What on earth was going on?

Who was this “Miss Bai”? Did he even know any girls with the surname Bai?  
His mind was blank—completely baffled.

He thought for a moment. Could this be a prank from one of his friends? But then again, how would they know his exact hospital room number?  
That didn’t make sense. Aside from his parents, not even his sister knew he was having surgery. No outsider should have this information—so how did this “Miss Bai” know?

He puzzled over it for a while but got nowhere. Finally, he gave up trying to figure it out. The address on the package was unmistakably accurate—it probably wasn’t sent by mistake—so he’d just open it and see what was inside.

Judging by its shape, texture, and thickness, it felt like a book.

He tore open the black shipping envelope with brute force. Inside, it was wrapped tightly in bubble wrap.  
Luckily, once he found the taped seam, it came off easily.

Peeling back the layers, he finally saw what was inside—sure enough, a book!

But the moment his eyes fell on the four large characters on the cover, his brain froze in utter confusion.

The book was about the size of a standard notebook and less than a centimeter thick. Its indigo-blue cover felt dense and substantial to the touch. It was bound in an antique-style thread-stitched format, with four characters written vertically in elegant kaishu calligraphy:

“Sunflower Scripture” (Kuíhuā Zhēnjīng).

The script wasn’t printed—it was hand-written with a brush. The strokes were graceful yet sharp, exuding a distinct sense of willpower. Even Shen Hao, who knew nothing about calligraphy, found himself staring, running his fingers over the embossed characters, sensing an inexplicable energy radiating from them.

He couldn’t quite put it into words—but it was there.

Yet what troubled him more than the calligraphy was the title itself.

Sunflower Scripture? What kind of nonsense was that—some wuxia novel?

He’d read plenty of martial arts fiction—Liang Yusheng, Gu Long, Jin Yong, Li Liang, Wu Ji—he’d devoured both mainstream and obscure titles alike. But he’d never heard of a book called Sunflower Scripture.

Maybe it was a new, unpublished work? But who in their right mind would handwrite a book title with a brush?

The thought flickered through his mind as his hands flipped open the front cover.

The first thing he saw was a large peony blossom drawn in bold, minimal brushstrokes across most of the blank page. Though rendered with only a few lines, the flower radiated vitality—the petals and posture so perfectly captured that it seemed almost alive. Shen Hao was genuinely awed.

In the lower right corner, beneath the peony, were eight small characters in kaishu:

“To master the divine skill, you must castrate yourself.”

Shen Hao’s expression froze.

His confusion surged like the flooding Yellow River—unstoppable, overwhelming. All the bizarre events of the day seemed to converge in this single, mysterious book.

What in heaven’s name was happening?

To the right of those eight words was a red seal. Upon closer inspection, it read: “Bai Mudan”—White Peony.

So the “Miss Bai” on the shipping label was none other than Bai Mudan.  
And clearly, the peony on the page symbolized her.

Shen Hao’s expression turned thoughtful.

But even knowing her full name didn’t help. He racked his brain—there was absolutely no one in his life named Bai Mudan.  
Could he have forgotten someone? He searched his memories thoroughly, yet the more he thought, the more certain he became that he’d never met anyone by that name.

Then, suddenly—an epiphany.

He thought of her—the girl he’d been obsessing over.  
All he remembered was her white martial arts training outfit. Because of his poor eyesight, he hadn’t even gotten a clear look at her face.

But now… the more he considered it, the more convinced he became that she was Bai Mudan.  
He gasped inwardly. Was she really so formidable that after just one encounter, she’d tracked him down to the hospital—and even knew he’d just undergone surgery?

Did he have any privacy left?

Then again… if she truly was a mysterious figure from the martial world—someone who possibly wielded real neigong (inner energy)—then perhaps such extraordinary means weren’t so unbelievable after all.

But why send him this book?  
Was the Sunflower Scripture related to the infamous Sunflower Manual (Kuíhuā Bǎodiǎn) from the novels?  
But novels were fiction… though, wait—wasn’t neigong also supposed to be fictional?

The more he pondered, the more questions piled up—until his head felt ready to explode. He couldn’t fathom her motive… but one thing seemed clear: if she’d sent him this book, it was probably meant for him to practice.

And wasn’t that line—“To master the divine skill, you must castrate yourself”—ironically perfect for his current situation?

Shen Hao shook his head, forcibly clearing his mind of all the noise.

Since he couldn’t figure it out, he’d stop trying.

He’d originally wanted to meet the girl not only to confirm whether neigong truly existed—but also, deep down, to ask if he could learn it.

After all, who among his generation hadn’t dreamed of the kung fu heroes in wuxia dramas? Who hadn’t tried leaping off furniture, pretending to fly across rooftops?

If given the chance, anyone would seize it—even if the technique required castration. And in his case? He didn’t even need to hesitate.

So why overthink it? What would come, would come.

Having settled his mind, he was just about to open the book and study its contents—when the door suddenly opened.

He quickly shoved the book under the blanket and looked up.

It was his mother.

“Xiao Hao, I bought you those dumplings from your favorite shop—eat them while they’re hot!” She beamed, placing the takeout container on the nightstand.

Shen Hao hadn’t felt hungry—but the moment the savory aroma hit his nose, his stomach growled loudly.

His mother opened the lid, handed him a disposable spoon, and he leaned forward to eat.

Near their home was a decades-old dumpling shop that had been there long before his family moved in. Their dumplings had thin, tender wrappers and fragrant fillings—he’d been eating them since childhood and absolutely adored them.

Tasting them again now filled him with deep nostalgia.

“Mom, you don’t need to stay at the hospital all the time. It’s not like I’m seriously ill,” he said after a few bites.

“How will you go to the bathroom?” she asked.

“I’ll just go myself! I’m not paralyzed,” he replied.

“That’s true,” she conceded with a nod. “Just be careful. And don’t order takeout for meals—I’ll bring your food.”

“No need! I can just order delivery,” he insisted.

“Delivery? Who knows how filthy that food is! I’ll bring it—it’s on my way after lunch anyway.”

“Alright,” Shen Hao gave in. He knew arguing with her about this was pointless—and it wasn’t a big deal anyway.

“Since you just had surgery today, don’t eat too much or drink too much water. Stick to fruit,” she added. “I’ll go buy some for you—so you have something to nibble on if you get hungry tonight.”

Before he could respond, she turned and left the room.

The dumplings weren’t too hot, and once his mother was gone, he finished them quickly. He reached under the blanket for the book—but hesitated. What if his mom came back soon?  
Deciding it wasn’t safe, he slid the book under his pillow instead, picked up his phone, and started browsing online, hoping to find any information about “Bai Mudan.”

Of course, he’d hoped too much. While the name returned countless results, none seemed connected to the woman who sent him the book. Eventually, he gave up and switched to playing mobile games.

Not long after, his mother returned with two bags of fruit. She washed everything thoroughly, put it back in the bags, gave him a few more reminders, then headed home.

The moment the door closed, the room fell into quiet stillness.

Shen Hao took a deep breath, set his phone aside, pulled out *The Sunflower Scripture* from under his pillow, and began to read.

Page three contained the General Principles, outlining the scripture’s core philosophy and foundational concepts.  
It was clearly influenced by Daoist thought, with references and explanations drawn from classical Daoist scriptures.

He read the several thousand characters carefully and attentively.

When he turned to page four, he found a titled section: “First Level.”

Below the title was a simple ink sketch occupying most of the page—a figure sitting cross-legged in meditation.  
Key acupoints on the body were clearly labeled, connected by blue lines tracing meridian pathways.

Beneath the illustration was the “mind-guiding” mantra (xīnfǎ). To his surprise, it wasn’t written in obscure classical Chinese as he’d expected. Instead, the language was straightforward, almost tutorial-like—carefully explaining each step.

That made sense. Times had changed. No one would write training instructions in archaic, ambiguous phrasing that invited misinterpretation.

He flipped through the following pages. The First Level alone spanned three pages. The Second Level began similarly—with another illustrated figure marking acupoints and meridians.

This pattern continued throughout the book: nine levels in total, each combining clear diagrams with detailed, accessible instructions. Even someone like him—who’d never studied Traditional Chinese Medicine or human meridians—could understand it easily.

Shen Hao was deeply impressed by this woman, Bai Mudan.  
It was easy to make a book sound profound by using obscure terms—but to explain complex ideas simply, accurately, and clearly? That was true mastery.

The Sunflower Scripture had achieved exactly that.

If not for the pain in his lower body—still healing from surgery, making cross-legged sitting impossible—he would have started practicing immediately.

He still harbored some skepticism: was this real, or just an elaborate hoax?  
Only practice would tell.

But for now, with his mobility limited, he could only study the text—and use his phone to look up more about meridians and acupoints, cramming himself on the basics of Chinese medicine.