Hundreds of children stared in shock, all looking up at Mr. Bolton the Steward on the high platform, hoping he would step in to save someone.

Mr. Bolton the Steward sat steadily on the platform with a beaming smile, a green bamboo pipe in his mouth, puffing clouds of smoke. He spoke calmly, “Testing medicine is purely voluntary; life and death have nothing to do with others! Those who are poisoned after taking fewer than nine herbs are not considered our sect’s herb-picking children. Even if they die from the poison, no one will save them. Only those who take nine or more and become our sect’s herb-picking children will be saved.”

The child foaming at the mouth collapsed to the ground with a thud right before everyone’s eyes. But he didn’t die immediately; instead, he kept convulsing.

Among the hundreds of children present, even the bravest boys were chilled to the bone, their hair standing on end in terror. The little girls were even worse—faces pale, crying in fright. They now understood that this medicine test could kill people, and the deaths would be horrifying.

In less than an hour, four more children from the small medicine-testing huts ran out in terror and collapsed on the ground. The poisons they suffered from were all different. Some showed no outward signs, but their whole bodies itched unbearably, scratching themselves nearly raw. Some broke out in red bumps, festering and ulcerating, emitting a foul stench. One little girl staggered out of a hut, said not a word, spat out a mouthful of black blood, and collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

Henry Clark looked around in confusion. Of the hundreds of children present, at least half were wailing in terror, another small half were so scared they wet themselves, and the remaining dozen or so braver children were just as bewildered as he was. A few children tried to escape, but were caught by the brocade-clad youths watching over them and beaten in public until they cried for their parents.

By noon, the first batch of ten children had all finished their medicine tests.

One poor child died from severe poisoning and was ordered by Mr. Bolton the Steward to be carried straight to a wild graveyard more than ten miles outside the county for burial. Four who were poisoned but survived were driven out of the estate; if they could find a doctor in time, they might survive by luck. Three others suffered mild poisoning—not life-threatening, but they lost the qualification to join the herb-picking hall and were also expelled.

The chubby boy’s face was mottled from the poison, and he wet his pants in fright, his eyes vacant, mouth open as he cried out, “Dad~, Dad, where are you?” It looked like he was on the verge of being scared senseless.

Henry Clark noticed that Mr. Bolton the Steward suddenly intervened, stuffing a small pill into the chubby boy’s mouth, then ordered several brocade-clad youths to escort him away. It seemed that bag of silver leaves from the country squire had some effect after all.

Henry Clark felt a bit annoyed. He had been thinking about how to give that chubby boy—who had spat on him—a good beating someday, but hadn’t expected him to be sent away so soon.

The children who were expelled were all sternly warned by the brocade-clad youths to keep their mouths shut. If they dared mention the medicine-testing at the herb-picking hall to outsiders, the youths would “pay a visit” to their families and teach them a lesson. The expelled children, terrified, could only nod and promise never to speak of what happened in the hall.

Of the first ten, only one passed. He was a twelve-year-old commoner boy who managed to survive after taking ten herbs, and was officially admitted as a herb-picking child, rewarded with a chicken leg. The boy’s face was pale, his legs weak, and his whole body trembling—not from poison, but from sheer terror.

In the afternoon, the medicine testing continued. This time, not a single child was willing to go. Everyone knew this was a deadly game; not even a whole fat chicken would tempt them, let alone a chicken leg. They all cried and clamored to leave.

Mr. Bolton the Steward sneered. The door to the herb-picking hall was easy to enter, but hard to leave.

He signaled to several of the youths.

The brocade-clad youths understood at once, and immediately dove into the crowd of children, skillfully grabbing ten of them and dragging them to the front of the platform. They forced the children’s hands down to press their bloody fingerprints on the life-and-death contract, then sent them into the medicine-testing huts.

Henry Clark had wandered and begged all over the county for more than half a year, and had long since learned how treacherous people could be, and how to read faces. He kept a close eye on Mr. Bolton the Overseer and the youths, and at the first sign of trouble, he immediately shrank back, hiding among the hundreds of children, narrowly avoiding being caught.

His face was pale. In terms of courage, he was among the braver few of the hundreds of children. But faced with these martial arts-trained brocade-clad youths, he was utterly helpless, and could only try to hide deep within the crowd to avoid being caught.

Chapter 8: Testing Medicine with One’s Own Body

Over the next ten-plus days, twenty children were taken each day, and already hundreds had been dragged into the huts to test medicine.

Very few passed; if one or two out of ten made it, that was considered good. Those who failed either died or were poisoned and expelled from the estate. Only those who passed were kept in the herb-picking hall.

Only thirty or forty children who had not yet been tested remained in the small courtyard.