Chapter Eleven: Uproar

A furious shout infused with true energy erupted, its power undeniable. The drunken, reeling young thug, whose feet could barely hold him, was immediately knocked to the ground by the force of it. Cold sweat drenched him as his left hand, still clutching a bottle, let it fall with a crash. Thus began his live performance of pure misery. The bottle struck the ground before his body did, shattering into shards that scattered everywhere. The poor wretch's backside landed squarely in the pile of glass, and his pig-like scream was hardly enough to express the agony his posterior endured. The contorted muscles on his face reached a level of distortion that seemed beyond human limits, and his tears of woe rivaled any woman’s.

He leapt up in a reflexive reaction—a perfectly normal move under the circumstances—but this single action earned a heavy mark in the little thug’s private ledger of regrets, a regret so deep that the word itself seemed inadequate. The sharp glass shards showed no mercy, piercing the very hands that had so often groped and pawed with impunity. Now, they were a bloody mess, the crimson flowing freely, wasted as if it were worthless.

Had one of the pretty nurses from the blood donation center witnessed the scene, she might have lamented, "All that good blood, just wasted! Why not donate it, if you’re so eager to lose it? Don’t you know waste is shameful?"

“You little punk, you must have a death wish!” After a struggle, the thug finally pulled himself free from the glass. He roared at the two who couldn’t help but laugh at him, then turned to his bewildered companions and cursed, “Damn it, what are you waiting for? Look at me, miserable as hell, and you’re just standing there! Teach this brat a lesson—teach him good! Or should people think Leopard is easy prey?”

With just a few words, he incited his friends to action.

Barred fangs and clawing hands, four of them lunged at Lin Yang, their ferocity making it seem as if they wished to tear him limb from limb. Sometimes, those who seem harmless are the most astonishing when they erupt. The usually arrogant gangsters had run into true misfortune this time. A doctor is not someone to be trifled with—especially one who has trained in internal martial arts and wields a scalpel as intimately as his own wife. Lin Yang was no exception.

There was no earth-shattering violence, no blood-soaked chaos, no tangled frenzy. There was only a calm, overwhelming dominance. Four swift strikes—simple, clean. The four who moments before were wolves and tigers now writhed on the ground, screaming in hysteria.

Accustomed to wielding his bone-setting knife, Lin Yang even graciously offered the group a free correction of their rather disrespectful hand bones.

In an instant, their hands were rendered useless. Anyone would wear an expression of disbelief, and these men were no exception—their eyes wide as oxen.

At the rear, the unlucky thug whose backside had suffered the glass’s wrath—whether by luck or misfortune—found Lin Yang, for once, showing him mercy. Lin Yang tucked away the small throwing knife he’d produced from who-knows-where, clenched his fist, and met the charging youth head-on.

Nose met fist—another tragedy in the making.

A crisp snap echoed—the sound of bone breaking. The onlookers shivered involuntarily, a chill running down their spines, goosebumps prickling as if their own bones had just snapped.

As people gaped, another fist, at a wicked angle, shot straight for the stunned, open-mouthed, would-be screaming thug.

With a splatter, blood and three yellowed front teeth arced through the air, landing squarely on the face of a companion who’d rushed over to help.

“You little punk, you…” The youth, not yet aware he’d met his match, tried to snarl, but Lin Yang shot him a glare that stifled his words in his throat. Fear filled his eyes; Lin Yang had left a terrifying mark on his soul.

“What about me?” Lin Yang sneered at the arrogant thug, his gaze mocking. If you keep pushing your luck, I won’t mind breaking a few more bones for you.

“Hmph! Punk, just you wait!” Realizing that resistance meant only more pain, and glancing at the crowd of bystanders, the thug spat out a threat, gathered his battered followers, and vanished in the blink of an eye.

“Lin, maybe we should just go home,” Tang Yixue suggested, worried the gang might return for revenge.

“It’s nothing. If they don’t learn their lesson, I won’t mind teaching them again,” Lin Yang replied, shrugging with an air of supreme confidence.

After some back and forth, Lin Yang yielded to Tang Yixue’s worries. Her mood for drinking spoiled, they had no choice but to turn for home.

Ten minutes after they left, two vans roared up. Out spilled more than twenty thugs, every one armed with makeshift weapons.

“Leopard, where are they? Who dares mess with my brothers? Who’s tired of living?” The leader, a burly man with a shaved head and a vicious scar slashing across his face, bellowed as he scanned the crowd with eyes like a wild beast’s, radiating murderous intent.

“Leopard, they left with that girl,” reported a weaselly youth from a corner, one of those previously injured. Leopard, it seemed, was no fool. He’d left someone to watch, but hadn’t expected the arrogant kid to actually leave.

“Damn it, they ran! Qiangzi, sorry to trouble you today, but next time I see him, I’ll cripple him myself.” He glanced bitterly at his hands, now wrapped up like mummies, and cursed at the street.

Quick in arrival, quick in departure—the scene matched the mood. The gang piled back into their vans and sped off.

In the car, Lin Yang and Tang Yixue were uncharacteristically silent until they reached her building, where they exchanged goodbyes and wished each other good night.

A rare chance for a drunken tryst had vanished, and Lin Yang couldn’t help but resent those thugs for spoiling it.

Watching Tang Yixue go upstairs, Lin Yang, feeling somewhat frustrated, lit a cigarette. Only when it burned down did he stomp on the gas and speed away.

All the way home, a vague sense of loss gnawed at him. He wasn’t sure when he’d arrived back at his building, but before he could enter, Leng Nini, who’d been watching for his return, came running down in slippers and pajamas, her robe billowing in the night wind.

“Yang, you’re back! How was your date?” She threw herself into his arms, pouting with jealousy, her eyes brimming with pitiful tears.

“Date? What date? Don’t talk nonsense.” Lin Yang ruffled her hair, messing up the neat strands, and chided her.

“Hmph, who are you fooling? You reek of perfume. If it wasn’t a date, then what was it? Don’t tell me you went straight to a hotel!” She had always spoken without a filter, saying whatever came to mind.

Lin Yang, a little guilty, sniffed his sleeve, realizing too late he’d fallen for her ploy when she began to smirk. He shot her an exasperated look, and after much persuasion, finally convinced her to return to her room.

Returning to his own room, Lin Yang stuck to his routine, cultivating for half an hour, then preparing his medicinal powders. In recent days, he’d nearly run out of Golden Silkworm Powder—if he didn’t make more, the hospital would soon be out of stock.

There are two methods for refining medicine: heating and decoction, or “pill refining.”

For pill refining, one first needs a proper cauldron and a bit of firewood for heating—at least, that’s what Lin Yang, in his ignorance, had once believed. The cauldron was necessary, but as for the firewood? There was an art to it—when to raise the temperature, when to lower it, when to cut the flames entirely. Lin Yang recalled how his head used to ache with confusion when he first tried his hand at alchemy.

He did remember an old saying: “Failure is the mother of success.” So, he thought, just keep failing until you succeed—there’s nothing to fear in being her son for a while.

A cauldron? Those are rare these days—maybe in temples or antique shops, but not easy to come by.

Fine, then! He’d use a frying pan—cheap, everywhere, perfectly serviceable.

Someone once said, if money can solve it, it’s not a problem. Lin Yang agreed. If there was another way, he wouldn’t stubbornly waste money and time chasing after some fancy cauldron.

Firewood? Possible, but he’d have to sneak out at night when the neighborhood auntie was off duty. That woman was like a guard dog—way too risky. If caught, he’d be branded a thief, hounded out of the community. Not worth it, and besides, firewood was hard to control for temperature.

The kitchen had an induction cooker—so easy, fully adjustable, just a touch or a press and everything was set.

Not only did Lin Yang think this, he acted on it. He’d made his Golden Silkworm Powder exactly this way before. As soon as Mrs. Wang next door was sound asleep, he tiptoed into the kitchen to fetch his tools.

Within half an hour, he emerged with the induction cooker in one hand, the frying pan in the other, grinning like a sneaky thief. He glanced at the pitch-black sky—certain not even a rat was awake—then hurried back, nerves jangling but oddly exhilarated.

Damn it, sneaking around like a thief in my own home—just to get a few things! Lin Yang couldn’t help but want to curse.

If Mrs. Wang next door knew what he was thinking, she’d probably explode, “Don’t you know this is a public area? Up all night like a damned cat, shaking the building every night—people will think a wild boar’s in heat! How’s anyone supposed to sleep?”

He’d blown up his frying pan more than once before while making Golden Silkworm Powder; the noise had drawn plenty of complaints. His room was at the end of the hall, right next to Mrs. Wang’s. Any little mishap, she was the first to suffer. She’d banged on his door more than once in the middle of the night, and even her charming college-age daughter, Wu Qianqian, had come twice to complain.

Back in his room, Lin Yang gently set down his “treasures,” locked the door, and began as usual.

Seven qian of roasted licorice, three liang of agarwood, five golden silkworm pupae—carefully, Lin Yang added the ingredients in strict sequence to the pan, keeping the temperature at what he assumed was an ideal 800 degrees. Not too high, not too low—what could go wrong?

Apparently, his luck was still running strong. The licorice went in—no problem. The agarwood followed—still calm. The first silkworm pupa—smooth sailing. A faint medicinal aroma drifted out, and the color matched the description: dusky yellow. Step by step, Lin Yang grew more pleased.

The second pupa—no trouble. Heaven seemed to smile on him.

The third—something seemed off. Amid the dusky yellow, a tinge of bright yellow appeared. Just then, a draft blew in, sending hot vapor into Lin Yang’s eyes. That wasn’t the worst of it; as he reflexively rubbed his eyes, his hand trembled.

The fourth pupa fell in. A sizzling sound, and in a flash—bang! A deafening explosion rocked the room. The blast sent Lin Yang flying, slamming him into the bed frame. He half-collapsed on the floor, his face blackened with soot.

The frying pan, spinning at what must have been eighteen hundred degrees, flew through the air, somersaulted, and crashed ungainly into the corner, its bottom deeply dented. The induction cooker, deprived of its load, went dark and silent.

“Great, another blasted explosion,” Lin Yang muttered reflexively, not bothering to worry about anything else.