Chapter 12: You Still Claim You Practice Modern Medicine?

Feng Xue muttered to himself about this half-baked brand, but seeing the middle-aged women in wide-brimmed hats and whalebone skirts, panting yet still marching forward, he ultimately didn’t approach—only silently grumbled inside.

“At a glance, there are already Qibageyangzhuangdama —considering perfume prices, these women probably don’t come here daily just for socializing; if I happened to stumble upon them, it’d be too coincidental. This must mean the shop’s normal foot traffic is this high. If so, there must be quite a few wealthy people in this small county.”

He recalled the knowledge he’d researched when writing his novels in his past life, but could only think of two possibilities—

One: this county is near an airport or port, or is itself a major transportation hub, leveraging its geographical advantage to accumulate great wealth.

Two: someone among the current leaders of this county has an overwhelmingly powerful background, drawing in numerous merchants to invest and set up factories here, boosting the economy.

Other possibilities, like a tourist destination, could exist—but given the utterly undeveloped wasteland he’d transmigrated from, these could be ruled out…

“Wait!”

Feng Xue suddenly remembered: this world possessed transcendent power. So—is it possible… this county is a fengshui treasure land?

“If that’s true, then this county might actually harbor some true experts!”

As Feng Xue’s thoughts swirled, he arrived at the pharmacy’s entrance. Gazing at the sign reading “Lan’s Pharmacy,” he brushed off the crumb residue from his baked bun, then firmly pushed the door open.

“Prescription or consultation?” As he stepped in, the bell chimed sharply, and a voice tinged with excitement asked. He looked up and saw the pharmacy’s interior was unusual: to the left stood the traditional wooden medicine cabinets, while to the right were aluminum-steel shelves holding row upon row of brown glass bottles.

The speaker stood beside a consultation desk in a white lab coat, her face masked—though it obscured most of her features, the spacing of her brows and the contours of her face suggested she wasn’t unattractive. She stood at the center of the pharmacy, but what Feng Xue cared about most was the number hovering above her head: thirty thousand days.

“Even accounting for age, she could live past a hundred. Given her youth, she must have real ability.” Feng Xue nodded inwardly, then spoke in a formulaic tone: “You’re… Miss Lan?”

“If you don’t mind, call me Doctor Lan. I hold a medical license, though hardly anyone here recognizes it.” Doctor Lan pointed to a “frame” on the desk, inside which lay an open medical qualification certificate.

But the string of English letters on it—Feng Xue guessed even if locals wanted to recognize it, they couldn’t read it.

Sensing her opening remark sounded absurd, Doctor Lan pulled out a chair and gestured for Feng Xue to sit, then forcibly steered the conversation back on track: “You seem energetic. Any discomfort?”

Seeing Doctor Lan immediately prepare a classical-looking blood pressure cuff, Feng Xue hurriedly said: “I’m not dizzy, and my blood pressure is normal!”

“Huh? You know what that is?” Doctor Lan raised an eyebrow, then carefully studied Feng Xue’s attire, surprised: “Foreigner?”

“So you never even looked at me properly all this time?” Feng Xue grumbled inwardly, but replied honestly: “Yes, I’m traveling. I heard your family’s pharmacy…”

“Stop!” Doctor Lan instantly stiffened her expression: “I thought you were educated. How can you believe this nonsense? I studied modern medicine—whether herbal or Western drugs, they’re medical science, not divine elixirs bestowed by immortals!”

Here, Doctor Lan took two deep breaths, as if suppressing her emotion, then said: “Never mind. I’m a doctor—I shouldn’t react like this. Tell me, what’s wrong?”

“I have only nine years left to live.”

Feng Xue didn’t care about Doctor Lan’s inner turmoil—he spoke plainly. But Doctor Lan was thrown off: she’d met many patients who claimed they were dying, but never one who specified exactly nine years from now.

“So specific?” Her casual demeanor vanished instantly. Only now did Feng Xue truly feel: “This woman is a real doctor.”

“Yes, my condition was cursed. If you insist you only practice medicine, then I’ll have to go elsewhere.”

Feng Xue had no intention of beating around the bush—he spoke directly.

Doctor Lan fell silent for a moment, then pointed to the pulse pillow on the desk: “At least let me examine you first.”

The room fell quiet, save for faint breathing and heartbeat. Feng Xue was about to activate his over-the-shoulder view to spot something unusual, when suddenly his finger twitched.

Feng Xue wasn’t particularly concerned with the doctor’s inner journey; he said honestly, he’d met plenty of patients who claimed they were dying, but none who pointed nine years into the future—he’d never seen anything like this.

“So detailed?” The simple question caused his previously careless demeanor to vanish instantly; only now did Feng Xue feel, truly, that this was a doctor.

“Yes, my condition was cursed. If you insist you only practice medicine, then I’ll have to go elsewhere.”

Feng Xue had no intention of beating around the bush; he spoke directly.

Feng Xue activated his over-the-shoulder view, slowly rotating his perspective, and noticed: Doctor Lan, while taking his pulse, was tapping her toe at a rhythm like stepping on an electric switch. Turning his view again, he saw her seemingly idle left hand was forming a precise hand seal.

“So you still claim you practice modern medicine?”

Feng Xue silently mocked—but then suddenly noticed a faint aura, invisible to normal sight, rising around Doctor Lan.

The aura slowly enveloped her entirely. Her ordinary features suddenly took on an ethereal quality.

“Powerful curse technique!”

The voice reaching Feng Xue’s ears was still Doctor Lan’s—but the tone had changed, as if another person spoke. Those ethereal eyes swept over him, lingering briefly on the ring formed by Little White Snake, then said: “You bear two curses—both are lifespan-draining spells. But… did you deliberately attract the second one?”

“Expert!” Feng Xue’s hope surged—he immediately replied: “Right. When I got cursed, I had no other choice—I was desperate and grabbed at anything.”

“I can see that. Still, it worked out by accident.” “Doctor Lan” nodded, speaking with an old-fashioned air: “Both spells are potent, but whether the caster is dead or for some other reason, they’ve become rootless ghosts. I can remove them—but the lifespan already lost, I cannot restore.”

Feng Xue’s fleeting hope was doused—but compared to the despair of having only sixty days left after his transmigration with no path forward, this disappointment meant little.

Still, since she wasn’t speaking without reason, he pressed: “What’s the difference between removing the curse or not?”

“Doctor Lan” smiled faintly: “The difference? Leave the curse, and no matter how much you supplement, you’ll live exactly nine more years—not a single day more. Remove it, and with proper cultivation, you might stretch it a few extra days.”

(End of Chapter)

What reached Feng Xue’s ears was still the doctor’s voice, but its tone had changed as if spoken by someone else; those ethereal eyes swept over Feng Xue, pausing briefly on the ring formed by the white snake, before speaking:

“You bear two curses—both are Shortening-Life incantations—but… did you deliberately attract the second one?”

“An expert!” Feng Xue, seeing the other understood, immediately felt a flicker of hope and said:

“That’s right—when I was cursed, I had no other choice; I was desperate and grabbed at any straw…”

“I can see that. Still, it worked out by accident,” the “doctor” nodded, speaking with an air of seasoned detachment.

“Both curses are powerful, but whether the caster is dead or for some other reason, they’ve now become rootless driftwood. I can remove them for you—but the lifespan already lost, I cannot restore.”

Feng Xue’s newly kindled hope was doused like cold water, yet compared to the despair of his arrival—facing only sixty days of yang lifespan with no way out—this disappointment meant little.

Still, considering the other had no reason to speak without purpose, he pressed: “What difference does it make whether I remove the curse or not?”

At this, the “doctor”’s expression turned sly.

“The difference? Leave the curse, and no matter how much you replenish, you’ll live no more than nine years—not a single day longer. Remove it, and with proper cultivation, you might stretch a few more days.”

(End of Chapter)