Chapter 138

Kraft picked up his third drink.

That red liquid was not alcohol, but a sweet fruit juice; he recognized several berries he had tasted these past days, and the slight sourness of a touch of lemon juice suited the banquet's meat-heavy fare by cutting the richness.

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 Bulimo, paired with a sauce of minced meat and spices, offered rich, savory depth from protein and fat, surpassing roasted meats in its delicate, succulent mouthfeel.

Perhaps the chef still had flaws in technique, 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, leaving him thoroughly full amid the slightly odd glances of others.

Kraft took a shallow sip of juice to suppress the greasiness, then rose with the remaining half-cup in hand, finding a corridor leading to the side hall through a side door. The semi-open corridor featured numerous small rooms along one side—likely temporary resting spaces.

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

"Is the medical college's gathering here?" Kraft extended his hand to block the tray, stopping the servant.

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

Thanks to his outstretched hand and good hand-eye coordination, Kraft caught the pitcher; the small volume of liquid inside sloshed against the walls and rebounded, avoiding spillage.

"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 poor control of speed and balance showed plainly on his face. "Go straight ahead—the other guests are inside."

"Be careful."

Passing through another archway, Kraft found the medical college's isolated circle in the outdoor space behind the side hall: a clearing shaded by trees, with a long table—somehow transported here—placed atop oak leaves and green grass, beside which grew a single white mushroom after the rain. Quiet amid the bustle, it exuded natural charm.

Around the table, scholars debated, their professional terminology audible even ten paces away. Professor Fernand sat in a heavy lacquered armchair that clashed starkly with the surroundings; upon seeing the newcomer, he raised his silver cup in greeting.

"Help yourself, 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 the last sip and set the cup on the table. "Too bad you're late—the best wine's already been divided."

"But you arrived just in time," Menard pulled out the only empty chair beside 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 grasped the nature of their heated debate: a simplified, multidisciplinary case conference format, where someone presented a patient they had treated, regardless of outcome, for collective analysis.

Experts from various specialties offered their discipline's perspective on the disease's etiology and evaluated the treatment measures, summarizing gains and losses.

Since no unified micro-macro physiological system yet integrated the disciplines, debates often devolved into parallel monologues; Bulimo, trained in humoral theory, and Lin Deng, trained in anatomy, rarely reached consensus.

One insisted on interpreting the illness through humoral theory—using sputum stratification, blood color, and other clues to prove imbalance and correct it; the other believed all diseases had tangible lesions, and removal of the lesion brought symptom relief or recovery—if none was found, it was either because the disease hadn't yet congealed or the physician's skill was insufficient.

Pharmacology professor Klinzmann 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 more of a certain poultry; the ideal was 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 obviously senior figure, though trained in humoral internal medicine, Professor Fernand rarely spoke. He seldom supported his student Bulimo, letting him be besieged by cases presented by Lin Deng and Klinzmann, offering at most a noncommittal, experience-based conclusion on efficacy when the discussion ended.

As a discussion on a sudden cold, pale, pulseless lower limb ended with amputation and blood replenishment, it was finally Bulimo's turn to present his case.

"The patient is elderly and has a coughing symptom..."

"Forgive me, but hardly any of your internal diseases lack coughing—it's already the third case this week starting this way. Can't you bring something fresh?"

"Better than you, who spend six or seven months a year treating people who'll never cough again, Lin Deng." Though interrupted, Bulimo showed no anger; instead, he subtly mocked Lin Deng's work. "I hope your mind, as straight as a scalpel, can distinguish between different kinds of coughs."

"The patient's condition is not a common acute cough—it has existed for a long time."

"How long exactly?" Menard asked, promptly filling his role as prompter.

"The patient can't recall, but it's been at least months, possibly over a year. Symptoms fluctuate but have gradually worsened." The patient's chief complaint was vague, yet Bulimo's narration flowed smoothly—by Kraft's own case-reporting standards, delivering it without pause despite 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 Klinzmann's strength. He offered: "If it's merely a bothersome cough, I still recommend honey—mixed with chamomile tea, it works better. 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.

"Add licorice?" Klinzmann tentatively suggested a new herb.

Professor Fernand 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. Based on experience, the latter was likely. He noticed Fernand's attention but held off speaking; by his "malicious speculation" theory, pre-case information in such gatherings was almost certainly incomplete.

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

"It might be a lung lesion," Lin Deng 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 revealing unusual tissue in the lungs."

But he quickly shut down treatment options: "I'm uncertain—such symptoms are rare, and only one case has been verified... If it is, I believe only removal of the lesion can cure it."

"I agree with Professor Lin Deng, but since lesion removal has no precedent, we must rely on traditional methods—indirectly controlling it by altering red-fluid volume. If confirmed as lung-origin, venesection from the cubital vein is the method—exactly what Professor Bulimo excels in." Menard felt he'd found the key; everything now made sense.

"If drugs act too slowly, try enemas," the pharmacology professor proposed a more radical improvement in drug delivery.

The more Kraft listened, the worse it felt—luckily, he'd already pieced together enough to speak.

"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." Bulimo recalled briefly and answered.

"I suspect the patient feels heat, mostly after noon, only returning to normal by morning." Long-term cough, hemoptysis, low-grade fever—Lin Deng's theory had merit and extracted weight-change data, but Kraft felt he was closer to the answer.

Surprise flashed across Bulimo's face, but he couldn't answer as smoothly as before—it seemed Kraft had hit upon something, yet this man clearly hadn't bothered to examine the "meaningless" mild fever in detail.

Kraft assumed Bulimo would admit his oversight—but then Bulimo turned to his teacher, Professor Fernand, 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 came crashing down—Bulimo suddenly had nothing left to say, as if halfway through reciting a riddle, someone recited the entire second half—and better than he did.

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

"What a surprise, Professor Kraft—I always thought you specialized in surgery."

【Tuberculosis】

Or now it should be called "consumption" or "white plague"—people still lack understanding of it, but for someone long seasoned by similar tactics, this was far too easy.

"Actually, you're right—I have no cure for this disease either."

"Perhaps we could discuss this further after the meeting," Fernand'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 Bulimo's silent plea. Kraft detected something odd in their dynamic.

It felt less like Bulimo's case and more like Fernand's—twisted into a disguised high-level consultation.

What? Your student is grown, already a professor—does he still need you to supply his case materials?

"My honor." Kraft accepted the invitation, suppressing his questions, and sidestepped with a remark: "By the way, what treatment did this patient ultimately receive?"

Another silence followed.

"All."

"All?"

"We gave him oral honey-based herbal decoctions, bled him at the median cubital vein, administered enemas, and purged toxins with laxatives," Bramer recited like a master listing his treasures, "everything we could do to fulfill the Father's mandate to heal the sick."

"And then?"

"The patient's condition underwent a change beyond our understanding—a prolonged, severe fever, and..." He lost the ability to describe, or was halted by some unspoken gesture from his mentor; the case discussion ended in an uneasy silence.

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

Lin Deng, Clinsman, Bramer, then Maynard—the Professor Fernand seemed reluctant to speak; as the circle around the long table neared him, Kraft suddenly realized he had no suitable case prepared for this occasion.

It had to avoid spoiling the official academic presentation, yet still be novel enough—hard to conjure on the spot. He instinctively scanned the room, like a lazy dog who hadn't studied the night before in a PBL class, searching for a shield to buy time.

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

"Where's Lecturer Petrie?" Had he, too, failed to prepare a case, and cleverly slipped away?

"Petrie?" Maynard, having just finished recounting a mercury treatment for syphilis and emerging from the professors' storm of questions, replied, "He drank one cup and passed out—he's resting in a room down the hall."

"I've never seen anyone with such a weak tolerance for alcohol. When we carried him over, he didn't stir at all," Clinsman chimed in. "But the good news is he left his seat open for Professor Kraft—haha."

"Is that so? What a shame to miss him. Doesn't anyone want to sneak over and find out what's going on in Dunling, maybe pick up some academic secrets?" Kraft joked, trying to find an excuse to rouse someone. "Shall we take him some sobering tea?"

"Good. Let's go."