Chapter 138

Kraft picked up his third drink.

That red liquid was not wine, but a sweet fruit juice; he recognized several berries he had tasted these past days, and the faint sourness of a touch of lemon juice suited the meal perfectly, cutting through the heaviness of excessive meat.

More impressive were the fungi here—diverse in variety, their texture rivaling artificially cultivated species known to alien souls. The white-bellied slice recommended by Professor Bramer, paired with a sauce of minced meat and spices, offered rich, savory protein and fat, surpassing roasted meats in its delicate, succulent mouthfeel.

Perhaps the chef still had technical flaws, but the quality of the ingredients proved that premium food requires only simple preparation, even none at all. The meal kept Kraft at the table longer than intended, and amid the odd glances of others, he ate until thoroughly full.

Kraft took a shallow sip of juice to suppress the greasiness, then rose from the table with half his cup remaining and found a corridor leading to the side hall through a side door. The semi-open corridor featured numerous small rooms along one side—likely for temporary rest.

A servant approached carrying a tray; the cups and glasses had already been removed, and the silver wine pitcher with its flower-decorated handle wobbled precariously on the unsteady wooden tray, emitting faint clinks between its base and the wood.

“Is the Medical Academy’s gathering here?” Kraft extended his hand to block the tray, stopping the servant.

Unprepared for an uninvited guest, the servant startled at the sudden question, braking abruptly; the already unstable silver pitcher tipped forward.

Thanks to his outstretched hand and excellent hand-eye coordination, Kraft caught the pitcher; the half-full liquid inside sloshed against the walls and rebounded, sparing it from spilling.

“Thank you,” the servant bowed his head in flustered gratitude, quickly retrieving the pitcher from the man’s grasp. He seemed new—his steps lacked the calm ease of the servants moving fluidly through the crowd in the main hall, his lack of training in balancing speed and stability evident on his face. “Go straight ahead—the other guests are inside.”

“Be careful.”

Passing through another archway, Kraft found the Medical Academy’s isolated circle in the outdoor space behind the side hall: a clearing shaded by trees, with a long table placed atop oak leaves and green grass, beside which grew a single white mushroom after the rain—quiet amid the noise, rich with natural charm.

Everyone sat around it; arguments laced with technical terms could be heard over ten paces away. Professor Feiernan sat on a heavy lacquered armchair that clashed sharply with the surroundings; seeing the newcomer, he raised his silver cup in greeting.

“Make yourself at home, Professor Kraft. This isn’t a formal occasion, so I won’t rise to greet you—standing with those chanting fools is a torment to both spirit and spine.” He drained his last sip and set the cup on the table. “Too bad you’re late—the best wine’s already been divided among us.”

“But you’ve arrived just in time,” Menard pulled out the only empty chair at the table. “Please, take this seat. The entertainment has just ended—we can now share knowledge.”

Kraft sat down and joined their discussion.

He quickly understood the nature of their heated debate: a simplified, multidisciplinary case-review format, where someone presented a patient they had treated, regardless of outcome, for discussion.

Experts from various specialties offered their discipline’s perspective on the disease’s cause and evaluated the treatment measures, summarizing successes and failures.

Since no unified micro-macro physiological system had yet integrated the disciplines, these debates often devolved into parallel monologues; Bramer, trained in humoral theory, and Lindeng, trained in anatomy, could barely agree on anything.

One insisted on proving imbalance through humoral clues—layered phlegm, blood color—and sought to correct it; the other believed all diseases had tangible lesions, and removal brought symptom relief or recovery—if none were found, it was either because the disease hadn’t yet congealed or the physician’s skill was insufficient.

Pharmacology professor Kleinsmann leaned theoretically toward the four-humors doctrine but practiced independently, prescribing specific drugs for each symptom. For internal diseases or postoperative red-fluid deficiency, he proposed elemental supplements differentiated by income: poorer patients should take powdered red iron ore in small doses, while wealthier ones could consume a certain poultry meat; ideally, expensive blood oranges, though few could afford them.

General studies lecturer Menard passed them knives. No—he provided multidisciplinary evidence and case examples, powerfully fueling the chaos among them.

As the most clearly elevated figure, though trained in humoral internal medicine, Professor Feiernan rarely spoke. He seldom supported his own student Bramer, allowing him to be besieged by cases presented by Lindeng and Kleinsmann, offering only noncommittal, experience-based conclusions at the end of discussions.

As a case of sudden coldness, pallor, and absent pulse in the lower limb ended with amputation and blood replenishment, it was finally Bramer’s turn to present his case.

“The patient is elderly and has a cough...”

“Forgive me, but how many internal diseases don’t involve coughing? This is the third time this week someone’s started with that. Can’t we get something fresh?”

“Better than your six or seven months a year facing patients who’ll never cough again, Lindeng.” Though interrupted, Bramer showed no anger; he even teased Lindeng about his work. “I hope your mind, straighter than a scalpel, can distinguish different kinds of coughs.”

“The patient’s condition is not a common acute cough—it has existed for a long time.”

“How long?” Menard asked, promptly filling his role as prompter.

“The patient can’t recall, but it’s been at least months, possibly over a year. It fluctuates, but the overall trend is worsening.” The patient’s chief complaint was vague, but Bramer’s narration flowed smoothly—by Kraft’s own case-reporting standards, delivering it without pause after two interruptions meant he had prepared thoroughly.

“From the initial cough, it progressed to coughing with streaks of blood, then occasional violent paroxysms expelling visible blood.”

Symptomatic treatment was Kleinsmann’s strength. He offered: “If it’s merely a bothersome cough, I still recommend honey—mixed with chamomile tea for better effect, one cup each morning and evening.”

“We’ve already tried that. We added fennel to strengthen the patient and suppress coughing, and echinacea for throat pain.” The implication: it didn’t work well.

“What about licorice?” Kleinsmann tentatively added a new herb.

Professor Feiernan gave a slight shake of his head—clearly unimpressed. His assessing gaze swept over everyone, lingering slightly longer on the newcomer, Kraft.

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The table fell silent. Kraft wasn’t sure if this was a guessing game based on chief complaints, or if medical histories in this era were simply this sparse. By his usual experience, the latter was likely. He noticed Feiernan’s attention but chose not to speak yet; according to his “malicious interpretation,” pre-event information was almost certainly incomplete.

Old hands stay quiet until others step on mines, then elegantly sidestep the wrong choices.

“It might be a lung lesion,” Lindeng tapped the table, his fingertips pressing as if on the imagined ribs of a patient. “I’ve seen similar cases—chronic hemoptysis with weight loss, eventually finding unusual tissue in the lungs.”

But he quickly shut down treatment options: “I’m uncertain. Such symptoms are rare, and only one case has ever been verified... If it is, I believe cure is impossible unless the lesion is removed.”

“I agree with Professor Lindeng, but since lesion removal has no precedent, we must rely on traditional methods—indirectly controlling it by altering red-fluid volume. If confirmed as pulmonary, venesection from the median cubital vein is the method—precisely Professor Bramer’s specialty,” Menard felt he’d found the key; everything now made sense.

“If drugs act too slowly, try enemas,” the pharmacology professor suggested a more radical improvement in drug delivery.

The more Kraft listened, the worse it felt—but he had already found his footing and knew what to say.

“I’d like to know about the patient’s fever.”

“Yes, but mild. And echinacea already treats chronic fever; compared to the cough, it’s negligible,” Bramer recalled and answered.

“I suspect the patient feels heat, especially afternoons, only returning to normal by morning.” Prolonged cough, hemoptysis, low-grade fever—Lindeng’s theory had merit and extracted weight-change data, but Kraft felt he was closer to the answer.

Surprise appeared on Bramer’s face, but he couldn’t answer as smoothly as before—he had been guessed right, yet clearly hadn’t bothered to investigate the “meaningless” mild fever.

Kraft assumed he’d admit oversight—but then Bramer turned to his teacher, Professor Feiernan, and received some signal from an almost imperceptible nod.

“Yes,” he replied. “That’s correct. You’re right.”

“Along with abnormal sweating and fatigue? I suspect others around the patient show similar symptoms.”

Before he could catch his breath, more details struck him—Bramer suddenly found nothing left to say, as if halfway through reciting a riddle, someone had recited the entire answer, and better than he could.

Professor Feiernan, who had seemed glued to his chair since the start, straightened his back for the first time, announcing that an unsportsmanlike player had won the match.

“A pleasant surprise, Professor Kraft. I always thought you excelled in surgery.”

[Tuberculosis]

Or now, perhaps, “consumption” or “white plague”—people still lacked understanding of it, but for someone long seasoned by similar patterns, the difficulty was trivial.

“Actually, you’re correct—I have no cure for this disease either.”

“Perhaps we could discuss this further after the gathering,” Feiernan’s white beard concealed a faint flicker of disappointment, quickly masked by a satisfied smile as he nodded in invitation.

Subtle emotions, but not missed by eyes that had watched this teacher-student interaction since Bramer’s silent plea. Kraft detected something odd in their dynamic.

This case felt less like Bramer’s and more like Feiernan’s—twisted into a disguised advanced consultation.

What? Your student’s grown old, earned professorship—do you still have to hand him his case materials?

“My honor,” Kraft accepted the invitation, suppressing his questions, and added lightly: “By the way, what treatment was ultimately used for this patient?”

Another silence.

“All of them.”

“All?”

“We gave him honey-herb decoctions, venesection from the median cubital vein, medicated enemas, and purgatives to expel toxins,” Bramer recited them like a litany. “Everything we could do, fulfilling the Father’s mandate to heal.”

“And then?”

“The patient’s condition underwent a change beyond our understanding—a prolonged, severe fever, and...” He lost his ability to describe, or perhaps his master’s subtle gesture halted him, ending the case discussion in an uneasy silence.

Kraft wisely dropped the line of questioning, letting the gathering shift to the next topic.

Lindeng, Kleinsmann, Bramer, then Menard—Feiernan showed no desire to speak. As the circle around the long table neared Kraft, he suddenly realized he had no suitable case prepared for this setting.

It needed to avoid spoiling official academic presentations, yet remain novel enough—hard to conjure on the spot. He instinctively scanned the room, like a lazy student who hadn’t studied before a PBL class, searching for a shield to buy time.

Thanks to the banquet introductions, he actually spotted someone who should have spoken before him.

“Where’s Lecturer Pitry?” Had he, too, failed to prepare a case and cleverly slipped away?

“Pitry?” Menard, having just finished recounting a mercury treatment for syphilis, emerged from the professors’ storm of questions. “He drank one cup and passed out—he’s resting in one of the rooms along the corridor.”

“I’ve never seen anyone with such a weak tolerance. When we carried him over, he didn’t stir at all,” Kleinsmann agreed. “But good news—he left his seat for Professor Kraft, ha!”

“Really? What a shame to miss him. Doesn’t anyone want to sneak over and find out what’s being researched in Dunling, pick up some academic secrets?” Kraft joked, trying to find an excuse to rouse him. “Shall we bring him some sobering tea?”

“Good idea. Let’s go.”