Chapter 11 - The Old Doctor (Patreon)

There’s an old tree in the centre of the courtyard that he can see from the dirty, cracked window of the cramped room he calls home. It’s an ancient thing, gnarled and twisted and sagging under its own weight. On the particularly cool mornings when the fog hovers over the city, it looks almost like a monster, hunched over and reaching out with spindly limbs, ready to seize any unwary children who happen to wander beneath its branches.

The other children seem almost superstitious about it, and he’s overheard some of the scary stories the older kids come up with to scare each other. They whisper that the matrons feed the tree with the blood of disobedient children, or that on the nights when the clouds cover the moon the tree pulls itself out of the ground and goes a-wandering.

Many of the kids refuse to go near it at all. 

He loves it.

There’s something about it that just… calms him down. If he were still able to cultivate, he has no doubt that it would be an excellent place to meditate. With a bit of luck, it might still serve in the future, but thus far he’s been avoiding even trying to cultivate. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to risk exacerbating his injuries, but as the weeks pass by, the excuse becomes increasingly hollow.

His days are quiet and peaceful, which is nice. No matter how they might complain about unfairness, the other children are still expected to go to their classes, and the few that have completed their education, like him, are generally too busy looking for ways to support themselves to bother him.

Madame Liu told him that she needs some time to organise things for him at the clinic, and though it’s stressful not to know how that is going, he doesn’t want to be too much of a bother. 

He knows this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, that even noble children would view learning from a healer to be an opportunity to pursue.

Though he doubts any of them would be learning from a healer in the slums of the city.

“Are you Lin Zhujiao?” a voice interrupts his thoughts.

He looks up to see a somewhat uncertain teenager standing at the edge of the courtyard, looking a little nervous.

“Yes?” he responds questioningly.

“Right, I’m Tian,” the boy introduces himself awkwardly. “Madame Liu asked me to take you to Lao Yi in the slums?”

Speak of the devil.

“Right, yeah. Did she say if I needed to take anything?”

Tian shrugs. “Nah, you should be fine.”

“Alright then.” 

They head out of the gate and into the city streets in the uncomfortable silence of two introverts being forced into some form of social interaction. Besides the trip to the classrooms, it’s the first time he’s really been outside the orphanage since he arrived, not to mention his first real look at what constitutes a city in this new world of his.

He’d done some research on it back when he was trying to figure out where his cultivation journey was going to take him. He knows that the city is called Nanshi and that it is home to a hundred and twenty thousand people, which by the standards of this place seems to be very impressive. 

He remembers thinking at the time that it would have barely been considered a city at all by the standards of the Before. What he failed to take into account was how comparatively massive modern cities are, stretching over hundreds of square kilometres. The only reason it was at all feasible was the methods of transportation. 

By comparison, the city on Nanshi crams it’s population into an area a tiny fraction of the size. The orphanage is on the outskirts of the city, where things are less crowded, but as they start to approach the densely pack slums, their surroundings shift to a labyrinth of narrow streets and bustling alleyways. 

The smell is shockingly bad, and for the first time, he bitterly regrets the enhanced senses from cultivating. Tian grins ruefully at his expression of disgust and pats him on the shoulder companionably.

“Don’t worry, it gets much worse,” he consoles insincerely.

Zhujiao gives him a dirty look and buries his nose in the collar of his shirt. It’s not much of an improvement, considering that after his belongings were stolen, it’s the only shirt he has, and washing it in the nearby river is a stopgap method at best.

Unfortunately, Tian was right. 

If anything, he was downplaying things, and Zhujiao’s discomfort intensifies as they move deeper into the slums. The streets narrow further, the crowd thickens, and the air is filled with a cacophony of voices, laughter, and the occasional shout. The smells of cooking food, unwashed bodies, and refuse mingle unpleasantly, but Zhujiao does his best to ignore it.

They pass a group of men lounging against a wall, their sharp eyes following Zhujiao and Tian’s progress. One of them, a wiry figure with a scar running down his cheek, nudges his companion and jerks his chin in their direction. The companion, a burly man with a shaved head, grunts and shifts his weight, his interest piqued.

“Keep your head down and walk faster,” Tian murmurs, his voice barely audible over the din of the street.

Zhujiao nods, resisting the urge to look back. He quickens his pace, matching Tian’s stride as best he can. The alleyways twist and turn, a labyrinth of narrow passages that all look the same to him. The smells grow more intense, a potent mix of sweat, refuse, and the occasional whiff of something more fragrant from a nearby food stall.

He realises that he really should be paying more attention to where they’re going – if he gets separated from Tian he would be totally lost, and considering the leers of some of the rougher looking people around here that’s a very dangerous proposition.

Finally, they reach a slightly broader street where the crowd thins out.

“Here we are,” Tian announces, stopping in front of a small, weathered building squashed between an abandoned restaurant rife with squatters, and what could be either a pub or a brothel. Possibly both.

He had expected the area to be rough – you don’t get a name like ‘the slums’ unless things are below a certain threshold – but clearly, he needed to revise his expectations even further downwards. 

A cracked wooden sign creaked in the breeze above the doorway, faded characters announcing that this was “Lao Yi’s Clinic”. 

He squinted at the sign. He had initially assumed that Lao Yi was the healer’s name, but the specific characters used actually translated to ‘Old Doctor’.

Tian noticed his confused look. “Yeah, nobody actually knows what his name is, so everyone just calls him Lao Yi.”

They stepped into the clinic, the door creaking on its hinges. The interior is dimly lit, illuminated by a few oil lamps and what little sunlight can filter through the small, dusty window at the back. The air smells faintly of medicinal herbs, which is a welcome change from the stench outside. Shelves line the walls filled with jars and bottles of various sizes, and a small, cluttered desk sits in one corner, covered in scrolls, papers, and various tools.

In the centre of the room is a wooden table that he presumes is meant for examinations, its surface worn smooth from years of use. A sturdy wooden counter separates the entrance from the back of the clinic, where Zhujiao can see a figure bustling about.

“Lao Yi!” Tian calls out, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space.

The figure turns, revealing an elderly man with a kind but weathered face, his hair tied back in a neat bun. He wears simple, practical clothing stained with various substances from his trade. Lao Yi’s eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles warmly at them, wiping his hands on a cloth as he approaches.

“Ah, Tian. And this must be young Zhujiao,” Lao Yi says, his voice gravelly but not unkind. “Madame Liu spoke highly of you. Come, come, let’s get a good look at you.”

Almost before he can blink, he’s somehow been manoeuvred on top of the table, and his bandages are being unwrapped. He winces as Tian looks on with fascination as his extensive burns are slowly revealed.

To his credit, Lao Yi notices his discomfort. “Do you need anything else from this old man?” he enquires gently but pointedly, turning to Tian. 

“Uh, no,” the boy flushes a little at the unspoken reprimand. He turns to leave before hesitating for a moment. “Are you gonna need any help getting back?” 

Lao Yi glances at Zhujiao, then back at Tian. “He’ll be working with me for several hours. There’s much to learn, and I want to get started right away. Don’t worry, I’ll arrange for someone to take him back to the orphanage when we’re done.”

Something flickers across Tian’s face. “…Working?”

“Yes, Madame Liu arranged for him to assist me. It’ll be nice to give these old bones a little rest,” Lao Yi returns cheerfully.

Zhujiao notices Tian’s hands clenching into fists at his sides, but the boy quickly forces a smile. “Right. I see.” He paused, his voice betraying a hint of bitterness. “I guess I’ll see you around then.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks for the help getting here,” Zhujiao ventures cautiously. Clearly he’s missing something here. Tian turned sharply without bothering to respond further, his shoulders stiff as he walked out of the clinic.

Lao Yi watches him go, a slight frown crossing his face.

“Hmm. My apologies, young man, I appear to have inadvertently caused some trouble for you.”

“Ah, no, no problem… master?” he trails off, unsure how to address the old man. 

“Ha! No need to call me master,” Lao Yi laughs with a twinkle in his eye, an expression that suits him much better than the frown. “I may teach you a thing or two if we have the time, but this old man is still just Lao Yi to everyone, even you,” he says with mock sternness as he finishes re-wrapping Zhujiao’s bandages with a practiced hand. “Now, let’s get you settled and started with something simple.”

Lao Yi shows him the rest of the clinic. There are two back rooms that aren’t visible from the main area, one for storage and one for preperation. 

Calling it cluttered is an understatement – the shelves lining the walls of the storage area are stacked haphazardly with jars and boxes of various shapes and sizes. There are no labels, nor any sort of organisational system that he can detect. 

The preparation area is not much better with most of the bench space being taken up by random papers strewn across the work area, either yellowed with age or stained by some unidentifiable substance.

“This is where I prepare most of my remedies,” Lao Yi explains. “It’s not much, but it serves its purpose.”

“Do you have some kind of inventory or system for where things go?” he asks tentatively. The last thing he wants to do is offend his new teacher, considering the opportunity he’s been offered, but the only thing worse than asking stupid questions is making stupid mistakes, so he’s determined to suck it up.

Lao Yi chuckles, shaking his head. “No need for that. I know where everything is. Years of practice, you see. Besides, an inventory would just get in the way.”

He picks up a jar, its label faded and barely readable. “This, for example, is foxglove. Good for treating heart conditions, but dangerous if misused.” The man pauses for a moment, squinting at the jar.

“Actually, I think that might be Ginseng,” he mutters to himself before shrugging. “Oh well, Ginseng won’t hurt anyone!”

That’s… not very encouraging.

It’s also a rather sudden shift from the kindly old man who checked over his bandages and apologised for causing him trouble. He vaguely wonders if this is a test of some kind or if the healer merely has some kind of dementia.

Lao Yi plonks the jar back down on the bench, already moving off. Zhujiao inches away from it. The difference between medicine and poison is often a matter of dosage, but at this rate he would only be half surprised to learn that Lao Yi had actual poison just lying around.

He resolves to double-check any medicine before he handles it. Or maybe to try finding a set of gloves somehow.

The little tour ends as suddenly as it began. Lao Yi steers him through the back door out into a cramped alleyway littered with random trash and other debris. The smell of the slums hits him again, no longer masked by the scent of herbs.

“Right then!” Lao Yi declares cheerfully, looking at the alleyway with his hands on his hips. “I think this is rather messy, don’t you?”

“… Yes?” 

“Wonderful, so glad you agree, my boy. Hop to it then!”

Before he can ask any further questions – like ‘what the hell?’ – the old man ducks back through the door, pulling it firmly shut behind him. 

Zhujiao is left standing in a random filthy alleyway with the vague notion that he’s supposed to clean it somehow. Probably. 

…Lao Yi didn’t even give him a broom.

He takes a deep breath, pushing down his frustration as best he can in favour of examining the alleyway more closely. 

It’s a narrow passage, just wide enough for two people to walk side by side. The high, crumbling walls of neighbouring buildings hem it in, casting it into perpetual shadow. Overhead, a tangle of laundry lines stretches between the buildings, sagging under the weight of damp clothes.

The ground is a mess of uneven cobblestones, many of which are loose or missing entirely. Puddles of stagnant water collect in the gaps, giving off an unpleasant, musty odour.

Discarded wooden crates, some broken and splintered, lie haphazardly against the walls. Rusted metal scraps are scattered about, and the remnants of what might once have been a cart sit in a sad, rotting heap. A few empty bottles and scraps of paper flutter in the slight breeze, adding to the sense of neglect.

Near the far end of the alley, he spots a pile of rags and old clothes, likely used by vagrants for makeshift bedding. There’s also a stack of empty sacks, some still bearing the faint, faded logos of the businesses they once served. The smell is a mix of mildew, rotten food, and the faint, acrid tang of urine.

Zhujiao walks back to the door of the clinic and tries the handle again, intending to ask for… something, he doesn’t even know. Soapy water? A broom? A new job?

The door is locked.

He knocks, but there’s no response from within. “…Fantastic,” he sighed, slumping against the door. 

Nothing he can do but get started.