Chinese Medicine: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 601: Chapter 601: Grave Symptom

After hearing what Li Xu had to say, Gao Yuan still felt it was a long shot. "In theory, it’s possible. But... these old trees aren’t bearing fruit anymore, which means the vitality of their branches is very poor. The grafts might not take, and even if they do, they might not produce good fruit. Besides... this will take time."

But Li Xu was insistent. "Let’s give it a try. The fruit trees in this orchard are ruined anyway. Think of it as a last-ditch effort. What if it works?"

"Besides, I’ve heard that post-grafting mutations can sometimes have unexpected effects. Maybe they’ll produce fruit that’s even better than the original?"

Seeing the certainty in Li Xu’s eyes, Gao Yuan, despite his own reservations, couldn’t bring himself to pour cold water on the idea.

After all, it’s a good thing for a young person to have drive.

Old Liang, on the other hand, was indifferent. "Alright, a try is a try. I happen to have a few sour pomelo trees in my yard that don’t bear much fruit anyway. If you want to mess with them, be my guest."

They got to work immediately.

On the spot, Li Xu carefully selected a few branches from the old trees that looked relatively plump and had distinct bud points, and snipped them off.

The three of them returned to Old Liang’s home.

It was late summer, verging on early autumn. While not the ideal season for grafting, with good technique and proper moisture retention, the survival rate could still be quite high.

Li Xu had never grafted before.

But Gao Yuan did.

He had ’wandered’ for decades, searching for medicinal herbs all across the country. He had gotten his hands dirty more than a few times.

Wielding the grafting knife, Gao Yuan’s movements were skilled and precise.

Shaving the scion, cutting the rootstock, aligning the cambium layer, binding the graft...

Every step was performed with meticulous care, as if he were conducting a delicate surgery.

Soon, over a dozen cuttings from the old Chazhigan trees were grafted onto Old Liang’s sturdy pomelo trees.

Looking at the new lives, each one wrapped in plastic film, Li Xu’s heart swelled with anticipation.

According to his intelligence, these grafted branches would undergo a miraculous mutation.

They would draw on the immense vitality of the pomelo trees, combining it with the medicinal properties the Chazhigan lineage had accumulated over fifty years, to produce an entirely new kind of fruit.

This fruit would have a thick, oily peel and an overpoweringly fragrant aroma.

After aging for just one year, its medicinal effects would be comparable to ordinary Dried Tangerine Peel aged for ten years.

This was a "time accelerator."

However, the healing and growth of the grafts would take time.

"There." Gao Yuan dusted the soil from his hands. "The rest is up to fate."

"Old Liang, we’ll have to entrust their care to you now. If they take and start sprouting, be sure to let us know right away."

Old Liang looked at the grafts and chuckled. "Don’t you worry. I’ll tend to them like they’re my own sons."

With their work done, there was no longer any reason to stay in Xinhui.

The true harvest would need time to mature.

Li Xu and Gao Yuan returned to Feng City, feeling a slight sense of regret but also filled with hope.

「Feng City」

Before Li Xu could even grab a sip of water, a call came in from Hu Qiming.

"Li Xu... no, I mean, Dean Li, are you free right now?"

"What is it?"

"We’ve got a difficult patient at the hospital. Director Zhu from the City Health Commission, his son is sick. He’s been transferred to our Hospital of Traditional Chinese Medicine."

"Director Zhu’s son?"

Li Xu furrowed his brow slightly.

"Yes. He was originally at the City People’s Hospital, but half a month of treatment had no effect. His fever just wouldn’t break. Director Zhu got worried and had him transferred over."

Hu Qiming sighed. "You know how it is, a patient like this is a political hot potato. If we cure him, it’s only what’s expected. But if we can’t... the pressure on a hospital that’s just starting to see improvement, and on Dean Song, will be immense."

Li Xu understood.

Treating a high-ranking official or their family was a double-edged sword.

Furthermore, as Feng City’s top medical institution, the City People’s Hospital had better technology and equipment than the Hospital of Traditional Chinese Medicine.

A patient they couldn’t help, now transferred to the Hospital of Traditional Chinese Medicine, was almost certainly going to be a tough nut to crack.

To put it bluntly, if the City People’s Hospital was performing at a ninth-grade level, then the current Hospital of Traditional Chinese Medicine was an eighth-grader at best.

When faced with a Math Olympiad-level problem, they were both on the same starting line—neither of them knew how to solve it.

"Don’t panic. I’m heading over now."

Li Xu hung up and headed straight for the City Hospital of Traditional Chinese Medicine.

...

Outside the VIP ward, the atmosphere was tense.

Dean Song was in the hallway, speaking with a worried-looking middle-aged man.

This was none other than the head of the City Health Commission, Director Zhu.

When he saw Li Xu approaching, Dean Song looked as though he’d seen his savior. He let out a long sigh, his tense shoulders visibly relaxing.

"Vice Dean Li, you’re here."

Dean Song hurried to meet him. "Quick, go in and have a look."

Li Xu exchanged a brief greeting with Director Zhu before following Hu Qiming into the hospital room.

Director Lin Guorui was standing by the bed, giving a report. "Director Zhu, the patient has been running a fever for twenty days now. At Renmin Hospital, they tried all sorts of antibiotics, fever reducers, and even steroids, but nothing has been effective. This... is indeed a rather tricky case."

A young man in his twenties lay on the hospital bed.

His eyes were wide open but unfocused, staring blankly at the ceiling. An inexpressible agitation emanated from his gaze.

His breathing was rapid and labored, his chest rising and falling dramatically. The hospital gown he wore was soaked with sweat, and large beads of perspiration continuously rolled down his forehead.

"I know."

Director Zhu looked at his son on the bed, his voice heavy. "That’s why I came to our Hospital of Traditional Chinese Medicine, and why I specifically wanted Dean Li to take a look. If even Dean Li says there’s nothing that can be done, then I’ll have to take him to the provincial capital, or even to the Capital City."

Hearing Director Zhu’s reasonable tone, Lin Guorui breathed a sigh of relief.

’The worst-case scenario is an unreasonable official venting their anger on the doctors.’

"Dean Li, please, take a look."

Dean Song gestured.

Li Xu stepped forward. Instead of immediately taking the patient’s pulse, he first carefully observed his complexion and spirit.

His complexion was flushed but held a dull, ashen undertone. His eyes were wild, and his lips were dry and peeling.

He sat down, extended three fingers, and laid them on the pulse point of the patient’s wrist.

Beneath his fingers, the pulse was floating, large, and taut, like a tightly drawn bowstring. Though it felt forceful, it betrayed a frantic energy—strong on the surface, but hollow within.

"Stick out your tongue," Li Xu said.

The patient was somewhat unresponsive, but opened his mouth with his father’s help.

The body of the tongue was dark purple, and its coating was thick, greasy, and yellow.

"Is he sweating constantly?" Li Xu asked.

"Yes, he’s sweating profusely," Lin Guorui added. "And it’s the type of sweating that doesn’t break the fever. In fact, the fever seems to spike even higher after he sweats."

"What’s his temperature?"

"It’s consistently above 39°C. It gets worse at night, sometimes reaching 40 degrees."

Li Xu withdrew his hand, his brow furrowed.

This case was, indeed, a difficult one.

In traditional Chinese medicine, if a febrile disease is treated improperly, or if the patient has a peculiar constitution, it can easily transform into a more complex syndrome.

And the case before him was an extremely typical, even textbook, example of a "deteriorated pattern."

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