Chapter 87: The Art of Medicine

Inside a villa in Haitian City.

Old Han gazed at Jiang Nanyan, who stood before him, and said, “Go on, what brings you here? Is your grandfather gravely ill?”

“Master Han, my grandfather’s old wounds have flared up again. I wish to ask you to come to the capital,” Jiang Nanyan said softly, all her previous pride subdued in his presence. “You are the greatest physician in all of China. My grandfather, my family, and I all firmly believe that only you can save him.”

Old Han fell silent for a while, then spoke, “General Jiang’s body bears twenty-four injuries, twenty-one of which are hidden wounds. On top of that, decades of overwork have drained his spirit. His internal energies are in chaos, yin and yang depleted. Even if I were to go, I fear I could do nothing.”

“Is there truly nothing you can do for my grandfather?” Jiang Nanyan asked anxiously.

Old Han waved his hand. “It’s not that I refuse to help—only that I am powerless to turn things around. If you could find some lost prescriptions, perhaps they might help him, perhaps even cure him fully.”

“But where could I possibly find them?” Jiang Nanyan said helplessly. “Over the past year I have visited countless famed doctors across the country, but all in vain. Most were but charlatans seeking fame. As my grandfather’s illness worsens, he suffers terribly every day. Master Han, I beg you once more to come out of retirement.”

“Go home for now,” Old Han said, rubbing his brow. “Tomorrow I will set out for the capital. But everything will be up to fate.”

Jiang Nanyan nodded silently and left.

After she had gone, tears suddenly streamed from Old Han’s eyes as he wept like a child, his sobbing drawing Han Dongxue from inside the house.

“Grandpa!” Han Dongxue rushed over to support Old Han, who was trembling all over. “Grandpa, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Dongxue,” Old Han gripped her hands as if clinging to his last hope. Wiping away his tears, he led her into the study. “Dongxue, in my life I owe nothing to anyone—except you and an old friend. That friend once saved my life, suffering grave injuries in the process, and now, after all he has endured, he is beyond saving. I have tried many times to concoct medicines to help him, but all in vain. I know now that my skill cannot save him. I left my old posts in the north to come south, always searching for you. Now that I have found you, at least that regret is gone. Tomorrow I will go to the capital and give everything I have to save him one last time. If my friend should perish, I will end my own life at his graveside, for I would have no face left to meet my old comrades.”

“Ah?” Han Dongxue was startled, about to protest, but Old Han shook his head. “I have always felt indebted to you, so I have tried all this time to make it up to you. If I never return, stay by Qin Yang’s side. That boy may be eccentric, but I can see he truly cares for you. Dongxue, promise me, will you?”

“I… I…” Tears welled up in Han Dongxue’s eyes. She had seen and remembered all the kindness Old Han had shown her in this time. She knew well how sincerely this old man wished for her happiness. Now, hearing he might not return, grief overwhelmed her. Biting her lip, she asked, “Grandpa, what illness is this, that it is so severe?”

“Sigh. In his youth, he fought in too many wars, leaving his meridians badly damaged. Add to that years of overwork and illness, and his internal energies are utterly disordered, his spirit almost depleted. Before sixty, he was as strong as an ox. Back then, some doctors predicted he would not live long, and he cursed them roundly. But after sixty, all his accumulated ailments began to spread through his body, down to the bone. It’s as if a lamp’s oil has run out and the flame is about to die. If it were only exhaustion of spirit, I could help him recover. But the injuries to his body are beyond my skill. Even the world’s finest medical equipment could only treat the symptoms, not the root. My moxibustion is useless, acupuncture can’t reach the problem, medicine falls short—he is beyond healing. I fear his condition is now extremely dangerous; he likely has only a few days left. I had thought he wouldn’t survive the year, and yet, here he is.”

“Grandpa, our Han family has built its reputation on martial arts; we have many miraculous medicines for injuries.” Han Dongxue led Old Han to her room, opened a small, rather worn bag, and took out several yellowed sheets of paper. “These are remarkably effective for trauma. See if they might help.”

Old Han’s spirits lifted instantly. He hurriedly took the prescriptions, nodding as he read, but soon his expression dimmed again. “They are indeed wonderful, but at most, they might extend his life by half a month. To truly save him, we would need a miraculous prescription that could harmonize the five elements, restore the meridians, generate blood, regrow flesh and bone. But such formulas are lost to time—where could we find one now?”

“Grandpa, if our ancestors could create such things, why can’t we, in this modern age?” Han Dongxue said urgently. “Qin Yang always says human creativity is boundless. If all we do is search for what’s been lost instead of creating anew, that’s truly tragic. You are a master physician—can you not surpass the ancients and create a new miracle formula?”

Old Han gave a bitter smile. “Do you think I haven’t tried, all these years, to improve the prescriptions? But nothing has worked, and General Jiang’s illness can wait no longer.”

“We cannot give up until the very end,” Han Dongxue insisted.

Seeing his granddaughter’s unwavering faith in him, Old Han suddenly straightened, shaking off his previous despair. “You’re right. How can I give up before the end? Dongxue, go back to live at Qin Yang’s house for now. I must hurry to the capital—if I can gain even one more day for him, it’s worth trying.”

While all this was happening—

In Fengyang County, Qin Yang was strolling with Yu Wenfei. As they passed a school, Yu Wenfei made no effort to hide her yearning. “I used to secretly study my younger brother’s textbooks, learning to read. The essays and poems they wrote were so beautiful. Did you know, my grandfather once told me our ancestors were friends with Su Dongpo, the great poet. Ever since, I’ve loved reading his poetry—so beautiful, though often I can’t understand the meaning.”

“What’s so great about that?” Qin Yang chuckled. “Times change. Modern literature is no less than the classics; it’s just that people would rather memorize the old texts than appreciate the ideas in contemporary writing.”

“So, by your logic, modern things are always better than the old?” Yu Wenfei challenged.

“Not necessarily. Take the environment—it’s certainly worse now than in ancient times.” Qin Yang pondered. “There are many areas like that. For example, traditional medicine. Before the late Qing, Chinese medicine developed without interruption, passing down knowledge even through war and turmoil. But in modern times, Western medicine, powered by high technology, has taken over, and Chinese medicine has declined, creating a huge gap. Modern practitioners are far less skilled than the ancients. Lost techniques were the result of generations of effort, and even with a theoretical foundation, it would take centuries to recreate them.”

“So you must be quite the doctor yourself? My wrist feels much better; when I changed the dressing, I saw the scar was falling off, and the flesh underneath looked new,” Yu Wenfei said with curiosity.

“I’m not that great. I just have a few prescriptions. I make my living from this, so don’t go telling anyone,” Qin Yang joked.

But Yu Wenfei silently made a note of it in her heart.