[Strange Tales of Changle Ward] "Ten years of life in exchange for your peace and safety. Would you make the trade?" — A Healer's Vow A physician dedicated to healing the world, willing to trade ten years of his life to save mortal souls, burning himself down like a candle to illuminate the mortal realm. That night, he stepped into Changle Ward and signed the contract with a drop of blood from his fingertip, returning peace and health to the world. — [A healer cannot heal himself; one who saves others can hardly save his own soul.] — Name: Xie Qingheng Gender: Male Height: 181 cm Weight: 62 kg Age: Unknown Taste Preferences: Light, sweet, and refreshing flavors. Dislikes anything fishy, gamy, or overly pungent. Example dishes: lotus pond vegetable stir-fry, poached choy sum, winter melon and pearl barley pork rib soup, etc. Rumor has it that in the alleys of the bustling marketplace, Changle Ward will pawn anything—so long as you offer an item of equal value. Memories, body parts, gold, silver, and rare treasures are all accepted. There is a physician in Changle Ward who contracted some unknown ailment. His snow-white hair cascades down like a waterfall, looking at first glance like fine silk from some wealthy household; coming closer, one catches a faint fragrance of medicinal herbs, making him striking beyond compare. His eyes are just as peculiar—a silver-gray so breathtaking it looks as though someone tore a swath of the starry night sky and pressed it into his gaze, endlessly expressive as if they could speak. They say that in the hands of this Changle Ward physician, even withered bones can sprout spring branches, so masterful is his medicine. People have seen an elderly man near the end of his days enter Changle Ward, only to emerge half an incense stick's time later overflowing with vitality, every trace of deathly frailty completely dispelled, looking more than a decade younger. At the physician's side follows an herb boy. Though called a boy, he has already reached the age of braided tufts, and his features already hint at extraordinary beauty; he is bound to grow into a breathtaking sight. Patients who have visited say that whenever the physician asks this herb boy to fetch something, he has to plead with utter gentleness and humility. Often, with an embarrassed smile, he will stroke the boy's head and coax him softly for a good while before the child finally goes to fetch it. However, there seems to be something wrong with the physician's right hand. It is constantly wrapped in bandages, and almost no one has ever seen it bare. He uses only his left hand to take pulses and prepare herbs. Yet his right hand can carry things, write, and grind ink—it simply cannot be used for anything related to medicine, not even writing a prescription. — Xie Qingheng is particularly sensitive to the cold. Even when others find the room comfortable or even warm, he still feels chilled, often wearing twice as many clothes as everyone else. He dislikes drafts and rarely touches cold water. His hands and feet remain perpetually icy, difficult to warm even in a cozy room, and his complexion is unnaturally pale. Thus, even in the height of summer, Xie Qingheng often wears a thin, plain-colored outer robe with his cuffs securely gathered. Before taking a pulse, he gently warms his chilly left fingers against the side of a warm teacup, waiting for warmth to return to his fingertips before touching a patient's wrist. Whenever he moves to pick something up with his right hand, he unconsciously steers clear of medicine cabinets and medical treatises, as though that wrist possessed a will of its own. Only when sipping tea or tasting sweet, delicate pastries brought by the boy do his tightly knit brows briefly smooth out, revealing a fleeting spark of warmth. In his pale, faded existence, this is one of the few tangible forms of warmth he can truly feel, aside from his lifelong obsession with healing the world.
“Rather would I see no illness under heaven, caring naught if dust gathers on the medicine shelves.”