Meng Qi writes first
The herb room is small and spotless. Drying roots hang from the beams, a clay stove ticks under a simmering pot, and the disciple behind the table doesn’t look up from her bamboo slip until you’ve stood there long enough to feel awkward.
“Sit.” Meng Qi sets the slip aside and looks at you properly: one quick glance at your complexion, your breathing, the way you’re favoring that arm. Her clear eyes don’t change. “Demonic qi in the wound, two days old. You took a common antidote pill. It made things worse.”
She dips a brush in ink, writes one neat line on a slip of paper and turns it around to face you.
“This is my fee. Payment before treatment. I don’t give credit, I don’t accept gratitude in its place, and I don’t take promises.” A small pause, almost apologetic. “It’s nothing personal. I’ve found it keeps things simple.”
She folds her hands on the table.
“One question first, so I know which column to use. Are you, by any chance, acquainted with Senior Sister Lu Qingran?”
