She's a Passerby, But Can See the Protagonist's Halo-Chapter 59

For an entire week, Gu Jiasui combed through her memories.

Indeed, there was no trace of Yan or Zhu Jue in them.

Her doubts ran deep, but she kept them quietly locked within her heart.

Though Gu Jiasui found no recollection of those two, another memory surfaced instead.

Despite living a secluded life in the Eldest Princess's Mansion, news from the outside world still reached her.

When she had fallen ill years ago, even the imperial physicians of the Great Zhou Dynasty had no effective remedies—only gentle tonics and slow recuperation.

The Eldest Princess's Mansion had once issued a decree, summoning renowned physicians from across the land to the capital.

From Miao healers of the southwest, to esteemed medical families of the Jiangnan region, and even the potent remedies of Tibet—Gu Jiasui had encountered countless practitioners.

Yet, despite their illustrious reputations, none could cure her ailing body.

“Our humble skills are unworthy of treating the princess’s noble self.”

“We lack the talent—we implore the princess to seek a more capable physician.”

She had lost count of how many such sighs she had heard, until eventually, she grew indifferent.

Even with a body worth a thousand pieces of gold, medicine and stone alike failed her.

Then, Gu Jiasui remembered something else—two physicians had once spoken of a certain man with regret.

They had said, *“If there is anyone in this world who could cure this illness, we can only think of that person.”*

*“Mr. Wujiu… though it’s been years since any news of him has surfaced.”*

This physician, known as “Mr. Wujiu,” seemed to hold legendary renown among medical circles.

And when the Eldest Princess's Mansion sought information, she quickly learned his story.

It was said that he was the son of a wandering physician, traveling with his father from a young age. Even as a child, his medical talent was extraordinary—though his temperament was eccentric.

He did not treat the wealthy for gold or silver. When noble households paid him a hundred taels for a consultation, he would turn around and use the money to treat the poor, free of charge.

For the rich, a single prescription might cost three hundred taels—for the destitute, merely three copper coins.

After coming of age, Mr. Wujiu continued wandering the land as a traveling physician—gathering herbs, diagnosing illnesses, and healing the sick.

Even among fellow practitioners, he never hoarded knowledge, generously sharing the remedies he devised.

Yet, the reason Mr. Wujiu vanished from the world so abruptly was because he treated not only people—but also animals.

According to rumors, after curing a nobleman’s son, he had also treated a poor family’s dog.

When the young noble happened upon this, he took it as an insult—if a man who healed beasts had cured him, did that make him no better than a dog?

The spoiled heir had Mr. Wujiu beaten and thrown out of the city. Then, local physicians—seeing an opportunity—stirred up trouble, accusing him of causing a patient’s death and dragging him before the authorities.

It was said that half the city’s commoners beat the grievance drum in protest, while those he had healed pulled every string they could. Mr. Wujiu was rescued, but afterward, all trace of him vanished.

No one knew if he had died, or simply disappeared into obscurity.

The Eldest Princess's Mansion dispatched countless men to search for him, even borrowing the imperial surveillance bureau’s resources.

Yet in the end, they found no sign of Mr. Wujiu—only more tales of his miraculous cures and vanishing acts.

*“The ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​‍Divine Physician Wujiu walks the world, but never steps into the halls of power.”*

Only the temple where he had once stayed to offer free treatments held a few more clues.

*“Mr. Wujiu? He hasn’t come by in years.”*

*“But his parents’ memorial tablets remain enshrined here. We keep the oil lamps full for them every day.”*

The Divine Physician Wujiu’s true surname was Xiao.

Yet sadly, Gu Jiasui never met this unorthodox healer before her death.

Now, thinking of Xiao Qingnang—another descendant of an ancient medical lineage—she couldn’t help but wonder:

*Could he be related to that legendary physician, Mr. Wujiu?*

But asking about someone’s family lineage outright would be impolite. And as for records of Xiao Wujiu, they were scattered—in county chronicles of the Great Zhou Dynasty, unofficial histories, and lost fragments of documents, dismissed today as mere exaggerations of the past.

---

That morning, as usual, Gu Jiasui headed to the association’s office after her early lecture.

No one was scheduled for duty, so she would likely have to unlock the door herself.

Yet when she arrived, Xiao Qingnang was already waiting for her.

She frowned slightly. *“I thought you had a morning class?”*

Medical school lectures often ran late, and the walk from there to the office was longer than from the liberal arts building.

*“I hurried over right after class.”* Only after seeing her arrive did he take out his keys to unlock the door.

Gu Jiasui noticed beads of sweat at his temples and nose—he must have rushed here.

*“Pengpeng isn’t in such a hurry. Sudden temperature changes—even as a physician, you shouldn’t push yourself.”* Her tone instinctively carried a chiding note.

Then she caught herself—it sounded almost like she was lecturing him.

She pulled a tissue from her bag and handed it to him. *“Dry your sweat.”*

*“Do you have something to do later?”* she asked.

Walking over to check on the kitten Pengpeng in its bed, she heard the little one mewing eagerly as soon as they entered.

Cradling Pengpeng carefully, she glanced at Xiao Qingnang—he was wiping the sweat away, his face slightly flushed.

"Nothing much, I just wanted to come earlier."

After over a month of care, the kitten Pengpeng had grown considerably. Gu Jiasui recorded its weight for the day before preparing its food.

She recalled how, before class, Yan had mentioned that Zhu Jue's coursework had become particularly demanding lately, with a lot of material to memorize. Concerned, she asked, "Medical school finals must be hectic for you. My schedule is lighter, so if you’re swamped with studying, just coming for the twenty-minute acupuncture sessions daily is enough. Pengpeng can be looked after by me and the other students the rest of the time."

"No need." Xiao Qingnang rejected the idea almost instantly.

Realizing how abrupt his refusal sounded, he softened his tone to explain, "Don’t worry, I’ve got it under control. I can manage."

Gu Jiasui nodded. If he said he could handle it, she wouldn’t press further.

After feeding Pengpeng, the two took turns—one massaging the kitten’s belly, the other gently kneading its tiny limbs.

By now, the kitten had grown accustomed to their care, its big round eyes flickering between them with a familiar, contented expression.

Gu Jiasui couldn’t help but smile every time she looked at it—she never tired of admiring its adorable face.

*Those big eyes, that tiny face… How could such an adorable little creature exist in this world?*

"Suisui." His voice was tentative, as if testing the waters.

Gu Jiasui turned to him abruptly.

"Can I call you that?"

Xiao Qingnang’s lashes fluttered slightly as he met her gaze, a faint blush dusting his otherwise cool, composed features.

"Sorry, it’s just that calling you by your full name feels too formal, and using 'you' or 'I' all the time gets awkward."

He feigned calmness, reciting the lines he’d rehearsed in his mind.

"Sure." The corner of her lips lifted slightly.

Many people called her "Suisui"—fans, classmates, even strangers. These days, shopkeepers addressed everyone as "honey," "beautiful," or "dear," a habit she’d never quite grown used to despite prolonged exposure.

"Then what should I call you?" she asked.

Gu Jiasui knew Xiao Qingnang had nicknames—"Old Man Xiao" or "Brother Xiao"—but neither felt natural for her to say.

"My courtesy name is Wujiu. You can call me that."

Her fingers, massaging the kitten, paused briefly.

*Wujiu. Xiao Wujiu.*

December in Bin City was bitterly cold, an experience both novel and miserable for Yan and Zhu Jue.

"No central heating, no floor heating—why can’t these things be standard nationwide?"

Even with the dorm’s air conditioning cranked up to 29°C, Yan grumbled from her bed.

Back in Ning City, winter heating had run from November through March, making the long, harsh months bearable.

Their high school, an elite private institution, had even built heated corridors between buildings, allowing students to move between classrooms, dorms, and the cafeteria without stepping outside.

As a northerner accustomed to braving -20°C winds, Yan found Bin City’s winter an entirely different kind of cold.

The damp chill seeped into everything—outside, the weak sunlight offered no warmth; inside, the air conditioning left a lingering draft, as if icy fingers were creeping into her skull.

"It’s a shame electric blankets are banned," Chu Bingbing lamented.

The dorm’s AC kept the room tolerably warm, but beds remained frigid. Lighter pajamas were manageable with the heater on, yet still left them shivering under thin covers.

"Somehow, the AC’s hot air gives me a headache," Gu Jiasui murmured, rubbing her temples.

The campus pet association’s office also relied on AC, supplemented by an electric heater that radiated cozy warmth.

Modern heating was worlds apart from the past—gone were the days of burning silver charcoal or relying on underfloor heating. Now, a single AC unit could warm an entire room.

Yet, whether it was her body’s resistance to this new method or not, prolonged exposure to the artificial heat left her with a dull throbbing in her head.

Though the dorm hovered around 20°C thanks to the AC, Yan missed the scalding radiators of her old apartment. Sure, they left her skin parched by morning, but at least they were *effective*.

She could dry socks on them, warm her hands—now, she resorted to an electric heat pad tucked under her blankets for her feet and another clutched in her hands.

"If not for the AC running nonstop, I’d swear the dorm’s no different from outside," Chu Bingbing remarked.

Even stepping onto the balcony required courage, the temperature drop hitting like a wall the moment the door opened.

Yi Zhi watched her suffering roommates, wracking her brain for solutions.

Weather extremes barely affected her—compared to the apocalyptic wasteland she’d known, modern climates were mild.

But after much deliberation, she came up empty-handed.

Even if she had access to special energy-infused plants, she couldn’t risk exposing them. Instead, she quietly increased the fruit deliveries to their dorm, urging the girls to eat more.

The fruits produced in the space were nurtured with special spiritual energy and nourished by the black soil, making them highly beneficial for the human body. They could gradually revitalize one’s health, and long-term consumption yielded excellent effects.

Now, Yi Zhi’s fruit shop’s WeChat account had nearly 5,000 followers. Every week when the fruit quotas were released, the frenzy of customers scrambling to place orders shocked her to the core.

The phone Yi Zhi used for selling fruits remained powered off most of the day—otherwise, the barrage of 9999+ unread messages would be impossible to manage. Just opening WeChat would cause even the latest 1TB iPhone to lag momentarily, flooded with pleas demanding more quotas, desperate offers to pay extra, and outright begging for the chance to buy her fruits.

If not for the overwhelming number of contacts, Yi Zhi would have already adjusted her fruit pre-orders to a biweekly schedule.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from fгeewebnovёl.co𝙢.

Winter had made her lazier. Money was endless, and with her current savings, she had no material desires to speak of—gardening, cooking, and even an annual dining membership at Chu Shen’s restaurant could easily be covered by the profits from her earlier jadeite sales.

Yet, who could have predicted that her initial plan—just leveraging Chu Shen’s regular customers to offload a batch of fruits—would spiral into this? The customer base had snowballed uncontrollably. Her WeChat was maxed out, forcing her to juggle university classes while spending weekends shipping orders.

Though her side hustle as a fruit wholesaler somewhat aligned with her agricultural studies, Yi Zhi couldn’t help but worry—would she still be doing this by graduation?

Now, she didn’t even dare show up at Chu Shen’s restaurant. Some regulars knew she was the farm supplier, and last Saturday when she dropped off ingredients, she was immediately recognized and swarmed. They complained about the impossible quotas, demanding price hikes and expanded availability.

Unbelievable. These people weren’t just asking Chu Shen to raise prices—they wanted the farm to increase fruit rates too, arguing that higher costs would thin out the competition.

Worst of all? Yi Zhi never expected her humble fruit shop to spawn a black-market ecosystem of "proxy buyers" and "order-placing services," where the fees for snagging a slot rivaled those of concert ticket scalpers.

Faced with scalpers and resellers, Yi Zhi solemnly announced a hiatus—no new stock until the shop’s dedicated mini-program launched.

Meanwhile, she urgently contacted Ye Ping’an from the boys’ dorm, enlisting him and his computer science peers to develop the app.

The fruit shop’s mini-program would enforce real-name verification, single-account purchasing limits, and anti-scalper measures.

Until it was ready, Yi Zhi had the perfect excuse to take a break.

*

"Only a month left until winter break. Time’s flying—where should we go for Christmas and New Year’s?"

"Shame we missed out on Halloween too."

Chu Bingbing lounged on the bed, scrolling through her phone.

"Way too fast," Yan agreed.

Three months had passed in a blink. Bin University’s final exams loomed in early January.

But looking back, Yan realized just how much she and Zhu Jue had been through this semester.

"Christmas and New Year’s? Everywhere’s going to be packed." Though it was only early December, many restaurants were already fully booked for holiday reservations. Yan and Zhu Jue still hadn’t settled on plans.

"A few more days until the CET-4 exam. If I pass this year, I’ll tackle the CET-6 in the first half of next year—then grad school prep will be smoother." Yan counted on her fingers.

"The library’s been packed lately."

"Probably because of grad school entrance exams. The undergrad seniors are probably grinding their theses too," Chu Bingbing mused.

She lay back, cupping her face. "Most of my classmates already have their four-year plans mapped out—double majors, grad school prep. Some are securing internships at investment banks over winter break, others are prepping for TOEFL or IELTS to study abroad."

Chu Bingbing was a finance major at Bin University’s prestigious business school.

Watching her peers stride confidently toward their goals left her wistful.

Her system was like a ticking bomb—she never knew when a sudden mission might drop. To safeguard her life, she couldn’t afford to leave major cities, let alone go abroad. Only metropolitan hubs allowed her to complete high-value spending tasks quickly.

The thought made her smirk. With her system, she could casually auction off items worth hundreds of millions, donate the proceeds, and reap the perks of sudden wealth. Fretting over these things felt almost hypocritical.

Though only a freshman, she was already feeling the pressure of Bin University’s cutthroat academic environment—and the stark disparities in intellect among people.

As the top scorers in the national college entrance exams, those admitted to this university were undoubtedly the brightest talents from every major city. But here, among the best, there were always those even better—people smarter than you yet working harder, or those who barely attended lectures yet seemed to know everything.

"Yan, are you planning to pursue a master's degree?" Chu Bingbing asked.

"Well, Zhu Jue is in the eight-year clinical program straight to a Ph.D. If I go for a direct Ph.D. in the College of Liberal Arts, it’ll take four years for undergrad and five for the Ph.D., so I should graduate around the same time," Yan replied.

"So, you’ll both be in school for eight or nine years?" Yi Zhi chimed in.

The thought of spending nine years "planting seeds" in school made her head spin—she already had her hands full with the fields in her space.

After the incident where she produced two pots of new chrysanthemum varieties, Professor Yuan had dragged Yi Zhi into the lab to assist the senior students. Staring at experimental data gave her a headache—all she wanted was to tend to her crops in peace.

"Pretty much. For clinical medicine, there’s still a one-year residency after the Ph.D.," Yan counted on her fingers. "So Zhu Jue will study for nine years, and if I successfully enter the direct Ph.D. program, it’ll also be nine years. We’ll graduate and start working together."

The 5+3 medical program required additional residency training, while the eight-year clinical Ph.D. only needed one year. Similarly, a direct Ph.D. in liberal arts saved two years compared to a traditional master's-to-Ph.D. route. For both of them, this was the most efficient and logical plan.

Ding Ling silently translated Yan’s words in her mind.

In other words, Yan and Zhu Jue would remain in Bin City for eight more years—a timeframe they had clearly calculated as their "engagement with the mortal world."

Nine was the number of completion, ten the symbol of fulfillment. The tenth year would mark the end of their worldly trials.

"What about Ding Ling and Gu Jiasui?" Chu Bingbing turned to the other roommates.

This was the first time their dorm had seriously discussed future plans. Yan and Zhu Jue’s paths had already been meticulously arranged by their families.

"Me?" Ding Ling paused.

The usual post-graduation options—graduate school, studying abroad, or a typical job—didn’t apply to her.

"I’ll probably just graduate," she said.

She might transition from the Special Cases Unit to a part-time "ghost employee." The world was different now, and Ding Ling wanted to see more of it.

But as long as she remained in Bin City with her current responsibilities, she couldn’t leave. Her student identity, arranged by the authorities, served both to help her adapt to modern society and to monitor her potential risks.

"Same here, most likely," Gu Jiasui said softly.

The world today was vibrant, and life’s twists were unpredictable. She had been fortunate enough to wake up centuries in the future—it would be a shame not to experience it fully.

Born into this era, she owed it to herself to live out all the things she’d been unable to do in her past life.

"I’m still undecided," Yi Zhi admitted with a shrug.

Truthfully, though she disliked analyzing lab data, she knew that without joining a research team, her ability to repeatedly produce improved plant varieties would raise suspicions. How else could she explain the genetic modifications?

So, to avoid suspicion, the best path was to continue studying and experimenting—to first understand the science behind it, then introduce her special plants in a plausible way.

In this peaceful world, her initial dream had been to live an ordinary, stable life—the ultimate fantasy for someone who’d survived an apocalyptic era.

But if she could contribute something to this world without exposing herself, wouldn’t that be worthwhile?

The discussion about their futures was just a casual weekend chat. As the new week began and finals loomed closer, the entire dorm became more diligent in attending classes—every extra participation point counted.

Winter arrived, and the cold weather forced Yan and Zhu Jue to swap their evening strolls for study sessions in the library.

However, since they usually went after afternoon classes or dinner, finding seats in the university’s main library became a challenge.

The specialized libraries for the College of Liberal Arts and the School of Medicine required facial recognition for entry, making it impossible for the two to study together.

Thus, their campus routine now alternated between the main library and a few on-campus cafés.

In the cafés, they could talk freely without disturbing others. They also overheard conversations from senior students—some stressing over theses, others agonizing over research data or job offers. In comparison, as freshmen only halfway through their first year, they were mere "newbies," carefree as they watched videos and whispered in their corner.

"Boss Tu sent a message," Yan said, checking her phone. "There’s a Dharma assembly for the Birthday of the Sunlight Bodhisattva, and it happens to fall on a Saturday, right before Christmas."

Last month, I entrusted some items to Boss Tu for a consecration ceremony, originally scheduled for November. However, Boss Tu mentioned that Fayan Temple had temporarily closed due to some wildlife disturbances in the mountains—apparently, a group of monkeys had caused chaos. It wasn’t until this month that the temple finally reopened its gates.

According to Boss Tu, Fayan Temple isn’t widely known among the public in Bin City, partly because of its remote location in the mountains of the suburbs. Yet, those in the know are well aware of its spiritual potency.

This time, Boss Tu also had a batch of ritual objects to send for consecration, so Yan and Zhu Jue could hitch a ride with him to the mountains and explore while they were at it.

In mid-December, after the English CET-4 exam, Yan and Zhu Jue—who hadn’t ventured out in a while—made their first trip to the mountains of Bin City.

The mountain air was chilly, and worried about slipping on the stone steps, the two bundled up in their winter gear from their hometown, Ning City: black down jackets, woolen pants, hats, and scarves.

Yan and Zhu Jue sat in the back seat of Boss Tu’s Jeep, while the front passenger seat and the space behind them were packed with Boss Tu’s carefully wrapped items awaiting consecration.

When they arrived at the entrance of Fayan Temple, Zhu Jue helped Boss Tu carry the items inside, while Yan glanced around curiously.

The temple was nearly empty, likely because it had just reopened after the closure and remained relatively unknown to outsiders.

The consecration ceremony was scheduled for the afternoon, so Boss Tu waved them off to explore on their own, reminding them to return to the dining hall for lunch at noon.

Neither Yan nor Zhu Jue were particularly religious, but they weren’t atheists either—especially since Yan could see so many "auras" around her. After all, the King of Ghosts himself slept next door to her.

The climate here differed from their hometown. Yan gasped in awe at the greenery on the mountains. "The trees are still green here! The subtropical region is amazing." Back in Ning City, even the most beautiful summer mountains turned desolate and lifeless in winter. She instantly felt this trip was worth it just to see such a different landscape.

Boss Tu had driven them up, and now the two wandered deeper into the temple grounds, following wooden signposts along the mountain paths to avoid getting lost.

As they strolled, admiring the temple’s architecture, they arrived at a secluded hall.

Before they could step inside to investigate, a young man and woman suddenly emerged from the hall.

Both were strikingly attractive—the man handsome, the woman beautiful—but their movements, expressions, and posture seemed oddly mismatched with their natural grace.

Yan stiffened and squeezed Zhu Jue’s hand.

"Eek!"

"They have auras," she whispered into Zhu Jue’s ear.

This was the first time she’d seen such an aura, but its meaning was unmistakable:

**[Soul Swap]**

It seemed the two had come here to pray to the gods.