Ye Lingyun leaned against the sofa,
his face pale as paper,
yet his eyes burned with a sharp, unwavering light.
“My sect was besieged by the Seven Great Schools,” he said quietly.
“Among them were men who once swore brotherhood with my father.
They offered condolences with one hand,
and with the other divided my family’s estate
and slaughtered my fellow disciples.”
He turned to Lin Che.
“The child you spoke of… reminds me of my junior brother, Xiaochuan.
He was sixteen.
He died blocking a sword meant for me.
His last words were: ‘Sect Master… sorry… I can only go this far.’”
He closed his eyes.
His throat moved once.
“In that moment, I wondered—
in this world, what is righteous?
What is evil?”
Lin Che listened in stunned silence.
He didn’t understand words like “sect” or “Seven Great Schools,”
but the pain—
the collapse of belief,
the sting of betrayal—
that, he understood.
Director Chen had lost all patience.
“All of you leave the hospital immediately!
Lin Che, this is your final warning.
Walk out now and there may still be a chance. Otherwise—”
“Otherwise what?”
Lin Che turned,
his gaze flat and lifeless.
“You want me to be your scapegoat?
To polish your reputation as a benevolent doctor?”
He removed his name badge
and placed it gently on the table.
“I won’t run.
And I won’t carry a crime that isn’t mine.
I will find out the truth behind that child’s death.
But not here.”
He looked around the spotless room.
“Not in a place where even the air is full of lies.”
Director Chen’s face darkened.
“Leave this hospital and you’re nothing.
Your license, your career—”
“Were already destroyed,” Lin Che cut in.
“From the moment you decided I should take the blame.”
He turned to Sunri.
“You need a doctor, don’t you?”
Sunri nodded.
“I’ll go with you,” Lin Che said.
His voice was calm—
the calm of someone cutting the last rope holding him in place.
“I don’t know where you come from,
or where you’re going.
But at least…
let me use these hands
to treat those who deserve to be treated.”
He had already reached the end of his path.
This step was simply following the direction of the collapse.
The sun?mark on Sunri’s palm flared with heat.
A phantom page unfolded in his mind—
the ancient book writing itself anew:
“Lin Che, age 26. Former cardiac surgery intern.”
“Skilled in surgery, internal diagnostics, and emergency care.”
“Conviction damaged, but healer’s instinct intact.”
“Special potential: heightened sensitivity to life energy (unawakened).”
“Voluntary recruitment.”
“Summon medium: medical instruments.”
Golden light surged from Sunri’s palm,
spreading outward.
Director Chen opened his mouth in shock,
but before he could speak,
the light swallowed the entire room—
including the black cat that slipped off a chair
and stepped into the glow.
In the final moment,
Lin Che glanced back at the window—
sunlight outside,
children playing.
He once thought
that was where his life would begin.
The room fell silent.
Director Chen assumed Lin Che had fled in the chaos.
The star?lit chamber returned.
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Lin Che staggered,
caught the cold stone platform,
and stared around in disbelief.
A circular space.
No roof.
And above—
His breath caught.
A sky he had never seen.
In his city,
the night sky was drowned in neon haze,
with only a few stubborn stars piercing through.
But here—
A deep velvet blue,
dense with stars like scattered diamonds.
A bright river of starlight—
a galaxy—
cut across the heavens,
so clear he felt he could see drifting dust within it.
The sight was vast, pure, ancient.
It washed away the harsh white glare of the operating room.
“This is the transit point,” Sunri explained.
“We rest here between worlds.”
Lin Che immediately helped Ye Lingyun sit against the wall.
Lingyun nodded faintly.
“My thanks. I am Ye Lingyun.”
“Lin Che,” he replied automatically—
then froze.
He was speaking to a man in ancient robes,
calling himself “this humble one,”
under a sky that should not exist.
Modou emerged from the shadows,
stepping gracefully onto the stone platform.
Its tail brushed the edge of the ancient book,
as if confirming something.
Pardy toddled forward,
stopping in front of Lin Che,
tilting his head up.
The child reached out
and touched Lin Che’s empty chest—
the stethoscope was gone, left in the other world.
Lin Che knelt, meeting his gaze.
Tears rose unexpectedly.
He forced them down.
“Want to hear a heartbeat?
I’m afraid…”
Pardy didn’t answer.
He simply pressed his small hand
against Lin Che’s heart.
No glow.
No miracle.
Just warmth—
a thin, quiet warmth,
like early spring water seeping into frozen ground.
Not forgiveness.
Not salvation.
Just the pure act of seeing—
Seeing his pain,
his regret,
and the part of him that still wanted to heal.
Lin Che closed his eyes.
The tears finally fell.
“…I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I couldn’t save her…”
Pardy withdrew his hand,
looked at him seriously,
then pointed at Ye Lingyun,
then at Lin Che,
then tapped his own chest.
As if saying—
You can still save people.
Save him. Save yourself.
Sunri stepped closer.
“Here, you can start again.
Not to escape—
but to find your direction.”
Lin Che wiped his tears
and stood.
He walked to Ye Lingyun
and examined the injury again.
His thoughts sharpened.
Bandages. Disinfectant. Painkillers.
My acupuncture tools. And…
He stopped.
Frowned.
He needed many things.
But there was nothing here.
A thought surfaced:
These things were everywhere in my world.
Why didn’t I bring any?
Even a little…
The moment the thought formed,
the stone platform flickered.
Bandages.
Iodine.
Sterile gauze.
Painkillers.
Tweezers, scissors,
and his familiar acupuncture tools—
All appeared on the smooth stone surface.
As if they had always belonged there,
waiting to be remembered.
Lin Che froze.
He looked at Sunri.
“This place,” Sunri said quietly,
“sometimes responds to strong needs tied to lived experience.”
Lin Che inhaled deeply
and picked up the tools.
He told himself to focus—
as he had in countless practices and surgeries.
But when his fingers touched the instruments,
a faint tremor ran from fingertip to wrist.
The body remembered fear.
The doubt in authority.
The shaken confidence.
The nightmare of a result he could not undo.
Without his mentor’s shadow—
or rather, without the illusion of it—
facing a patient alone
brought buried self?doubt to the surface.
He clenched his teeth,
forced his hands steady,
and began cleaning the wound.
His movements were precise—
but the tremor returned
during the critical steps of disinfecting and applying medicine.
Small Theater
Back to the moment in Ye Lingyun’s memory.
“…Xiaochuan was only sixteen,” Lingyun said softly.
“He died blocking a sword for me.
His last words were:
‘Sect Master… sorry… I can only go this far.’”
He closed his eyes.
His throat moved.
“I wondered then—
what is righteous,
and what is evil.”
Silence filled the room.
Then—
Lin Che frowned, looking beside Lingyun.
“I don’t know how to define good or evil…
but the person next to you…
seems to be eating a drumstick.”
Lingyun’s eyes snapped open.
“…Who?”
Everyone turned.
A sixteen?year?old boy crouched beside the sofa,
quietly gnawing on a chicken drumstick.
He looked up,
oil on his lips.
“Sect Master, I’m back.
The chicken is good. Want some?”
Everyone: “…………”
Lingyun: “…………”
Lin Che pushed up his glasses.
“Medically speaking—
that is a hallucination.”
Xiaochuan blinked.
The drumstick fell from his hand.
“Eh? I’m not a hallucination, right?”
Mo-dou peeked from the corner,
calmly dragged the fallen drumstick away.
Everyone: “………………”
