Chapter 224

Through the gap left in the stone slab for drainage, the lantern below cast a small, limited patch of light; the depths were hard to gauge in height. Mud and sand drifted slowly in the eddy, settling into layered shades of filth.

It might have been traces of something that passed through here, or merely stirred by swift motion.

But that itching, uncomfortable sensation of being watched had vanished.

The two returned safely to the clinic. To their surprise, though night was deep, the clinic's lights blazed brightly, illuminating every floor.

Kraft stepped forward and knocked. Inside, footsteps paced back and forth, voices chattered—but no one answered.

He tried pushing the door; it wasn't locked, and opened freely into a scene oddly familiar.

The area of white curtains hanging in the lobby had increased several-fold; the number of added beds likely exceeded twenty.

Assistants and apprentices sat at tables, chatting, scribbling a few lines, then hurried to the white curtains, joining the noisy mix of coughs and inquiries, only to return moments later to add a few more notes.

Immersed in this bustling scene of work, none noticed their arrival at first, all focused on filling their papers and consolidating them.

Once a pile accumulated, it was carried upstairs.

Kraft leaned to the table and glanced at a half-completed record—it was a patient's "medical history," with only a name and an inexplicable number written down.

No chief complaint; the section meant for current illness history was crammed with excessive, redundant subjective symptoms, so dense it was hard to tell whether it was an interrogation transcript or a diary—certainly not what one expected to find here.

Shortly after a stack was sent upstairs, a rapid series of footsteps echoed down the stairwell.

Dai Wei, his eye sockets sunken, waved two freshly inked documents, gripping the railing as he bellowed downward: "Bed thirty-nine—who wrote this?!"

At Dai Wei's voice, the apprentices bent over their desks flinched; Kraft shuddered too.

It wasn't guilt reflexively triggered—just that the number had reached nearly triple the original bed capacity, and the total was likely even higher. He had no idea how much work had piled up during his two days of absence.

Seeing no one respond, Dai Wei's trembling hand picked up the two sheets and read aloud:

"Yesterday, after quarreling with his wife over bread too hard for his throat, he left home to work at the forge. When he reached the Tem River, he felt his throat dry and itchy, coughed a few times, spat out saliva, and saw what looked like streaks of blood in it…"

A long passage—high in information density, yet strangely low.

From below, one could see the pressure behind his markings—the saliva likely wasn't truly bloody, but Dai Wei's eyeballs were indeed streaked with blood.

"And this one, bed forty-one: coughing for over ten days, no improvement from other treatments, and Doctor Dai Wei admitted him with 'likely tuberculosis, possibly pneumonia, not certain, to be evaluated by Professor Kraft'?!"

Clearly, this person had been present during the outpatient visit and remembered well.

Kraft rubbed his forehead and sighed. At least the onset time was written—but even that sounded like some kind of pathogen-assisted diagnostic test.

It seemed Dai Wei hadn't held up under pressure during his two-day absence.

Even though basic symptoms and signs were clearly written down, that didn't mean one could treat them like assembling a machine from a blueprint.

Even assembling a machine would leave you with extra parts.

In practice, ambiguous cases always arose—and without systematic training, one inevitably saw tuberculosis everywhere.

These undiagnosed—or diagnosed but uncertain whether to perform artificial pneumothorax—cases piled up rapidly, filling the clinic's daytime observation beds, turning into a terrifying paperwork burden.

Of course, this work should have been handled by the clinic's only officially recognized physician.

Before leaving, Kraft had left Dai Wei a simplified template, containing only chief complaint and key medical history—easy enough for a graduate of Dunling University to understand.

He'd imagined that upon his return, he could quickly review individual difficult cases through written records, saving vast amounts of time.

But in reality, Kraft had underestimated patient volume and overestimated Dai Wei's capability. It wasn't a few individual cases, and no time had been saved.

The unfinished tasks fell to others; apprentices who had just received secondhand instructions were thrust into duty, lacking the ability to work independently, resulting in the entire clinic working overtime.

After reciting these blood-pressure-raising descriptions, Dai Wei briefly calmed down and noticed Kraft among the crowd.

"Ah, Professor Kraft." He descended the stairs, gripping Kraft's hands tightly, speechless for a moment, his bloodshot eyes glaringly obvious.

He looked at the papers in his hands—clearly raising blood pressure—and then at the rows of beds behind the white curtains, all his words condensed into one: "You're back?"

"I've compiled about… fifty or so, some unfinished—I'll have to re-question them."

"Forget it. Let's go see the patients." Guilt made Kraft decide to stay and help Dai Wei overtime. "Stop writing the rest for now—everyone, come along."

The professor rallied himself and led the group toward the curtains, thinking it was time to establish proper wards.

The clinic's space was adequate for daytime use, but soon it would face patients requiring long-term observation—and institutions capable of providing "inpatient" care were still extremely rare.

Doctors still mostly worked alone, though some monasteries could take in large numbers of patients for treatment; one must admit the Church had considerable advancement in certain areas.

But he had to solve the immediate problem first, before thinking of those.

"For this pneumothorax case, remove the needle and fluid bottle—avoid vigorous movement, but don't stay completely still."

The patient who had suddenly developed pneumothorax had, luckily, survived the emergency—briefly lifting everyone's spirits.

The patient's son came forward to thank him, but noticed the doctor's masked smile didn't last long—only a nod, then he left. Tuberculosis still clung to the patient's lungs, meaning his life's hourglass held only the last grains of sand.

"This one who says he spat blood…" Kraft pressed down the tongue with a spatula, briefly examined the mouth, and found the source of bleeding. "His wife's bread must really be hard."

"Gum and oral mucosa injury. If it's unbearable, soak the bread before eating."

"I told you her bread was like stone." The patient settled back onto the bed, relieved.

For the one with long-term but mild coughing: "Hmm. This cough has lasted a long time, with nasal congestion and runny nose—secretions draining down the back of the throat, irritating the throat. Go home, rinse your nose with salt water, and come back in a while."

After spending time eliminating patients whose conditions clearly had nothing to do with each other, Kraft felt increasing physical fatigue.

Yet his mind remained alert, even energized—as if warmed up by exercise, more nimble and lively than before.

"Alright, that's enough for now. I'll be here tomorrow morning."

Dai Wei exhaled, remembering something he'd forgotten amid the rush: "By the way, while you were away, some personal letters arrived at the clinic—I was supposed to deliver them to you."

A stack of various letters was handed to Kraft. He sat at a nearby table and, amid the clutter of ink and writing tools, opened each one by one.

Several letters offered high fees to summon him for house calls; invitations for exchange from unfamiliar institutions and individuals; and a few social banquet invitations—including one from within Dunling University's Medical Academy.

The reconciliation between the two academies had progressed pleasantly; recently, they'd even begun attending gatherings outside formal occasions.

Kraft lost interest after reading a few—but one signature caught his attention.

【Xiguo】

Beautiful blue-mineral pigment outlined the seal in turquoise, making it stand out even among letters adorned with elegant patterns—its tone unusually bright.

"Uh, Dai Wei, I might not be at the clinic the day after tomorrow—you should practice more."