Chapter Twelve: The Nine Mythical Lineages

“What is Jinchuang Zhuangchi?”

“Forgotten. It’s a term used in the military camp—‘Jinchuang’ because such wounds are often caused by metal weapons, and ‘Zhuangchi’ refers to the symptoms after the injury, causing the person excruciating pain, curled up on the bed like a shrimp. That’s how my father used to call it.

“In common folk terms, some healers also call it... tetanus.”

Ouyang Rong was momentarily stunned. No wonder just now he saw Ashan’s mother and sister wrapping him in thick winter coats as if he had caught a cold from the wind. Besides, the man’s vacant expression wasn’t just due to a death wish—there had to be facial muscle spasms and stiffness involved.

“This is incurable. He won’t live more than a few days. Such a pity for a fine man,” Yan Wuxu shook his head.

Ouyang Rong pondered, “Tetanus, huh…”

In this era without antibiotics, it was indeed considered a deadly disease. But not necessarily so—after all, this world had Qi practitioners, and the external alchemy of the Southern and Northern Daoist sects was well known.

During the imperial examinations in Luoyang, he had even heard of immortal alchemists from overseas pursuing longevity potions, highly sought after by the powerful nobles of Luoyang. So within the Qi practitioners’ ranks, there might truly be some miraculous elixir beyond his understanding.

However, it was clear these factions wielding mythical powers wouldn’t waste such precious remedies on a mere lowly official slave.

Only Ashan’s mother and the sorrowful-eyed A Qing cared about the survival of this unknown nobody named Ashan.

But now… there was half another person.

“I count as half.”

Ouyang Rong muttered and turned toward the incense kitchen of Donglin Temple.

Yan Wuxu hurried after him, curious: “Mingtang, what do you mean by half?”

“Bring me half a moldy taro,” he said after a pause, adding, “Preferably with bluish-green mold spots—that’s the good stuff.”

“...” Yan Wuxu thought for a moment and gently reminded him, “Mingtang, you can’t eat moldy things.”

Ouyang Rong: “?”

Yan Wuxu still couldn’t figure out why Mingtang suddenly didn’t descend the mountain but instead went straight to the incense kitchen, borrowing a kitchen from the managing monks and busily tinkering inside…

Outside the door, a man clutching a constable’s blade opened his mouth slightly, watching as the young county magistrate, once always seen as a refined and mild scholar, rummaged through everything—taro, charcoal, rice water, cooking oil, clay pots, cotton—all tossed about, sleeves rolled up, working fiercely. Occasionally, the young magistrate muttered strange phrases like, “Ah, the memories of death begin to attack me again.”

Ouyang Rong wiped sweat from his brow with his arm, glanced at the crude purification equipment on the table, and smiled, “Isn’t this just about having hands?”

If he were merely a jack-of-all-trades keyboard warrior, it wouldn’t suffice, but fortunately, Ouyang Rong was a master at crafting physical devices. Making a low-purity penicillin wasn’t too difficult—it just required patience and consumed time, solving many small problems, like having to use rice paper for purification due to lack of materials… but all were surmountable.

Immersed in the joy of his work, Yan Wuxu helped out but couldn’t understand the process, though he was deeply impressed. Furrowing his brow, he asked:

“Mingtang, have you perhaps studied Moism’s Daoist lineage’s mechanical arts?”

“What Moism lineage? What mechanical arts?” Ouyang Rong asked curiously without looking up.

“You’re really not?”

“Uh, no. Your turn to answer.”

Yan Wuxu, holding his blade and leaning against the door, thought for a moment and said:

“I heard it while drinking—Moism’s Daoist lineage is one of the nine legendary Daoist lineages passed down since before the First Emperor sought the elixir of immortality. It stood alongside the scholarly, Daoist, and other lineages. But after the Red Emperor slew the White Emperor and a commoner took the Han realm, Moism’s lineage fragmented and declined, eventually vanishing from history.”

“However, Moism’s Qi cultivation and mechanical arts scattered across the land, eventually spawning today’s ten major martial paths and countless sects throughout the north and south, a single tree falling but a myriad sprouting—ensuring mythical Qi arts were not monopolized by the court and a few noble clans, unlike the rigid social ladder for impoverished youths.”

The county captain’s son, still unversed in the martial world but clutching his blade, looked hopeful. “So some say Moism never truly died; all we martial folk are actually white-robed Mo warriors, disciples of the giant sect.”

Ouyang Rong looked up. This was the first time he’d heard this and couldn’t help but ask, “Nine legendary Daoist lineages? What about the other eight?”

Yan Wuxu scratched his head. “I only know the Great Zhou court controls the military and Yin-Yang physiognomists’ lineages, plus the Confucian, Buddhist, and Daoist lineages held by the three great orthodox schools. The others remain unknown, likely hidden in powerful families.”

Ouyang Rong thought for a moment and decided to strike at the heart of the matter: “Which lineage does Liu Lang follow? Is it the Moism lineage?”

Yan Wuxu’s face flushed crimson. After a moment, he whispered, “If only he had truly stepped into the Qi cultivation ranks, he wouldn’t have had his blade knocked away by Mingtang’s aunt…”

Ouyang Rong comforted him: “It’s okay. I’ve never seen anyone stronger than my aunt, at least not in the countryside of Nanlong.”

Yan’s sixth son coughed twice. “By the way, before meeting you, Mingtang, I thought you were a Qi cultivator of the scholarly lineage.”

“Me?” Ouyang Rong was dumbfounded. “Why’s that… blindfolded?”

“Simple. Because Bailudong Academy belongs to Confucianism, and you, Mingtang, came from there and are famous as a scholar, so it’s hard for those who understand the origins not to think along those lines.”

Ouyang Rong recalled and shook his head, returning to his task. “But while studying at Bailudong, I followed my mentor closely and never encountered such things.”

Yan Wuxu nodded. “Then it means you were rejected. I heard the Confucian, Buddhist, and Daoist schools all have formal mechanisms to select suitable disciples for Qi cultivation. You were an early renowned scholarly seed of Jiangnan Dao; Bailudong wouldn’t have overlooked you.”

“Just issued a waste card, huh?” Ouyang Rong chuckled. “Doesn’t matter.”

Yan Wuxu reassured him: “It’s normal. Mingtang, don’t worry. Such gifted individuals are extremely rare. Like the martial world, most sects are small fry. Very few can truly learn the master’s Qi cultivation techniques.”

Ouyang Rong nodded. “But all this sounds like immortals. I’d like to see these so-called Qi cultivators fight. Are they really that miraculous? When I was taking the imperial exams in Luoyang, I never saw masters scaling roofs or leaping between walls. If they existed, wouldn’t they show off sometimes?”

After the disillusionment of the Pure Land Palace dream, he held deep doubts about the power levels in this world.

Yan Wuxu said earnestly, “Mingtang, don’t underestimate entry-level Qi cultivators. They’re hard to see because their numbers are few, and because the martial world isn’t just about fighting—it’s about human relations.”

“...” Ouyang Rong.

Good heavens, you little captain haven’t even entered the martial world, yet you’ve already got the final big question’s answer right. Sneaking in with such high marks—do you think that’s appropriate?

“Ahem, Mingtang, I actually read about it in a chivalry novel, written by a martial elder.”

Yan Wuxu pulled out a dog-eared book from his bosom, sighing, “It even recorded how he befriended a proud senior, a devoted fox demoness, a noble beauty, a female scholar of the academy... and delved into their stories.”

Ouyang Rong waved his hand, “Sorry, I read the Spring and Autumn Annals.”

Yan Wuxu was about to ask more when hurried footsteps suddenly sounded outside. He immediately turned, hand on his blade’s hilt, blocking the doorway, alert.

“Who’s there?”

Two figures arrived in a rush, one with flowing hair and the other half-burned by fire. The former called out anxiously from a distance, making Ouyang Rong’s eyelids twitch.

“Sir, sir, your wife wants you back quickly. Your mentor is here to see you!”

“...?”