Chapter Nine: The Apothecary's Debut and a Renewed Promise of Childhood

Leaving the bookstore, night had already deepened. The city’s clamor gradually settled, leaving only the elongated shadows of streetlights in their wake. Holding my daughter, Yi Yi, who slept soundly in my arms, I walked through unfamiliar streets. The immense waves of anger and grief for my homeland and family, which once surged within me, slowly ebbed away, dissolving into boundless tenderness for the child nestled against my chest.

Back at the small room we had rented, I gently laid her on the bed and tucked her in. Her lips smacked softly, as if she were still savoring the taste of that sweet treat called “ice cream” she had tried during the day.

Sleep eluded me, so I switched on the desk lamp and leafed through the books I had bought earlier. This time, I did not immerse myself in grand histories, but instead read about society, education, and psychology in this era.

Then I came across a word—“childhood.”

The book claimed that childhood was the most precious, carefree time in a person’s life. Children ought to be sheltered by their parents, playing, learning, singing, and painting with their peers in kindergarten, basking in sunshine and laughter, rather than bearing the burdens of life prematurely.

“Kindergarten,” “play,” “laughter”—these words unfurled before me like vivid paintings. I saw children in parks, shrieking with joy as they slid down slides; I saw classrooms, where, guided by teachers, they colored their imaginations with bright crayons.

But what about Yi Yi?

Her childhood began in the fearful selection for the role of “chosen child”; it was spent crossing the stormy seas, enduring the tempest on deck; it was whittled away in the lonely palace of the Immortal Isle, her only companions magical beasts.

Though she had been nine years old at the time, the exhaustion of travel and scant food made her appear more delicate than children half her age in this era. Her mind was as pure as untouched paper.

I owed her a childhood.

Once this thought took root, it grew wildly in my heart. I could not reverse the tide of history, nor restore the glory of the Great Qin, but to reshape for my daughter the joyful childhood she deserved—this was now my only task, and I must accomplish it.

I would send her to the place called “kindergarten.”

Once I made this decision, two practical problems confronted me: first, we needed a stable livelihood to cover our expenses in this era; second, we needed legal identities, or Yi Yi would never be allowed through the kindergarten’s doors.

I began to inventory my skills. My cultivation was extraordinary and could not be revealed lightly. “Introduction to Alchemy”? In a world with no spiritual herbs, it was as useless as dragon-slaying lore. “Basics of Arrays”? Aside from setting a few simple spirit-gathering and calming arrays at home, it served no purpose.

My gaze finally settled on the vast trove of medical texts I had learned from the Library of Ten Thousand Scrolls.

“Annotated Herbal Classic of Shennong,” “Detailed Explanation of the Inner Canon of the Yellow Emperor,” “Pulse Classic,” “Treatise on Cold Damage and Miscellaneous Diseases”—these books covered everything, from the basics of observation and inquiry to the intricacies of meridians and acupoints, and the diagnosis and treatment of ailments, all thoroughly addressed.

People change, eras change, but the human body, the flow of energy and blood, remains fundamentally the same through the ages. The healer, hanging his gourd for all to see, is respected in any era.

It was decided.

With the last of my gold bracelet’s money, I rented a small storefront in an older, more lived-in neighborhood of Haishi. It lacked the glamour of the city center, but possessed a warmth born of neighborly familiarity.

I could not afford grand renovations, so I cleaned the space until it was spotless, and, using wood scavenged from the flea market, crafted a consultation table, several chairs, and a medicine cabinet with my own hands. Without a license to practice medicine, I could not hang a sign reading “clinic,” so I chose a steady, harmonious name—“Anhe Hall.” I wrote it in brush script on a wooden plaque and hung it over the door, advertising only “Traditional Chinese massage and health adjustment.”

At first, no one came. The neighbors merely cast curious glances at the young “doctor” with his daughter.

A turning point arrived on a rainy day. Old Mr. Li from the game room next door, plagued by chronic back pain from years of sitting, suffered an attack so severe he could not stand. Hearing the commotion, I hurried over. Under the skeptical gaze of his family, I had him lie face down on the bed. Suppressing my golden core’s power, I relied solely on the refined massage techniques I had learned in the Library, following the meridians, pressing and kneading. In less than the time it takes to burn a stick of incense, Mr. Li sighed deeply and stood up on his own.

Word spread rapidly. Neighbors began coming, tentatively at first, for minor aches and fevers. I made no extravagant claims, relying only on genuine results. My massage techniques, incorporating ancient guiding arts, subtly adjusted their energy and blood; my dietary prescriptions were gentle and effective. Gradually, “Anhe Hall” gained a modest reputation.

With stable income achieved, the next hurdle was the hardest: obtaining legal identities.

I sought help from Mr. Li, the neighborhood’s most well-connected elder. When I discreetly explained that I was an orphan from a remote region, lacking identification and wanting to send my daughter to school, the kindly old man fell silent for a long time. At last, he sighed and pointed me to a path.

The process proved far more complex than I had imagined, and drained nearly all my savings. Yet, after countless errands and waiting, on a sunny afternoon, I finally held two thin cards in my hands.

On them were our photos, names, and a string of numbers.

Jiang Xiuyuan.

Jiang Yi Yi.

From this moment on, we were no longer “shadow citizens” of this era. We were two ordinary citizens of this country called Huaxia.

As I held Yi Yi’s identity card, my hands trembled.

I walked into the backyard, where Yi Yi played with a kitten. Squatting down, I solemnly said to her, “Yi Yi, Papa wants to send you somewhere—a place with many children your age, and teachers who will teach you to sing and paint. Would you like to go?”

Yi Yi looked up at me, half understanding, half not. “Is it more fun than playing with Little White?”

“Mm,” I smiled and nodded, though tears welled in my eyes, “a thousand times, ten thousand times more fun. It’s… Papa’s gift to you—a real childhood.”