Chapter Seventeen: Do Not Underestimate the Imperial Physicians

Chapter Seventeen: Never Underestimate the Imperial Physician

“Why didn’t you use arsenic?!” Zhang Qian finally understood why so few emperors in ancient times lived long lives. They dared to use monkshood as an anesthetic, and whenever they had a headache or fever, they would take medicine without a second thought. Who knows how many toxic or harmful substances they ingested! Ordinary people, unable to afford medicine for minor ailments, could only rely on their bodies to tough it out—perhaps their lifespans were even longer because of it.

“Arsenic? Young Master, are you referring to cinnabar?” Sun Anzu, utterly absorbed in the art of medicine, failed to catch the sarcasm in Zhang Qian’s words. He frowned and discussed seriously, “Cinnabar is mainly used to treat malaria, syphilis, and hemorrhoids. As an anesthetic, this is the first I’ve heard of it. Do you know the proper dosage? What medicine should be used in combination? If it is truly effective, I wouldn’t mind trying it for future treatments!”

“I don’t know either. You could emulate the Divine Farmer and try it yourself!” Zhang Qian was left speechless. He grabbed the imitation Swiss army knife and sterilized it again over the lamp flame. “Now, Imperial Physician Sun, please use your golden needles for pain relief. If that doesn’t work, and things take a turn for the worse, just knock him out. I must deal with the rotting flesh in his wound as quickly as possible!”

With those words, he took the knife, now red-hot, and approached Ren Qiong’s ear. Bending down, he whispered so only he could hear: “Elder Ren, you must have heard just now—Imperial Physician Sun said that unless the infection in your body is eliminated, you won’t survive. And if you die, I promise you, Ren Chong will be devoured until not even his bones remain!”

He sighed softly and continued in a low, modern tongue: “So, I have to treat you as a dying horse in need of desperate measures. If my hand is heavy, please bear it. If I cut a blood vessel and cause massive bleeding, don’t blame me for incompetence. At least, if I fail, you’ll die quickly. If it were up to them, you’d suffer even more injustice before the end.”

He said this purely to reassure himself. If he tried such a thing in the twenty-first century, regardless of the outcome, he’d surely end up in a police station. But now, if he didn’t take the risk, Elder Ren was doomed. Given Ren Chong’s timid nature and his stepmother, the steward, and the servants’ attitudes, Ren Chong would inevitably be stripped of his inheritance and thrown out.

Sun Anzu couldn’t understand Zhang Qian’s twenty-first century dialect. Seeing him whispering by Ren Qiong’s ear, he assumed it was some soul-calming incantation before a miraculous bone-scraping treatment, and so he didn’t listen too closely. He simply had his apprentice fetch silver needles from the medicine box, and began to pierce Ren Qiong’s palm, shoulder, neck, and other points. Then he lit moxa and placed it at the end of the needles to gently roast them.

This “Fuxi Divine Needle” was a secret skill of his sect, practiced from childhood until now. Every movement flowed as smoothly as water. After the needling, the skin and muscle on Ren Qiong’s arm became noticeably more relaxed—clearly, the needles were suppressing pain and easing nervous tension.

Seeing this, Zhang Qian’s confidence in the operation grew. He took up the Swiss army knife, again sterilized it over the flame, and instructed Sun Anzu to help hold Ren Qiong’s injured arm steady. He gently pressed the tip of the knife against the festering wound and began to cut.

Perhaps Ren Qiong had been unconscious so long that his pain was dulled, or perhaps the combination of acetaminophen and golden needles had a synergistic effect. The patient on the sickbed only furrowed his brow slightly, and made no further movement. The skin fused together by the hot iron was sliced open by the sharp knife, and the yellow discharge from the wound turned to pus and blood, flowing down the blade.

“Ah—” Ren Yingying, tasked with collecting the discharge in a wooden basin, let out a low scream. She immediately raised her hand to cover her mouth, afraid her cry would disrupt the master’s miraculous procedure.

Ren Chong, the chubby boy sent to fetch saline, quickly turned his head away. The muscles of his face, arms, and thighs twitched uncontrollably, and cold sweat rolled down his forehead.

Zhang Qian, cutting human flesh for the first time, felt his scalp tingle at the sight of the dirty blood. But the wound was already open—he had to carry on, whether skilled or not. So he steeled himself, clenched his teeth, and continued to cut deeper into the wound. As long as the patient didn’t wake in pain, he pretended he was whittling wood.

Fortunately, the wound on Ren Qiong’s arm wasn’t large, and there were no major arteries or veins nearby. After four or five gentle cuts, the blade revealed fresh red muscle. Zhang Qian turned his head, took several deep breaths to steady himself, and then began to scoop out the rotten flesh with the knife. Precision was secondary; his only goal was to root out all corruption.

Now, blood began to flow more freely from the wound. Ren Yingying’s face turned pale as she instinctively closed her eyes, her whole body icy cold. Ren Chong, though never daring to look directly at the wound, was already pale, his limbs limp, on the verge of fainting.

Imperial Physician Sun Anzu, on the other hand, had dealt with countless wounds in his lifetime. Not only had he accumulated ample experience, but his nerves were toughened by years of treating patients with mangled flesh. He watched intently for a while, noticing that Zhang Qian’s right hand trembled as he held the knife, and sweat drenched his forehead and neck as if a whole bowl of water had been poured over him. He surmised that Zhang Qian had rarely performed such procedures, and after some hesitation, he whispered, “Are you tired, Young Master? If it’s just excising rotten flesh, you can safely leave it to me. But if the malignant poison isn’t eradicated, today’s excision will only see new corruption tomorrow, and each day you’ll have to cut again…”

“You can excise rotten flesh? Why didn’t you say so earlier!” Zhang Qian, dizzy with fatigue, decisively handed over the imitation Swiss army knife and said loudly, “Just make sure you remove all the rotten flesh, and be careful not to injure the blood vessels. As for the bacteria—the malignant poison—I have other medicine!”

“In that case, Young Master, please rest, and allow me to lend you a hand!” Hearing Zhang Qian claim to have medicine for the poison, and having witnessed the miraculous effect of acetaminophen to reduce fever, Imperial Physician Sun Anzu’s spirits soared. He eagerly took the knife, bent over, and swiftly cleaned out the wound, expertly excising the rotten flesh until the site was thoroughly cleared.