As for the other art, the "Spirit Eye Art," Han Li, having witnessed the uncommon excellence of the "Fireball Technique," held it likewise in no small esteem.
But when he had truly cast it, Han Li came to understand that this art was nothing more than a trifling trick of laying mana upon one's eyes — that it held not the least difficulty, and could be grasped with the greatest ease.
Yet its use was in full keeping with its easiness: it was a wholly auxiliary art, meant only to observe whether a body held mana within, and whether that mana were deep or shallow.
At first Han Li found it most engaging, and cast the Spirit Eye Art upon his own two eyes time and again; then, with his thus-bewitched vision, he surveyed the state of his own body. In consequence he saw a faint layer of white light cast about him, and the nearer it lay to his dantian, the deeper and thicker grew the whiteness.
"So this is what is called mana," he thought. And at the sight of it, Han Li could not keep himself from reaching out a hand to stroke the white light — yet felt nothing at all. Mana, it seemed, was like true qi: shapeless and insubstantial, and only to be perceived beneath the Spirit Eye Art.
But after he had used it several times in a row, Han Li utterly lost interest in it.
For in all the Sect of Seven Mysteries, none but he alone could be called half an immortal in training; and at whom, then, should he direct his Spirit Eye Art? He could not spend his days gaping at himself in fond vanity!
So Han Li, besides pressing on the harder in his practice of the Fireball Technique — hoping to bring it to polished readiness for battle — turned his interest to the other arts he had yet to master, and began to rehearse and put them in practice bit by bit, hoping to win yet another breakthrough.
And thinking upon how hard the mastering of those other arts should be, Han Li, who had somewhat recovered his strength, could not hold back a sigh; for he found that, since first he had begun to practice the arts, he had sighed far oftener than ever before.
"Bong — bong —"
A heavy peal of bells came borne in from beyond the valley.
Han Li knit his brow. Of late, he knew not why, those who came seeking healing seemed to have grown suddenly more numerous, and most of them bore wounds of the sword and the knife — broken hands and broken feet, the marks of blade and axe.
He dared not be slack, for to save a life is as to fight a fire. He caught up the medicine-sack he had made ready beforehand, and straight went out of his dwelling, hasting toward the mouth of the valley.
At the very wood's edge without the valley, Han Li met with a high disciple clad in rich brocade, pacing to and fro in fretful haste beneath the great bell, in as full a fluster as an ant upon a heated pan.
No sooner did he set eyes on Han Li than his face lit with great joy, and he pressed quick forward.
"Physician Han, you have come! My master is deep poisoned, and looks fast to die. I pray you, go at once and see whether this venom may yet be dispelled."
Only when the man drew near did Han Li note that the fellow was no stranger to him — that he had seen his face several times. He was Ma Rong, the favored disciple of that Elder Li who ranked fifth among the elders of the sect, and had once come with his master to Spirit Hands Valley to see Han Li; so the two were, in a manner, half-acquainted.
"Poisoned?" murmured Han Li, even as he hurried onward beside the other. "An ill-omened turn," he said to himself under his breath, yet asked the particulars as they went; for there was still a venom in his own body that he had not yet cast out.
"It is so. When my master went down the mountain upon an errand, he fell to fighting with a master hand of the Wild Wolf Gang, and was careless, and caught one of the fellow's black darts full and fair. At first he paid it no heed — indeed, he struck the man dead upon the spot. But no sooner had he returned to the mountain than the venom flared within him, and he swooned away, past all waking."
"Have not the other physicians been called to look upon him?"
"Called, of course. Were it some common poisoning, I should not have come troubling the renowned Physician Han. Those quacks know only that my master's is a venom not often met with, and nothing more besides — not one of them dared so much as write a prescription." Here Ma Rong's face wore a look of utter contempt, his discontent with the other physicians plain to see.
Han Li's countenance did not alter; he only gave an "Ah," and fell to walking on beside the fellow, head bowed — yet within him misgivings began to stir.
To tell the truth, Han Li was no great hand at casting out venom. Were it a matter of inward hurt or outward wound, he had, by dint of several good drugs, a measure of fair assurance. But set him to dispel some rare and mighty poison, and his heart found no sure footing.
For though he did possess a sovereign drug against all poisons, the "Clear Spirit Powder," yet the venomous things under heaven were past counting; and how was he to know whether the Clear Spirit Powder were the very remedy, or whether it could cast out this poison? Moreover, the other physicians upon the mountain were no idle good-for-nothings; for such everyday ills of the jianghu as healing wounds and casting out venom they had their own several arts — else they had long since been driven from the mountain by the great men of the sect, who loved their own lives too dearly to keep a band of idle place-fillers.
And now they had not dared so much as write a prescription — which said plainly that this venom was truly hard to handle, no common matter. He could but watch what stroke the case demanded, and so shift and meet it as it came. Even should he fail to save the man, his own good name would not be ruined; for no physician, however renowned, can truly heal every ailment and suffer no sickness beyond his skill; and his standing within the sect would take no great hurt.
Even as Han Li turned the matter over in his mind, Ma Rong — well-nigh half-carrying him, and tugging hard upon his sleeve as he trotted along — hurried him on toward the dwelling of Elder Li.
Seeing this feverish haste of his, Han Li knew at once that the love between master and disciple ran deep indeed.
A shadow of gloom crept over Han Li, for he thought upon his own dealings with Doctor Mo, who was his master in name yet his adversary in truth. Had their love been as harmonious as that between Ma Rong and his master, how fair a thing it had been.
Within the deepest ground of his heart, Han Li had ever kept a measure of respect for Doctor Mo; for his not-inconsiderable skill in medicine, and the Art of Eternal Youth, had both come down to him from that man's hand.
But fortune plays perverse tricks with men, and heaven had decreed that the two could not dwell together in the same world; so it came about that they fell to open blows, and Doctor Mo, by mishap, met his death at Han Li's own hand.
Even as Han Li sighed in this melancholy fit, Ma Rong had already guided him to the dwelling of Elder Li.