Chapter 206

A soul already claimed by Death was temporarily permitted to remain within the body, the body lying on the clinic's wooden pallet.

The bedding was wrinkled; the previous occupant had not smoothed it before leaving, and the twisted folds pressed uncomfortably against his back, the deep creases seeming to harbor miasma and uncleaned streaks of pale iron-rust color—but still better than a hard board.

He tried to lift himself slightly to flatten the blanket, but a violent cough interrupted the motion; a pain, as if a wound were being forcibly stretched, shot through his chest. He clenched his hand around the nearest object and pulled, making the blanket even more crumpled.

Something thicker than saliva spewed forth with the cough; his hand instinctively wiped it, recognizing the familiar wet, viscous texture—his palm now smeared with a stark red streak, fueling a surge of heat and anxiety.

Occasionally, shadows carrying bottles and jars passed behind the white curtains, stirring a flicker of instinctive hope, only for it to cool quickly.

By now, any hope in herbal decoctions had been worn away by repeated deterioration of his condition; the physician had plainly stated recovery was unlikely. This was less treatment than an act of survival instinct—a desperate willingness to believe he might still struggle on.

The discomfort in his lungs prevented both sleep and sustained wakefulness; he closed his eyes, trying to ignore the alternating coughs from the next bed, letting his consciousness drift slightly away from reality.

But this only sharpened his hearing: the coughs carried beneath them a rhythm like uneven, resonant footsteps, pacing between the curtains, sometimes rising sharp and urgent as they halted and knocked on the door—calling, summoning—each knock jolting him with fear.

Then, a series of footsteps on solid ground descended the wooden staircase, approaching this side. The direction was unmistakably toward him.

A corner of the white curtain was pulled aside—not the usual apprentice delivering medicine, nor Dr. Dai Wei, whom he'd only seen during consultations and diagnoses—but a tall stranger he had never met, walking naturally to the bedside and standing still.

He wore a black robe similar to Dai Wei's but newer, his brows and eyes visibly younger beneath the face covering, and a thick, receding hairline that inexplicably diminished his credibility.

Yet he soon learned that first impressions need not be reflected in appearance.

Behind the young, tall doctor, a middle-aged physician in a black robe edged with red thread slipped in, automatically taking a half-step position behind, hands clasped before him.

Only Dai Wei, the one he recognized, brought up the rear, pulling back the curtain for the attendant carrying the instrument tray, then stepping in behind the peculiarly robed middle-aged physician, deliberately shrinking his presence.

Several assistants and apprentices silently filed in, filling the space around the bed. The small partition was suddenly packed with nearly ten people, surrounding the bed completely; a pair of eyes, too short to reach the shoulders, peered from outside the crowd, trying to see inside.

"Hello, I am Vilen, a surgical lecturer from Dunling University Medical College. This is Professor Kraft from Rivers University." The doctor in the red-edged robe stepped forward, dropping a string of unfamiliar names—likely prestigious.

"We are here to introduce a newer, more effective treatment for tuberculosis patients, especially effective for hemoptysis."

"Ah?" The patient on the bed blinked, clearly confused, still wondering whether he should sit up.

Dai Wei leaned forward to translate: "These two are my teachers, here specifically to treat your white plague."

"May the Heavenly Father bless you."

"This is not a complete cure," Kraft pressed down on the patient's attempt to rise, smoothing the sheet. "It may only slow the disease's progression and alleviate symptoms. Before we proceed, we must assess whether your condition is suitable for treatment."

He glanced around; instinct told him something vital was missing.

"Dr. Dai Wei?"

"I'm here. How may I assist you?" The clinic doctor assumed the next step was a simple patient inquiry before treatment began—he only needed to observe quietly, seizing any learning opportunity that fell his way.

"Come, report the medical history."

That was it—Kraft had finally found the right opening. Lecturer Vilen stepped aside, exposing Dai Wei, whose face held three parts shock, seven parts surprise, and ninety parts bewilderment.

All eyes, including the patient's, shifted neatly to the clinic's primary physician, granting him a long-forgotten sense of déjà vu—returning him to his less pleasant student days.

"The patient presented with 'cough and hemoptysis,' treated with..." Behind a layer of cloth, Dai Wei inhaled deeply through his nose, catching the herbal scent from the apprentice's jar. "The same elderberry decoction as now. Considering the patient's poor appetite and occasional abdominal pain, we added yarrow to stimulate appetite, and dill to relieve intestinal colic and strengthen the spleen and stomach."

Dai Wei felt cold sweat tracing his back, as if he'd been precisely called out in a large lecture—except today's audience weren't classmates; failing to answer correctly would damage his social standing far more than any classroom humiliation.

He looked to Kraft, seeking his reaction, only to find Kraft watching him. That gaze plainly said: "Continue. Why stop?"

What else should I say? The sweat, just halted, began again. In his mind, he'd already said everything necessary—everyone knew this was a tuberculosis patient—but clearly, it wasn't nearly enough.

Yet the professor was clearly considerate, quickly sensing his distress and offering a hint: "When did the cough begin? What exposure triggered it? How severe is it? Is there a day-night difference? Dry cough or with phlegm? Is there blood in the phlegm? Has it worsened or improved over this time? When did the hemoptysis start? Any chest pain...?"

Dai Wei glanced helplessly at Vilen, who responded with an obvious look: I'm a surgeon—why ask me?

The atmosphere was tense, but fortunately, the patient was conscious, and there was no communication barrier.

"Doctor, I had a slight cough last winter. I drank some flower tea and it cleared in a few days. Then again this spring, the cough returned, growing worse." The patient pushed himself upright, triggering another cough—visible on his hand and the front of his tunic were both dried and fresh streaks of crimson.

He struggled to cover his mouth, afraid the doctors would turn away, speaking quickly: "When the weather warmed, I noticed blood in my phlegm and felt constantly weak—that's when I came."

"Good, good, I understand." Kraft pulled a cotton cloth from the tray and handed it to him. "Do you recall the specific months? Especially when this current cough and hemoptysis began?"

"I can't remember. Does it matter?"

"No matter. Lie down and rest for a moment. Let me examine you." From this perspective, the general inadequacy of current medical histories made sense—when time perception was vague and patients had no health awareness, gathering information from transient cases was inevitably a mess.

Kraft undid the patient's clothing. Unlike the duke, who maintained ample nutrition and excellent constitution, the patient's emaciation was starkly evident; when his chest expanded, the ribs were faintly visible beneath the skin.

Almost no need to locate bony landmarks—visual inspection alone gave an immediate, intuitive sense of position.

【Highly suitable for teaching】

"Come, Kup, set the tray aside. Place your hand here." Kraft took Kup's hand and pressed it to the center of the patient's chest. "What bone is this?"

"The sternum."

"Good. Now, what does this area feel like?"

"Uh... it feels uneven? Slightly raised?" Kup answered uncertainly.

"Correct. This is the sternal angle, level with the second pair of ribs—we can use it to count ribs up and down."

【Slightly troublesome】

Guiding Kup's hand to trace laterally and locate the ribs, Kraft felt a thought forming: he ought to have a simpler method, one not reliant on these rigid rules.

After scanning diagnostic knowledge, logic rejected the thought—it was already a highly efficient method. Speeding it further would require direct vision, but not all patients were this emaciated.

Yet instinct still urged him not to be trapped in inefficient methods, guiding his awareness to obey instinct—to bypass the tedious steps of inspection, palpation, percussion, and auscultation, and diagnose with absolute precision.

【Isn't this being responsible to the patient?】

Kraft paused, grasping the source of the thought: it was the everyday stirring of his spiritual senses, like saliva automatically flowing at the sight of food.

He rejected the suggestion from that part of himself. This was not irresponsibility. What was needed now was a method any systematically trained person could perform—simple, reproducible—not a human CT machine relying on unrepeatable, irrational abilities to cheat.

If the pioneer cannot complete the full procedure under ordinary human conditions yet insists on promoting a treatment, that is true irresponsibility.

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Suppressing his spiritual senses, he followed the standard procedure: palpating for pleural friction rub, ruling out pleural adhesion contraindications, then percussing each intercostal space to locate cavities. Next, he took from Kup's tray a cylindrical object, hermetically sealed on both ends with thin membrane—like a stretched miniature drum.

This was one of Westmin's craftsmen's works: the earliest stethoscope, or more accurately, a "listening tube."

One end placed on the auscultation site, the ear pressed to the other—advantage: avoiding the inconvenience of pressing one's head against the patient's chest. Still, it was awkward, requiring bending, twisting the neck to adjust position.

Kraft carefully positioned and adjusted the tube, recalling the long-absent imaging department. Matching the percussed cavity locations, he distinguished the whistling sound of air passing through the cavities, confirmed it thrice, then held the tube steady and offered the earpiece.

"Come, listen. This is what the lungs of a tuberculosis patient with cavities sound like."