The morning mist still clung to the slopes of Dang Mountain like an old man's breath, thick and damp, but Mao Sheng was already knee-deep in brush, his fingers carefully parting leaves to reveal a cluster of pale blue flowers nestled in the moss.
"Cloud Tear Blossoms," he murmured to himself, gently plucking them at the root and wrapping them in cloth. "Not bad. The medicine shop should pay a decent coin for these."
Around him, the mountain sang its usual tune—rustling leaves, chirping birds, and the distant groan of shifting rock. It was a familiar song. One he'd listened to for the better part of fifteen years. Though he couldn't cultivate, and though his body held no qi to strengthen or protect him, he knew these mountains like his own heartbeat.
He reached into a crevice and pulled out a thick green stalk. "Stone Snake Grass... and here's some Ironleaf, too. Good haul today."
Tomorrow, he could trade this lot for a few taels of silver—enough to buy rice, cooking oil, maybe even a little cloth for Zu'er's winter robe. His calloused fingers moved with practiced ease until something unusual caught his eye. A faint red glint in the shade beneath a rock outcropping.
He crawled closer, heart thumping—not with danger, but hope.
And there it was.
A ginseng plant. Not the wild, bitter kind that villagers brewed for colds—but thick, vibrant, and faintly glowing. At least thirty years matured, if not more. Cultivators used this to recover qi and extend life spans. Worth more than three taels of silver—maybe even five.
"With this… I can buy meat. Real meat!" he laughed softly. "Zu'er's been craving it."
And medicine. His wife was nearly seven months pregnant. They couldn't afford any complications. With this ginseng, maybe... just maybe, they could even hire a midwife from town instead of relying on old Granny Weng and her shaky hands.
Just then, a sharp whistling pierced the sky.
Mao Sheng's head snapped upward, and he caught sight of streaks of light in the air—five, no, six cultivators racing across the sky, robes flapping in the wind, their feet barely touching tree branches as they pursued a figure ahead of them.
"Trouble," Mao Sheng muttered, tucking the ginseng carefully into his satchel. "Time to leave."
This part of the mountain had been quiet for years, but if cultivators were fighting nearby, it was no place for someone like him. He slung his bag over his back and began descending—but not the usual winding trail. No, this time he took the steep slope near Crooked Tooth Cliff—a path few dared take.
But Mao Sheng had.
In fact, he was one of the only herb collectors who knew how to descend this slope safely. His feet knew where to land, which ledges to grab, how far he could jump. It wasn't easy—one wrong move meant death—but it was fast, and it avoided most beasts.
They called him "Crazy Sheng" in town for how deep he ventured and how fast he returned. But he'd always survived.
Until today.
The recent rains had made everything slick. Moss covered what once were solid footholds. He moved cautiously at first—testing each step. But halfway down, a rock beneath him shifted.
Crack.
His foot slipped.
He plunged.
Branches scraped him, a sharp edge tore across his shoulder, and pain lanced through his side. The world blurred. The air howled past his ears.
Then—thud.
Darkness.
He awoke to the sound of buzzing insects and the wet, coppery taste of blood in his mouth.
The sun hadn't fully set. Judging by the light, he'd only been unconscious a few hours.
He groaned and sat up, blinking. A large rock jutted out from the cliffside beneath him. Had it not been there... he would've died.
"Ancestors bless me," he muttered, wincing as pain surged through his shoulder. A long, deep gash ran down his upper arm, but it had missed the bone.
He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small jar of ointment. With his other hand, he tore cloth from his inner shirt, packed the wound, and tied it tightly.
Then he looked around.
His bag had torn in the fall, spilling its contents across the ledge and down into the brush. "Damn it..."
He scrambled to gather what he could—stones bit into his knees as he crawled, clutching scattered herbs and stuffing them into the bag. The rare ginseng—he couldn't find it.
"Of course." He spat. "Of course it's gone. Curse those damn cultivators and their ancestors too!"
He cursed for a long time, until the fire cooled.
Then he started climbing down again—but a red blur caught his eye, a few meters above him, on another outcrop.
The ginseng.
Lodged between stones, undisturbed.
He didn't hesitate. Gripping roots and ledges, he climbed—slowly, carefully—until his fingers brushed the precious plant. As he reached for it, something else glinted beside it.
A gemstone.
Half-buried in the soil.
Red as blood, veined with thin black lines like a spiderweb.
Mao Sheng hesitated.
But the greed, the hope, the desperation in his chest screamed louder.
He pocketed the ginseng, then began digging.
As he pulled the gem free—roughly the size of a grown man's fist—a sharp pain flared in his palm where a stone had cut him earlier. But as he watched, the cut began to close.
Not just close—heal.
The skin stitched itself together in seconds.
His breath caught.
"A healing treasure..." he whispered, eyes wide. "This isn't just any gem."
A cold sweat broke out across his back.
He couldn't keep this.
No... something like this wasn't a blessing—it was a curse. If a cultivator even heard that a mortal had a treasure like this, they would cut him down without a second thought.
And his wife.
His unborn child.
He tucked the gem deep into the folds of his robes and swore never to speak of it.