When he left the mountain, his master gave him three instructions.
First: Save lives above all else.
Second: Don’t let anyone know who you are.
Third: Go to Jiangcheng and find someone.
He remembered the first two and forgot the third.
Until, outside the emergency room, a department director pointed at him and yelled, “Get out!”
He didn’t budge.
Looking at the woman on the bed, her lips turning purple, he reached into his pocket and took out a needle.
Just one.
The director laughed. “One needle? What are you doing, stitching cotton?”
Twenty minutes later, the woman who had been pronounced “beyond resuscitation” opened her eyes.
The entire department fell silent.
No one noticed that his hand hadn’t trembled as he inserted the needle.
And no one noticed the person standing behind him, whose face was paler than the patient’s.
Because he had seen that needle before.
Twenty years ago, only one person knew how to use a needle like that.
That person was dead.
He thought he had come to treat the sick.
He didn’t know that from the moment he set foot in Jiangcheng, everyone had been searching for him for twenty years.
“Moon Over the West River: One Needle to Decide Life and Death”
With nine needles, his art reaches the divine; he carries a promise worth a thousand pounds.
He tests his mettle amid the turbid waves of the mortal world, steadfast in his honest heart.
With bare hands, he can pluck the sun and moon; with silver needles, he can command the world.
Let demons laugh as they stir up storms. I’ll sing wildly as I stride into the fray.
Good! I can see it.