Chapter Sixty-Nine: Elixir of the Immortals

The Jia family was a renowned merchant clan in Deng County, known for their wealth. The patriarch of the Jia family was a man of benevolence and virtue, fond of charity and good deeds. Yet, for all their fortune, the family was plagued by a scarcity of sons and an abundance of daughters. In his younger years, the old master Jia had six children, all of them girls. He had summoned famous physicians and sought out sorcerers, but the problem remained unsolved. It was only in his old age that he was blessed with a son, and the family’s joy was boundless—they even scattered coins and grain among the beggars in celebration.

But before long, this sole son fell ill with typhoid. The shock was so great that old master Jia never recovered.

“Hey, I’ve heard that Hua Tuo is a divine physician of our age. Is this man truly his equal?”

“This fellow, before coming to Deng County, had cured countless people. Just a bowl of talisman water, and it works better than any miraculous elixir. It’s water bestowed by the immortals!”

“Is it really that miraculous? I don’t believe it.”

“See that old man across the street, with a healthy glow? He was treated by him. You could ask him.”

A crowd had gathered before the Jia mansion, pressing forward for a glimpse. The so-called “famous doctor” was chanting strange incantations incessantly. Once the chanting ended, he began leaping about the altar set up in the courtyard, dressed in Taoist robes, a bronze bell in his right hand and a sword in his left, tossing talisman papers as he performed his ritual.

Jiang Wen sighed at the sight—yet another charlatan masquerading as a divine healer. The arts of sorcery and witchcraft had caused untold harm. Emperor Wu of Han had achieved magnificent feats, but in his later years, he was deceived by such magic, forcing himself to issue an apology decree.

If typhoid could truly be cured by such witchcraft, Zhang Zhongjing would not have spent his life traveling and researching, spending over a decade to compose the Treatise on Typhoid and Miscellaneous Diseases.

The old Taoist took up a bamboo brush and drew talismans effortlessly, his movements fluid and graceful.

“This must be an immortal—he can ignite fire out of thin air!”

“It’s truly magic!”

The talisman paper in his hand suddenly burst into flames, astonishing the onlookers. But Jiang Wen instantly saw through the trick.

An elderly man, frail and at death’s door, sat nearby, hope shining in his eyes.

The talisman paper circled in the bowl of water, half turning to ashes, while the remaining yellow paper clung to the side of the bowl.

A pale young master, coughing incessantly, stepped out. The crowd immediately backed away—watching was one thing, but no one wanted to catch typhoid!

His attendant was another elderly man, nearly as frail as the master himself. The Jia family’s other relatives had recently moved to another residence; only old master Jia and his precious grandson remained here.

“I am Yu Ji, disciple of the Supreme Elder Lord of Taoism, appointed by him to heal the world. Though young master Jia is afflicted by illness, this talisman water is a divine gift from heaven. Drink it and all maladies will vanish; henceforth, no poison can harm you!”

“Yu Ji?” Jiang Wen murmured in surprise. He had expected a charlatan like Zhang Jiao, but it was Yu Ji himself.

In the late Han, the two most notorious sorcerers were Zuo Ci and Yu Ji. Yu Ji was said to heal with talisman water; if the water was not tampered with, then the paper held the secret. Zuo Ci was even stranger, famous for his tricks, such as tossing cups to fool the nobles.

Where Zuo Ci was now, Jiang Wen did not know. By rights, Yu Ji should be preaching in Wu Commandery or Kuaiji, yet here he was in Deng County. Perhaps it was due to Jiang Wen’s own influence; history had already taken a different turn, and what lay ahead was uncertain.

Yu Ji, if one must compare, was remarkably similar to Liu Bei—extremely close to the common people, disdaining fame, and devoted to healing. For this, Yu Ji met his end at the hands of Sun Ce, who, seeking to establish his legacy in Jiangdong, needed absolute loyalty from his followers and the people’s support. Yet the locals favored Yu Ji. When Sun Ce resolved to execute him, not only his generals but even his mother pleaded for mercy. Such a grave offense left Yu Ji doomed.

In terms of character, Yu Ji was beyond reproach, though whether he was as much an actor as Liu Bei was unknown. Liu Bei, for all his theatrics, devoted his entire life to the role. No matter how later generations criticized him, in the late Eastern Han he was indeed a gentleman striving to restore the realm and save the people.

“But these are mere superstitions. If a talisman and a bowl of water could cure disease, how could the nation and its people ever be threatened? Whenever disaster struck, we could simply use witchcraft!”

Meanwhile, Yu Ji had already given the talisman water to the young master. Old master Jia, trembling, seemed ready to rise from his seat. If he died, it mattered little—he was old. But Jia Yi was his sole heir!

Jiang Wen glanced at the speaker beside him, a middle-aged man with heavy bags under his eyes, dark circles, and powdered fingernails.

The middle-aged man looked at Yu Ji with fatigue, his gaze full of scorn and contempt, but mostly anger. “To spread your sorcery, you deceive the masses—truly a demon!”

Yu Ji smiled gently, neither arrogant nor meek. “Since childhood, I have followed the teachings of the Supreme Elder Lord. Blessed with the spirits of heaven, water, earth, and paper, I seek not to save the nation but merely to help a few innocents. How can you call it sorcery?”

“Using talismans in water and claiming it as an elixir—is this not the work of a demon?” the man retorted angrily. “The wise avoid strange powers and spirits. Such acts harm others for your own gain!”

“Who is this man, daring to rebuke the divine physician?”

“He’s a healer himself, though he treats only minor ailments. They say his kin died of typhoid, most of them gone. He was so affected that he searches for typhoid patients everywhere, inquiring about their symptoms, unconcerned about contagion.”

“Such a doctor must be a blessing to the people!”

“But he can’t cure it—many go in standing and come out carried.”

Yu Ji heard the murmurs but did not mock the man before him. He gestured invitingly. “You call me a demon, but whether it works or not, you shall see.”

The middle-aged man stared at Jia Yi, and to his astonishment, the boy’s complexion was indeed rosier and his cough eased.

“This…” The man looked deeply at Yu Ji, then turned and left.

“The typhoid seems to have stopped—he really is a divine physician!”

“A bowl of immortal water—perhaps even Hua Tuo himself cannot compare!”

Jiang Wen followed after the middle-aged man. He had lingered in Deng County only to witness the appearance of the Sage of Medicine.

He did not worry about Yu Ji—let him heal as he pleased. Yet he could not ignore him, for Yu Ji was a representative of the Huang-Lao doctrine.

Left unchecked, who knew if another Zhang Jiao might arise?

But whatever Yu Ji intended… in five thousand years of China’s history, there had never been a precedent for a nation founded on religion.