"Little girl—don't say I didn't warn you!"
The bodyguard saw that Mu Qingyue refused to heed him. His expression cooled at once, and he reached out to seize her shoulder, intent on stopping her by force.
Mu Qingyue did not retreat. She merely lifted her hand and, with a light backward motion, brushed him aside—borrowing his momentum, turning his strength against him, and dissolving his grab in a single, elegant exchange. His attack was neutralized before it could even form. Her feet never faltered; her pace remained poised and unhurried, as though the interruption were nothing more than a drifting leaf caught in her path.
The bodyguard's eyes widened in disbelief.
"You… you know martial arts?" he stammered.
And not shallow tricks, either—her skill carried weight. Her force was clean, her technique refined. Yet she looked like a fragile girl, slender as a willow branch, the kind one would imagine could be toppled by a gust of wind.
Mu Qingyue offered no answer.
In her previous life, she had once bought liquor for an elderly man by the roadside—an act of casual kindness she had hardly thought twice about. The old man, however, had seized upon her as though he'd discovered a rare treasure. He claimed to be the head of some ancient martial sect and insisted—insisted—that she possessed an innate gift for cultivation and combat. Before she could protest, he had forced her into apprenticeship, dragging her through half a month of training as if her consent were irrelevant.
After teaching her a dozen or so moves, he abruptly announced that urgent matters required his departure—and from that day onward, he vanished without leaving even a trace.
Mu Qingyue had never spoken of that odd encounter to anyone.
Yet those few techniques were enough to change the way the world treated her. They turned her into the nearby hooligans' nightmare—a small tyrant they feared to provoke. Anyone who dared to lay hands on her quickly learned what regret tasted like.
The bodyguard's suspicion flared hotter. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Who sent you?"
At the sound of his startled outburst, the man by the river finally moved. He turned his head slowly, as though only now deigning to acknowledge the disturbance.
Very few could trade blows with Heifeng and remain unscathed. This, clearly, was no ordinary village girl.
Quan Yeting's gaze—cold, keen, and mercilessly assessing—swept over Mu Qingyue.
She was young. Fair-skinned. Gracefully built.
A veil covered her face, yet her eyes—clear and radiant, catlike and jewel-bright—were so striking that they alone suggested the breathtaking beauty hidden beneath the gauze.
"You should understand," Quan Yeting said icily, "what happens to those who attack me."
Mu Qingyue merely smiled, fearless to the point of insolence. She lifted her hand and, with fingers like pale green bamboo shoots, slid it slowly into her sleeve.
In the next instant—
A shadow moved.
Quan Yeting's hand shot out and closed around her slender wrist. He applied only a small measure of force, but it was enough to disrupt her balance. Mu Qingyue's knees softened, and she stumbled forward—unintentionally falling into his arms.
A flicker of surprise crossed her eyes.
So his skill surpassed even that of his bodyguard—no wonder his presence was so oppressive, so commanding.
And yet, rather than recoil, her interest sharpened.
After all, compared with the weak, she had always preferred the strong.
At close range, Mu Qingyue took in his face with frank appreciation—those severe brows, those ink-blue eyes, that thin mouth pressed into a cold, swordlike line. She endured the pressure radiating from him without lowering her gaze, then continued her original motion and drew something out of her sleeve.
Not a blade.
A small medicine vial.
She smiled, her tone almost playful. "Take one before sleep every night," she said. "It will help you."
"This is…?" Quan Yeting's eyes narrowed slightly. He hadn't expected a bottle. Still, he accepted it, turning it in his hand as if weighing its truth.
Heifeng leaned close and warned in a low voice, urgent and protective. "Seventh Master, you can't take something of unknown origin. She might have been sent to poison you."
Mu Qingyue blinked, lashes lowering as if offended by the suspicion. "If you don't believe me, you don't have to swallow it," she said lightly. "Just take it out before bed and inhale the medicinal fragrance. Even that should ease your insomnia."
Silence.
Quan Yeting's expression shifted—so subtly most people would have missed it, but the change was real.
Insomnia.
He suffered from severe insomnia, and it was top-level classified information. Only a handful of people he trusted even knew of it. Moreover, his face never showed dark circles; no matter how sleepless he was, he remained impeccably composed, his beauty undiminished. An ordinary observer could not have detected his hidden ailment.
"How do you know?" he asked coldly.
Mu Qingyue's smile deepened, bright with audacity. "Simple," she replied. "Because I'm a divine physician."
With that, she shifted her body and slipped from his arms like a nimble fish, smooth and uncatchable.
She looked back over her shoulder, brows lifting in a coquettish warning. "Today's medicine is free—consider it a trial. If it works, come find me and we'll talk about buying more. But next time you dare to pull me into your arms like that, I won't be so polite!"
Quan Yeting's eyes narrowed into a dangerous sliver.
He watched the girl's graceful figure retreat into the distance. In his palm, the faint warmth lingering from her wrist seemed to burn lightly against his skin—warm enough to make something in his chest tremble, just once.
That night, Mu Qingyue could not bring herself to sleep. She remained in the library pavilion, a lamp burning beside her as she studied until the shadows shifted and the wick grew thin. The deeper she delved, the more she sensed the boundless subtlety of ancient medicine—its principles interwoven like constellations, its logic both mysterious and exact, as though the art of healing were a bridge between mortal flesh and the divine.
"The things left behind by true masters…" she murmured, eyes fixed on the page. "They really are profound beyond measure."
A crisp chime rang out.
Ding!
Xiaosu flew out in a burst of excitement, cheeks glowing with pride. "Congratulations, Master! Your medical cultivation has advanced to Spirit Physician, Second Tier! You can now refine Qingrong Ointment!"
According to Xiaosu, the space's medical cultivation was divided into four vast realms, from low to high: Spirit Physician, Mystic Physician, Immortal Physician, and Celestial Physician.
Once one reached the Celestial Physician stage, one could command the entire space. Beyond that, only a single step remained—ascension to immortality.