A few weeks had passed, and I had finally settled into something resembling a routine. Each morning, I'd make the walk to the infirmary, no longer trailed by an entourage. It turned out, none of the servant girls wanted anything to do with the sight of blood—or me, apparently. Which was fine. I'd rather go solo than feel like I was dragging around a pack of squeamish shadows.
Xiaohua still joined me sometimes, but her quarters were closer to the infirmary, so most days I told her to just meet me there. She was always punctual, already rolling up her sleeves and prepping herbs by the time I arrived.
As word of my work spread, it wasn't just the freshly wounded who started dropping by. Coughs, fevers, rashes, mystery stomach bugs—suddenly everyone in the Prince's quarter seemed to have something "urgent" that required our attention. I wasn't sure if it was genuine need or curiosity dressed as a sore throat, but we treated them all.
Old Liang, for all his grumbling, didn't seem to hate the extra company. Still, he kept up appearances.
"These soldiers barely get sick," he muttered one afternoon as he crushed dried bark with a mortar and pestle, "but now they're tripping over themselves to come here. Not for the medicine—for you two." He shot a look at Xiaohua and me. "If they keep coming to ogle, I'll report them to Prince Wei myself."
We laughed, but I saw the faint smile tugging at the edge of his weathered mouth. He didn't fool anyone.
Still, the strain was starting to show.
"If this keeps up, I'll need help just grinding these damn herbs," he grunted, elbow-deep in powdered licorice root.
I leaned on the counter. "Maybe we could train a few of the soldiers for basic prep. You know—medic duty."
Old Liang gave me a look so deadpan I nearly laughed.
"Soldiers? Volunteering to help in the infirmary? Sure. And maybe next week they'll be stitching up their own wounds with dainty little needles."
Touché, Old Liang.
However, a few days later, a few soldiers volunteered to help us.
But one afternoon, something shifted. I was organizing a tray of herbs when I noticed a servant girl hovering nervously by the door. Xiaohua, always quick to notice distress, approached her quietly. They spoke in hushed voices, and Xiaohua returned with a furrowed brow.
"She's asking if we can spare something to lower a fever," she said softly.
My brows knit. "What's going on?"
"One of the girls in the servants' quarters is sick. The line at the main infirmary was too long, so she came here instead. But she's worried. Technically, they're not allowed to seek treatment here."
"Tell her to bring the sick girl. We'll take a look."
And she did. A pale, feverish girl was brought in not long after. We treated her with herbs and rest, and she left better than she came. Then a few days later, another servant girl came with a stomachache. Then another, with a twisted ankle. Word was clearly spreading.
By the end of the week, our little infirmary was no longer just the overflow wing for overly enthusiastic sword trainees—it was slowly becoming the go-to clinic for the overlooked and overworked.
Curiosity gnawed at me that evening, so I approached Madam Hui.
"I've seen more servant girls coming to our infirmary lately. Is something going on?"
She sighed, a weariness settling into her features. "The main infirmary is reserved for the royal family and officials. Common servants are expected to wait. Many are turned away unless it's serious."
My modern brain clicked immediately. So… it's like the private hospitals back home. Rich people get everything fast, and everyone else is stuck waiting hours for basic care.
"Well, then let's fix that. You can tell the servant girls they're welcome here. We'll treat them." I said.
Surprise flickered across her face, followed by something softer.
"Thank you, Miss Mei Lin. I'll speak to Prince Wei about providing more supplies."
I grinned. "At this rate, I might as well hang up a sign—'Mei Lin's Express Care: No long waits, no royal bloodline required.'"
Xiaohua giggled beside me, and even Madam Hui cracked a rare smile.
That moment of shared laughter, simple as it was, gave me something I hadn't felt in a long time: belonging. And if all it took was helping people, one fever and one bandage at a time—maybe I was exactly where I needed to be.
***
The next day, the infirmary was in full swing. What had once been a quiet, echoing room now pulsed with energy. Soldiers came limping in with bruises and sprains, servant girls peeked in with shy coughs or minor ailments, and the shelves—once nearly bare—were now stocked with rows of dried herbs and hand-labeled remedies. The whole space smelled like earth and mint and something vaguely bitter I still hadn't identified.
We were busy—very busy.
Old Liang was, of course, grumbling as usual, though there was a suspicious glint of satisfaction in his eye.
"Place used to be peaceful," he muttered while mashing roots into a thick paste. "Now I can't sit down without someone asking me to mix something."
Xiaohua moved gracefully between patients, administering herbs and poultices with practiced calm. She'd picked up so much so quickly it was easy to forget she'd only started recently. Honestly, she was the real MVP of the infirmary, and I was just doing my best to keep up.
That afternoon, I was elbow-deep in making a poultice when the door opened—and in walked Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian.
I blinked in surprise.
Lan Wangji, ever the embodiment of composure, stepped in with quiet poise. His eyes scanned the room once, observant and sharp, but his expression betrayed nothing.
Wei Wuxian, in contrast, strolled in with a lopsided smile.
"Word travels fast in the palace," he said, tone light but not unserious. "Seems you've built quite the reputation here, Miss Mei Lin."
Their appearance brought a ripple of energy to the room. I quickly set my tools aside and moved toward them.
"It's more chaotic than I imagined," I admitted with a smile. "But I'm glad to be doing something useful."
Lan Wangji offered a respectful nod. Wei Wuxian's gaze drifted around the infirmary.
"It's impressive, truly. Lan Zhan insisted we come see it ourselves."
Lan Wangji said nothing to that, but I caught the subtle glance he gave Wei Wuxian—just a fraction of a look, but enough to make Wei Wuxian grin wider.
I raised an eyebrow, amused. "And here I thought you were both too busy to check in on humble healers."
"We're due to spar in two days," Wei Wuxian said, his tone lightening. "Word is already spreading. It's become a bit of an event."
That got my attention. "You and Lan Zhan? A full cultivation-level match?"
Wei Wuxian nodded. My interest was immediately piqued.
"A sparring match between high-level cultivators? That sounds incredible. I'd love to see it."
Wei Wuxian clapped his hands together. "Excellent! We will arrange a seat for you."
I smiled, an unexpected thrill running through me. Somehow, amidst herbs and bandages, I had stumbled into something much bigger than myself. And now, I was being invited to witness a cultivator match that, until recently, I'd only ever seen on a screen.
Maybe I didn't have streaming services or social media anymore, but this? This was shaping up to be even better.
As they turned to leave, Wei Wuxian glanced back with a sly grin.
"You've done a fine job with the infirmary, Mei Lin. Just make sure those soldiers don't spend too much time gawking, or I might have to start charging them—or worse, step in myself."
The soldiers stiffened.
One coughed awkwardly and quickly busied himself with folding gauze that didn't need folding. Another stared very hard at the floor like it held the secrets of cultivation.
Old Liang, without looking up from the mortar and pestle he was grinding herbs in, let out a low grunt.
"He's not wrong. I've seen more bandages undone than wounds lately. If they're not careful, I'll report 'em myself."
That earned him a few nervous glances. I had to bite my lip to stop from laughing.
Wei Wuxian winked at me, clearly pleased with the chaos he'd stirred, while Lan Wangji remained silent—but his glance over the room was sharp and knowing. A single look that said: I'm watching too.
As they stepped out, the room slowly exhaled.
I chuckled and shook my head. "Well, that was dramatic."
Xiaohua leaned in and whispered, "That might actually work. They'll behave now."
Maybe they would. Maybe they wouldn't. But one thing was certain—between Wei Wuxian's teasing and Old Liang's growl, the infirmary had never felt so alive.
The next day, as I made my usual walk to the infirmary, the palace had transformed into a whirlwind of activity. Servants were rushing in every direction, their arms full of fabric, lanterns, and flower arrangements. The usual calm serenity of the palace grounds had been replaced by the unmistakable buzz of impending spectacle.
Everywhere I looked, people were decorating, scrubbing, polishing—turning every corner into a pristine painting. Vibrant banners were being hung from pillars, silk drapes fluttered in the morning breeze, and flower petals were being scattered with surgical precision. It was like the entire palace was preparing for its own close-up.
In the center of the chaos stood Madam Hui, directing traffic like the general of a highly disciplined floral army. She didn't even need to raise her voice much—just one sharp glance, and servant girls scurried faster. Her eyes missed nothing. Not a crooked tablecloth, not a lazy broom stroke.
I approached her, curiosity getting the better of me. "Madam Hui, what's going on? Why does it feel like the palace is getting married?"
She spared me a brief glance before her attention snapped back to a maid rearranging a flower basket an inch too far to the left. "Preparations for tomorrow's event," she said briskly.
I blinked. "You mean the sparring match?" I gestured vaguely at the garlands of flowers being hung like it was someone's royal birthday.
Madam Hui turned her gaze fully on me now, expression stern. "This is not just a sparring match," she corrected. "It is a formal demonstration of strength. Ambassadors from Qiuli, Xiyan, and Daqi will attend. It is an annual tradition led by Prince Wei. Everything must be perfect. I will not tolerate embarrassment—not when so many eyes will be watching him."
I immediately straightened up, like a guilty schoolgirl caught talking during morning roll call. "Of course. That makes... a lot more sense now."
She gave a small, satisfied nod before softening just slightly. "After the sparring, there will be a banquet. It will be a grand affair. You should prepare yourself—we will all be quite busy."
"Right," I said, and offered her a polite bow before heading off again.
As I resumed my walk to the infirmary, my thoughts were buzzing even louder than the palace staff. A banquet. Ambassadors. High cultivators in formal wear. That sounded like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity... and also the kind of social nightmare that would haunt me forever if I messed it up.
A party with royalty and sword-wielding demigods—cool. But also terrifying. What if I trip in front of everyone? What if I use the wrong title or forget which hand to hold the teacup with? Do I bow? Do I curtsey? Do I just... smile and hope no one notices I'm faking all of it?
By the time I reached the infirmary, I had already mentally rewritten the entire guest etiquette manual twice and given myself a full anxiety spiral. But I took a deep breath and stepped inside.
There were wounds to tend, herbs to sort, and soldiers to keep from bleeding out on the floor.
The party could wait.