SU TANG (素醣)

  Day 21, 4th Month of the Lunar Calendar, 6000th Year of the Yun Dynasty, Taishan Province, Tian’an Sect

  Winter had slunk in a few nights ago, dragging her usual entourage of frost, wind, and general misery. Autumn, with her golden leaves and polite breezes, had long since packed her bags. Now, in her absence, we were gifted the sort with skirt-flipping gusts that we lowly maidservants absolutely loved. Not.

  These days, I spent most of my time in the Alchemist Guild. I would’ve liked to say I was needed for my brilliant medicinal talents or unmatched efficiency. The reality was far uglier: since Zhao Lili had turned the servant dormitory into a smouldering pile of debris, the only spare beds were here, tucked between shelves of dried centipedes and powder that could dissolve your skin.

  There was, of course, the other option—moving into your master’s manor directly. And it seemed the other maidservants were positively thrilled at the chance to stay at the Crown Prince’s residence. Giddy, even.

  Good for them, I suppose. Personally, I’d take herbs and cold stone floors over giggling concubine-wannabes and the ever-present danger of royal mood swings.

  So, the Alchemist Guild it was.

  Thanks to the seasonal chaos, the Guild had turned into something between a furnace and a battlefield. But I didn’t mind.

  Occasionally, I returned to the Crown Prince’s manor to tie up loose ends and play my role as His Highness’ personal maidservant. Mercifully, most staff didn’t pay enough attention to notice when I vanished for days at a time. A blessing, really. After I’d opened my big stupid mouth and offered to help him ‘solve that whole political disaster,’ I didn’t want to revisit that can of worms.

  Too bad that I had dumped those books and run like a coward. But the Crown Prince’s wrath wasn’t something I was particularly eager to sample. Chun Li had helpfully included some very enlightening reading material in that pile. In other words, the content was lewd, revealing, and graphic.

  I hope he didn’t read it. Although, considering his general demeanour and how people fluttered about him like flies around honey, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a closet pervert.

  It’s always the quiet ones.

  Who was I to judge? His Highness can do anything.

  Hehehehe...

  Anyway, according to Chun Li, all of those things was meant to ‘educate young people into well-bred adults.’

  As if that ship hadn’t already sunk. I already had an exhaustive curriculum to learn all from Ju Ying, Ying Yue, and Lao Zhe, alone—not including all the other addons who’d accumulated over my life. They didn’t teach specifically about that kind of content, but plenty of other things that were arguably less important.

  Honestly, it was Ying Yue’s and Ju Ying’s fault that I turned out this way. Socially awkward. Academically drained. And cursed with special treatment I never asked for. Whilst the other children made flower bracelets, I was told to craft qi-infused beacon bands. Whilst they nurtured grass with gentle spells, I was scolded for wasting my magic on ‘useless vanity.’

  I wasn’t allowed to play with others.

  I was quizzed and drilled. And when I screwed up, Ju Ying made me handwrite the histories of each sect.

  I hated school. Not because I wasn’t good at it but because someone was always watching and judging. Waiting for me to misstep. It wasn’t until Xiao Wu arrived, the genius boy with erratic energy, and zero sense of self-preservation, that I realised it didn’t have to be that way.

  A sputter and pop pulled me out of my thoughts. I tilted sideways on my bench, trying to catch a glimpse of the commotion through the crowd of apothecaries and alchemists hunched over their furnaces. A blur of grey linen shot past my peripheral vision. Xiao Wu was dashing toward his malfunctioning pot like it owed him money. Ah, so it was his spluttering pot. The veterans among us turned to look. Some with the air of exasperated teachers. Others with the nostalgic amusement of survivors.

  Don’t worry, Xiao Wu. We’ve all set something on fire at least once. Some of us even on purpose.

  I reached for a ginseng root and sliced it into thin slivers. The bitter smell clung to my fingers. I wiped them absently on the apron at my waist, only to leave behind a faint yellow stain. Great. Another thing to ignore until it becomes a problem.

  I should just go and wash my hands.

  The water basins were held in a little alcove in the corner of the vast hall. I attempted to rinse my hands but immediately regretted it. The water was frigid, and it gave you kind of ache that questioned whether circulation was ever real to begin with. At last, I shook the excess droplets off and moved toward the little hearth nearby, where a modest flame burned with just enough conviction to dry my fingers, but not enough to warm my soul.

  I mostly liked the Guild. No one asked questions here. Perhaps it was because most of us were Shuishang folk—except two wide-eyes disciples from Mingyun Sect—and therefore we were either too tired or too polite to pry. Everyone minded their own business. No one cared where I wandered or why. No one hovered over my shoulder or told me I was wasting time.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  For all they knew, I could have been concocting a hexed poison to assassinate the emperor.

  So…I was making a cold brew for Chun Li.

  I did say, could have.

  Like most of the petite ladies in the palace, Chun Li had caught the flu. And lately, it had gotten worse. I suspected she overworked herself. As the only history recorder and the sole head of the Alchemist Guild, it was undeniable she had too much on her plate. Perhaps that was the real reason no one monitored us.

  On the way back to my station, I collected ginkgo and Chinese dates. I plopped the ginkgo into a stone mortar and pestle. Grinding herbs had become a rather therapeutic pastime for me. It was one of those monotonous, mundane tasks never truly finished, only abandoned once the grinder arbitrarily decided the herbs were crushed enough. My nose wrinkled reflexively, and I waved a hand to disperse the pungent stench. I had forgotten how putrid crushed, dried ginkgo was.

  Swiftly, I brushed the concoction and some thinly sliced ginseng into a clay pot. I selected a handful of Chinese dates and placed them in before carrying the pot to the stove.

  “jiě!” Xiao Wu came running up, his face a sweaty mess and his hands covered in some suspicious greenish-brown stain.

  “Watch the clothes. This is freshly washed linen,” I said, even though my apron was already stained with herb juice.

  He pulled back his hands and tucked them into his oversized sleeves. I carefully placed my clay pot on the flames, then poured boiling water from a kettle into it. I watched the leaves swirl and rise within the mixture before placing a clay lid atop it.

  “jiě, can you help me? Please?” Xiao Wu, who had waited patiently for me to finish, finally exploded.

  “I thought you said you were the ‘best alchemist,’” I mused.

  He pouted. “Stop it.”

  He pretended to smack my arm and I returned the favour. Eventually, when he tired of that little game, he repeated his plea.

  “With what?” I asked, my attention still on the herbal draught that wasn’t bubbling quite as it should. I picked up a woven fan and began fanning the flame. Steam began blooming from the blowhole in the centre of the clay lid.

  “My medicinal pill isn’t working. Look at it,” he whined, pulling out a dull, cracked, rock-like object I assumed was his failed pill. I pinched it between two fingers and turned it around.

  At last, I looked at him. “So, what is it supposed to be?”

  He gave me a mortified expression of disbelief. “Is it so terrible you can’t even recognise it?”

  “Sorry,” I replied quickly, even though I didn’t mean it any other way.

  “It’s a Sickness-Dispelling Pill,” he muttered.

  I frowned. “I don’t know what you’ve made, but it’s definitely not in the dispelling class. If it were”—I brought it to my nose—“it would smell like mooncake pastries, even if it looked like this.”

  “Oh.” He slowly took the pill back from my hand, shame rising like heat to his ears.

  I lifted the clay lid of my herbal brew and peered in. The semi-transparent brown liquid was bubbling happily, and I couldn’t help smiling too. I glanced at Xiao Wu, still brooding over his failed pill. How could I let my little brother sulk like that?

  “Why don’t you tell me what the actual script for the pill was?” I asked.

  He fidgeted with his collar. “Didn’t I just say it? It was supposed to be a Sickness-Dispelling Pill. For colds.”

  I placed my hands on my hips and leaned toward my own herbal brew. “Then you shouldn’t have any problem making it. You’re smart. A tier-two pill should be nothing.”

  “jiě, are you mocking me?”

  Would it be too mean if I said yes?

  I sighed. I’d given him every opportunity to come clean, and he still refused. Xiao Wu was a genius—he was the first in our class to refine a tier-five pill using eight ingredients at once. And now he expected me to believe he couldn’t make a tier-two pill with three?

  The smell of my putrid, bitter medicine transformed into a sweetish scent, signalling its completion. Using a small spell, I lifted the liquid from the pot and stirred it in midair, then gently let it cascade into a white porcelain bowl. Three dates floated on the surface like little steamboats, puffing steam into the air. I placed a lid atop the bowl and added a spoon to the tray, then prepared to carry it away.

  A small, slightly grubby hand caught my elbow.

  “Sorry, jiě. I was wrong,” he said, pouting. I tried to keep a stern face, but I couldn’t. Not when he looked like that.

  “Why don’t you start with the truth?” I said.

  “It was…it was another kind of pill,” he mumbled, blushing.

  “Another kind?” What kind of pill makes you blush? I raised an eyebrow and gestured vaguely downward. “Like… that kind?”

  “No! Of course not!” he sputtered, face now redder than a tomato.

  I frowned, head tilting. “Then what?”

  He explained how it had all happened. At first, he was making herbal pills for the usual ailments: colds, fevers, headaches, all the expected stuff. Then he stumbled across one script that all the alchemists had ignored—one that I had specifically ignored, he told me, because apparently I’d drawn a massive ‘x’ across the paper. It had been sitting there before we even started at the Guild. Naturally, being the soft-hearted fool he was, he decided to take it on. Only later did he realise it was a tier-five pill…and it was not for treating illnesses at all.

  “A beauty pill,” I said flatly.

  He nodded.

  “Who requested it?”

  Something in my gut told me the answer.

  “Huoqing Province’s national beauty. Empress Huangmei’s adopted niece. First daughter of Grand Secretary Zhao Qingshan—Lady Zhao Lili.”

  What a pretentious title.

  “Don’t worry about it. Look, no one in the Guild has touched that request for weeks. And we’re overloaded with cases now that winter’s here.” And because Zhao Lili was a petty brat and I’d rather die than help her look prettier.

  No wonder I drew an ‘x’ on that script.

  Xiao Wu pouted again. I ruffled his hair.

  “If you really want to know, I could make it and leave it on my bench for you to study. Only if you’re serious.”

  He lit up. “Yes, please!”

  I patted his shoulder then moved off with my brew.