Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Fleeting Years Flow Like Water, My Daughter Grows Into Womanhood

Time in the gentle ripples of Jiangnan’s water towns always passes by without a sound.

In the blink of an eye, six years had slipped away.

Six years is enough to see a babbling child grow into a graceful youth, and for Doctor Jiang of Anhe Hall to become woven completely into the fabric of Andu Town.

Learning from past lessons, this time, I became the most “proper” physician one could imagine.

No longer did I seek out cases that would shake the medical world, nor did I display any skills beyond the realm of common sense. At Anhe Hall, I treated only the usual ailments—headaches, colds, bruises, minor injuries, and digestive complaints. My prescriptions were gentle, their effects steady and reliable, never once erring, never once astounding.

Over time, the townsfolk came to know that Doctor Jiang at the west end of the street was a good man—skilled in medicine, gentle in spirit. He did not say much, but always listened patiently to their ailments, and his remedies always brought relief. His fees were fair, and he often refused payment from the elderly who lived alone.

This perfectly measured “ordinariness” finally brought me the peace I had long dreamed of.

And this peace was woven from countless mundane, smoke-scented moments of daily life.

“Doctor Jiang, are you home?” In the early morning, just as I opened the doors of my clinic, Granny Wang from across the street, who sold tofu, would walk over with a steaming bowl of fresh bean curd. “Just made it—try it while it’s hot, you and Yiyi!”

“Thank you, Granny Wang.” I would smile and accept it, then take a small packet of herbs wrapped in oil paper from behind the counter. “You’ve had a bit too much dampness lately—here’s a tea I’ve prepared for you to dispel it. Just steep it in water.”

“Oh, you’re too polite, child!” Granny Wang would beam, well accustomed to this gentle exchange between neighbors.

In the afternoons, old Carpenter Li from town would stroll in with his teacup and settle onto the bench. He rarely spoke, just watched as I saw patients and dispensed medicines. When I had a free moment, he’d chat with me about this and that—from the leaky roof at the east end of town to the fishing boat at the west that needed repairs.

“Doctor Jiang, my back’s been aching again lately. Has it flared up?” he’d say, pounding his lower back.

Without looking up from my writing, I’d say, “Told you to drink less—never listen. Same prescription as usual, go fetch the herbs yourself.”

“Alright, alright,” he’d chuckle, expertly selecting his own medicine from the cabinet and leaving the money on the counter.

These small, warm exchanges were like invisible threads, binding me—the outsider—firmly to this land. I was no longer the “Jiang Xiuyuan” who had cultivated for a thousand years, but simply the kind-hearted Doctor Jiang the neighbors spoke of.

I welcomed this change in identity.

And in these six years, the one who had changed the most was, of course, Yiyi.

Now in her third year of middle school, Yiyi had grown into a slender, graceful young girl. Over these six years, she had only grown a little taller, still appearing delicate and petite compared to her peers. Her skin was fair, and following me around for so long had given her a calm and scholarly air beyond her years. Still, for someone who hadn’t grown in more than two millennia, any increase in height was a delight to me, no matter how slight.

She still called me “Father,” her voice clear and sweet, carrying the soft lilt unique to this watery southern land.

That day, after school, she ran into the clinic with her backpack, a small frown on her face.

“Father,” she said, putting down her bag and sitting beside me.

“What’s wrong?” I was sorting herbs, and looked up at her voice.

“We’re having a sports meet next week, and we have to sign up for events,” she pouted. “But… I’m not fast at running, and I can’t jump high. I’m not good at anything.”

Her height did put her at a disadvantage in sports, and it made her a little self-conscious.

I set down the herbs and looked at her gently. “Yiyi, have you forgotten what I’ve always told you? Everyone has things they’re good at, and things they aren’t. Just like the herbs in this cabinet—angelica nourishes the blood, astragalus strengthens the qi—each has its own use. You can’t expect one herb to cure everything.”

I took her small hand, feeling the pure, solid spiritual energy within her that far surpassed any ordinary person.

“And are you really not good at anything?” I asked with a smile.

Yiyi was momentarily startled.

Of course, how could she not be capable?

Over these six years, with my guidance, she had never slackened in her cultivation. From drawing breath into her body, to perfecting energy refinement, to where she was now—she had steadily entered the Foundation Building stage.

To a cultivator, building the foundation is the first true step onto the immortal path, away from the realm of mortals. At this stage, her body had long since been refined by spiritual energy—untainted and flawless, her senses far surpassing those of ordinary people. She could easily hear neighbors’ conversations hundreds of meters away, see the pattern on an insect’s wing in the dark, and even leap effortlessly onto the roof of our two-story house.

But I had always taught her to conceal her abilities, to keep these powers a secret belonging only to the two of us, never to be told to anyone else.

After so long, she almost forgot that beneath her ordinary, petite exterior, an extraordinary strength lay hidden.

“But… I can’t use those,” she muttered softly.

“Exactly,” I affirmed. “Those aren’t for competing with your classmates.” Then I shifted the conversation. “Having these powers isn’t so you can win competitions—it’s so you have a stronger heart. To help you understand that speed or height, winning or losing, aren’t what truly matter. What matters is knowing who you are, and knowing where you’re headed.”

I patted her head. “Go on, sign up for an event you like. Just do your best. The ranking is for others to see; the experience is yours alone.”

Yiyi nodded thoughtfully, the worry on her face gradually melting away, replaced by a clear sense of understanding.

She stood up, ran to the backyard, and with a light leap, landed soundlessly atop the garden wall. Sitting there, she gazed into the distance at the setting sun, her small figure peaceful and faraway in the evening glow.

Watching her, my heart was filled with tranquility.

I understood then how important it was to accompany her through each stage of growing up. To witness her grow from a child who needed my care in everything, to a young woman learning to think for herself and form her own opinions—this joy was something no cultivation, no immortality, could ever replace.