Mysteries Hidden in the Words, Peering into Heaven from the Counter

Upon returning home, the first thing Chen Ping'an did was lock the courtyard door from the inside with a thick, heavy wooden bolt.

The bolt fell into the latch with a heavy, crisp thud, acting like an invisible boundary that completely separated the noisy mortal world outside from his own small sanctuary within.

The autumn wind, carrying a chill, seeped through the gaps in the courtyard wall, blowing the lantern under the eaves into a gentle sway and casting shifting shadows on the bluestone slabs.

He was in no hurry to examine the damaged half-volume.

First, he scooped a ladle of cold water from the water jar and meticulously washed his hands and face. As the icy well water splashed over him, the fatigue from his daytime labor was washed away by the chill. Next, he checked the rice jar and the firewood pile, and watered a few frost-resistant evergreens in the corner of the yard. Everything was done in an orderly fashion, no different from any other night he had lived through over the past twenty years.

Only after confirming that all chores had been properly handled did he enter the small side room he had set up as a study and light the lamp on the desk.

The light of a single oil lamp could only illuminate a square foot of the desk. Its dim glow barely outlined the shapes of the neatly stacked classics on the bookshelves around him. The wick sizzled in the rapeseed oil, the only sound in the dead silence.

Only then did Chen Ping'an carefully take the oil-paper package from his cloth bag.

He did not open it immediately. Instead, he wiped the desk repeatedly with a slightly damp, soft cloth to ensure it was free of dust. Then, from an ancient wooden box, he took out several tools he only used when restoring ancient books—bamboo spatulas of various lengths, a small wolf-hair brush, and a delicate brass scraper.

With everything prepared, he slowly unwrapped the oil paper layer by layer.

The half-volume of *Qingnang Miscellaneous Records* lay quietly on the desk, its pages displaying a fragile, dry yellow color due to its great age, looking as if it would crumble at the slightest force.

Chen Ping'an did not look at the text first. His gaze fell upon the paper itself. He leaned close to the lamplight, carefully examining the fiber pattern of the paper. This was a paper he knew very well, called "Malian paper," made from the stems of Malian grass in the mountains through dozens of complex processes including pounding, boiling, pressing, and sun-drying. It was tough, with long fibers, and was exceptionally resistant to insects and decay. In the previous dynasty, only noble families could afford such paper to print important classics meant to be preserved for generations.

Next, using the tip of a bamboo spatula, he gently scraped off a tiny speck of ink residue that was almost invisible to the naked eye, rolled it between his fingertips, and brought it to his nose to sniff. A faint scent of pine soot mixed with tung oil wafted over.

It was Pine Soot Ink.

He understood in his heart. The paper was Malian paper from the previous dynasty, and the ink was the Pine Soot Ink commonly used by officials of that era. Judging by the depth of the ink's penetration into the paper fibers, this book was printed at least a hundred and fifty years ago. Thus, he could conclude that this book was definitely not a modern forgery.

How could an "error" from over a century ago have survived to this day?

His doubts deepened. He stood up and walked to the bookshelf in the corner. This collection of books was a treasure he had spent half his life's savings to acquire. Standing on his tiptoes, he pulled down two other medical books from the top shelf, both also titled *Qingnang Miscellaneous Records*.

One was a Jiajing-era woodblock print of the current dynasty, which he had acquired from an old physician in his youth, and its pages were still in good condition; the other was a slightly later handwritten copy, written in fine script, which he had personally restored.

He opened the three books side by side under the lamp, all turned to the page recording "mugwort leaves."

Under the dim light, the records regarding the preparation of mugwort leaves in the Jiajing print and the handwritten copy were identical: *'Take three-year-old aged mugwort, expose it to the blazing sun to remove its dampness and reduce its Yang...'*

It was exactly the same as the medical principles he knew.

Only the half-volume he had acquired today stood as a silent anomaly, quietly declaring its uniqueness with the words "three parts sun-dried, seven parts shade-dried."

Chen Ping'an slowly caressed the characters on the damaged volume with his palm. At this moment, he could almost conclude that this volume was not in error; rather, the subsequent prints had been "corrected." Perhaps some later physician, finding these words absurd, had swept his brush and changed them to fit the mainstream understanding of the time during a reprint.

Such an "error" was precisely the proof of its existence. It silently demonstrated that this version of the *Qingnang Breathing Art* was indeed an ancient inheritance that had once existed but had been buried by time because it was not understood by the world.

He continued to read down, engraving every legible word on the damaged volume into his heart. Reading the entire piece, this Breathing Art was not some profound, incomprehensible technique; it merely explained how to use specific breathing exercises to sense and guide the faint "Qi of plants and trees" contained in herbs prepared through special methods, using this Qi to nourish oneself.

Rather than calling it a path to immortality, it was more like a highly refined and mysterious method of health preservation.

The night grew deep, and the sound of the third watch came from outside the window, distant and cold.

Chen Ping'an extinguished the lamp, but did not go to bed immediately. He sat in silence in the darkness for a long time, his thoughts churning.

Was it the delusion of a madman, or a forgotten true inheritance?

He thought of his increasingly decaying body, the ache that tormented his waist every morning, and his aging eyes that were beginning to blur.

With the yellow earth already buried up to his neck, for a mortal, his life was drawing to a close, with no more waves to speak of.

Now, an opportunity that might make a withered tree meet spring lay before him.

In his heart, the caution that had governed his entire life began to carefully weigh the pros and cons.

If he were to try, how should he go about it? According to the book, the materials used were nothing more than common things like mugwort leaves and ginger. Even if it had no effect at all, it would certainly not harm his body, costing him at most some time and mental energy.

But what if it were true?

Even if it could only let this decaying body hold on for a few more years, sparing him some of the torment of illness, that would already be an immense blessing.

The risk was extremely small, while the potential benefit was immeasurable.

He had weighed the pros and cons with absolute clarity.

In the heavy darkness, he slowly closed his eyes, cast aside distracting thoughts, and began to try adjusting his breathing—slowing it down, drawing it out, just as described by the faded characters on the damaged volume, attempting to use "Inner Vision" to inspect the weak, flesh-and-blood body that had accompanied him for over fifty years but which he had never truly understood, trying to catch the faintest vibration and echo within.