Love Burning Amidst the Ashes. - family Xu’s aphothecary

The morning light spilled like shattered gold across the mountain town of Linshan, perched on the eastern edge of the Cloudwild Continent. The bluestone streets, still glistening from the previous night’s gentle rain, gleamed with a damp luminescence, breathing up a thin mist that carried the clean scent of wet earth and vegetation. The street market had not yet fully stirred to life,only a handful of shops had their wooden shutters taken down. Among them, a building displayed a slightly worn wooden plaque above its doorframe, bearing the inscription- “Xu Family Apothecary.”
The inside of the apothecary smelled really unique, like time itself had settled in there. It was a mix of the dry, woody scent from old cabinets, the crazy blend of spicy, sweet, bitter, and tart from hundreds of different herbs, plus the warm, toasty smell of freshly roasted medicine. All these smells layered together into something super strong and rich.

Over at the counter, a kinda lanky teenager was totally focused on handling this dark purple herb. He looked about thirteen or fourteen, with handsome features and smooth, pale skin that didn’t see much sun. He was wearing a faded blue cotton shirt that had been washed so many times it was almost white. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off his slim but toned forearms. His fingers were long and moved really skillfully, though the tips were stained a purplish-black from the plant juice.

That was Xu Qing Xuan
He held the stem of the Purplevein Grass steady with his left hand, while his right hand held a thin, shiny silver knife. His wrist hovered perfectly still, and he even held his breath to stay focused. See, this grass has sap with a mild numbing poison—if you mess up and get it on broken skin, you’ll end up with redness, swelling, and a stinging pain that lasts half the day.

The blade followed the natural spiral pattern on the stem and made a cut so precise—not too deep, not too shallow. Thick, dark purple sap slowly oozed out from the cut, and he caught it perfectly in a small green jade dish he’d prepared earlier.

The whole thing went smoothly, like it was second nature to him. He had this crazy focus way beyond his years—like all the noise around him just faded away. Nothing existed outside his little bubble of concentration.

“Xuan’er,” a soft voice came from behind the counter. His father, Xu Chang Lin, looked up from a stack of yellowish account books. Though only in his early forties, his face was lean with faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes—marks of a life of hard work—but his gaze remained warm and calm. “For this ‘Purple Blood Vine’ sap, three small dishes are enough. The rest of the vine needs to be slow-roasted over low heat until it’s completely dry and crispy. That’s the only way to fully remove its harsh toxicity while preserving its medicinal properties for clearing meridians. The heat is key—too much, and it turns to ash, losing all its potency; too little, and the toxic heat remains, making it harmful instead of healing.”

“Understood, Father.” Xu Qing Xuan responded, his eyes never leaving the herb in his hands. His voice was clear and steady, like a mountain stream flowing gently. “The vine’s fibers are tough and lock in moisture tightly. It requires patience—first soften the surface with residual heat from the edge of the stove, then gradually move it to the low flame at the center. Wait until its color shifts from purple to dark brown, the edges curl slightly, and the medicinal fragrance becomes concentrated rather than scattered. That’s when the heat is just right.”

A flicker of satisfaction passed through Xu Chang Lin’s eyes. He gave a slight nod and said no more, burying himself back in his account books. The apothecary fell quiet again, filled only with the soft scratching of the silver knife cutting through stems, the faint crackle of firewood in the stove, and the gradually rising noise of the market outside.

And right now, the center of that market noise was gathered at the entrance of the narrow, filthy “Loach Alley,” right across from the apothecary.

Seven or eight teenage boys, restless like a pack of hyenas, had cornered a smaller figure against the wall. Leading them was a brawny youth, built like a young bull, named Wang Hu—the son of the town’s butcher. His face was rough and aggressive, and with hands on his hips, he was yelling, spit flying, “Zhou Xiao Liu! Your dad owes my family three strings of cash! It’s been almost three months! If you don’t pay up today, I’ll wreck your shabby shack! Burn your dad’s crappy fishing nets for firewood!”

Trapped in the middle, Zhou Xiao Liu was just eleven or twelve years old, wearing a short jacket full of patches and no shoes. His face was smudged with dirt, and he was shaking all over from fear. Tears welled up in his eyes as he whispered, barely audible, “Hu… Hu Ge, please… My dad… my dad was out fishing on the river recently… his boat capsized… he’s still bedridden… At home… we really don’t have a single coin left…”

“Bullsh*t!” Wang Hu waved his hand impatiently, cutting him off rudely. “Stop playing the victim! No cash? Fine!” His narrow eyes glanced sideways and spotted a small, smooth black fish-shaped stone pendant hanging around Zhou Xiao Liu’s neck. He reached out to grab it. “I’ll take this instead!”

“No! You can’t!” Zhou Xiao Liu reacted like a cat whose tail had been stepped on—he immediately covered his neck and screamed in panic. “This was my mom’s… my mom’s only keepsake!” That little fish-shaped stone pendant was the only thing he had left to remember his mother, who had drowned.

“Damn it! It’s not up to you!” Enraged, Wang Hu swung his huge, meaty hand and slapped him hard. SMACK! The sharp sound echoed. Zhou Xiao Liu stumbled, half his face instantly swelling up. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he crouched down, holding his face and sobbing. Wang Hu grinned viciously and bent down to snatch the thin hemp rope.

“Wang Hu!”

A thunderous roar suddenly tore through the tense air at the alley entrance.

A figure shot over like a cannonball, cutting through the wind, and planted himself in front of the crouching Zhou Xia Liu.

It was another teenager, about the same age as Xu Qing Xuan, but completely different. He was half a head taller than Qing Xuan, with a sturdy build and well-defined muscles—like a young leopard bursting with explosive energy. His skin was a healthy wheatish tone, his thick eyebrows were drawn together tightly, and his dark eyes were wide open, blazing with unmistakable fury, almost spitting fire. He wore a faded brown short jacket, its collar open, revealing an equally solid chest that was now heaving intensely.
It was Xu Qing Feng.

He stood like a wall, blocking Zhou Xiao Liu with his whole body. His chest heaved as he glared at Wang Hu, who was half a head taller. His voice, clear like a teenager’s yet burning with rage, rang out, “You owe money, you pay it back — that’s just how it works! But you, Wang Hu, stealing the keepsake left by someone’s mom? What kinda lowlife crap is that?! Picking on a kid whose dad’s stuck in bed—don’t you got any shame?!”

Wang Hu was stunned for a moment by the sudden roar. Once he saw who it was, his face twisted into a mocking grin, “Well, well, look who it is. Ain’t this the dumb punk from the Xu family? Xu Qing Feng, this ain’t your business! Get lost! Or else I’ll beat you up too!”

The guys behind him burst into laughter, cracking their knuckles as they surrounded the place. The whole alley instantly filled with tension, like a bomb about to go off.

“Beat me up?” Xu Qing Feng sneered. Instead of backing off, he stepped forward, almost bumping into Wang Hu’s chest. His eyes were fierce, like he was ready to tear someone apart.

“Come on then! I’m standing right here! You cowards only dare to bully the weak. One, two, all of you at once—I don’t care! Let’s see if I’m scared!”

His fists clenched so hard his knuckles popped, every muscle in his body tightening like a bowstring, ready to unleash a strike at any second.
“Die!” Wang Hu completely lost it. The fat on his face shook as he cursed, and his fist—big as a bowl—swung through the air with a whoosh, aiming straight for Xu Qing Feng’s face. The punch carried real weight behind it—if it landed, Xu’s nose would probably snap on the spot.

But Xu Qing Feng’s reflexes were lightning fast. He jerked his head to the side, the punch grazing past his ear with a sharp gust. Without even pausing, moving on pure instinct, his right leg lashed out like a steel whip, slamming straight into Wang Hu’s unguarded stomach.

“Ugh—!” Wang Hu hadn’t expected it at all. Pain exploded in his gut, making his huge body fold up like a cooked shrimp. He stumbled back several steps before crashing hard into the muddy wall of the alley. Dirt and dust fell down as he clutched his stomach, face flushing red, unable to get a word out.
“Brother Hu!” one of the skinny, rat-faced teens yelped. He grabbed a broken stick lying near the wall and swung it down at Xu Qing Feng’s head.
But Xu Qing Feng’s eyes showed no fear—in fact, there was a flicker of excitement. He ducked low, the stick cutting the air above his head. Before the guy could recover, Xu lunged forward like a leopard pouncing on prey, slamming shoulder-first into the kid’s chest.
“Wham!” The scrawny boy felt like a boulder had smashed into him. His breath got stuck in his throat, stars burst in his vision, the stick flew out of his hand, and his whole body went airborne before crashing into the muddy ground with a splash. He curled up, clutching his chest, groaning in pain.
Xu Qing Feng didn’t stop. Growing up brawling on the streets, he’d built a fighting style with no rules but damn effective. His moves were fast as lightning, carrying raw grit and ferocity. He slipped past another boy’s punch, grabbed his wrist, and flipped him over his shoulder with a clean throw.

“Bam!” Another body hit the mud hard.

In the narrow alley, Xu Qing Feng darted and weaved, his movements fierce and relentless. He still took a few hits, but it was like he didn’t even feel the pain—if anything, he fought harder the more they struck. The sound of fists thudding into flesh, the boys’ cries and curses, all mixed in the damp air. Xu was like a flame burning in the mud, tearing through the circle and keeping Zhou Xiao Liu safe behind him.
The noise—shouting, cursing, fists landing—spread from the alley like ripples in a pond, reaching the open door of the Xu family’s apothecary across the street.

Behind the counter, Xu Chang Lin’s brush hand paused. A drop of ink fell onto the yellowed page, blooming into a dark blot. His brows knit ever so slightly. He tilted his head, listened for a moment, then let out a soft sigh—helpless, tinged with worry. He knew those sounds all too well.

Meanwhile, Xu Qing Xuan, focused on roasting the Purple Blood Vine, also froze for the tiniest instant. Firelight flickered over his profile, long lashes casting faint shadows. He didn’t raise his head, didn’t sigh like his father. He only angled an ear toward the noise outside, his brows tightening for a split second before smoothing out again, as if it were nothing more than background chatter.

His hands never faltered. The silver knife kept slicing herbs with precise cuts, avoiding veins and drawing out juice. His breathing stayed calm and steady, as though the brutal street fight outside was happening in another world.

But if anyone looked closely at his eyes, they’d see it,not indifference, but razor-sharp analysis, cold and fast.

He could hear every sound—the dull thud of fists hitting flesh, Wang Hu’s pained roar, the splash of a body hitting mud, and his younger brother Xu Qing Feng’s ragged breathing mixed with defiant curses. Each noise strung together in his mind, painting a clear picture of the chaotic brawl. He could even judge that Qing Feng wasn’t losing ground—his reckless courage and street-honed instincts were giving him the edge.
Finally, Wang Hu, clutching his aching stomach, struggled to straighten up. He looked at his buddies groaning all over the ground, then at Xu Qing Feng—blood at the corner of his mouth, clothes torn, face bruised, but still standing tall like an angry young lion shielding Zhou Xiao Liu behind him, eyes glaring with ferocity.

Rage and humiliation surged to Wang Hu’s head.

“Good! Real good, Xu Qing Feng!” he spat, pointing with a finger that trembled from anger and pain. “Just you wait! This ain’t over! Don’t you dare run, you hear me?!” He knew he couldn’t win today. Leaving behind his threat, he spat bloody saliva on the ground, then barked at the others,
“Useless trash! Get over here and help me up!”

The boys stumbled to their feet, helping Wang Hu hobble away. Cursing and limping, they dragged themselves out of Loach Alley, leaving behind mud, puddles, and a mess of footprints.
Silence fell over the alley, broken only by heavy breathing.
Xu Qing Feng finally let his tense body relax. He wiped the blood from his lip, rubbed his sore arm, then turned to look at Zhou Xiao Liu, still squatting in the corner, trembling with fear.
“Hey, Little Liu, you okay?” The fierce tone in his voice faded away, turning back into that clear and bright sound of a teenage boy, with a bit of post-fight exhaustion and a hint of hidden concern. He reached out a hand, trying to pull Zhou Xiao Liu up.

“ Brother Qing Feng” Zhou Xiao Liu lifted his tear-streaked, dirt-covered face, staring at the cut on Xu Qing Feng’s lip and his torn clothes. His tears started flowing again, voice choking, “I… I dragged you into this…”

“Bullshit!” Xu Qing Feng glared, yanked him up without another word, and patted the mud off his clothes. “What do you mean dragged me in! Wang Hu, that bastard, just needed a beating! If he dares to mess with you again, let him come to me!” His tone was bold, carrying that reckless loyalty and fearless vibe unique to teenage boys.

“But… but your dad…” Zhou Xiao Liu nervously glanced toward the Xu family’s medicine hall, clearly worried. Everyone in town knew Uncle Xu was strict, and brother Qing Xuan was always quiet—kids naturally felt a bit intimidated.

The moment his dad was mentioned, the victorious spark on Xu Qing Feng’s face instantly deflated like a popped balloon. He shrank his neck a little, also sneaking a look toward the medicine hall, then puffed out his chest pretending to be tough. “What’s there to be scared of! Worst case, my old man yells at me! Not like it’s the first time! Now go home, check on your dad!” He gave Zhou Xiao Liu a little push.

Tears in his eyes, Zhou Xiao Liu muttered thanks and ran off, looking back every few steps.

Xu Qing Feng watched until the boy disappeared into the end of the alley, then finally let out a long sigh. The tough act on his face collapsed completely. He looked down at his muddy, ripped clothes, touched the cut on his lip, and hissed at the sting. This time, no doubt he was gonna get scolded… maybe even punished to copy that damn Hundred Herbs Manual again. Just thinking about those endless cramped characters made his head hurt.

Head hanging low like a defeated general, he dragged his feet slowly toward the medicine hall. Every step felt heavy, like he wasn’t stepping on stone tiles but on burning hot iron.

Inside the hall, the brazier crackled softly. The last drops of purple blood-vine juice had just filled the jade dish, the clear violet liquid rippling gently.

Xu Qing Xuan put down the silver knife and the small dish, his movements steady and calm. He picked up a clean soft cloth, carefully wiping off the dark purple juice from his fingertips—like the chaos outside had been nothing more than a breeze across the water, leaving not a single ripple in the still lake of his mind. He tilted his head slightly, eyes calm as they shifted toward the doorway.
Xu Chang Lin also put down his brush and looked toward the doorway. His face showed little expression, but deep in his eyes was a heavy mix of helplessness and worry.

The light at the entrance was blocked by a figure, head hung low, clothes caked in mud.

Xu Qing Feng stood outside the threshold, head down, not daring to look at his father, even less at the older brother behind the counter whose calm silence made him shrink inside. He looked just like a guilty puppy who knew he’d messed up—shuffling his muddy shoes, inching inside. His voice was so small it was almost like a mosquito’s buzz,
“Dad… brother… I… I’m back.”

The medicine hall fell into silence. Only the faint crackle of the brazier and the quiet spread of herbal fragrance filled the air.

Xu Chang Lin’s eyes lingered on his youngest son’s torn-up clothes and the bruise at the corner of his mouth. In the end, all that came out was a long sigh, squeezed deep from his chest. In that still room, the sigh felt especially heavy—carrying disappointment at a son who never seemed to learn, worry at his reckless, troublemaking nature, and deep anxiety for a family whose future was as uncertain as a boat drifting in a storm. He didn’t scold right away, just leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and rubbed at his brow with tired fingers.

Xu Qing Xuan slowly stepped out from behind the counter. In his hand was a small porcelain bottle and a clean cloth. He stopped in front of his brother. His face stayed expressionless, his eyes calm like an autumn pond—deep, still, without ripples. He held out the bottle and cloth, not touching the cut on his brother’s face. His voice was clear, steady, unreadable,
“Wound medicine. Clean it yourself. The cut’s got mud in it—be careful.”

Xu Qing Feng froze for a second, then quickly glanced up at his brother. Meeting those calm, unshaken eyes made his chest tighten. He hurriedly took the bottle and cloth, nodding like crazy,
“Oh… uh, thanks, bro.”

Not daring to say more, he clutched the medicine, lowered his head, and hurried off toward the back courtyard like he was running for his life, leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind.

Xu Qing Xuan’s gaze followed his brother’s retreating back, then slowly shifted down to the glaring muddy prints, and finally returned to his own spotless fingers. Long and slender, the joints well-defined, carrying an almost obsessive cleanliness. Deep in his eyes, he silently weighed the scene before him, his brother’s inevitable troublemaking, his father’s helpless worry, and those muddy footprints—symbols of the chaos that could shatter the fragile calm of this medicine hall at any moment.

Just then, a commotion rose from the street outside. The sharp, hurried clatter of hooves drew closer, striking the stone pavement in a chaotic rhythm, shattering the lazy quiet of the town’s morning.

Right after came a few harsh shouts, thick with a foreign accent, full of impatience and condescension,

“Out of the way! Move it, all of you!”

“Get lost! What, are you blind?!”

The voices were rough, carrying a fierce edge—clearly not from the townsfolk.

Xu Chang Lin suddenly snapped his eyes open, the exhaustion instantly replaced by sharp alertness. He got up fast, stepped to the doorway, and cautiously peeked outside.

Xu Qing Xuan also turned toward the ruckus, his clear gaze sharpening at the source of the commotion. He strained his ears, catching the harsh, angry voices with that strange foreign tone. His brows furrowed again—this time deeper than when he heard his younger brother fighting earlier.

Out on the street, more than a dozen burly men rode in on massive horses, driving people away without a shred of mercy. They wore tight black clothes with half-leather vests, long sheathed swords strapped to their waists. Dust covered their whole bodies, faces worn from a long journey, but their eyes—sharp as hawks—swept across shops and bystanders with the look of men searching for something. Among them, an old man held a strange compass that spun nonstop. The horses clattered over the rain-soaked bluestone, leaving messy, deep hoofprints behind.

At the head of the group rode a middle-aged man with a harsh, cold face and a short mustache. His eyes carried a cruel glint as he scanned the low houses on both sides of the road, clearly hunting for something. When his gaze brushed past the half-faded signboard of the Xu Family Apothecary, he paused for just a beat before moving on. But that one fleeting glance was enough to make Xu Chang Lin’s heart sink in dread as he hid behind the door.

A chill spread down his spine. His fingers tightened on the doorframe, knuckles pale. He knew that look—it was the gaze of a killer. Not a merchant. Not some wandering traveler. No, it carried the stench of darkness and blood. Old memories he’d buried deep clawed back to life, bringing with them the cold tang of iron and the blinding red of blood.

He quickly pulled back, slipping into the shadows of the doorway. Lowering his head, he whispered to his son at the table:
“Xuan’er, shut the door. We’re… not opening today.”
His voice was low, but it trembled with tension.

Xu Qing Xuan didn’t ask. His father almost never spoke with that kind of tightness in his tone—and just hearing it sent a jolt down his nerves. Without a word, he set the pestle aside and hurried soundlessly to the door, pushing at the heavy wooden panels.

Just as the door was about to close fully, the middle-aged man’s eyes suddenly snapped back—sharp, like a vulture catching the scent of blood! His gaze pierced through the narrowing gap, landing squarely on Xu Qing Xuan’s calm face—and the stiff figure of Xu Chang Lin in the shadows.

There was no curiosity in those eyes. No question. Just the cold certainty of a hunter who had already found his prey—merciless, cruel, with a flicker of sadistic pleasure.

Creaaak—

The heavy wooden door finally shut tight, cutting off the clamor of hooves and shouts outside, sealing away that chilling stare that made hearts pound.

Inside the apothecary, the light dimmed at once. Only the brazier still glowed, its red embers flickering weakly, throwing light on drifting dust in the air—and on Xu Chang Lin’s face, which had gone pale and ugly.

He leaned against the cold door, then slowly slid down to the floor, like all his strength had been drained. Silent cold sweat soaked his clothes. Lifting his head, he looked at his eldest son standing by the door with a hard expression. His lips trembled before he finally forced out a hoarse whisper, each word squeezed painfully from between clenched teeth,

“Disaster… it’s already here.”

The words were quiet, but they fell into the silence of the apothecary like blocks of ice.

Xu Qing Xuan stood in the doorway’s shadow. Half his face lit by the brazier, the other half lost in darkness. He stared at his father—who in that instant seemed suddenly old and broken—listening to that heavy, despairing whisper. His pale lips pressed tightly shut. Behind his calm eyes, cold currents surged, like a frozen lake hiding a violent storm beneath its surface. Clues—the strangers outside, the killing intent, the swords, his father’s reaction—all clashed and spun together in his mind at terrifying speed.

The brazier suddenly spat a few sparks, then dimmed. On top of it, the Zixueteng branch twisted at the edges, its color shifting from deep violet to dark brown. The bitter-sweet smell of medicine, sign of a successful antidote, still lingered in the air—but now, it carried an inexplicable taste of grief.

From the backyard came faint sounds of Xu Qing Feng splashing water on his face by the basin, followed by a sharp hiss as his wound stung from contact. He hadn’t noticed the suffocating tension that had just fallen over the apothecary.

Above Lin Shan Town, thick gray clouds had gathered unnoticed, pressing down heavy on the earth. The air hung still, suffocating, without even a breath of wind. From afar came the muffled growl of thunder, like a restless beast pacing behind the clouds.

A storm long in the making was finally creeping toward the seemingly peaceful town. And the Xu Family’s little apothecary, like a fragile boat caught in the eye of that storm, had already been seized by invisible claws. The scent of medicine and the smell of blood, calm and chaos—fate’s wheel had begun to turn, slowly but inexorably, unstoppable.