Chapter Two: Taking Action

Under the glow of the lights, two elderly men stood at the center of the crowd.

One was a tall, robust man, now lying on the ground in agony, his body stiff and convulsing, his features twisted in pain, low guttural sounds escaping his lips as yellow vomit spilled from his mouth. Those with experience took one look and cried, “He’s had a stroke!”

The other was a lean, silver-haired gentleman with rimless glasses. Though clearly anxious, his actions were calm and measured: he laid the stroke victim flat, used his bag to elevate the man’s head, loosened his clothing for air, and turned his head to the side to prevent vomit from blocking the airway. Then, from inside his jacket, he drew out a slightly worn cloth roll, which he opened before the crowd, revealing rows upon rows of gold needles, varying in length and thickness.

“Is he planning to bleed him?” someone murmured.

“It looks like it.”

“I heard bloodletting isn’t effective for strokes, though…”

“But look at his confidence and the fact that he carries gold needles with him—he must be a doctor and knows what he’s doing.”

The onlookers chattered, voices full of opinions as if they presided over the fate of nations. They watched as the lean old man took a deep breath and, with practiced hands, pressed ten gold needles into the tips of the patient’s ten fingers. As black-red blood oozed out, bead-like, the patient’s symptoms seemed to ease; the convulsions subsided, his breathing steadied, and his pained expression softened. Cheers rippled through the crowd—the man’s life appeared to be saved.

The lean elder wiped the cold sweat from his brow and addressed the gathering: “Thank you, everyone. Please disperse and keep the air flowing. The ambulance will be here soon, so let’s leave a clear path. Thank you all!”

His courteous manner won the crowd’s favor, and people began to file away. Among them, Jiang An arched an eyebrow and continued to observe the tall, stricken man lying on the cold pavement, shaking his head slightly.

Suddenly, the patient let out an involuntary cry of pain and began to tremble violently—far worse than before. Even more bizarre, the veins on his neck and face bulged, black-red and engorged, looking for all the world like sinister vines wrapping around a tree, dense and ghastly, as if possessed by a demon. The crowd recoiled in shock but, curiosity piqued, closed in again.

The lean elder’s composure was shattered by this sudden turn; clearly, the stroke had triggered a severe complication. He was at a loss, never having encountered such a terrifying situation. The patient’s condition deteriorated: his face contorted, his mouth opened wide, gasping desperately for air, his eyes bulging as if about to burst from their sockets.

What to do? The old doctor gritted his teeth, holding the patient’s thrashing body. Emergency plans flashed through his mind, only to be dismissed one after another. He didn’t call out for help—he himself was the dean of the medical academy, a master in his field. If he was helpless, what hope was there for anyone else?

Was his old comrade to die here today?

“I’ll take over!”

A clear, commanding voice rang out from the crowd. All eyes turned, and quickly settled on a young man dressed in unusual clothes, hair cropped short. It was Jiang An, who, for reasons unknown, stepped forward without hesitation.

Jiang An parted the crowd and entered the circle, uninterested in debating his qualifications with the elder. He simply scooped up the gold needle roll from the ground, drew out a needle just over an inch long, and, ignoring the elder’s alarmed look, plunged it unhesitatingly into the Baihui point at the crown of the patient’s head.

“Don’t be reckless! You—eh?” The elder began to protest but fell silent as the needle slipped a third of the way in. The patient froze as if time had stopped, his twisted expression locked in place. The crowd gaped in astonishment.

Jiang An wasted no time. He had risked immobilizing the patient precisely to facilitate the next step. His expression calm, he laid the needles out on the ground and, with a strange motion, his hands darted out—so swift no one could see what he did. In a blink, every finger was threaded with needles of various lengths. Before the elder could speak, Jiang An pressed both hands onto the patient’s body. The elder glimpsed a flurry of motion, and when he looked again, all the needles were embedded in the patient—fourteen in total. Seven long needles lined the torso, and seven shorter ones were placed at the head and limbs.

“This technique, this arrangement…” The elder stared at the seven long needles in the torso, certain he had seen something like this before, but couldn’t quite recall where.

Now, Jiang An calmly withdrew the needle from the Baihui point and stood up. At that moment, the fourteen needles began to tremble of their own accord, ever so slightly, resonating in some mysterious rhythm. As this resonance spread, the patient’s body relaxed; the bulging black-red veins receded like a tide. Soon, the patient’s features grew peaceful, his breathing evened out, and, closing his eyes, he drifted into sleep.

“Golden Needle Crossing Calamity! It’s the legendary Golden Needle Crossing Calamity!”

The lean elder slapped his thigh and cried out, his eyes alight with gratitude and fervor as he gazed at the young man who had stepped forward. He knew this miraculous technique well from ancient texts—the full name, “The Big Dipper's Passing of Calamity”—a method so arduous that merely mastering the insertion and withdrawal of the needles required three years of practice. Fourteen needles—seven large and seven small—must be inserted into different acupoints almost simultaneously; even a slight delay would ruin the effect. More crucially, legend held that the technique could suppress any acute attack, buying precious minutes for the patient, because the needles’ resonance was powered by the practitioner’s own life force. The price—months or even a year shaved from one’s lifespan. In other words, the healer traded his own time for the patient’s chance at survival. How could the elder not be moved? And now, this long-lost technique had emerged anew—how could he not burn with excitement?

Yet, the elder could not imagine that Jiang An’s identity and experience were far more complex than he supposed. This was indeed the “Golden Needle Crossing Calamity,” but an improved version. When Jiang An first entered the world of immortals, he was not so fortunate as to immediately embark on the path of cultivation—he barely survived starvation, working as a beggar and a drudge, eventually apprenticing himself to a healer. Five years he wandered the martial world, only by chance entering the immortal sects for a journey of over sixteen centuries. His youthful appearance, seemingly that of a man of twenty-four or five, was due to the Immortal Beauty Fruit he had eaten early in his immortal career—a fruit that preserved the looks of youth forever.

And the improved resonance of his Golden Needle Crossing Calamity no longer consumed his own life force, but instead drew on the spiritual energy of heaven and earth through a miniature formation within the needles themselves, suppressing evil influences and disease. Otherwise, he would not have so freely sacrificed his own years for a stranger—even if his life was now without end.

The ambulance’s siren finally cut through the night. Reluctantly, the crowd parted to let it through. The doors opened, and several nurses and doctors leapt out. One, catching sight of the elder, called out, “Dean, we’re so sorry, we—”

Before he could finish, the elder waved him off. “First, get the patient aboard, and be careful not to disturb the needles!” Then he turned to Jiang An. “Young man, your medical skill is truly masterful! Words cannot express my gratitude. Why not accompany us to the hospital? When the patient awakens, he’ll certainly want to thank his savior in person. And I have some matters I’d like to discuss with you.”

Gratitude, perhaps, but more a desire to witness my skills, Jiang An thought. With nearly two millennia behind him, nothing escaped his keen mind. He nodded in assent, and the elder, delighted, hurried them both onto the ambulance, which sped away.

On the road.

“My name is Yang Hanmin,” the lean elder introduced himself, “and if I may be so bold, let me address you as a friend. May I ask your surname?”

His tone was so amiable and respectful that the nurses and doctors in the ambulance were stunned. The old dean was accustomed to consorting with dignitaries and celebrities; though always polite, he carried a certain pride. Never before had they seen him so courteous to a young man of barely twenty.

“Jiang An. ‘Jiang’ as in the great strategist Jiang Ziya; ‘An’ as in the distant shore. I’m from Lincheng,” Jiang An replied quietly.

“Willing hearts are drawn to the shore—so you’re a native of Lincheng as well,” Yang Hanmin chuckled, then asked with feigned casualness: “Judging by your mastery of the Golden Needle Crossing Calamity, you’re destined for greatness. From your clothing, I’d guess you’ve returned from some mountain sanctuary. I’ve met a few such people myself. May I ask under whom you studied? I’m fairly familiar with the leading medical practitioners in China.”

Jiang An was content to let others invent an identity for him. Smiling, he replied, “I’ve just returned to Lincheng. As for my master, that would be ‘Ghost-Faced Saint-hearted’ Sun Buer. Have you perhaps heard of him?”

The answer was evasive. “Sun Buer” was, in fact, his mentor in the immortal world; if Yang Hanmin had heard of him, it would be a miracle. “I do know ‘Ghost-handed’ Ouyang Qingchuan,” Yang said, “but ‘Ghost-Faced Saint-hearted’? I must confess my ignorance. Still, judging by your skills, your teacher must be a true master.”

Jiang An merely smiled and did not reply. To one who pursued the Way of Immortality, the medicine of the mortal world was a trifling thing.

Seeing Jiang An’s silence, Yang Hanmin grew anxious. This young man was more composed than he himself. He decided to be direct: “Ahem, Jiang, do you have any plans for your future employment?”

That was the question Jiang An had been waiting for. He looked up and answered, “No plans yet. Do you have any suggestions?”

Yang Hanmin’s eyes brightened. With the National Conference on Traditional Medicine coming up in six months, he now had an ace up his sleeve.

“If you don’t mind your talents being overlooked, I can personally appoint you as a visiting professor at Eastern Medical University. I am, after all, both the president of the university and its affiliated hospital, so you may trust my word. We can discuss the details later—what do you say?”

Jiang An nodded. “Very well, I’ll leave it to you.” With that, he closed his eyes, appearing to rest, though in truth he was reviewing every step of his recent decision.

His intervention had been calculated—a chance to integrate himself into the mortal world. He had no identification, no home, and not a penny to his name. To cultivate in peace on Earth, such things were essential. When he saw Yang Hanmin treating the patient, an image from an advertisement for a hospital flashed in his mind—a photograph of Yang Hanmin, with the words: “National Special-grade Physician, Renowned Expert in Cardio-cerebral Diseases, Our Hospital’s President: Yang Hanmin.”

Yang Hanmin had both status and medical acumen. All Jiang An needed to do was demonstrate the profound arts he had learned before his ascension; Yang would welcome him as eagerly as any martial artist encountering a manual of the Nine Suns Divine Skill. With that, everything would fall into place. As for any ill intent, Jiang An was unconcerned—such was the confidence of an immortal. And though Yang Hanmin was courteous now, he would surely investigate his identity later, which did not trouble Jiang An in the least, for he truly was a native of Lincheng.

A lonely man, betrayed and forsaken.