Blueprint for Immortality: a Crafting Xianxia

At the ring of the bell, Booker cracked a lazy eye open. Sunlight was washing through the wooden shutters of his window. In the corner, his amphibian patient had recovered and was perching silently. Laid down in front of him were a dozen dead insects, from a scrawny little spider to a massive beetle.

“Huh. Guess you really like protecting your master’s stuff…” Booker said, his voice tightened to a croak by morning stiffness.

Damn. I was too drunk to practice last night, so I didn’t make any progress on my quest.

Sighing, he rolled out of bed and stretched his arms behind his head, his neck and shoulders snapping and crackling. The powerful muscles of Rain’s body responded easily. Booker was in the best shape he’d ever been in, besides the lingering sweatiness and discomfort from his withdrawal.

Really, I’m lucky. It’s easy for me to withstand the withdrawals because, unlike Rain, I never learned to reach for drugs when I feel bad. There’s no ingrained instinct. Just the physical pains.

He moved to the basin and washed water across his face, shaving. To his displeasure the scrape of the razor was dull. After a moment he put aside the sharpened seashell that Rain had used to shave, and drew out his alchemist’s knife. In a few clean strokes the flat blade had scraped away even the barest hints of stubble.

This is a really good knife. He thought, smiling with appreciation. Turning it over to rest the blade gently in his palm, he examined the hilt, which was carved with tiny vines and flowers, the red wood turning yellow where the varnished layer had been cut through to make the etchings.

The craftsmen of this Sect are really something else. The next time I get one of the Master’s Pages I should go see them.

Turning it around again, he delicately carved a grid onto his walls, six by five for thirty spaces with lines as straight as he could make them.

Fifteen of those, he filled with scratches.

The auction house always holds its big event on the first of the month. He recalled from Rain’s memories. So I have fifteen days to make myself a fortune. And the Sparrow's Examination is on the last of the month. That's going to be a hell of a double-feature.

Fifteen days…

It doesn’t feel like enough, not to the old me. But I have magic now…

I can make miracles happen in fifteen days.

Stepping out into the halls, he joined the breakfast rush and watched as a purple-winged blur descended from the ceiling, landing on his shoulder. Snips proudly wiggled its claws towards the very unharmed congregation of cripples.

“Quiet night, huh?”

That’s just as well. Hopefully mister silkpants stays far away from us, and we enjoy the peace a little while longer…

Raindrops were drumming into the open spaces of the courtyards. They splattered against the window of the dining hall, each drop gray-bodied and fat, a coldness seeping through the walls and chilling the air. Mist wafted across the dark blue-green of the mountain forest.

“Brother Rain.” Mei said very seriously as they sat down. “If you had to lose one, arm or leg?”

“Arm for sure.” Booker answered. “If you lose your leg, your other leg struggles. An arm is just fine on its own. It has five fingers to rely on.”

“What a thoughtful answer. But, what if you had to be a one-winged bird, or a monkey with no arms?”

“Was I born this way?” Booker asked, drawn into this regardless.

“No, if you were a bird you’d always remember what flight was like. But if you were a monkey, you’d have to relearn everything.”

“Bird with one wing.” Booker said.

But for the most part he was silent as he ate his congee, feeding specks to Snips on his shoulder. As they parted ways with Mei and he headed towards the alchemy lab, he lifted Snips off his shoulder and said, “Watch them a little while longer. We have to be sure.”

Obediently, the mantis buzzed away.

Ha. My master should throw me out and get a spirit beast like Snips. Much more obedient.

— — —

Today was Allocation Day, and there was no work. Every member of the Sect was given a day free of obligation to spend as they pleased. And every member of the Sect lined up, obediently, to receive their bi-monthly stipend. For disciples, fifteen liang and a single Sunflower-Saffron Cultivation Pill. For novices and cripples, seven liang.

As he received his stipend, Booker smiled and dropped the coins into an already-full purse.

Say what you like about how stingy the Sect is…

They gave me a whole day to my own devices. Let’s see what I can do with the time.

— — —

Booker arrived at the little hospital where he’d received treatment after the bath house incident with his sleeves rolled up. He’d promised to pay back his debt with work, and he intended to give them the full value.

It was a pretty puny building for a hospital – two stories tall, it was more of a refurbished middle class house. As Booker stepped inside, he was greeted by a small waiting room where many people sat hunched over in their chairs. Some were nursing obvious wounds, others looked deathly sick, sick enough that nobody sat in the seats next to them.

This place is really overworked.

He knocked on the door to the surgery, and an awkward squawk of a voice answered, “Can’t you wait!?”

Booker answered. “I’m the disciple from the Sect you treated – I’m here to help!”

“Ah? Come in!”

Booker stepped inside and was treated to the sight of blood splattering across a white bedspread. The doctor was nervously stitching away, trying to seal up a massive knee wound that exposed the white of bone among the pink-red of open gore.

He winced slightly, looking away.

“What do you know of surgery?” The doctor asked in a hurried tone.

“Not much.” Booker admitted. “But I know my medicine.”

“Make a little painkiller from the greenbeard powder and the muddy liver root.” The doctor instructed, gesturing to a shelf of meager alchemical ingredients.

Booker took a jar of the shelf. It had barely a few splinter-thin roots inside. The greenbeard powder was similarly depleted, with barely enough to cover the bottom of the jar inside.

“Don’t use too much of either. Bind the mixture with bone meal.”

For best efficiency, you would combine these into a pill instead of making a loose paste. Booker frowned as he saw just how dire this was. The hospital had almost no medicine, and had no time to properly prepare what little it did have.

Still… I can’t just show off my powers here…

Dropping a single root into a mortar bowl, Booker quickly ground it down to a paste, dashing in a sparing bit of greenbeard powder and a heavy hand with the bone meal, the only ingredient that was in abundant supply.

The whole process was so quick and easy for him that, when he crossed the room to offer the paste to the doctor, the man looked up in surprise, “Damn, but your hands must move quickly.”

“Some have said I have talent.” Booker agreed, watching with grotesque fascination as the man dipped a blood-tipped shaving brush into the mixture and began to paint the slurry on to the edges of the wound. I guess it’s good I can handle the sight of blood.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Booker asked.

“Ah, one thing. My hands are covered in blood. Could you adjust my spectacles? They’re just sliding towards the tip of my nose every time I look down.”

“Of course.” Brushing the man’s messy hair aside, Booker pulled his half-moon spectacles back onto his ears.

“Thank you. Ah, I should be done in a few minutes…” His voice trailed off, his concentration consumed by the surgery. The whole time, the doctor’s hands had never stopped moving, placing stitch after bloody stitch with a mix of urgency and precision that bordered on uncanny. It reminded Booker of his own movements when he was following the book’s instructions. To reach that level of skill with only mortal practice – it was impressive, to say the least.

“Since I’m only good with medicine, I’ll go out and treat the sick, leaving the injured to you.” Booker proposed to the clearly-distracted doctor.

“Good, good…” He muttered back. “Take the other room across the hall.”

Booker strode out the door and addressed the crowd gathered in the waiting room, bowing his head to them. “Everyone, I’ll be tending to those of you with illnesses today. Please come to me if you have a sickness or feel ill. I’ll see whoever has been waiting longest first.”

A man stood up, clutching a cloth the left side of his face. He stumbled inside the room Booker had provided, which had obviously once been a small kitchen, the basins and counters still intact. As he took the cloth away from his face, Booker winced.

Vicious yellow pustules covered the right half of his face. Several had already burst, leaving magnificently ugly craters of swollen pink flesh. “I uh, I think it’s a curse.”

“Unlikely.” Booker said. “It’s probably more of a rash. Have you been placing anything on your face?”

“N-no… Just some facepaint, that’s all. I took a job entertaining a noble’s kids. Juggling, you know.” The man reluctantly admitted. “Just for some extra coin.”

Booker turned away so the man wouldn’t see his smile. So he’s a party clown. Amazing… “You’re probably allergic to something in the facepaint.”

“Allergic?” The man asked, clearly unfamiliar with the word.

“It’s a poison to you, in short. Some people are allergic to certain substances, and some to others.” Of course, they wouldn’t know what that means. I wonder what other medical science is unknown to them…

“Poison…”

“Don’t put more of that facepaint on. If you have to, make paints out of something else.” Booker continued to explain. Ducking into the surgery room, he grabbed a handful of useful jars and carried them back to his own room. “Hold on one second…”

“Er, what’s a second?” The man was truly confused now.

“Think of the time it takes a spark to fly off a piece of flint.” Booker suggested. Setting down the medicines, he began to quickly grind and combine bits of herb in the mortar’s bowl, before scraping them onto a piece of bandage.

Carefully winding it around the man’s face, he smiled. “There, that ought to do.”

The man was wincing, squirming and setting his teeth on edge as the abrasive medicines made contact with his wounds. “Ahh, it really stings…”

“Don’t worry, it will fade. I get the impression you’ve put yourself through a lot lately… I suggest you rest a little bit.” Booker said as the man limped out of his makeshift office. I wish I had enough painkillers to justify giving him some…

This hospital is barely alive. They can barely treat patients with trivial needs.

The next to enter the room was a stick-thin old woman wrapped in many layers of cloth, with badly shaking hands. Booker could tell the problem was arthritis at a glance. In fact, he was more interested in the brand on her face. While age had dissolved the tattoo’s clarity into a rough blur of blue ink, he could still read it – ‘Outsider’ it read.

So she’s from one of the tribes the Sect has enmity with, but still lives inside the city. Rain’s memory wasn’t very reliable on the topic of the forbidden tribes, only that they’d contested the Mantis Sect’s rise long ago.

“My hands are a little stiff…” She said, which was clearly an understatement.

Let’s see. The book has plenty of herbs that could fix that and…

We don’t… His hand hovered over the collection of dried roots and herbs.

Have any of them. He grit his teeth.

“Wait one second.” Booker said as he stepped out the door. “I’ll be right back.” He reassured everyone as he quickly left the hospital entirely, striding out into the street and taking a hard right, towards the herb market.

It took barely twenty liang to more than replenish the hospital’s stock. Twenty silver to buy painkillers, plague-cures, salves for rashes, and a half-dozen other useful medicines. His ability to judge the quality of herbs let him easily pick the best specimens; the shopkeepers were quick to praise his discerning eye as he sorted through their stock with a sort of distracted expertise. But that didn’t improve his mood at all.

This is ridiculous. The city is prospering – why is the hospital running off scraps.

By the time he made it back, the doctor had finished the surgery and was cleaning his hands in the small basin. The patient was utterly unconscious, drifting off sometime during the sea of pain.

“Sorry for the wait.” Booker said, lifting the heavy wooden casket in his hands. “I have a gift from the Sect.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow, but said, “Most appreciated.”

Setting it down, Booker unpacked the ingredients and began to chop, peel, and process them with his blade. He hummed to himself, dropping the results into the mortar bowl and grinding up a quick paste with minor healing and numbing properties. The whole thing took only a few seconds.

“My, those are fast hands.” The doctor complimented.

“Thank you.” Booker tapped his knife on the crate of medicinal herbs. “How long should these last you? Assuming you cut down on the bone meal.”

“Er, only a half-month, I think. Even then I’d have to be pretty generous with the bone meal.” The doctor said with a tone of apology. “Did you buy that with your own money?”

“It’s a gift–” Booker began, but a glance told him the doctor wasn’t buying it. “From me.” He admitted.

“Child, I don’t know why those three were afraid to bring you to the Sect for healing, but that’s where most people in the city go. This hospital, er… It serves…”

“People who won’t or can’t go to the Sect.” Booker completed. That’s why it’s so poorly funded. The Sect doesn’t want this place to exist at all – so they’ve let it starve.

“Exactly. Your generosity is appreciated, but, er, in your position…” Again the doctor trailed off.

“I’ll be careful.” Booker agreed. “But I owe you a debt today, and I intend to pay it.”

“Ah…” The doctor fully seemed not to know what to say, so Booker left him there, carrying his alchemical salve over to the next room where the old lady was waiting.

She had slumped in her chair, and was clearly napping until she heard the creek of the door, at which point she made a clumsy attempt to straighten up.

“Sorry, we had to go out for more medicine.” Booker explained as he brushed the salve onto a set of bandages. Kneeling down, he began to wrap her hands, leaving the fingers bare so she’d still be able to use them.

“My, such a diligent and polite lad.” The old grandmother croaked, looking straight at his brand. Booker had grown to hate it when it people did that. “Such a shame they did that to your handsome face.”

“I try not to think about it.” Booker replied professionally.

“If only it was so easy…” She sighed. “I think about it all the time…”

Of course, I didn’t have to live through the process. Being held down and inked. I remember it – but only barely, Rain was so out of things at the time.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what does yours mean?”

“Hah. What a question. Once upon a time in this city, young man, everyone knew what this mark meant. They even feared we’d have our revenge someday.” She said with a mixture of faded pride and resentment. “It means I’m one of the Lao-Hain.”

Lao-Hain…

It was a name caught up in ancient politics Rain had never bothered to fully understand. The Lao-Hain had once ruled an incredible amount of the Mountain-Gate World, but after a long struggle they had slowly lost territory after territory. They were, to Rain’s mind, ‘witchy’ and strange, with suspiciously foreign customs.

“I don’t know much about the Lao-Hain.” He admitted.

“Who does? Even when I was a young girl, their memory was fading. If it wasn’t for this brand, even I might have forgotten I was Lao-Hain by now.” The old woman chuckled. “But afterwards, I made it my business to learn everything I could. But you, you’re from that Sect. Aren’t you afraid listening to me will fill your mind with heretical notions?” She smiled viciously.

“I’m not afraid of learning. It’s never done anything but help me yet.” Booker replied honestly. He had finished bandaging, and he straightened up, going to wash his hands.

“Then I’ll tell you truthfully. The Lao-Hain conquered this land ages ago, but they weren’t evil or wrongheaded, not any more so than when your Mantis Sect took this land from the natives. They intermarried and allowed the old customs, and they sought to rule their new citizens as equal to their old blood. The one thing they couldn’t abide was your cultivator-gods.”

“What did the Lao-Hain worship, then?” Booker asked. Their business was done but he found he was getting a lot of information just by keeping her talking.

“The totem, child.” She exclaimed, as if it was obvious. “The spirits of the land and sky.”

Totem worship…

I barely know a damn thing about totem spirits, just that they were something Rain’s family feared when they were living in the wilderness.

“The totem spirits are always here, unseen. They grow within the mantle over our houses, in the wells in which we draw water, the deep of the forest where only wolves walk. But when they show themselves, they make themselves vulnerable to us. If a cultivator catches a totem in its revealed form, they will surely use their magics to devour it whole, consuming its energies to strengthen themselves.”

To Booker’s surprise, the book manifested within his mind. Its pages flipped open, revealing a picture of a ghostly woman slumbering among the thread-thin roots of an underground vegetable.

Totem-Marked Herbs

Medicine that has grown uninterrupted for a long period of time will sometimes acquire a totem spirit sleeping within, particularly if allowed to grow in a sacred or qi-rich location. The spiritual nature of the medicine will manifest as a single golden rune somewhere on the herb’s body. This mark is invaluable; it will add precious properties to any pill made from the medicine. Even eaten raw, totem-marked herbs are intensely valuable.

Huh, she wasn’t kidding. The book doesn’t even mention these spirits… except to say you can eat them.

“So the Lao-Hain didn’t practice cultivation?” That was what interested him most. If the Lao-Hain had powers other than cultivation – maybe they were powers a cripple could access.

“Ha. Child, I can see what you’re thinking.” Her eyes sparkled with delight. She had a crow-like nose and yellow teeth missing the bottom-front two, and was in every way derelict and unimpressive, except that Booker felt suddenly pierced through by her gaze.

Martial intent, maybe? Is this what it feels like?

“But what you’re asking for is forbidden knowledge. I never learned, and if I had, I’d take those secrets to the grave. They belong to the Lao-Hain and the Lao-Hain are dead now.” A chuckle. “Perhaps their secrets should die too.”

Heh. What a fierce old lady. She played me good, with all that talk of secret knowledge.

I wonder what she actually knows? Probably not much, but more than nothing I’d bet.

“Your hands should feel a lot better by tomorrow, but you have to rest them if you want the results to last.” Booker explained, opening the door.

“You’re a kind young man, and I don’t get the impression that will serve you well. Not with the Sect. I’ll pray for you tonight.” She said as she shuffled out the door.

But he didn’t feel the least bit apprehensive as she left.

What a fun place…

Everyone here has a reason for the Sect to shun them, and not all of them are keeping it secret. I wonder what else I’ll hear.

I might get in trouble for working here…

But as long as I only do it once, I can claim innocence.

“Next,” he said.

The next up was a balding man with a very furrowed-up and serious browline, almost cromagnon-like, but an immediately goofy and endearing smile. “Sorry to bother you with something like this at all, sir…” He said as he sat down, and Booker immediately clocked a deep limp. There was sweat coating the man’s face, and it was pale.

He pushed the door closed. “What brings you in today?” I like that. Sounds professional. I never thought about it, but being a doctor for a day is pretty fun – especially when you get to skip all that dull time spent studying medicine.

“W-welll…”

The man pulled up the hem of his robes to expose the most horridly infected leg Booker had ever seen. The sight almost made him heave. There was a row of puncture marks in the center, an imprint from the teeth of a predator, and then everything around it had been swollen by infection.

“My daughter’s dog is a half-beast breed. He’s– a-a little spoiled and maybe not the best trained a-and–”

“Oh damn.” Booker turned away, grimacing. “You didn’t want the Sect to execute the beast responsible for this attack.”

The man nodded with a miserable expression.

“But why didn’t you come in sooner?” So much of the damage was preventable…

“My w-wife bought some medicinal m-mud at the market. We really thought it would s-solve the issue…” The man was huffing and puffing with pain, and judging by the sheet-white color his face was turning, was on the verge of passing out. He’d probably been half-unconscious in his chair when Booker called.

“You’ve been packing your wounds with dirt.” Booker noted grimly. “Hold on.” He turned to begin mixing medicine. There was a need for nearly everything. Antibiotics, painkillers, something to lower his fever, something to clean out his veins…

By the time he turned around with the finished salve the man was unconscious, looking worse than death.

With a sigh, Booker scooped the salve out of the bowl into his hand. This will be more effective as a pill. He made sure the man was truly unconscious, before turning around to block his line of sight anyway, and thinking, Furnace.

Fire flared between his fingers and the pill was complete.

I’ll dust on a little paste of bone meal and rubbing alcohol to disinfect, and so nobody realized I really fed him a pill…

Whisking up the required mixture, Booker quickly slathered it on and fed the man the pill, forcing him back to half-consciousness for long enough to swallow.

Then he went and got the doctor.

“Er, this is extremely bad.” Was the doctor’s immediate prognosis. “He might lose the limb. Worse, he doesn’t look like he’s sturdy enough to survive losing it.”

“I’m confident in the medicine I made. But if he doesn’t wake up in the next hour, then we have to admit it’s failed and do whatever comes next.” Booker agreed. According to the book’s specifications, that kind of pill would never take more than an hour to show effects. If there was no recovery by then, there would be no recovery after…

“These situations are always very ugly. Uh, the fact is, mm, there’s a lot of limb to get through, yes, and none of its pretty.” The tools he was bringing out to clean and sharpen were extremely frightening.

At least, Booker noted, he’s washing them.

So they understand diseases can transmit by contact.

At that moment, there was a commotion as the door to the street crashed open. Through the door, Booker heard someone saying, “I need help immediately. I- I am bleeding and poisoned. I will not be conscious much longer…”

“How about… I’ll handle the poison and call you when it’s time for the stitching?” Booker suggested. “That way we can take shifts watching this one while fixing up the other.”

The doctor, flustered, just nodded.

Booker stepped out into the waiting room to see a young man with shockingly white hair tied back in an untidy bun. Everything he was wearing was covered by a sheet he wore wrapped around him like a cloak. He was leaning hard against the doorframe, one blood-soaked hand clutching his lower side, near the kidney, with blood splattering up and dripping down from there across nearly his entire body.

“How are you still alive?” Booker asked, helping the man by slipping his arm around his shoulders and lifting from below.

Together they limped into the operating room. There was no space on the bed – it was still occupied by the man with the injured knee. Instead Booker found himself laying the patient out on the table, sweepings things aside to make space.

“I’m a cultivator.” The young man said. “I was killing a snake-headed beast when one of its young bit me. The wound isn’t that bad, but I was out of medicine… And I had to walk a long way here…”

Booker peeled the blood-soaked sheet back from the wound, and winced. For a wound of this size to lose so much blood – he must have kept it open by moving for hours. It was indeed a relatively small wound, but it was so deep it couldn’t heal properly, having pierced into the guts. Without treatment, deadly infection was just a matter of time.

Whatever hell it must have been dragging himself here, it was worth it…

It saved his life.

But as Booker was examining the wound, he couldn’t help but notice what the young man was trying to hide. He was well-dressed, in good silk robes, but with tribal jewelry dangling from his sleeves and tied around his belt. Rows of carved beads and tooth necklaces and glass pendants hung around his neck.

Most tellingly, he had an amulet of gold stamped with the characters Mountain Shrine Clan hanging from his belt.

Rain knew a little about the mountain clans, and these kinds of seals were given to highborne sons of the chieftain. They marked him as a precious commodity; an heir who could cultivate and bore noble blood from the neighboring kingdoms.

Basically it’s a dog tag, and it marks him out so people will ransom him back instead of killing him.

Turning around, Booker began to mix a medicinal paste for the wound. Something with antivenom properties, to expunge the infant snake’s poison.

As he did the young man choked out, “No word of this can reach my father.”

“Is that why you’re here? So your father doesn’t hear from the Sect you were hurt?” Booker frowned. “You’re stretching the resources of this hospital pretty thin for such a petty reason.”

“It’s more than petty. My brothers would take advantage of this, and they are– jackals. They cannot be allowed to rule the tribe.” The youth declared, although the latter half of his words were tinged with pain as he tried to move too much and encountered the reality of his wounds.

“This is an awful lot of information.” Booker said, finishing the antivenom paste. “Are you sure you should be telling me this?”

The young man’s fixed him with a steady blue gaze. “I’m trying to convince you to help me.”

“And I’m saying you don’t have to.” Booker replied matter-of-factly. “I’m just a helper at the hospital and the doctor is hardly here to extort people. Your secret is safe; actually, it’s safe because it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh.” The young man sounded a little sour about that.

“The snake killing was very impressive though!” Booker said, trying not to sound too much like he was humoring the young man. Which he definitely was. “This is going to hurt.” He noted, as he began to slather on the paste. The man tensed, fingers slowly curling into fists.

“And it’s done.” Booker said.

The young man nodded weakly.

“I’ll go get the surgeon.” Stepping out through the entrance hall, he entered the far room.

There, Booker was pleasantly surprised to see the man with the dog-bitten leg had recovered enough to open his eyes. “I’ve dealt with the poison.” He said to the exhausted looking doctor.

“Thank you, I don’t know how I would have managed without.” The man admitted.

“I was actually going to ask– how do you manage? This place seems too worn-down to last a week.”

“Once in a while we get a large donation and things get better. And even when we’re thin, well, most days aren’t like today…” The doctor shook his head. “But when they are… we start sending patients to the Sect. And sometimes the Sect takes pity and treats them, despite their disputes.”

And sometimes it doesn’t. Booker noted grimly. Not that I can hold it against the Sect. Extending mercy to your enemies is a big ask, even if they only do it ‘sometimes’.

“I can help you until the evening bell.” He offered.

“We’d be, um, grateful.” The doctor agreed.

It’s funny, he keeps talking about this hospital as ‘we’ – but there’s nobody else here.

— — —

When he left it was well after the evening bell, and his stomach was rumbling. As he made his way to the teahouse, he enjoyed the sight of streets lit by hanging lanterns, casting wax-colored lights across a city that he found increasingly beautiful.

When he arrived, he saw three familiar faces waiting for him.

The three scam artists who had summoned a very real spirit into the Thorn Street Bathhouse. Their faces brightened as they saw him, as if they weren’t sure he was going to show up.

“Ah, I hope you brought your fourth?” He asked.

A chill shiver of mist ran through the air, and Brother Han briefly appeared behind them before fading away again.

“Good, we’ll need all five of us.” Booker said.

“Er, for what?” The bald-headed and fat one asked.

“Well, I have met the most magnificent friend. Yesterday he gave me five hundred liang, and today, he might give me a thousand.” Booker held up a finger. “The one thing is, he can’t know it’s me he’s given it to.”

They paused for a moment, and then one by one the lights came on behind their eyes. “Oh! You’ve met a real sucker and want us to help rob him blind? We’re the very men for the job!”

“That’s what I was hoping to hear.”