Memories surged like a tide—that night of wind and snow, the wailing infant in swaddling clothes; the tiny figure clutching a medicine chest to shield him in the alleyways of the Black Market; the countless nights under the oil lamp, a young boy by his side, helping him decipher the scripts in medical texts.
As the flames flickered, he seemed to see once again the pleading eyes of the old beggar on his deathbed, and heard the promise he had made before the grave.
The tobacco pouch in Yang Huaixi’s fingers suddenly trembled, and embers fell like rain onto his lapels, yet he remained oblivious, pointing at his own nose in astonishment:
Chapter 735