Chapter 10: The Six-Root Eighteen Fatal Needles

Night had fallen.

Having been away from home for so long, Zhao Feng was filled with excitement. Lying on his bed in his own room, gazing up at the ceiling, he felt the gentle warmth of familiarity seep into his heart.

Yet, as he reflected on the past year, Zhao Feng found himself yearning even more for the Medicine Summit Sect.

The room was shrouded in darkness, lit only by the pale glow of moonlight spilling softly inside.

Zhao Feng stretched out his right hand before his eyes, studying his palm intently. To his astonishment, a faint phosphorescent light shimmered from his skin.

He sat up from the bed.

“The path of cultivation requires one to temper the body with precious elixirs,” he murmured to himself. “Whether in cultivation or martial arts, the early stages demand the use of treasured medicines to refine the body. During my year at the Immortal Gate, I did nothing but study medicine and hone my physical strength—all so that I might walk further on this path.”

Zhao Feng slipped into his slippers and stood up. He walked to the window and looked out into the gentle moonlight, a smile spreading across his lips.

A soft chuckle escaped him.

“It’s time to see how my parents are doing.”

With that, he left his room and made his way to Zhao Jun and Chen Lan’s bedroom.

Knock, knock, knock.

From within came Zhao Jun’s voice: “Who is it? Xiaofeng?”

Zhao Feng touched his nose. “Dad, it’s me.”

The two people inside seemed startled; the door opened at once.

Zhao Feng and Zhao Jun stood face to face.

Zhao Jun smiled, “Xiaofeng, come in!”

Zhao Feng nodded, entering the room with Zhao Jun limping along behind him.

A frown creased Zhao Feng’s brow at the sight.

His expression turned sullen. “Dad, don’t worry. I’ll find the one responsible.”

Zhao Jun shook his head. “Xiaofeng, it’s enough that you’re home! Your father asks for nothing else. All I want is for our family to be safe and sound. Those people have too much power; we cannot stand against them.”

To allay his parents’ concern, Zhao Feng took a deep breath and replied, “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be careful.”

“Good, good,” Zhao Jun said, patting his son’s shoulder.

Zhao Feng helped Zhao Jun to a seat. “Dad, sit down and let me take a look at your leg.”

Zhao Jun was surprised. “Xiaofeng, you know medicine?”

Zhao Feng smiled gently. “Dad, I’ve learned a great deal this past year. Medicine is just one of the skills I picked up.”

Zhao Jun’s surprise only deepened.

“Alright, sit down, Dad.”

With some hesitation, Zhao Jun sat, and Chen Lan came to his side.

Zhao Feng knelt down and rolled up Zhao Jun’s pant leg, exposing his left knee.

At once, Zhao Feng’s face darkened. Zhao Jun’s knee was bruised and blackened—a sign of necrosis in the tissue.

If this were the Immortal Gate, such an injury would be a trifling matter; among cultivators, even regrowing limbs was commonplace. But here, in the mortal realm, not only was treatment uncertain, but even the necessary ingredients would be difficult to find.

Zhao Feng drew a deep breath, comforting, “Dad, it’s a minor injury. You’ll recover soon.”

“Really?” Zhao Jun’s voice quivered with hope.

Though he knew his son was trying to reassure him, Zhao Jun couldn’t hide his excitement. Chen Lan, meanwhile, worried he might end up disappointed.

Zhao Feng smiled again. “Trust me, you’ll be well in no time.”

At that moment, Chen Ying appeared at the doorway, unnoticed. She leaned against the doorframe, watching the scene inside.

Zhao Feng turned and saw her.

He blinked. “What brings you here?”

Chen Ying’s cheeks flushed. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came down to take a look.”

At that moment, she was dressed in a pink camisole and matching shorts.

Zhao Feng glanced at her, and his face turned crimson, having caught a glimpse of something he shouldn’t have.

He shook his head. “Could you do me a favor and fetch my satchel from my room?”

“Oh, sure!” Chen Ying nodded and hurried off.

A moment later, she returned with a blue satchel in hand.

Zhao Feng took it, his expression softening. Embroidered on the bag was a delicate flower—a handiwork of his senior apprentice sister. The satchel itself was also made by her.

His gentleness was palpable.

Chen Ying had never seen such tenderness in a man before, nor felt such an aura. For a moment, she was entranced.

“Hey? Hey, hey?”

“Huh?” Snapping back to reality, Chen Ying shook her head, her blush deepening.

Zhao Feng stroked his chin. “What were you just thinking about?”

She quickly shook her head. “Nothing, nothing!”

“Really?”

“Really!”

“Alright then.”

Zhao Feng didn’t press further. He came to Zhao Jun’s side and knelt down once more.

“Dad, let me examine your injury now.”

Zhao Jun nodded.

Zhao Feng placed his right hand gently on Zhao Jun’s knee and closed his eyes.

In an instant, the structure of Zhao Jun’s body—the tissues, the muscles—became vividly clear in Zhao Feng’s mind.

After a while, he opened his eyes.

“How is it?” Chen Lan asked anxiously.

Zhao Feng managed a smile. “Better than I expected.”

Both Chen Lan and Zhao Jun let out a sigh of relief.

Yet inwardly, Zhao Feng was troubled. The truth was, Zhao Jun’s condition was dire.

“All his muscle tissue and bone are necrotic. With my current abilities, I can only delay the damage—unless I reach the first stage of Qi Refining.”

He spoke calmly, “Dad, I’ll perform some acupuncture now. The rest will have to wait a little longer.”

Zhao Jun understood then that his situation was serious. Disappointment flickered across his face, and Chen Lan squeezed his hand in silent comfort.

Zhao Feng said no more. From his satchel, he produced a blue kit.

Inside were the Eighteen Needles of Mortal Peril.

Now, Zhao Feng’s demeanor shifted, sharp and decisive.

With a swift motion, he plucked a silver needle and inserted it into Zhao Jun’s knee.

A muffled groan escaped Zhao Jun.

“It’ll hurt a bit, Dad. Bear with it,” Zhao Feng said.

Zhao Jun straightened his back. “Don’t worry, son. Don’t forget what your father used to do for a living.”

“That’s good.”

Without further ado, Zhao Feng deftly wielded the Eighteen Needles of Mortal Peril. In a flash, six needles were already in place.

Sweat the size of beads rolled down Zhao Jun’s face—it hurt far more than when his leg was first broken.

“Hold on!”

“I will!”