'Of course, you can't judge everything from a man's eyes alone.'
Just as the virtuous did not spend every moment performing good deeds, the wicked did not commit evil every hour of their lives.
Even those of ill repute sometimes came to a physician's house with no malicious intent — only the wish to be healed.
Naturally, it was best to avoid such people whenever possible.
But to reject a patient merely by the look in his eyes — that, too, would be against the healer's duty.
"I greet you, Lord Zhang Sam. I am Wi Jicheon, third son of the Divine Healer Clan."
"Oh?"
Zhang Sam's eyes glimmered faintly at the boy's calm composure.
As the master of the Black Ghost Sect, Zhang Sam had heard of him before.
'Strange. The rumors said the Divine Healer's third son was a hopeless fool. But he seems perfectly fine to me.'
Still, his impression went no further than that.
Zhang Sam's cultivation was far too shallow to glimpse the still, feral depth within Wi Jicheon's gaze — the darkness coiled deep beneath his calm surface.
And, truthfully, he didn't care to look.
He had come here with other intentions entirely.
"You don't seem the least bit intimidated, even by a dark sect martial artist like me. Remarkable courage for one so young."
"If Lord Zhang has come not as a fiend but as a patient, what need is there for courage? I merely do my duty as a physician."
Zhang Sam frowned slightly.
There was an edge to those words — a subtle barb, as though the boy had seen straight through him.
'What nonsense. He's just a child.'
He gave a dry laugh and studied Wi Jicheon again.
He didn't seem like an idiot, but neither was he threatening.
There was a gentleness to him — a soft, guileless air fitting for a physician's son.
"Let's be on our way, Lord Zhang."
Perhaps sensing something off about the man's interest in his son, Wi Jiseon urged him along.
Zhang Sam nodded, and the two disappeared into the treatment hall.
Wi Jicheon crossed his arms, watching them go.
'Something doesn't feel right.'
He lingered nearby, pacing the courtyard, waiting.
But his concern, for the moment, seemed misplaced — the consultation ended uneventfully.
"My back feels light as air! Astonishing. The fame of Namyang's Divine Healer is no lie."
"Divine Healer of Namyang? Please, that title is far too grand. I'm simply glad to hear you're well."
"I owe you a great debt. Please, accept this token of gratitude."
When Zhang Sam untied a silk pouch and placed it on the table, Wi Jiseon's eyes widened.
Inside was not coin — but a silver ingot, shaped like a saddle.
A yuanbao.
Worth fifty taels of silver — enough to buy several acres of farmland.
"Please, take it. It's a small token of thanks."
"I cannot. This is far too generous—"
"I may walk the dark path, but I've long admired the Divine Healer Clan. They say, 'Earn like a dog, spend like a lord,' don't they? The money's rough-earned, but I'd be honored if it helped your family."
Wi Jiseon hesitated.
The Divine Healer Clan was poor. Deep in debt, in fact.
'The debt collectors will be coming soon. With that money, I could keep them away for a while.'
Such "donations" weren't uncommon.
Every healer's house relied on patronage in one form or another.
He swallowed hard.
But before he could speak—
"Thank you for your generosity," said a calm voice, "but the ancestors taught that excessive wealth invites misfortune. We'll accept the sentiment, not the silver."
"!!"
Both men turned.
It was Wi Jicheon.
"Cheon?"
"Father, didn't you teach me that one must never let greed blind his eyes?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"And that if one walks the righteous path beneath Heaven, one will always receive what one truly needs?"
"Heaven, huh? If Heaven really watched over us, we wouldn't be so damned— no, no, forget I said that…"
Wi Jiseon's gaze lingered on the glinting yuanbao, unable to let go.
But soon he sighed and straightened.
Zhang Sam's offer, generous as it was, felt… wrong.
"My apologies, Lord Zhang. As my son said, this is too great an amount to accept."
"Is it because I am of the dark path?"
"Not at all. It's because I've done nothing worthy of such payment. A few needles, no more. If, Heaven forbid, your life ever truly depends on me, then you may repay me. Though I hope that day never comes, ha ha."
Wi Jiseon's hearty laugh left Zhang Sam no room to press further.
He snatched back the pouch and left the manor in silence.
"…He refuses the silver, but leaves without even paying the normal fee? How can he just walk out like that?"
"Do you regret it?"
"Ahem. No, no, not at all. Though, admittedly… a single yuanbao is worth— no, forget it. Just… been a while since I've even seen one of those things. Yuanbao… yuanbao…"
Wi Jicheon smiled faintly at his father's wistful muttering.
"Don't worry, Father. I'll bring you plenty of yuanbao soon enough."
"My good son. Always so filial. Thank you, even if it's just words."
"I mean it."
"You? And how exactly?"
"An opportunity will come. It always does."
Wi Jicheon glanced toward the gate, where Zhang Sam's figure was receding into the distance.
The man's expression was dark, tense with barely contained fury.
Clearly, his father wasn't the only one still thinking about the ingot.
Wi Jicheon's gaze hardened.
"Perhaps sooner than we think."
His voice was low — and cold.
That night, Wi Jicheon swallowed the Tae-Sodan elixir.
A gnawing unease twisted in his gut.
'That man… he'll be back. He won't let this go.'
And not just him.
Wi Jicheon could already recall the endless calamities that would soon befall the Divine Healer Clan.
Now was no time to bask in the warmth of family and peace.
He had to grow stronger — fast.
Only then could he protect this fragile happiness.
As the elixir melted, Qi spread through his body.
Just a few years' worth of cultivation energy — nothing compared to the true elixirs that granted decades of power.
Those "real" elixirs required rare ingredients that couldn't be found in any ordinary market.
But that was fine.
'The Heavenly Immortal Divine Art multiplies even the smallest Qi a hundredfold.'
Perfect control and absorption — that was its essence.
Not a single drop would go to waste.
Hwooosh.
In moments, the energy had settled into his dantian — a small, bean-sized core, but dense and flawless, purer than any Qi gathered through ordinary cultivation.
'More.'
He closed his eyes, cycling his energy again and again.
The more the stream of Qi gathered, the stronger its flow became.
Through his meridians, up the Hundred Convergences — his channels were already clear from his earlier rebirth, so the energy flowed unhindered.
A faint mist of internal energy began to form around him, glowing softly as night deepened.
Wi Jicheon's eyes snapped open.
'How long has it been?'
He had entered a meditative state — lost in the rhythm of his cultivation.
He had begun at dusk, yet now sunlight poured through the window.
"Are you awake, Young Master?"
It was Jangbok, a young servant who handled errands around the manor.
"What time is it?"
"Midday, sir. You've been sleeping late lately — what happened today?"
"I was studying late last night. I'll have lunch now, I think…"
Wi Jicheon stretched and yawned — then frowned.
Something felt… off.
The manor was too quiet.
'At this hour, the place should be bustling.'
There were still people around — patients, disciples, servants — but an odd tension hung in the air.
"Did something happen?"
"Wh-what? N-no, of course not! Nothing at all!"
Jangbok flailed his hands wildly.
Suspicious — painfully so.
Wi Jicheon's eyes narrowed.
"Care to tell me the truth?"
"Ah— It's not that I'm hiding anything! The Patriarch told me not to say a word, that's all. I swear, I know nothing!"
Wi Jicheon tilted his head slightly, his voice smooth as silk.
"Hmm. It seems your memory's failing you. Perhaps I should remind you — of those late-night snacks you sneak from the kitchen every evening? I wonder what the steward would say if I mentioned it?"
"Ah! No, please! It's just— the Patriarch really told me not to say!"
He glanced nervously around, then leaned closer and whispered.
"This morning, the master of the Black Ghost Sect — Lord Zhang Sam — came back."
"That man? For what reason?"
"He said the acupuncture you gave him yesterday made things worse. His back and legs are in pain, and he demanded to know how you'll take responsibility. He made a huge scene!"
"!!"
Wi Jicheon clenched his fist.
As he feared — the man had come to cause trouble.
"What about my father? Is he safe? That brute didn't harm him, did he?"
A low chill settled over the room.
If that man had so much as touched a hair on his father's head, Wi Jicheon would tear him apart — piece by piece — until he begged for death that would never come.
The ferocity of the Fiend Demon stirred faintly within him.
Jangbok shivered, sensing a cold he couldn't explain.
"N-no, he didn't attack, thank heavens. But…"
"But?"
"The Patriarch said not to tell you — he swore me to silence!"
A heavy dread coiled in Wi Jicheon's chest.
His patience thinned.
"I said," he murmured, voice low and sharp as steel, "tell me."
"!!"
Jangbok swallowed hard.
'W-what's with him?'
This wasn't the same mild, bumbling young master everyone teased behind his back.
For the first time, Jangbok felt genuine fear looking into his eyes — calm, yet terrifyingly still.
Then, as if nothing had happened, Wi Jicheon smiled gently again.
"I'm only worried for my father. Please, just tell me what happened."
The boy hesitated, uncertain now if his earlier terror had been an illusion.
His master's face was the same as always — serene, kind, harmless.
'Maybe I imagined it.'
And so, defeated by that quiet gaze, he began to speak.
And with each word that followed, Wi Jicheon's expression hardened, his face growing cold as stone.