The Culinary Chronicles of the Court Physician: The Disgraced Princess Consumes Poison to Create Medicine
There is an imperial dish called 佛跳牆 (Fo Tiao Qiongqi).
A wise man once traveled across the continent, from the southern islands to the northernmost frontier, savoring the finest ingredients of each land. He soaked the best delicacies in liquor along the way and brought them back to the capital. When he simmered them all together, an indescribably rich aroma spread for miles, drawing people from all walks of life—rich and poor alike, even those who had taken sacred vows of fasting—who leaped over walls just to taste it.
Even Buddhas leaped over walls—thus, it was named 佛跳牆 (Fo Tiao Qiongqi).
(From this 佛跳牆, a medicine is to be made.)
The broth was made from the bones of a qilin, soaked in Shaoxing wine. The forty-eight rare ingredients were added in succession, carefully simmered with glasswort mugwort leaves to trap the fragrance. Glasswort mugwort allowed them to monitor the contents while ensuring the ingredients remained intact throughout the long cooking process.
Now, all that remained was to simmer it for three days and three nights.
The challenge, however, was that the fire had to be meticulously adjusted—aligned with the tilt of the sun during the day and the moon at night. There was no moment to step away.
“The physician girl hasn’t slept since this began…”
“The tension is unreal. It’s like she’s in battle, not just brewing medicine.”
By the second night, the guards began murmuring. While they had already rotated shifts multiple times, only Fei Ling remained—standing, unwavering, without sleep.
“Ah, now I see. That stance, rooted to the ground—I knew I’d seen it somewhere before. It’s the back of the late emperor. On the battlefield, he always led from the front, entrusting his back to his soldiers… That is the stance of one who stands in the heart of the battle.”
The piercing gazes of the guards gradually shifted into one of reverence.
But Fei Ling heard none of it.
(Despite all this simmering, the broth remains cloudy. It should be growing clearer over time—so why? If it remains murky and chaotic, it will not be medicine but poison.)
She meticulously reviewed her process—no errors in the brewing method, no issue with the ingredients. The mushrooms had grown well, the seafood was properly dried. So where was the flaw?
As she traced each step, her eyes widened in realization.
(I’ve been deceived.)
One of the Eight Rare Fowls, 彩雀 (Cai Que), was required for the medicine.
Cai Que was a legendary bird with resplendent feathers, described as a rainbow in flight—its wings a shimmering blend of red, blue, green, and violet.
Yet, there existed another bird with strikingly similar wings.
䲰日 (Pitohui).
Unlike Cai Que, which was as large as a crane, the Pitohui was no bigger than a pigeon. Its beak was different, and apart from the wings, they bore no resemblance.
Fei Ling had specifically requested the feathers of the Cai Que. That meant only the feathers had been delivered to the storage.
She had no way of knowing.
(These feathers… belong to a Pitohui.)
Unlike the medicinal Cai Que, the Pitohui was a poison bird.
Not just any poison bird—its very presence was lethal.
Legends spoke of its song poisoning the wind, withering plants. Its feathers, if they touched a lake, would instantly rot the water, killing all fish. A mere brush of its feathers could turn anything into poison, making it a tool of ancient assassins.
Long ago, the imperial bloodline had feared its venom so much that they had driven the species to extinction.
Yet, here it was.
(This is the Zhèn.)
The Pitohui bore another name—Zhèn.
And now, he had come to challenge Fei Ling in their final battle—using his namesake, the ultimate poison.
“Very well. I accept.”
佛跳牆 (Fo Tiao Qiongqi) was a medicine of all five elements—fire, water, wood, metal, and earth. No matter how great the disharmony, it could restore balance.
The poison of the Pitohui, however, was composed of two opposing toxins—yin and yang.
(If the perfect balance of all five elements exists within this pot—if fire is neither too strong nor too weak, if water is neither overlooked nor excessive, if wood is not destroyed, if metal does not dominate, and if earth is not suppressed—then even the Zhèn’s poison can be transformed into the strongest medicine.)
But for that to happen, even the slightest trace of malice could not remain.
If she held even a fragment of resentment toward the emperor, if she still clung to vengeance, the medicine would become poison.
She placed the porcelain lid over the glasswort mugwort leaves and continued simmering.
Morning turned to afternoon, afternoon into evening.
Soon, three days and three nights would pass.
Fei Ling’s nerves tightened. She held her breath, focusing entirely on the bottom of the pot.
Her soul drifted into the battlefield of poison and medicine.
What unfolded before her was a chaotic storm.
Medicine devoured poison, poison consumed medicine—a spiraling struggle, like a serpent swallowing its own tail.
In the eye of the maelstrom, a lone figure stood.
Was it Zhèn? No—it wasn’t.
The one glaring back at her was a girl, clad in a green robe, bound at the waist by a blue sash. Her white hair was pinned up with a peacock hairpin, and a single venomous hairpin dangled from her left side.
It was Fei Ling herself.
The healer faced the poison within her.
(I will not choose you, Poison.)
She raised her sword and, in a single strike, severed her reflection.
Her image twisted—and shifted into the form of Zhèn.
(Ah, so you and I are one and the same.)
They were equals.
They clasped their broken fingers together, pressed their lips to wounds nearly healed.
Had fate spun another way, Fei Ling could have become the poison, and Zhèn the medicine.
But it had not.
So they would not converge.
They had each come too far to turn back. The only way to change was to be reborn entirely.
This was the final boundary between medicine and poison.
(Time—)
From the distance, the temple bells rang the hour of Búshí—4 p.m.
Fei Ling’s consciousness shattered through the illusion and returned to reality.
佛跳牆 (Fo Tiao Qiongqi) must be brewed for exactly three days and three nights.
Beyond that, medicine would always turn to poison.
Ten seconds remained.
“Hii, fu, mii—”
Was the pot still cloudy, or had it turned clear?
She wouldn’t know until the moment it was complete.
“Yo, itsu, muu—”
Regardless of the outcome, she would deliver it to the emperor.
Whether it was medicine or poison.
“Nana, yatsu—”
Because that was what battle was.
“Kokono, too—Ah, it’s over.”
She lifted the pot and poured the liquid into a porcelain vessel.
A final splash of koji-fermented wine. A lid placed firmly on top.
Fei Ling took a deep breath and raised her voice.
“The medicine is ready.”
