Chapter One: On the Brink of Despair, Encountering Unexpected Turmoil

Chapter 1: A Desperate Act and a Shocking Encounter

“Hurry! Hold down his hand! Where did he get those scissors?!”

The middle-aged doctor shouted, seizing the pair of scissors that Zhang Sanlu had been aiming at his own head.

A handful of nurses and orderlies, shaken by the sudden violence, rushed in and tackled both Zhang Sanlu and the doctor to the ground. But Zhang Sanlu’s strength was extraordinary. It took considerable effort for the group to pry his fingers apart and wrest away the medical scissors meant for cutting tape, yet even then, they remained entangled in a chaotic heap on the floor.

It was only when a nurse arrived with a sedative that things finally calmed. After an injection, Zhang Sanlu, who had been struggling violently, at last grew still.

Seeing Zhang Sanlu quiet at last, the middle-aged doctor slowly released his grip and, panting heavily, pried open his patient’s eyelids. The pupils beneath were dilated and darted about in frantic motion.

“Whew—hurry, put him in a restraint jacket!”

“Doctor Zhou, is he really insane?”

“If he isn’t now, he’s close enough. What sane man tries to stab his own temple with scissors?” The doctor took a few deep breaths, then realized a burly orderly was still sprawled atop him. Pushing the man off, he stood, shaking his aching wrist.

“Good thing his skull is hard. Dress his wound, then gag him with a towel—don’t want him biting his tongue if he wakes up.”

“Yes, Doctor Zhou. Um…” The young nurse hesitated, then finally asked, “Should we inform his family?”

Doctor Zhou was silent for a long moment, then sighed.

“Who is left to notify…”

Dizziness. Nausea.

Zhang Sanlu felt his mind drifting in a haze. He seemed to see a shadowy cavern, flickering candles, dark red blood, and the sound of bones breaking. There was the drip of fluid through an IV tube, the click of a nurse’s ballpoint pen, all these noises tangled together in a chaotic symphony. Yet that maddening, incessant chanting in his mind had finally ceased.

When he opened his eyes, he was met not with the sterile white of a hospital room and the sting of disinfectant, but with a chamber of blue-grey brick, the mortar rough and unfinished. The walls were bare, the bricks exposed. Inside, there was only a dusty wooden bed and, in the corner, a dark red table on which burned an oil lamp, its dim light sputtering quietly in the gloom.

Where am I? How did I get here? Am I cured—or just deeper in delusion?

He pinched himself hard; the sharp pain in his arm felt all too real. Staggering to his feet, Zhang Sanlu realized his clothes had changed. The hospital gown was gone, replaced by a blue, cross-collared long robe.

His hands moved to his face. He felt younger, somehow. Aside from the lingering dizziness and weakness in his limbs, his body seemed otherwise normal.

Creak—

At that moment, the wooden door swung open and a figure entered. Zhang Sanlu looked up to see an elderly man dressed in a straight-collared robe with a plain guard at the neck. He wore wide sleeves, his hair gathered atop his head with a single hairpin—an appearance utterly unlike any modern attire, the cut and bearing of the clothes impossible to mimic in contemporary fashion.

As the old man entered and saw Zhang Sanlu on his feet, surprise flickered across his features, quickly replaced by joy. He set a porcelain bowl on the table, strode over, and gripped Zhang Sanlu’s left arm with his right hand.

As he turned, Zhang Sanlu noticed the faded eight-trigram diagram on the old man’s back—a Taoist priest, perhaps.

“How are you up already?!”

In the darkness before, Zhang Sanlu hadn’t seen clearly, but now, up close, he could see that the man’s skin was like ancient tree bark, deeply lined. His eyebrows were thick and wild, like tangled brambles, but it was the eyes that left the deepest impression—

The left socket was empty, its ragged edge rough and unhealed, as if the eye had been violently gouged out and the wound had never truly closed. In that hollow, there was no glimmer of life, only an unfathomable blackness. When the oil lamp flickered, shadows seemed to writhe within, as if something unseen lurked inside.

The right eye, though deeply set, gleamed with a stark brightness, making the emptiness of the left all the more striking.

“I…” Zhang Sanlu had no idea what to say, nor how to address this old priest. His mind was a jumble, with not a clue to cling to.

“Quick, lie down.”

The old priest paid it no mind, gently urging Zhang Sanlu to sit. Only then did Zhang Sanlu notice that the priest’s left sleeve hung empty—he had only his right arm.

Once he saw Zhang Sanlu safe in bed, the old priest carried over the steaming bowl of herbal decoction, setting it on the bedside. He tested its temperature with his rough hand, the empty eye socket in the dim light somehow expressing deep concern.

“What is this…” Although Zhang Sanlu sensed no hostility from the priest, he dared not drink an unknown brew in such unfamiliar surroundings.

“Good disciple, this will restore your strength. Since that last bout of possession, your body has been frail and your mind unsettled. So I went up the mountain and gathered calming herbs to prepare this for you. Drink it and you’ll be well.” As he spoke, the priest pushed the bowl closer to Zhang Sanlu’s lips.

Zhang Sanlu looked down at the dark, tar-brown liquid, reaching to take the bowl. He pulled, but it did not budge—the old priest’s grip was astonishingly strong.

“I can manage myself. I feel much better now,” Zhang Sanlu said.

“Very well, but drink quickly. If the medicine cools, its effect will change.” The priest released his hand, his gnarled fingers like dry wood, letting Zhang Sanlu take the bowl.

“Achoo—”

No sooner had Zhang Sanlu taken it than he gave an explosive sneeze, shaking the bowl violently. This was a trick honed through years of dodging nurses’ attempts to medicate him. In the hospital, he could hide pills in his sleeve and feign swallowing; even a nurse’s inspection would reveal only an empty mouth. But with decoctions, there was no such luck—hiding them would only expose him. So he tried instead to spill most of it now. The priest had said the brew was painstaking to make; better to avoid it for now and think of another plan if needed.

But before his feigned exclamation of surprise could leave his lips, he was overtaken by genuine astonishment. In a flash, the priest’s right hand snatched the teetering bowl, grip like an iron clamp, leaving Zhang Sanlu unable to budge it.

In that practiced tug-of-war, not a single drop was spilled.

“Disciple, you must be careful.”

With his one remaining arm, the old priest held the bowl fast, pushing it insistently to Zhang Sanlu’s lips.

So be it. I’ll just spit it out later, Zhang Sanlu thought, seeing that resistance was futile. Eyes shut, he drank the inky decoction.

It was bitter at first, but as it slid down, a lingering sweetness followed, making it no longer so hard to swallow.