Chapter Fifty-Three: The Medical Luminary (Extra Update)

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Outside the intensive care ward of Shanghai People's Hospital, the corridor was bustling with activity as doctors and nurses in white coats moved in and out, their steps quick and urgent. On either side of the ward entrance stood long-backed benches for visitors to rest. Upon one of these sat a young man, his face haggard and drawn, hair disheveled, bloodshot eyes ringed with dark circles like those of a panda. It was clear he had endured many sleepless nights. His suit was creased, his tie loosely askew around his collar, and a cigarette was clutched between his fingers, brought repeatedly to his lips for a deep drag, as if seeking solace from the turmoil within. His gaze darted anxiously toward the stairwell, as though awaiting someone or something. At his feet, cigarette butts lay scattered in disarray, evidence of his mounting nerves.

As the young man waited in restless apprehension, a shrill outburst erupted from within the ward: “What sort of so-called experts are you? How can you spend days running tests and still have no answers for such a minor ailment? You’ve given him countless medicines, yet he grows weaker by the day! Is it because our family hasn’t paid enough, or is it that your hospital is simply incompetent, hmm?”

The speaker was a richly dressed society lady, her features refined and well-maintained, though her complexion betrayed slight neglect and her figure had grown a touch plump—unmistakable signs of her privileged upbringing. Despite the faint crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, she radiated a certain aristocratic grace. Yet a slightly protruding brow bone and sunken nose bridge marred her otherwise harmonious features, and a small mole to the left of her brows, though not large, lent her face a hint of asymmetry.

“Madam Zhang, that is hardly fair. The hospital has conducted thorough examinations of Director Zhang’s illness several times, but nothing conclusive has emerged. In my thirty years of medical practice, I, Qi Wentao, have never encountered such a baffling condition.” The speaker was none other than Qi Wentao, Director of the People’s Hospital. Though his authority was not absolute, he was a physician of rare skill, counted among his patients were officials and tycoons, yet never had he faced such a predicament. Still, since he had never encountered such symptoms before, he found himself powerless and with little ground to argue. Normally, he would not have quibbled with Madam Zhang, but her relentless reproach left even the proud Qi Wentao at a loss, prompting his measured reply.

“What? It’s been days and you still haven’t diagnosed him? If you can’t treat him, just say so, and I’ll arrange for my husband’s transfer. I refuse to believe that in all of China, no one can cure him—and if not, then we’ll go abroad!” Stymied by Qi Wentao’s gentle resistance, Madam Zhang only grew more insistent, clamoring for a transfer.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Director Zhang’s current state cannot withstand the stress of travel, and at the rate his life force is ebbing, he may not survive the day. Perhaps when Master Li arrives, there may yet be hope.” For both the patient’s welfare and the hospital’s reputation, Qi Wentao was firmly against a transfer.

“Wha—how could this be? Just days ago you said it wasn’t critical. How has it worsened so quickly?” Now, even Madam Zhang’s composure crumbled. Though sharp-tongued and demanding, her love for her husband was deep; her voice trembled as she spoke.

“It was so at first, but we underestimated the speed with which the illness spread. Please rest assured, Madam Zhang, we sent for the eminent Master Li, a leading figure in traditional medicine, just yesterday. He should arrive at the hospital very soon.” Qi Wentao, a conscientious physician, took responsibility without evasion and tried to comfort her.

As their argument continued, the door of the intensive care ward clicked open and a young woman entered. She appeared about twenty-five or twenty-six, her fair and delicate face framed by a pair of black-rimmed glasses, behind which shone large, luminous eyes. Long lashes fluttered with every subtle motion of her brows, and loose strands of hair added a lively, ethereal charm. Yet her expression was icy, her countenance forbidding, warding off casual approach.

“Xiao Su, has Master Li arrived at the hospital?” Seeing her enter, Qi Wentao stepped forward eagerly.

“Yes, Director. Master Li is here. Should I invite him to consult on the patient?” Su Xiaofei replied, her voice as cold as her demeanor.

“What are we waiting for? Go invite Master Li up immediately. No—wait, I should go myself.” Qi Wentao, hearing that Master Li had arrived, was about to send Su Xiaofei, but reconsidered and hurried off himself.

A hearty voice rang out before he could reach the door, “Haha, Xiao Qi, no need to bustle about. This old man isn’t so precious; I’m no big shot. There’s no need for the hospital director himself to come meet me.”

An elderly man in his seventies or eighties strode in—the very Master Li Qi Wentao had mentioned, none other than Li Zhengtang, the grandmaster of traditional medicine in China. Had Liu Fan been present, he would have recognized this old man as the one who had stood up for him during his rescue at Nancheng Square in Linhang.

“Ah, Master Li, you should have let me know you’d arrived so I could greet you!” Qi Wentao had once studied medicine under Master Li, not as a direct disciple, but as a junior, and so owed him every courtesy. That was why he had been so eager to meet him.

“Enough, boy, you know my temperament. If you’d left your patients to come greet me, I’d have given you a thrashing.” Master Li raised his hand as if to cuff Qi Wentao, but it was all in jest; his words, far from reproachful, were tinged with warmth.

“Heh, I wouldn’t dare. You always taught me: for a healer, the patient comes first—I’ve never forgotten that.” Qi Wentao, sensing Master Li’s good mood, spoke with equal ease.

“All right then, enough banter. Let me see the patient.” Ever mindful of his duty, Master Li wasted no more time and went straight to the point.

“Master Li, I know you are the top physician in the field. Please, I beg you to save my husband, Bohai. If anything happens to him, I…” With Master Li now their last hope, Madam Zhang abandoned all pride, dropping to her knees, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Please rise, Madam Zhang. As long as there is a glimmer of hope, I will do everything in my power. Rest assured—let me examine his condition first.” Li Zhengtang, who had saved countless lives, was no stranger to such scenes. Calmly, he helped her up, and she stepped aside to let him pass.

Master Li approached the bedside. There lay Zhang Bohai, unconscious, his frame emaciated to the bone, hair nearly all gone, eyes sunken, face devoid of color—he looked like a dried-up mummy.

Master Li placed his right hand on Zhang Bohai’s pulse and began a careful diagnosis. As the minutes ticked by, sweat beaded on his brow, his expression dark and uncertain. The room fell silent, no one daring to make a sound for fear of disturbing his concentration.

At last, after ten minutes, Master Li released the patient’s wrist, shook his head, and sighed, “Mr. Zhang’s pulse is at times so faint as to be nearly undetectable, at others so forceful it threatens to burst his veins. It is utterly bizarre. I can make nothing of it. Forgive my inadequacy—I am deeply ashamed. In all my life I have encountered countless maladies, but never have I seen anything like this.”

“Master Li, is there truly no cure for Bohai’s illness?” At the sight of Master Li’s shaking head and heavy sigh, Madam Zhang felt her heart plummet. Before she could finish her question, her vision darkened and she fainted. Fortunately, her son, Zhang Tao, who had been keeping a close watch, rushed forward and caught her before she hit the ground.

“Mother, Mother, are you all right? Don’t scare me, please…” Zhang Tao called out anxiously.

Li Zhengtang was startled by Madam Zhang’s sudden collapse, but quickly knelt to check her pulse. “Young man, your mother has simply been overwhelmed by shock and anger. She’ll be fine after a rest. I have a ‘Heart Tonic Pill’—give it to her with some warm water and she’ll recover shortly.” He took out a small porcelain bottle, shook out a pale yellow pill, and handed it to Zhang Tao.

“Thank you, Master Li!” Zhang Tao accepted the pill, carried his mother to an empty bed, poured her a cup of water, and helped her take the medicine.

Amazingly, within minutes Madam Zhang regained consciousness. Her first words were not for herself, but a plea as she clutched Master Li’s hand, tears streaming down her face: “Master Li, is there really…no hope for Bohai’s recovery?”

Healers grow accustomed to life and death, their hearts steeled by experience. Yet Madam Zhang’s unwavering devotion to her husband moved everyone in the room, even the usually cold and aloof Su Xiaofei, whose eyes shone with unshed tears.

“Though I am not without some modest reputation, there are cases beyond my skill. If I cannot cure him, then it is unlikely anyone in the country can—unless…” Given Master Li’s expertise and standing, this was no boast, but simple truth.

“Unless what? Master Li, please tell me! I’ll do anything if it means saving my father!” Zhang Tao, who had been mired in despair, seized on this glimmer of hope.

“Young man, there’s no need for such desperation. If there is any person in this world who might save your father, it would be him.” Master Li’s eyes grew wistful.

“Grandfather, is there really someone in China whose medical skill surpasses even yours?” Su Xiaofei, who had been quietly observing, asked in surprise. Only then did the others realize that this cool, elegant young doctor was Master Li’s own granddaughter—no wonder she possessed such exceptional skill at her age.