Chapter 208

The patient had suffered from pulmonary tuberculosis for over half a year; all symptomatic treatments—cough suppressants, antipyretics, and other medications—proved ineffective; after this procedure was performed, hemoptysis ceased immediately; the next day, coughing diminished in frequency and severity, and the patient reported improvement in chest pain and heat sensations...

While daily discussions centered overwhelmingly on what the next meal would be, a report bordering on the miraculous was circulated to the long table.

Roughly speaking, without anyone noticing, professors from Rivers University had mingled with the hospital's anatomy instructors, performing surgical treatments on tuberculosis patients at the graduates' internal medicine clinic—with remarkable results.

This graduate, who deeply regretted his past academic imbalance, documented the entire treatment process truthfully, ending with a skeptical note: "Professor Kraft declares this procedure only delays disease progression."

The immediate impact of visible results always carries the greatest weight; long-standing herbal formulations and folk remedies now seemed meaningless, even absurdly clownish.

At first, clinic patient volume simply doubled; but when a second, third, and then a dozen cases appeared, rumors would not remain as restrained as university case reports.

A lengthy, carefully qualified description spanning hundreds of words would, in transmission, degrade into a single, narrow, yet immensely powerful question: Can it cure?

If yes? Then no further explanation is needed. The White Death's advance was halted for the first time before a reproducible force—far more tangible than royal touch or divine blessing.

The practical effect was that David felt every patient in his vicinity—indeed, throughout the entire new district and beyond—was streaming toward the clinic, and those successfully treated would further spread the word.

Many who arrived coughed, but not all had tuberculosis; even unrelated ailments came to test their luck: abscesses, pustules, rashes, ulcers, chronic coughs lasting years, cardiac palpitations, angina—among these, infectious diseases dominated.

The reasoning was straightforward: if tuberculosis can be treated, then surely other illnesses can too.

This surge drastically increased operational strain, especially after witnessing patients enter coughing up blood and exit breathing steadily—mindsets had shifted from faith in medicine to faith in the arcane.

The "royal touch" was not metaphorical; in legend, it was considered one of the most effective healing methods, slightly more plausible than divine blessing, since those who saw the Heavenly Father likely needed no healing, but seeing the king still offered hope.

Now, this tendency had shifted toward a professor unwilling to reveal his name.

Some believed that merely rushing into the clinic, approaching the man who had cured the White Plague, and having him touch the patient's swollen lymph nodes and chest would cure the disease without medicine—a significant number held this view.

If it were now announced that biting a piece of him could cure tuberculosis, Kraft felt he might receive the same reverence as a western pilgrimage monk.

Of course, things had not improved much; initially he could still receive all infectious patients, gathering data and analyzing patterns, but two days later he had to wear masks and hooded robes to enter and exit.

The surge in patient flow forced Kraft to abandon half his original purpose here, expending nearly all his time and energy on daily assessments, punctures, and insufflations.

According to half his soul's memory from that other world, even in developed regions, tuberculosis specialists might not see so many patients with such classic symptoms in a month; in underdeveloped areas, no one possessed such primitive treatment methods as his.

Saying "no" was extremely difficult; when a patient arrived with all his belongings, hoping for cure, you could not tell him, "Today I've seen enough tuberculosis cases—I need to attend to others now."

But sometimes circumstances override personal will.

"Your condition is unusual; I cannot treat you with my method." Kraft placed both hands on either side of the patient's thorax, feeling distinct friction and traction.

【Pleural adhesion】

Tuberculosis is not confined to the lungs; it spreads outward. The pleura—the very structure upon which artificial pneumothorax relies—is the closest tissue to the lung.

Fibrin deposits from pleural inflammation resemble two sheets of sugared parchment: water evaporates, leaving solid residue that solidifies, forming rough, viscous strands as the two layers move against each other.

When placing a hand on the chest wall, one feels this rough friction. In severe cases, like this patient's, portions of the two pleural layers have fused together, impairing respiratory motion.

At such times, insufflation is impossible.

"But they say you can cure it—and just now, that man..." The patient, slumped over the chair back, strained to breathe shallowly; each rise and fall of his chest tugged at the immobile pleura, inevitably causing pain—unless breathing ceased entirely.

Inflammation was likely still active; he was forced to maintain an uncomfortable lateral posture to avoid triggering worse pain.

"I'm sorry, but tuberculosis varies in severity; breaking a finger is fundamentally different from breaking a leg bone." Kraft wished to explain further, but even explaining indications and contraindications of artificial pneumothorax to David—a man with basic medical training—took considerable effort; more words would change nothing, only add confusion.

He traced a circular motion in the air above the chest. "My art cannot relieve your suffering. May the Heavenly Father bless you."

Without instruction, Kup skillfully helped the patient rise and led him from the room, then called in the next from outside.

As he turned to leave, Kraft stopped him: "Kup, have someone outside handle patient calls; you'll help Dr. David with the ether bottles later."

"Huh?"

"Me?"

Two synchronized questions rose in unison; David glanced around, uncertain if there was another person in the room named that. Though traditional apprenticeship was no longer dominant in medicine, learning someone's proprietary technique after only a few days seemed implausible.

"Yes. You've watched for days; the procedure has been explained repeatedly. Even a needle should know which intercostal space to pierce. You two will handle the next patient." Kraft plunged his hands into lime water; a faint sting seeped into the thin skin of his knuckles.

Days of nonstop procedures had strained the distilled alcohol supply; much had been wasted on low-yield ether production; continuing to use it for handwashing was no longer feasible—he resorted to an old, long-abandoned method.

As planned, one man could not do everything; it was time to begin teaching—not because artificial pneumothorax had been sufficiently validated, but because he could no longer endure the dual strain of mental and physical labor.

"Don't worry—I'll be watching you." Kraft relinquished the center seat, which had always belonged to David, and moved aside, settling comfortably into the observer's chair. "Wash your hands first!"

David's mind went blank; he performed handwashing by conditioned reflex, silently reciting "look, listen, tap, feel" as he sat on the still-warm cushion. Kup returned to his familiar attendant position, though now his charge was the surgery itself.

Fortunately, this patient was "standard"; simply imitating the most frequently observed procedure sufficed to grasp the essentials.

Kup, slightly nervous, recalled the correct technique for holding the ether bottle—no special requirements beyond steady hands, which was simple enough for a man who wielded a mallet.

Relieved, the attendant turned his attention to David's fragmented questioning: time, symptoms, nature—sporadic, disjointed, lacking the coherent narrative flow and logical progression he'd observed when Kraft questioned patients.

At certain illogical questions, he even found himself anticipating what the next question should—or shouldn't—be.

【I could do this too】

A wildly arrogant thought. Kup quickly banished it; life with Kraft had given him a basic understanding of these complex academic institutions.

How could a half-trained attendant, snatched from the sludge of Salt Tide District, compare to a graduate of the Kingdom's highest academy? He glanced nervously at others, fearing his fleeting thought might be overheard.

David finally finished his interrogation; after Kraft corrected his technique, he completed the physical examination step by step and concluded: "Suitable for procedure." Next came the part even the needle knew: locate the puncture site, disinfect, insert.

The patient's nutritional status was good—favorable for pneumothorax—but this also meant he lacked the sharply defined ribs of the first patient; subcutaneous fat was substantial.

David sweated under scrutiny; his fingers traced the chest wall twice, finding inconsistent rib counts.

Something was wrong—he should recount from the second rib. But under everyone's gaze, after Kraft had personally demonstrated the method moments ago, he couldn't fathom making such a basic error; the more he panicked, the more confused he became.

Kraft stood with arms crossed, clearly intending to let David retrace his steps—this only deepened David's panic.

Those familiar with Kraft knew this held no malice; it was simply a willingness to grant full thinking time.

After five or six deep breaths passed in silence, Kup, holding the ether bottle, could no longer contain himself; he extended one hand and roughly indicated two small points on the patient's chest, holding up five fingers.

"Fifth intercostal space?" David remembered Kraft had never referred to this attendant as a "disciple."

"Correct." Kup affirmed. This was practical knowledge he'd been forced to memorize during bone studies: "The apex of the heart lies along this line—I recall it."

He looked up and saw Kraft give a slight, surprised nod.

The remaining steps proceeded smoothly under close supervision; the patient awoke, ecstatic with gratitude, promising Kraft he would return for follow-up.

Treatments continued; David's technique grew steadily more proficient. Just as he carefully prepared for his third puncture, a frantic outcry and shouts of restraint interrupted the procedure.

Before he could rebuke his apprentice for poor crowd control, Kraft had already rushed out in three strides, using brute force to shove aside the confused, pushing masses crowding the entrance.

A man, stiff and rigid, was being supported; his already pale face had turned deathly white, drenched in sweat, his neck veins swollen and taut—some rapidly advancing disease was spreading through his body.