Because of the Sage, Lingcai forgot tomorrow’s meeting with Scarlet Leaf, panic fluttering like a startled sparrow as she shook her head and yelled.

“We’re doomed! We’re doomed!” Her cry thumped like temple drums.

Just now, because we turned the Sage into a girl, the only alchemical cauldron we could borrow blew like a faulty firework and shattered.

By contrast, Little Moon Sage wore pure confusion, calm as a winter moon on still water, with no idea what Lingcai was saying or why she looked frantic.

Her voice stayed cool as spring water: “What’s wrong? From what you said, did you forget something?”

By now, Lingcai had abandoned thinking, her mind a fogged-up mirror.

But a stubborn spark flared in the ashes of her chest, a coal refusing to die.

She asked stiffly, like a puppet creaking to life: “Um… do you have any usable cauldrons left?”

Little Moon Sage didn’t seem to care, idly twirling white hair like silk threads in a breeze.

“Most apothecary work barely needs cauldrons now, so I don’t have a spare. The broken one—don’t worry, let it drift like a leaf.”

Alright, extinguished—her last lamp flickered out like a guttering candle.

Lingcai’s eyes went hollow, an empty well with no echo.

Little Moon Sage waved her small hand like a pale maple leaf before Lingcai’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Lingcai kept that vacant look, her smile cracking like glaze on old porcelain. “It’s fine… haha… I’m fine… fine… let’s keep buying clothes.”

Fine? Yeah, fine my foot—fine as a cracked teacup shoved on a shelf.

Lingcai pushed the wheelchair forward, her gaze dull as fish eyes in market light.

Little Moon Sage lifted the weight at her chest, her sigh like a wilted vine: “Let’s hit a lingerie shop first… my suspensory ligaments are at their limit… I wish they were smaller.”

That line jabbed Lingcai’s nerves like a plucked wire on a zither, sharp and humming.

Angry, she kept a smile like a painted mask, edges stiff.

It’s fine; this isn’t her first time in a lingerie shop, and the path is familiar as a lane of lanterns.

She remembered her first visit, heart locked tight like a door barred against winter.

To stop clothes from rubbing her raw and stinging like nettles, she pushed open that door to a new world.

Later, she got used to it, habit settling like dust.

As the ancients say: girl clothes come in two numbers—zero and infinite, a proverb like a fan snapping open.

Lingcai pushed Little Moon Sage in with big-swing swagger, their entrance waving like a banner.

The young clerk saw a shadow sweep the door, and by reflex she stepped forward, quick as a sparrow hop.

Her voice chimed like a shop bell: “Welcome! Which one of you is shopping for… uh…”

As the clerk expected, the shoppers were two girls, fresh as willow shoots.

Only, one thing slipped off her script: a white-haired, sickly beauty in a wheelchair, an image like snow under a thin sun.

Her pale face held no blood, full as a ripe dandelion ready to scatter.

The clerk couldn’t take the scene, her mind blanking like chalk wiped clean; then it spun back fast, gears clicking like a loom.

She asked them as usual, tone smooth as silk: “Which of you is choosing lingerie?”

Lingcai pointed at the Sage, finger like an arrow feather. “Her.”

The seasoned clerk eye-measured the Sage, numbers lining up like beads, and she already had a count.

Her courtesy fell like a soft shawl: “If I may, what size did you use before?”

Startled by her warmth, Little Moon Sage coughed hard, chest rattling like a smoke-choked brazier. “Me? Cough, cough… It’s my first time in a place like this.”

“First time? Ah—first time? Oh…” The words slipped out like fish, and she regretted it at once, wanting to slap herself twice, crisp as claps.

They came in with a wheelchair; how could she miss the obvious, her gaze blind as a shuttered window?

This must be a bedbound noble lady, story written like ink along silk.

And seeing the white-haired lady’s glow like a last sunset, maybe this first visit would also be the last.

Seeing that awkward doubt cling to the clerk’s face like a damp veil, Lingcai guessed her thoughts, insight pricking like a needle.

Too late to peel back the truth; Lingcai could only play along, her resolve set like tea steeping dark.

“Do we need measurements? The fitting room?” Her words fluttered like paper slips.

As she spoke, Little Moon Sage braced on the armrest, trying to stand like a sprout pushing soil.

They pressed her gently back into the chair, hands soft as clouds. “You must be tired, right? No rush, rest a bit.”

Little Moon Sage blinked, baffled as a cat at flowing water. “No need; I’ve been sitting the whole way.”

The clerk laid her hand over the Sage’s, a touch like warm bread. “Don’t get up! Sitting works! I’ll push you in.”

Since staying seated was allowed, the Sage settled gladly, cozy as a kitten in a basket.

After she pushed the wheelchair into the fitting room, the clerk returned with a secretive look, head bowed like a crane, and whispered to Lingcai.

“Is the young lady gravely ill? Undressing her directly should be fine, right?” Her question trembled like a thin reed.

Knowing the mistake, Lingcai could only think hard, her mind grinding like millstones, and go with the flow like a river.

“How should I put it… it’s the kind that’s hard to cure… you get me.”

The clerk nodded, eyes mist-soft like rain on moss, sympathy rising like a tide. “And the doctors?”

Caught without a ready excuse, Lingcai was ambushed, her words smearing like ink in a shower. “The doctor says… like this is fine.”

The clerk’s look said it matched her expectations, the weight settling like a stone lantern. “So her condition is… not many days…?” She left four words floating unsaid, like leaves on water.

Lingcai felt the deeper misunderstanding ripen, and she waved her hands like willow branches. “No, no, nothing big. She’s always like this. She won’t die for a while.”

The clerk heard something else entirely and froze, deer-still in fresh snow.

Her mind raced, stringing logic like beads: Always like this plus first-time buying equals leaving the house is hard.

Doctor says it’s fine plus won’t die for a while equals palliative care, a sum written like chalk on slate.

A tragic tale bloomed in her head, a peony in frost, beauty brief and brittle.

She almost teared up herself, eyes glassing like morning dew.

She clasped Lingcai’s hands, grip firm as a vow, and spoke with a clang of steel: “Miss, rest easy! Even if this shopping is her first—and maybe last—I’ll leave her no regrets!”

She left the parenthesis unsaid, the shadow tucked like a folded fan.

Lingcai went blank, baffled like a carp reading a scroll. “Oh—okay, I’ll leave it to you…”

Inside, a dry thought fluttered like a moth against a lantern: It’s just a lingerie run. Why does it feel like a farewell by the life–death river?