Suddenly, he placed his hand over his mouth and coughed. A sweet, metallic taste filled his throat. Trembling, he opened his hand and sure enough, saw streaks of blood in his palm.
"I wonder how many more years I can hold on," Chen Zhong sighed, putting down the medicinal herbs he had been carrying on his back. He then prepared himself a medicinal brew. The place he had chosen to settle was good, nestled up against an untouched mountain. A place with mountains and waters, it was a suitable place for eternal rest.
He had no children. So, before his death, he intended to help treat the illnesses of the villagers. At least, by the time he died here, he would have a burial ground instead of rotting away unceremoniously.
If he hadn't happened to accept a disciple who could carry on his mantle, he might already be gone. He wanted to live a few more years, and teach her as much as he could.
