In Zhou Shunting’s small residence nestled at the foot of Dongxiang Mountain, in Qingzhou, he devoted himself entirely to the care of his ailing mother, demonstrating profound filial piety.

A festering, poisonous sore afflicted his mother’s thigh, causing her unbearable agony, marked by perpetual groans day and night.

Zhou Shunting tended to her ceaselessly, washing the wound and applying fresh dressings, forgetting both food and sleep in his devotion.

After several months, the mother’s condition showed no sign of improvement, leaving Zhou Shunting consumed by an agonizing worry, utterly at a loss for a solution.

One night, his deceased father appeared to him in a dream, stating: “Your mother’s malady depends entirely upon your diligent care. However, this illness cannot be healed by mere human unguents. Worrying further will be entirely fruitless.”

He awoke abruptly, deeply unsettled by the vision. Without hesitation, Zhou Shunting took a sharp blade and sliced a portion of flesh from beneath his own ribcage. Though the muscle peeled away, he felt no pain, quickly wrapping the wound with gauze; remarkably, no blood flowed forth.

Zhou Shunting placed the excised flesh into a pot to render it into oil. Once the oil cooled and solidified into an ointment, he carefully applied it to his mother’s afflicted area. The pain ceased instantly. His mother was overjoyed, asking, “What medicine is this? It is so miraculously effective.”

Unwilling to reveal the grim truth and burdened by guilt, Zhou Shunting quickly fabricated a lie to placate her.

As his mother’s illness gradually receded, Zhou Shunting meticulously concealed the wound, keeping the secret even from his own wife.

Once the wound had fully healed, it left behind a massive scar, the size of a palm. Only when his wife questioned the strange mark did he finally reveal the entire, terrible truth.