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Xie Yao's woven basket had carried everything from rare spirit mushrooms to deadly aconite and the humblest blades of grass.\nTo him, herbs possessed neither malice nor virtue. Whatever cured was medicine, and whatever killed was poison.\nHe had always seen the world with perfect clarity until the day a little girl ended up in his basket.\nHe was only a child himself back then, barely strong enough to carry her weight.\nAs the years wore on, the boy and the girl grew up. She outgrew his little backpack, and so she took root in his heart instead.\nPatients blinded by agony would lash out at him, hurl insults over incurable blights, or threaten him in their despair.\nHe was always forgiving, extending his hands again and again.\nHe would only stop when death finally came to claim his patients.\nBut this time, he could not stop.\nShouldering that same medicine basket, he walked countless roads. He wandered through the sprawling jianghu sects and plunged into the desperate wars against the Sleeping Puppets.\nFor the rest of his days, he was endlessly walking toward Mount Mang, the mountain he had failed to reach in time.\nStubborn to the end, he drove himself forward, chasing an impossible horizon.\nUntil death finally came for him, too.