Chapter Seven: "The Daoist Twelve-Section Brocade"!

When Qin Luo saw Lin Huanxi’s cheeks tinged with blush, her eyes shining with a gentle melancholy, her entire face awash in embarrassment and hesitation as she sat motionless, he finally understood what troubled her heart.

“This acupuncture point is very important. If I insert the needle blindly, I might hit the femoral artery or vein. I can’t guarantee it’ll be safe,” Qin Luo explained.

“You know how to perform blind needling?” Lin Huanxi looked utterly astonished.

Though she taught immunology at the hospital, she possessed a general understanding of traditional Chinese medicine. Blind needling, as it was called, meant inserting needles with one’s eyes covered—an art that required supreme mastery of technique, pressure, and point location.

In the field of Chinese medicine, there were fewer than ten who could perform blind needling. And yet, this young man before her—young enough to be her younger brother—had already mastered such a skill?

“In my family, you can’t become a practitioner unless you master blind needling,” Qin Luo replied with a smile, a quiet pride for his lineage stirring within him.

Lin Huanxi regarded Qin Luo as if she were seeing a rare creature. He was a true master of the art. If she continued to act so timidly, wouldn’t that be an affront to his medical ethics?

Besides, his gaze was open and honest—he didn’t look like someone who took pleasure in taking advantage of women. What harm was there in letting him help with the acupuncture?

Lin Huanxi was truly tired of her own personality. She knew she shouldn’t be this way, but she couldn’t change.

Because of her nature, she had almost no friends at school.

She shied away from men.

Women, in turn, avoided her.

She was like a solitary bird flying alone, sometimes feeling lost and unsupported.

“Can you wait a moment? I’d like to change my clothes,” Lin Huanxi said, her cheeks flushed.

“Change clothes?” Qin Luo glanced at her silk nightdress. “There’s probably no need. What you’re wearing is quite suitable. It’s convenient for the procedure.”

“I… I’d still rather change,” Lin Huanxi’s face was so red it seemed she could wring water from it.

There was no way she could explain to Qin Luo that when she’d stepped out of the shower to answer the door, she hadn’t even put on underwear—she’d simply thrown on her nightdress. The gown was as light as gauze, but long enough to seem innocent. Still, if he needed to perform acupuncture near the root of her thigh, the truth would be revealed.

Qin Luo didn’t know why she insisted, but seeing her bring it up again, he nodded. “If you must. But I’d suggest a skirt—it’ll make my work easier. Long pants might be inconvenient.”

“All right,” Lin Huanxi agreed. She quietly grabbed clean underwear and a skirt from the wardrobe and dashed to the bathroom to change.

When she reemerged, she was still wearing the same purple nightdress as before.

If anything had changed, it was that she now wore a bra beneath the nightdress, securing what had previously been left unrestrained. The effect was less provocative, but otherwise, nothing was different.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to change?” Qin Luo asked.

“I did. Let’s begin,” Lin Huanxi replied, unsure how else to answer, and put on her best ‘man-hating’ expression.

It was, admittedly, a perfect disguise.

“All right,” Qin Luo said. He took out the acupuncture needles, disinfected them, and lifted the hem of her nightdress.

To be honest, everyone harbors a certain destructive urge deep inside. Whether it’s shucking corn or removing a woman’s clothing, there’s a peculiar thrill in the act. That’s why couples break things during arguments, or why some people tear paper when they’re angry.

Men seem born with a fondness for women in skirts—not for the skirt itself, but for the legs beneath. It’s not a matter of perversion, but of fact: shapely, toned thighs are a powerful tonic for a dispirited man.

In both domestic films and Hollywood blockbusters, when the director wishes to add a touch of sensuality, he needs only have a woman lie on a bed or sofa, bite her lip, and lift her thigh—the man’s eyes will light up, and he’ll be irresistibly drawn onward.

Remember why Tony Leung’s character in “Lust, Caution” was so ensnared by Tang Wei? Because that day, she wore a cheongsam that revealed her long, alluring legs. If she’d worn jeans, perhaps Tony would have lost interest—the struggle to peel them off would have defeated his patience.

All right, I confess—the reason for this lengthy aside on female thighs is simply that our young Qin Luo had a reaction. I have to find an excuse for his less-than-ideal behavior.

In truth, this was all quite unanticipated for Qin Luo. When he raised the hem of her nightdress, his intentions were entirely professional, rooted in compassion and the desire to heal.

But when he saw Lin Huanxi’s long, sensual legs, his mind was thrown into chaos.

A wildly beating heart meant his hand, holding the needle, began to tremble. A trembling hand risked missing the point, or misjudging the pressure.

To save face, Lin Huanxi closed her eyes, reclining slightly against the pillow.

It was precisely this pose—so inviting, so far beyond what a young, inexperienced man like Qin Luo could endure—that caused his composure to falter.

She waited a while and, sensing that Qin Luo still hadn’t moved, finally opened her eyes. “What’s wrong? Is there a problem?”

“No,” Qin Luo shook his head quickly. “Let’s begin.”

He recited the Heart-Calming Mantra from the Daoist “Twelve Pieces of Brocade,” quieting his thoughts, reigning in his spirit, steadying both his mind and his heartbeat.

The needle entered, turned gently, and was withdrawn in one fluid motion.

“All done,” Qin Luo exhaled softly. It seemed he still had many hurdles to overcome on his path as a healer.

Conquering desire, for instance, was not something he could yet face unflinchingly.

Perhaps it was because he was still a virgin.

He recalled what he’d read: virgins were the most easily moved. If he’d seen countless beauties, grown accustomed to women’s curves and thighs, perhaps he wouldn’t have lost control today.

Lin Huanxi pulled her nightdress down to cover her legs, her cheeks crimson. “Thank you.”

Though she’d been labeled a ‘leftover woman’ by Lin Qingyuan, she’d never experienced anything so ambiguous and embarrassing. In fact, she’d never had such close contact with a man at all.

Qin Luo’s fingertips had brushed her skin, making her body tremble in response.

“You’re welcome,” Qin Luo said. “From now on, acupuncture every night, for a week straight.”

Lin Huanxi’s face, having just returned to normal, turned scarlet again. “A week of acupuncture?”

“Yes. If your liver channel remains blocked and the stagnant qi isn’t cleared, your illness will be difficult to cure,” Qin Luo explained.

Anger harms the liver. When liver qi is stagnant, internal fire blazes.

If Lin Huanxi remained easily angered, it would be very difficult for her to interact with men as a normal person would.

---

Qin Luo had always been in the habit of morning exercise. When he jogged downstairs in his tracksuit, Old Master Lin Qingyuan was already practicing tai chi in the courtyard.

“Qin Luo, up so early?” The old man was surprised to see him. Few young people these days rose at six or seven in the morning.

“Just keeping up with my routine,” Qin Luo replied, smiling. He took his place beside Lin Qingyuan and began the ‘Drumming the Heavens’ movement from the “Daoist Twelve Pieces of Brocade,” a stance repeated twenty-four times.

The “Daoist Twelve Pieces of Brocade” was a treasure of Daoist health cultivation, given to Qin Luo by a wandering Daoist by chance, along with a yellowed, tattered book on physical exercises.

At first, Qin Luo had thought it was some cheap ten-yuan pirated edition from a roadside stall. But when his grandfather, Qin Zheng, an expert in health cultivation, studied it, he began to make Qin Luo practice the two books’ contents every day.

Qin Luo knew that if not for the foundation built by the “Daoist Twelve Pieces of Brocade” and the physical training techniques, with his naturally strong yang constitution, he might have died long ago, consumed by internal fire.

That old Daoist was truly his lifesaving mentor. Unfortunately, Qin Luo never had the chance to see him again.

“Ah, young men like you are becoming rarer by the day. All the treasures of our ancestors have been all but lost,” Lin Qingyuan remarked, hands tracing circles as he moved. “Early to bed, early to rise, two rounds of tai chi each day—far better than whatever they do at those fitness clubs or taekwondo studios, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps they just prefer a more exciting lifestyle,” Qin Luo replied with a smile.

He was never one to judge others’ lifestyles; everyone has their own way of living, after all.

What he found suitable might not be to others’ tastes. Perhaps because of his Daoist studies, Qin Luo believed in going with the flow.

“Hm? Qin Luo, what’s that you’re doing?” Lin Qingyuan watched, intrigued, as Qin Luo pressed his palms to his ears, overlapped his index and middle fingers, and flicked them against the back of his head, mimicking the sound of a drum.

Such a practice was entirely new to Lin Qingyuan.

“Grandpa Lin, it’s my own exercise routine,” Qin Luo replied with a smile.

“What’s it called? Does it work?” Lin Qingyuan asked curiously.

“It’s called the ‘Daoist Twelve Pieces of Brocade.’ I think it’s quite effective,” Qin Luo answered modestly. In truth, it was excellent for health and longevity, resisting aging and decay.

“How does it compare to tai chi?”

“Each has its merits,” Qin Luo replied. Both were rooted in Daoist tradition, and each had its own unique qualities.

“Shall we have a contest?” Lin Qingyuan, growing enthusiastic, challenged him.

Qin Luo shook his head. “Better not.”

Thinking of Qin Luo’s health, Lin Qingyuan’s competitive spirit waned. He reflected that, having practiced tai chi for decades, it wouldn’t do to embarrass the younger generation.

“No contest, then. I’m a bit tired anyway,” Lin Qingyuan said, giving Qin Luo an out. “I’m off today. Why don’t I accompany you out shopping? I can help you pick out some clothes.”

“I’d better go myself. Do you even know what to buy?” Lin Huanxi called down from the second-floor balcony. She’d been standing there for some time, quietly watching them exercise.

“Fine, you can go. Women always know about clothes—” Suddenly, Lin Qingyuan looked up at Lin Huanxi, surprise written all over his face. “You’ll go?”

He wondered if he’d heard wrong. Since when had his precious granddaughter ever been willing to accompany a man on a shopping trip?