I transmigrated from a modern laboratory into the body of a starving refugee in the Northern Song Dynasty. My left arm was rotting through, and my fever wouldn’t break.
The first thing I did when I woke up was dig a little girl out of a pile of corpses, where she’d been buried alive.
The second was poison three bandits with a handful of aconite.
Among the refugees, I used purslane to stop dysentery. At the apothecary, I prepared aconite to face-slap the experts at Jiren Hall.
In a border garrison, I used sweet wormwood juice to fight a deadly plague.
“I’m a doctor, and I’m a doctor who knows how to kill.”
Someone asked what gave me the right to set the rules for medicinal herbs.
I said, “Because the weeds in my hand work better than your century-old ginseng.”
As long as the weeds endure, the art of medicine will never die.
