan’s birth date for a match. He had no patience for this now. Irritated, he snapped, “Go, go! If there’s anything else, we’ll speak tomorrow. I have no time today.”
With that, he shoved Jiang Zichun aside and went inside, Liu Wuge close behind. The longservants politely barred Jiang Zichun from entering.
Bailan saw his father return after being refused at the door, nearly shoved aside by Liu Jin. He felt a sharp pang of discomfort—the Liu family was even more arrogant than the city’s wealthy households. He was about to step forward when a villager appeared.
“Doctor Jiang, you’re here! The medicine you gave my old man last time has run out. Could you bring some more? I was just about to come to you.”
Jiang Zichun suppressed the vexation from earlier and spoke gently: “The medicine is indeed nearly finished, but I have some matters at hand. Could I bring it over a little later?”
“It’s no trouble; I can wait.”
Jiang Zichun nodded and moved to knock on the Liu household door, but the longservants stopped him. “Doctor Jiang, you’d best leave. As you saw, our master is in a bad mood today.”
Sighing, Jiang Zichun turned to the villager. “Alright, then. We’ll get the medicine for you.”
Seeing Jiang Zichun turned away, the villager lingered to glance at the Liu household one last time, muttering, “They’re all courteous when they need someone, but in daily life, they’re so arrogant.”
Jiang Zichun said nothing, only smiled faintly.
Bailan drew back, not following. Today’s business hadn’t succeeded—he could always return tomorrow. But the Liu family’s attitude was chilling. He wasn’t eager to marry into their household, so why treat his father with such disdain?
As his father and the villager disappeared from sight, Bailan prepared to head home. Then a woman emerged from the Liu house, muttering angrily.
“The master inside won’t see a countryside family like ours, which isn’t surprising. But to ignore someone who comes all the way to please them—what kind of man is that? I’m going back to my family.”
Bailan paused to listen. The woman, not young but still crying openly, seemed intent on letting everyone know how poorly the Liu family treated her.
She was Liu Jin’s principal wife. Villagers whispered that she was jealous, unhappy with the many concubines who caused trouble in the household.
From her few words, Bailan pieced together why his father and Liu Wuge had returned with dark expressions—refused at the door, and now the wife was throwing her own tantrum.
Bailan’s gaze drifted east, where a wide, well-built estate rose beyond the fields, grander than the Liu household. It belonged to wealthy city families who built country manors for managing land and livestock.
Such estates were common in villages. Large households had managers overseeing fields, often accompanied by hired farmers. Though located in the same village, the estate’s stewards rarely interacted with villagers. Local landlords, however, liked to curry favor—they knew that maintaining connections could link them to the estate’s owners.
Bailan had always known of a large manor in the village but had never known its owner. Hearing the Liu wife speak of “important people,” perhaps the manor’s owner had arrived.
He pondered as he walked but shook his head—what did it matter if the owner had come? The estate had never asked his father to see patients, nor could it bring any business.
Lost in thought, he was startled by a refined voice behind him: “Jiang Bailan.”