Demon Suppression Division. Medical Hall.

Some thirty or so rooms lined up in succession, a steady flow of wounded Commanders moving through. A small bamboo cottage tucked among them stood out — understated but distinct.

The figures who slipped inside all wore black cloaks — the mark of a Deputy Commander.

One powerfully built young man was an exception. He wasn’t even in uniform, just a plain short jacket. His right arm hung at his side. He pushed open the small door with his left.

To the person seated behind a low table inside — dressed in spotless white — he said with care: “Senior Brother Bai.”

“Could you manage to stop showing up here every day with that expression on your face.”

The young man addressed as Senior Brother Bai had the kind of features that looked carved. Two thin locks of hair fell at his temples. His hands — clean and precise — moved quickly through a tray of fragrant medicinal herbs.

He didn’t look up. “Put the arm on the table.”

Fang Heng sat cross-legged obediently and rested his right arm where indicated.

Bai Ziming selected several hair-thin needles and pressed them in without looking, then returned to his cataloguing. “Bear it. Should be resolved by end of today.”

Fang Heng stared at the table, eyes somewhere distant.

Wide shoulders, a back like a bear’s.

The sharp pain of meridian repair could make battle-hardened Commanders clench their teeth. It wasn’t what occupied his thoughts.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Bai Ziming slid the herbs back into the cabinet and finally looked up. “The technique was applied with restraint. No lasting damage.”

“Thank you, Senior Brother.”

Fang Heng surfaced, thoughts clearly elsewhere, but didn’t elaborate.

At that moment, two people came quietly through the door carrying clay jars, nodded respectfully to the white-robed senior brother, and moved toward the inner room.

Bai Ziming — the General’s third disciple, serving as Deputy Commander in the Division, Jade Liquid Realm Perfection for more than thirty years.

Also the finest physician in the Demon Suppression Division.

“Go ahead.”

He nodded gently, gesturing toward the inner room.

Then he noticed his junior brother’s eye had twitched.

The powerfully built frame came abruptly upright, turned, grabbed one of the newcomers by the wrist. The voice that came out carried cold. “What are you doing here?”

Under eyes that sharp, it felt like something dangerous had fixed on them.

Liu Xiujie and Little Er’s hearts lurched in their chests. The clay jars clanked. Their voices came out breathless. “Commander — Commander Fang—”

Before either could finish, Fang Heng shook off the needles still in his arm and stepped into the inner room.

Senior Brother Bai’s medical hall only accepted Deputy Commanders or those whose injuries surpassed what the regular hall could treat. Of the people these two could be accompanying, only one fit.

Sure enough.

He pulled the curtain aside and saw Li Xinhan — bandaged into something resembling a wrapped dumpling — on the bed.

His pupils tightened. His jaw locked. He crossed the room in three strides, dragged Li Xinhan upright by the front of his bandages, and said low and hard:

“Where is he?”

Li Xinhan’s face, which had been recovering some color, went pale again. Confusion moved through his eyes, followed by cold irritation. He pressed out a few words: “Are you unwell?”

“I’m asking you—”

Fang Heng’s voice dropped to something that had weight behind it. His grip tightened. “Where is he?”

A silver needle appeared from the doorway and found its mark in a major aperture with perfect accuracy.

The sudden weakness that followed made Fang Heng release the bandages involuntarily. He stumbled back against the wall, then looked toward the doorway with resigned acknowledgment.

Senior Brother Bai put away his needle case, waved an irritated hand to dismiss the shaken Liu Xiujie and Little Er, and drifted over. “Come sit. Tell me properly. Who are you looking for?”

Fang Heng crossed back and settled down, voice muted. “Shen Yi. I’m concerned something’s happened to him.”

“Who is Shen Yi?” Bai Ziming returned his attention to the herbs.

The big man exhaled and started from the beginning — Lin martial-elder-sister’s involvement, everything leading up to Shen Yi’s departure from the General’s courtyard — methodically and in full detail.

“So your arm got bent by him?” Bai Ziming found this faintly amusing.

“I was careless.” Fang Heng closed his eyes. He had no interest in revisiting it.

“You can’t stand him anyway — he left, he left. Why look for him?” Bai Ziming wasn’t particularly invested. Qingzhou was large, talented practitioners numerous, and improbable encounters a regular occurrence. Someone naturally gifted enough to grasp the pulse-reading technique at a glance in a day wasn’t unheard of.

“Martial elder sister presented him. Whether he stays is for our teacher to decide. My personal opinion is my own business, but there’s a proper order to things.” Fang Heng worked carefully to control his right arm.

“You couldn’t hold him. Teacher wouldn’t have held him either.” Bai Ziming smiled faintly, gaze drifting toward the inner room with something thoughtful behind it.

The Demon Suppression Division — not the Demon Hunting Division. Demons and skilled martial practitioners were both called mo — the character was the same, applied wherever it was useful.

The Division opened its path with a blade, then secured loyalty with valuable incentives — gathering Qingzhou’s talented under one roof, supplying them with the finest techniques and medicines, driving them out to kill demons and suppress threats, burning through both sides until a certain balance was maintained.

As for the sects and families that refused to send their people — Songhe Sect had demonstrated the consequences adequately.

Martial practitioners unchecked were capable of everything demons were.

The General’s five disciples — none of them came from established families or sects. The best-positioned among them had a father who sold silk. The Demon Suppression Generals across the twelve prefectures were the same.

No one to fall back on. Only the court. Willing to put their lives on the line killing demons — that was the General’s most important criterion for taking a disciple.

Natural talent came second. Given the right resources, even someone of ordinary gift would develop — the exceptions were once-in-centuries true prodigies, or the genuinely unteachable, the ones who needed decades to learn even simple techniques. Everyone else fell somewhere in the middle.

“Either way, this decision isn’t mine to make. And Lin martial-elder-sister’s interest in keeping him isn’t solely about the recommendation either.” Fang Heng stood. “There’s been trouble in Baiyun County. He shouldn’t wander.”

He pulled the remaining needles from his arm and offered a formal bow. “I’m not good with this kind of thing. I ask for guidance, Senior Brother.”

Bai Ziming looked up. “Speak plainly. Behave like a person.”

Fang Heng paused. “Could you be more specific?”

“…”

Bai Ziming sighed, patient in the way of someone who’d done this before. “Show up at the door. Bring a gift. Apologize.” He added: “And be careful not to end up back in here — you’re not a Deputy Commander yet, and the medicines aren’t free. They come out of my account.”

“Understood. Thank you, Senior Brother.”

Fang Heng appeared to absorb something from that, turned, and walked out of the bamboo cottage. He looked at the two figures crouched outside in a daze and hesitated.

“Could I ask—”

“Could you— ?” Liu Xiujie got halfway to standing.

“Where is Shen Yi?” Fang Heng’s brow was drawn together slightly. The phrasing clearly did not come naturally.

“He’s in—” Liu Xiujie pointed instinctively, and was immediately yanked sideways by Little Er.

Right. Don’t forget this one put Li-head half in the grave. ‘Could I ask’ doesn’t change what he is.

Fang Heng gave them both a flat look and walked off.

One hour later.

A powerfully built figure made his way into the side courtyard and stopped in front of the one door that was shut.

He thought about it. Raised his left hand and knocked.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The door opened to reveal a man a full head taller, with a stomach to match.

Zhang Tuhu blinked sleep from his eyes, rubbed them, and looked at the young man in the doorway — left hand carrying a bag of tangerines, right hand a piece of dried meat.

Somewhat startled: “Good afternoon. And you are — visiting family?”

The young man’s expression did not change. “Fang Heng.”

(End of Chapter)