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墨書 Inktalez
The pained cries of the Tibetan man startled everyone, even reaching the Lama Temple across the river. A few Lamas rushed over, carrying a copper pot. Inside the pot was the medicinal tea prepared for pilgrims visiting the sacred mountain, brewed from snow water and local herbs, meant to ward off cold and disinfect. While it might not cure all ailments, it certainly lifted spirits.
As the Lamas hurried to the scene, one of them took the hand of the fallen Tibetan man and began to chant prayers, while the others inquired about the situation. Upon learning that he was suffering from late-stage cancer, their expressions turned somber, reflecting their compassion for his plight.
These Tibetans firmly believed that the sacred mountain held more healing power than hospitals, or even herbal medicine. It was a tragic misconception. The Lamas, who lived near the mountain year-round, understood better than anyone that if the mountain could truly heal, there would be no need for hospitals or Tibetan medicine.
Of course, they kept their thoughts to themselves. The patients who came to the sacred mountain were often at death's door; it was their last hope. In their final moments, holding onto a glimmer of hope, how could the Lamas bear to shatter that illusion?
Seeing the Lamas shake their heads in sorrow, other sick Tibetans who had come to pray felt a wave of despair wash over them. It seemed that even the sacred mountain could not save them. A sense of loss and sorrow spread among them.
Qian Wenwu and Chen Shuifeng, wealthy heirs, showed no visible reaction upon hearing this.
"Ah, poverty is a sin," Qian Wenwu remarked nonchalantly. "Cancer isn't truly incurable. A few years ago, Hong Kong Island developed a miracle drug that's not even that expensive—just hundreds of thousands."
"That cancer miracle drug from Hong Kong Island is effective, but I've heard some cancers have developed resistance. You might need to take several times the dosage for it to work," Li Chengdu added.
"Then just spend more money! Fifty thousand should be enough; I know plenty of people who've had cancer," Sun Rong chimed in.
"Exactly! Poverty is a sin. These people? I doubt they can even scrape together fifty thousand, let alone five," Chen Shuifeng agreed.
Their words echoed like ignorant platitudes—shallow and oblivious. Having grown up in luxury, they could easily spend tens of thousands on a night out at clubs without realizing that some people would never earn that much in a lifetime.
It wasn't that these individuals were lazy; on the contrary, they worked harder than anyone else. Yet hard work only provided a comfortable living; it couldn't shield one from illness. For most people, hard work equated to being cheap labor.
"I hope the sacred mountain can truly eliminate diseases," Xiong Sumei murmured softly as she gazed at it with a forlorn expression.
Jiang Chen observed this scene with a quiet sigh. Life and death were unavoidable even in the Xiu Xian World; he still felt compassion for those suffering.
"Excuse me, could I borrow your water bottle?" Jiang Chen suddenly asked.
The elderly man standing nearby snapped out of his daze and quickly handed over his water bottle. It was empty, so Jiang Chen went directly to fetch snow water from a small stream near the sacred mountain.
The old man thought nothing of it; he assumed Jiang Chen was thirsty. He glanced down at his grandson, whose face looked pale as his condition showed no signs of improvement.
"Oh sacred mountain, please show mercy and save my grandson," the old man silently pleaded, his expression filled with despair.
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