Chapter 278: Unexpected Efficacy

Kraft did not elaborate on the matter of dreams, and Kup had no intention of asking.

The three returned to the table, discussing the clinic's recent condition, learning things they ought to know, arranging for someone to repair the door, and enduring Davis's complaints.

The physician was nearly driven mad; the clinic was careening wildly in an unforeseen direction, transforming from a purely internal medicine practice into the de facto tuberculosis treatment center for half the new district.

With puncture procedures not yet classified as basic clinical skills, it felt as though surgery had usurped their domain.

A whole new set of diagnostic protocols had been dumped on his head; he could barely recall how he used to treat patients.

In popular practice and among many physicians, the "one-glance diagnosis" model was highly esteemed, holding that the faster a physician reached a diagnosis with less information, the more skilled they appeared.

This view was especially prevalent among internal medicine practitioners. Patients arrived, a single glance—preferably a sidelong one, to convey indifference and the need for no words—followed by superficial symptom inquiries, then straight to prescribing.

Fever patients got antipyretics, coughers got antitussives; most recovered after a while, reinforcing the doctors' confidence.

Some patients worsened, so they returned for adjusted medication—unpredictable, no need to explain. After all, the entire medical field operated at this level; both doctors and patients knew it.

The remaining, especially stubborn cases, eventually displayed classic signs of universally recognized incurable diseases—syphilis, tuberculosis, and the like—whereupon one could only express "great regret."

This entire system could be neatly categorized into three groups: most recovered, proving the treatment correct; a few didn't improve at first but did after adjustments, classified as unavoidable difficult cases; and the incurable, the rare ones who died mysteriously—clearly not the doctor's responsibility, but God's.

Efficient, elegant, untouched by three things: not by patients, not by illness, not by responsibility.

Since Kraft took charge, all that was past. Now, from Davis down to apprentices, everyone was forced to write medical records and extract evidence supporting each diagnosis.

The deliberately simplified medical documentation imposed a heavy burden—not only in workload, but in cost.

With the clinic's daily patient volume, at an average of two sheets per patient, the pile had grown thick enough to serve as a stool, with several times that amount discarded.

Even though these papers weren't high quality, and accounting for ink and pen consumption, the total cost made Davis gasp when reviewing the ledger at month's end—from his tongue to his heart. He had emptied his personal bookshelf and moved it downstairs to store these papers, needed a dedicated index like a dictionary to locate them, and still couldn't guarantee quick retrieval.

Had it not been for the clinic's other revenues rising with patient flow, they might not have afforded this expense.

If this continued, they wouldn't need just a dedicated bookshelf—they'd need an entire study to store it all.

And these records held far less value than books of equal volume; at least he couldn't imagine anyone paying for them.

So Davis relentlessly complained to the professor, his endless grumbling once dampening Kraft's appetite, reminding him of his most unpleasant night-shift memories—the half-eaten sour soup noodles on the table, family members standing by with fresh secretions asking about the condition.

So he could only push away the bowl and reluctantly say, "Fine, I'll take a look."

Flipping through the financial records, the numbers did move Kraft; his decent math skills let him estimate the sum had reached a level payable in gold coins—Davis's worries were not groundless.

He could simply announce higher consultation fees, or draw funds from his personal stash.

But as Davis had said, tuberculosis was a poor person's disease; raising fees too much was unrealistic, too little wouldn't solve the problem. Self-funding this inevitably growing hole was unsustainable in the long run.

Kraft reaffirmed the importance of medical records—they needed to use these data for statistics, to understand how much benefit patients truly gained, how long before they needed re-inflation, and which stages of illness were suitable for artificial pneumothorax treatment. All of this, until a reliable evaluation standard was established.

This system was not something the otherworldly soul had brought; in his life, tuberculosis was being crushed by widespread vaccination and combination therapy, rarely progressing to the point requiring physical intervention. Even if it had, it wasn't this system he used now.

Currently, only they in Nos were doing this, and in the foreseeable future, few others would.

Whether they understood or not, everyone present nodded repeatedly, praising his foresight.

But hands still ached, and the ledger still looked grim. In short, they needed more people and more paper and ink—all of which would feed back into the finances.

In response, the newly arrived superior, Kraft, declared that in medicine's impending new era, clinging to a few dead techniques and surviving solely on clinical routine was certain to lead to obsolescence. To keep pace with the times, one must be adept at discovery and summation; medical records, as the foundation of it all, must not cease.

As for financial issues, if expenditures couldn't be cut, then revenue must be expanded.

This "revenue expansion" arrived quickly—precisely, the next morning, at the clinic's doorstep.

"Good day, Professor Kraft, it's truly hard to meet you," said the man with neatly trimmed mustaches, "and Dr. Davis, thank you for the medicine—it's been remarkably effective."

Kraft took a moment to recall a slightly fuller, slightly plumper figure from memory—the financial officer of the Xigo family, now apparently thinner. "Ah, Mr. Barber, what a coincidence—how did you know I'd be here today?"

"Actually, I've been coming here frequently lately," the man replied, his smile noticeably more vibrant than their last meeting, his appearance transformed.

He stated his purpose and handed Kraft a box lined with velvet, containing several slender, hollow, silver-gleaming objects. "These are our new prototypes—please take a look."

Brand-new puncture needles, excellent quality—Morrison's habit of commissioning instruments from them was no accident.

While Kraft checked the needles' patency, Barber chatted with Davis, who pulled a suspicious small bottle from behind the counter and handed it to him.

Professional habit prompted Kraft to observe the financial officer; the changes in physique and vitality were unmistakable.

He quickly realized it wasn't that Barber had lost weight effectively. That wasn't slight obesity—it was edema, which had improved during this period, along with his overall condition.

"Mr. Barber?"

"Yes, Professor? What do you think of these?" Barber tucked the bottle into his pocket and rubbed his hands.

"The craftsmanship is nearly flawless," Kraft praised. "By the way, didn't you previously have edema—particularly noticeable in the lower limbs?"

"Reduced stamina, some private discomfort, loss of appetite, shortness of breath, palpitations—all of those."

"Did Dr. Davis tell you?" Barber looked surprised, then nodded, glancing at Davis, who shook his head, indicating it wasn't his doing.

Kraft set down the needle—something new had piqued his interest. This was likely cardiogenic edema, caused by heart failure leading to fluid retention and other signs of blood stasis, yet his condition had clearly improved significantly recently.