Chapter 187

According to standard thoracentesis protocol, patients should rest quietly for several hours after the procedure to prevent postoperative complications.

Given that this case is exceptional, this rest period should be extended, with more cautious monitoring of vital signs to guard against unforeseen events.

Kraft lingered uneasily in the room, but staying with the old duke was never comfortable—he was the kind of man who could spontaneously turn a fireside conversation into an atmosphere of incineration.

After confirming the cardiopulmonary system under load was functioning normally, the doctor rose with a sense of unease and took his leave. Considering the general poor sense of time, he gave a conservative estimate, instructing that the patient must remain supine until dinner and avoid any strenuous activity.

The medical order was strictly followed, in a certain sense.

Under the escort of the castle's armed forces, Kraft returned to his quarters to check on another patient.

In contrast, Yin Feng's condition was not as good. The forced tearing of the fungal spirit had clearly affected her mind; she remained lethargic for most of the day and only barely regained some energy this morning. Even now, she was still listless.

"I don't feel unwell—actually, I feel clearer, like some persistent background noise I'd grown used to has suddenly vanished. I can't say what exactly disappeared, only that it's very quiet," she said, biting her lip as she swallowed a yawn. "I'm just sleepy."

Out of caution, a full physical examination was unavoidable. Given the profound impression left by fungal control and its partial replacement of motor functions, he conducted a thorough neurological exam—Yin Feng's strange routine of lifting her head, pulling her leg, and scraping her foot.

Anticipatory anxiety made him hypersensitive to responses; even the slightest toe splay when the sole was stroked triggered a recheck, until he confirmed whether it was a reflexive withdrawal from itch or a pathological sign.

"Now, exert yourself—swing your arms forward and resist my force."

The girl complied fully, her limbs strong and symmetrically powered—a remarkable level of function for a patient still confined to bed.

"That's enough, let go…" Kraft released her arm. Her left arm did not fall naturally but hung suspended for a moment, relaxing and dropping slightly slower than the right. "Relax. No need to strain."

Driven by obsessive-compulsive tendencies, he repeatedly pressed both upper arms, detecting a subtle, uncertain difference—left-side muscle tone was marginally higher, hovering just beyond the threshold of tactile detection.

In the mental organ's vision, the parasite clinging to the mental body had fully contracted, attempting to seal the tear, showing no sign of active expansion. If torn once daily, cumulative damage might eventually collapse it—but the patient would likely die sooner.

A slight relief: no other bodily systems showed changes. The suspected pulmonary inflammation from infection showed no progression, and the previously anomalous left upper arm revealed no discernible pathology.

The proximity of this lesion to the fungal spirit still troubled him, but the physical exam results were too subjective, and the mental senses couldn't function as a microscope—he could only conclude, "Continue observation."

Next came the duller tasks: without an electronic medical record system, Kraft began handwriting the patient's progress.

These were two highly valuable cases, representing the two modes of fungal spirit infection in humans: mental body and physical form. Systematically documenting their onset, treatment, and outcomes would provide strong reference value for future diagnoses.

Unlike the anesthesia tutorial he could publicly publish, he had no idea yet how to preserve these findings—or any chance to disseminate them.

Since Edward's manuscripts had caused harm even to this day, writing more now might prove useful later—or at least, he could tuck them into his notes.

This gave him a certain insight. As a writer with considerable financial means, he could anonymously publish treatises, leaving only a personal mark, and gain sufficient influence.

He could subtly embed problems caused by deeper influences, disguising them as rare diseases, and propose empirical treatment protocols. After all, their symptoms differed little from common illnesses, lacking specificity, and some treatments were accessible to ordinary practitioners.

For instance, artificial pneumothorax could be performed by experienced physicians. As for dissemination, if inserted into the official tuberculosis treatment protocol, its spread across the kingdom would outpace even *The Structure of the Human Body*.

Ideally, a sufficiently authoritative medical institution should endorse it—ideally one publicly unconnected to any content meant only for clandestine circulation, yet formally acknowledging the published treatise.

This required long-term planning, but Kraft sensed a promising opportunity right before him; with proper maneuvering, it could easily lay the groundwork for his goal.

As he envisioned solutions, the headache caused by prolonged overuse of his mental organ seemed to recede somewhat, and his mood improved slightly.

This good mood lasted only until a guard interrupted his half-written progress note with an invitation to dinner.

Kraft rubbed his eyes, staring at the sun still high in the sky, feeling a profound sense of unreality. "Now? If I'm not mistaken, it's still not even halfway through the afternoon."

"Yes, you are correct," the guard affirmed, not moving to leave. "The duke has decided to advance dinner time."

Kraft realized his headache might not be—or not entirely—caused by overuse of his mental organ. Someone must be held responsible.

Of course, he could not prevent the dinner.

In the midst of various unexpected maneuvers, the duke successfully transitioned to his third gas infusion treatment a week later.

The injected gas was partially absorbed and repeatedly replenished, gradually compressing and collapsing the right lung, which harbored more tuberculous lesions. The fungal spirit migrated once, relocating to a cavity closer to the hilum—but this site also became inhospitable after further compression.

The treatment now approached its final, most dangerous stage.

During the next infusion, the fungal spirit was expected to abandon this "deteriorating" lung. He would need to insert a tube through the duke's mouth, past the vocal cords, into the trachea, to prevent potential airway obstruction and asphyxiation.

Simultaneously, all fungal infection foci throughout the body would activate, causing persistent fever and convulsions that would not subside until the fungal spirit was removed.

"It's highly effective—I'd say all previous treatments combined amount to less than one percent of what these few days have achieved," the duke said, breathing dusty air at the edge of the training ground, watching his knights exert themselves with unusual vigor. "Not coughing up blood feels wonderful. If it improved just a little more—just a little—I might even wear armor again. Honestly, I envy these young lads."

"If you'd bother to pay attention to your doctor's advice, you'd remember this is merely an illusion—your condition has not improved at all," Kraft bluntly shattered his illusion, repeating yesterday's explanation.

"It's like pressing a hand over a wound to stop bleeding—except now, the gas is pressing against the wound inside your lung. A palliative measure. Until you decide to rest properly and avoid these harmful environments, it remains temporary."

"I trust my own feelings, Doctor Kraft. Please begin the final treatment as soon as possible—I can't wait any longer."

"Beforehand, I must clarify the unique nature and risks of this treatment, including…"

"If you could just change this habit, I'd be happy to appoint you as my medical advisor," said the duke, his bony fingers releasing the sword hilt, laughter rumbling like a dry cough in his throat. After weighing momentary pleasure against long-term health, he abandoned the idea of joining the exercise. "But I suppose you won't. There's a suitable position at Rivers—if you need one."

"If you're willing to change this habit, I would be honored to invite you as my medical advisor." The bony fingers released the sword hilt; the duke let out a dry, throaty chuckle, weighing fleeting pleasure against long-term health before abandoning the notion of joining the exercise.

"But I suspect you can't—you're just as stubborn. There'll be a suitable position waiting for you on Rivers' side, if you need one."