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While Lin Han was squatting on the bluestone floor scrubbing the medicine cauldron, he heard the sound for the seventh time. The bristle brush scraped across the sunken cloud and thunder patterns on the tripod's body, and the old medicine dirt fell into the copper basin. The smell of wormwood and sulfur floats in the morning mist of Baicaotang, and the silence of the hour is broken by the jingling of iron horses on the eaves. He leaned over to pour water and glanced at the moon cave door on the west side with his peripheral vision - Manager Zhao was holding the account book and scolding the new herb picking boy, his fat body blocking most of the passage. "Wow--"