Chapter 279

The heart failure, visibly swollen to the point of obvious edema, improved dramatically between the two visits, almost transforming the man's appearance.

Spontaneous recovery can first be ruled out; believing such severe heart failure could heal on its own is as absurd as believing in myocardial stem cells. From Barber's description, this improvement seems to align almost exactly with the course of the clinic's prescribed medication.

David, trying to minimize his presence, felt a sharp gaze sweeping over him—as if back in anatomy class, except the scalpel wasn't in the instructor's hand but aimed straight at him, slicing open his skull to inspect its contents.

Kraft had to admit he held an ingrained, never-voiced prejudice against his internal medicine colleagues of this era.

After all, their main work involved explaining unstructured clinical observations through primitive elemental theory, extracting supposed active ingredients by boiling in water or burning to ash.

Most of these "treatments" offered little to no benefit to patients, and even among the few that might help, most were unpredictable—sometimes working, sometimes not—with limited effects.

Their status remained far higher than surgery's simply because there were no evaluation standards, and patients rarely died directly in their practice, making them seem comparatively less terrifying.

If David's medicine truly had an effect—even with just one case and no evidence—it would still be fascinating. He knew of many drugs with better effects, but none could be produced by hand using current shortcuts.

Kraft felt profound respect and realized he needed to adjust his attitude toward David; this man might genuinely possess some ability.

But there was a small problem: Mr. Barber, whose condition had improved, was ecstatic; the professor, witnessing the patient's transformation, was ecstatic; yet the prescribing physician appeared oddly unexcited, neither claiming credit nor boasting, merely murmuring in agreement throughout, looking slightly... guilty under Barber's praise and Kraft's stare.

He even refused outright the suggestion of joint sales, leaving the financial officer—who had spotted the opportunity—deeply disappointed, wearing that "I understand, secret formula, can't be revealed" expression before departing with a price Kraft assumed David could never refuse.

Watching the carriage disappear down the street, David's gaze resembled watching a pile of gold placed in his hands, only to slip through his fingers—his bloodshot eyes seemed to glow with golden light.

"Incredible—I never heard any professor in Westminster mention a drug that could relieve heart failure."

"Heart failure?" David still hadn't caught on; his face betrayed his confusion. "What heart failure? Mr. Barber is still fairly young—his heart function should be fine."

"..."

"Then what exactly did you prescribe him?" For a moment, Kraft felt breathless; perhaps it wasn't Barber who had heart failure—it was him.

Out of the newfound respect he felt, he decided to remain patient; the humoral theory system differed vastly from anatomy-based medicine. Perhaps David had his own explanation.

"Mr. Barber's symptoms stem from heart failure, likely right-sided heart failure. Insufficient blood supply causes fatigue and breathlessness; blood returning to the right heart cannot be pumped out promptly, leading to excessive venous congestion. Accumulation in the digestive venous plexus causes loss of appetite; elevated vascular pressure causes fluid leakage, resulting in edema—all symptoms explained by a single cause."

David spent half a minute digesting this, then seemed struck by something and asked: "But isn't the liver the organ that governs the venous system?"

"Which edition of 'Human Anatomy' did you study?"

"The classic version—I specifically tracked down an old copy, said to be closest to the original."

"Promise me you won't mention this to Verlin, alright?" Kraft sadly realized he wasn't even surprised.

"Why?"

"For his health—and your degree. Trust me on this." The anatomical discussion ended here; now he wanted to hear David's perspective. "How did you consider his cause and treatment? If you're willing, I'd like to learn."

Seeing David still hesitant, the professor added: "Of course, if direct disclosure is inconvenient, I'm willing to make an exchange."

"No, no, no—it's not that I'm withholding the formula," David hurried to say. "It's just... other reasons I can't easily explain."

Kraft had freely shared his tuberculosis treatment; if word spread that he'd been refused a prescription, it would be the end of his credibility.

"It's an honor that you're interested, but... this isn't the right place to discuss it. Let's go upstairs."

Clearing the room, David led Kraft alone to his study, closed the door, sat down, and pulled from a shelf stacked with his collection of medical texts a volume with a worn, fraying binding.

The air of secrecy heightened Kraft's anticipation for what was to come.

"It's like this," David began awkwardly, frantically flipping through the loose-leaf book. The handwriting looked like his own notes, with occasional slips of paper made of various materials tucked between the pages.

He quickly found what he wanted: a slightly thicker piece of leather—not sheepskin, but something made from the hide of a small animal.

"About five or six years ago, I acquired this formula from a female... itinerant healer."

【Ah, so it's a folk remedy】

Kraft nodded approvingly; in any era, many discoveries are essentially exhaustive trials, meaning effective formulas could emerge from any practitioner—some quietly lost with their secrecy. David's recovery of this one was commendable.

"And what was it meant to treat?"

"Uh..." David grew even more embarrassed, stammering. "She said it was a family recipe, for elderly patients who felt a decline in certain... capacities. Not very effective, but occasionally worked for a few."

"You know, there's always demand for this—quite a bit of it—so we keep some behind the counter. Mr. Barber mentioned it privately, so I recommended it to him."

"Hmm?" It didn't match his expectations—but strangely familiar.

Seeing the professor's expression, David quickly handed over the leather sheet, hoping to deflect attention from his private sale of "unseemly" medicines. "If you need it, take it—this thing didn't cost much when I bought it."

He succeeded. The moment Kraft saw the paper, he fell silent.

The homemade leather bore over twenty names, but reading was easy—all common terms. Even unfamiliar ones could be guessed from roots: likely stems, leaves, flowers, and fruits of various plants, composing the formula.

On the ship from Rivers University to Dunling, Professor Clinsman, specializing in pharmacology, had once explained common herbs to him—including several on this list—but only by name; matching them to actual specimens remained difficult.

It included ginger, honey—warm, blood-circulating herbs—cinnamon and other tonics, plus pungent spices like pepper and clove to stimulate the senses, plus some names he'd never heard—a medieval version of a ten-ingredient tonic.

Whether it truly had any profound effect was uncertain, but anyone who smelled it would surely feel invigorated.

"Have you ever noticed patients with lower-limb edema improving after using it?"

"Sorry," David replied bluntly. "I don't recall. It was never intended for edema—I never paid attention."

"This is exactly why I insist you keep patient records," Kraft sighed, again realizing he wasn't surprised. "Bring me all these herbs. We'll find out what's really going on."