Chapter Sixteen: Whether One Can Live a Long Life Depends Entirely on Probability

Chapter Sixteen: Whether One Lives Long or Not, It All Depends on Probability

Deserving its reputation as the "Western Banlangen," the panacea of the twenty-first century, Paracetamol’s effectiveness in reducing fever was beyond question. Before Zhang Qian could finish directing Imperial Physician Sun Anzu and the young lady Ren Yingying, both of whom fumbled to snip away the bandages from Ren Qiong’s arm, the latter’s high fever was already beginning to subside. Faint traces of vitality appeared on her haggard face. (Note 1: When seeing a family doctor abroad, the most frequently prescribed medicine is paracetamol, regardless of the symptoms.)

The primary reason Sun Anzu had concluded the patient was beyond help was because the evil heat in Ren Qiong’s body would not relent, and medicines proved useless. But now, realizing Ren Qiong’s forehead was no longer burning and sweat poured from her like a river, he was beside himself with joy. His right hand shook uncontrollably as he gripped the scissors, nearly stabbing himself in the left hand several times.

Miss Ren Yingying, having previously listened to Sun Anzu’s explanation, knew that the retreat of the evil heat meant the medicine had suppressed the toxin’s onslaught. Overjoyed, she almost dropped the soiled bandages in her haste to kneel and kowtow to Zhang Qian.

“No, no, no, it’s too early for that—this is merely the first step in a long march!” As someone from the twenty-first century, Zhang Qian could hardly tolerate such displays of kneeling, regardless of past insults. He quickly sidestepped, explaining, “Sweating and reducing the fever only resolve the surface problem; the real trouble lies ahead. If you have time to kowtow, you’d do better to hurry outside and see when the strong spirits and saltwater will arrive.”

“Master Immortal, Master Immortal! The spirits and saltwater are here—two large wooden buckets of each, waiting for you at the door!” The chubby Ren Cong’s ingratiating voice rang out, tinged with a faint sob. “Earlier, when I saw how busy you were, I dared not interrupt. How is my father? Did you say he started sweating?”

“The fever’s broken—the so-called evil heat. Sweating is one sign of that!” Zhang Qian’s attitude toward Ren Cong, who had been helpful, was much warmer. He thought a moment and explained as clearly as he could. “If you’re worried about your father, you may come in to see him. But be sure to wash your hands and face with saltwater first, and rinse your mouth well, too!”

“Yes, yes, I’ll wash right away!” Ren Cong was overjoyed and answered eagerly. Then he asked, “Master Immortal, do you need to wash as well?”

“Me?” Zhang Qian blinked, realizing he hadn’t followed any of the hygiene rules he’d just imposed. Embarrassed, he replied with a sheepish grin, “Yes, please fetch me a basin and a cup. Luckily, the bandage isn’t fully removed yet, and I haven’t started treating your father’s wound.”

“Yes, Master Immortal!” Delighted to be of use, Ren Cong’s voice trembled with excitement.

“Continue removing the bandage. I’ll step outside for a moment. And don’t call me Master Immortal—just Zhang Shaolang or Young Master Zhang will do.” Turning to Sun Anzu and Ren Yingying, Zhang Qian gave his instructions before striding out the door.

“Yes, Zhang… Young Master Zhang!” Sun Anzu and Ren Yingying both paused, then quickly made the right choice.

The title “Young Master” was reserved for the sons and grandsons of official families. Normally, if no outsiders were present, it might be casually used, but there was a real young Marquis sitting in the main hall. It was best not to break such taboos.

“Young Master Zhang!” Butler Ren Fu reacted no slower than the others. Before any other servant could “offend” the distinguished guest, he led the way in changing the address. “Young Master Zhang wishes to wash up? Saltwater is ready. Ren Si, Ren Wu, Ren Liu, bring the washbasin and cup for Young Master Zhang!”

Immediately, the servants clustered around like stars attending the moon, bringing the basin, the cup, and attending to Zhang Qian as he washed his face, hands, and rinsed his mouth. Then they presented a fresh towel and carefully dried the water from his face and hands.

Zhang Qian was still not accustomed to being served—especially by a group of grown men. He endured it until the rinsing was done, then quickly extricated himself, heading straight for the two wooden buckets at the sickroom door. “Which one holds the spirits?”

“This one, Young Master Zhang, please look!” Ren Cong, freshly washed, hurried over and lifted the lid for him.

“Just call me Brother Zhang,” Zhang Qian said, picking up a wooden ladle and sampling the liquor.

“That… that would not be proper. You saved my father’s life, Young Master!” Ren Cong refused, retreating with flustered gestures.

“There’s no guarantee your father will survive!” Zhang Qian shot him a look. “Besides, you helped me earlier—it’s only right I help you now. Unless you think I’m unworthy of your friendship!”

“Zhang… Brother Zhang, my deepest respects!” With his father’s life in Zhang Qian’s hands, Ren Cong dared not argue further. After much hemming and hawing, he finally managed to utter “Brother Zhang.”

“The spirits aren’t strong enough,” Zhang Qian muttered, wasting no more time. He tasted the liquid. “Just from the smell, I can tell. Don’t you have any distilled liquor? Something like ‘burning knife’—the kind that knocks you flat in three bowls?”

“Never heard of such a thing!” Ren Cong racked his brains to recall, but could only shake his head.

“In Chang’an, the strongest is Liu Ling’s Drunkard, triple-distilled and triple-brewed. But compared to what Young Master describes, it falls far short,” the young Marquis Duan Huaijian offered, eager to make Zhang Qian’s acquaintance.

“Then forget it—saltwater will have to do.” Zhang Qian set down the ladle with a sigh.

Even as a liberal arts major from the twenty-first century, he knew at least that alcohol used for disinfection must be at least seventy degrees. The spirits Ren Cong had chosen were merely grain-based brews, never distilled, perhaps reaching eleven or twelve percent—on par with strong beer, not enough to satisfy a drunk, let alone disinfect a wound.

As he brooded, a scream rang out behind him, followed by Ren Yingying’s urgent cry, “Master Immortal! Young Master Zhang! Help! My father—his arm is leaking!”

“Don’t panic! It’s not water,” Zhang Qian said with a wry smile, turning back and hurrying to the bedside. The bandages around Ren Qiong’s arm had been completely removed by Sun Anzu and Ren Yingying. From the discolored wound, a dark yellow fluid was oozing steadily.

“Get a clean basin and cloth—catch the fluid!” Zhang Qian didn’t know exactly what it was, but he was certain people didn’t just leak water. He quickly ordered Ren Yingying aside, then pulled out a “Swiss Army Knife” made in Yiwu from his backpack, unfolded the thinnest blade, sterilized it over the oil lamp, and gently probed the wound on Ren Qiong’s arm.

“Idiots—truly butchers!” he couldn’t help but mutter under his breath.

With the experience he’d gained as a sophomore volunteering in a quake zone, assisting doctors for several days, even he could see that Ren Cong’s father’s current state was largely due to malpractice—at least seventy percent the fault of whoever had treated him.

The wound itself was small, no more than two centimeters long, and had been cauterized with a hot iron, which had stopped the bleeding at the time. However, whether out of ignorance or malice, the practitioner had only seared the surface. This stopped the bleeding, but trapped bacteria and clotted blood beneath the skin. Over time, infection was inevitable.

Given that a young Marquis sat in the hall, the answer was clear: Old Master Ren was no ordinary landlord or merchant. From the fact that his injury drew the attention of a Marquis and an Imperial Physician, it was almost certain that he was one of those “white gloves” who handled delicate affairs for the powerful behind the scenes, earning their share of the profits. (Note 1: Refers to Japan. Censorship begone!)

Such an important figure—no wonder the attending physician dared not cauterize too thoroughly. As a result, their restraint left the bacteria behind. Add to that the wound being sealed up airtight, and acute inflammation was inevitable—enough to nearly cost him his life.

“I examined the wound earlier—there was no pus then! The surface seemed fine, yet Master Ren was burning with fever. When I saw the evil toxin had spread past the shoulder blade, I concluded his illness was beyond the reach of medicine!” Sun Anzu, thinking Zhang Qian’s curse was directed at him, blushed and explained apologetically.

“How on earth did Wu Zetian live to such an age?” Zhang Qian muttered inwardly, now utterly disappointed in the medicine of this era. Shaking his head, he called out, “Ren Cong, bring a clean basin and cloth with saltwater!”

“Yes!” Ren Cong’s voice trembled, clearly right behind him, afraid to approach too closely for fear of disturbing the rescue of his father.

“Young Master Zhang, do you intend to wash the wound with saltwater? I fear that even the most thorough washing can’t draw the evil toxin from the shoulder,” Sun Anzu ventured.

“I’m afraid the only way is to cut out all the rotten flesh from the wound!” Zhang Qian replied through gritted teeth. “Have you heard of ‘scraping the bone to cure poison’? Even if I’m forced into it, I’ll have to try!”

“Scraping the bone to cure poison?” Even after everything, Sun Anzu was stunned. “Master Immortal, you truly know this miraculous technique? I’ve heard of it in the Records of the Three Kingdoms, but since then, no one has ever seen it performed again.”

“Do you know about Mafeisan?” Zhang Qian asked, unwilling to give up hope.

Paracetamol offered some pain relief, but he doubted it could suppress the agony of cutting away necrotic flesh—a fact he knew well from his own childhood toothaches. He could only hope for one of the legendary ancient anesthetics.

“I’ve heard of it, but never seen the recipe. It was lost in the Wei and Jin dynasties,” Sun Anzu replied truthfully, shaking his head.

“What about knockout powder? Do you know how to make it?” If no ancient formulas, then perhaps legends—Zhang Qian pressed on.

“Never heard of it!” Sun Anzu replied, knowing his answer would disappoint.

“What about Wu Ma Tang?”

“Never heard of it!”

“Datura flower? At least that should be available.”

“I’ve heard of it, but there’s none in Chang’an.”

“Resurrection grass?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Passion flower?”

“To answer Young Master Zhang, what is passion flower? Do you mean the herb used for livestock breeding? That only induces heat—no anesthetic effect!”

…

One after another, Zhang Qian listed every folk remedy, legend, and martial arts novel anesthetic he could recall, but every answer was negative. Finally, he slammed the knife on the table and demanded, “So when you treat teeth or clean wounds, how do you relieve pain? If you don’t have this or that, what do you use?”

“Golden needles!” Sun Anzu cringed, replying with aggrieved honesty. “Acupuncture for pain relief. And sometimes aconite—no more than two qian at a time. It won’t kill, but will make the patient unconscious for a few hours.”