Chapter 281: The Most Powerful Flower Tea in History

"There should still be some fresh ones left." Dai Wei's gaze lingered on the page, pausing at the growth cycle column.

"The blooming season is nearly over, but we always stockpile dried supplies this time of year—there might be some still unprocessed in storage."

The two went to the clinic's pharmacy and picked out the plant called "Zi Ling" from a pile of soil-caked vegetation.

Its flower color made it stand out among all herbs, easy to spot. Besides the purple variety shown in the illustrated book, there were also pale yellow and reddish variants—all sharing the same bell-cluster appearance and fuzzy texture upon touch.

They had been out of the soil for some time, hanging limp and shriveled like salted vegetables when lifted.

Even so, to Kraft, these were charming salted vegetables.

"Bring a jar—no lead ones."

Similar to pickling salted vegetables, they weighed the herbs, chopped them into segments and fine bits, tossed them into a medicinal pot with water, and began boiling. How long to boil? No one knew. Kraft left this task to Dr. Dai Wei, letting him rely on his experience.

The latter skillfully controlled the stove's heat, simmering the liquid over medium flame until it boiled, then removed some charcoal to switch to low heat, keeping the water hot but not violently bubbling.

Even bubbles continuously rose from the pot's bottom, stirring up colorful plant fragments that rose in the thickening orange broth and fell like snowflakes.

When the solid matter noticeably lightened in color and the broth began resembling certain beverages, Dai Wei removed the pot and poured its contents into the glass container Kraft had brought.

To the eye, it looked like a cup of flower tea—bright and transparent, floating with specks of colorful debris, quite appealing in appearance.

Bringing it close to smell, one could detect a faint herbal fragrance, like unknown wildflowers and grasses steeped after a summer rain, far better than the previous lead-boiled mess.

If served at a dinner table, most people wouldn't refuse to drink it.

"What now?" Dai Wei placed the steaming glass container on a coaster. "Try a sip?"

His passion for pharmacology had prepared him: yes, it might be toxic, but true poisoning cases were rare—perhaps the toxicity wasn't that strong?

"Try a sip—but not like that." Kraft poured half the medicinal broth into a second identical container, added an equal amount of water, mixed it, then poured half of that diluted solution into another glass container.

After four dilutions, he obtained a solution with only one-sixteenth the original concentration. Considering the limitations, there might be slight deviation, but not much.

The final dose was nearly colorless, clean enough to inspire trust.

Kraft refused Dai Wei's request to test the drug for him. Though he was ninety percent sure there'd be no major issue, this wasn't a matter of probability—it was an ethical one.

He lifted the final glass container, brought it to his lips, hesitated, then sipped a tiny amount, letting the cooled liquid glide over his tongue.

The quantity never reached his stomach—it vanished in the esophagus, moistening his dry mouth.

Nothing happened. His breathing remained steady; his rhythmic heartbeat settled in his chest. Kraft realized he'd overthought it—perhaps boiling simply wasn't a good way to extract active compounds, and after dilution, it was already quite safe.

He lifted the glass container again, drank a large mouthful, lowering the liquid level by a quarter. Under Dai Wei's curious and concerned gaze, he pressed his left radial artery to estimate his pulse rate.

【About sixty beats per minute】

Fully within the normal range. The superior local physique maintained a clocklike heart rate, typically at the lower end of normal—around sixty beats per minute.

Slightly reassured, the professor drank a sip of the third-diluted solution, closed his eyes, and felt for bodily changes.

【Still around sixty】

Was it all psychological?

Kraft drank half the remaining liquid in the cup, calmed himself, and began counting again.

After half a day of filtering, preparing medicine, and emotional ups and downs, he felt he should be weary—but when he closed his eyes, sleep didn't come. His mind automatically counted, imagining shapes from the shifting light patches behind his eyelids.

His nervous system remained slightly excited; sensations grew sharper with closed eyes—the pulse beneath his fingertips, and a rare feeling usually only present during intense movement or emotion: something throbbed in his temples, gradually developing into mild pain—the sign of arterial engorgement and rising blood pressure.

He counted again.

【Below sixty】

Around fifty-four to fifty-six—slightly lower. For someone who exercised regularly, a stronger heart needed a slower rate to maintain adequate circulation.

But it was a sign.

Kraft shook the liquid in the cup. He could use a safer, more cumbersome method—but it would take too long. The idea of witnessing the birth of a future-famous drug outweighed the slight risk.

One-third of the medicine vanished into his mouth, the liquid sliding coolly down his esophagus into his digestive tract.

【Fifty】

Minutes later, Kraft finally noticed a clear slowing of his heart rate.

Dai Wei spoke up: "Professor, your face is turning red."

In truth, no reminder was needed—he could already feel the drug's clear effect. The cold liquid had transformed into something describable as "warmth." His heart muscle worked like an arm lifting weights—slower, stronger, pumping blood in greater volume.

Improved cardiac output, when seen in heart failure patients, manifested as restored stamina—as if the body had been gently nourished, regaining its former vitality.

But Kraft preferred calling it "inhibition of the sodium-potassium pump." The drug modulated myocardial contractility by interfering with cardiac electrophysiology, improving symptoms—but offered little meaning for prognosis or lifespan extension.

If intake continued until toxic dosage, the opposite effect would occur—the heart rate would accelerate, triggering rapid ventricular arrhythmias, requiring an antidote.

And where was the antidote? Sorry—there wasn't one. None of them could be extracted by boiling.

So he should stop.

The legendary plant—the long-known source of a major class of cardiac stimulants, mentioned only in textbook margins and lecture notes—had appeared before him at the very moment he needed it.

It might be the oldest anti-heart-failure drug, long known to treat edema, though its precise pharmacological mechanism wasn't clarified until modern times.

Kraft raised the glass container, feeling a slight headache, unsure if it came from the drug or his excitement: "Can I rename it?"

"Er—technically, as the discoverer of its specific pharmacological action, you may name the derived drug..."

"I'll call it Digitalis."

"What does that mean? I thought you'd use your surname or your own name." Dai Wei still didn't grasp what had happened—he only knew the effect was real—but instinctively resisted adding a new term, raising the difficulty of exams.

"Don't ask. The name feels right." Having confirmed the plant's identity, countless ideas flooded his mind—dosage quantification, diagnosis under limited conditions—filling his mental processing threads.

These were for patients, not for his own brief tasting—he needed greater caution, more time.

Yet right beside him was something intimately tied to human tissue, yet utterly non-human—perfectly suited to satisfy his curiosity.