Hongzhi Year 18, Twenty-Third Day of the First Month.
We stepped into the Jingjiao Great Camp again.
This time, there was one more person by Zhu Houzhao's side—Deputy Director Sun of the Imperial Hospital. He was about forty, round-faced with a short beard, looking kinder than Director Wang, but those eyes carried a doctor's特有的 (characteristic) scrutiny when sizing people up. Like taking a pulse, not rushing to conclude, but looking you over from head to toe first.
This Deputy Director Sun was arranged by Yang Tinghe. Ostensibly to "assist in the investigation," but I knew clearly—he was here to keep watch. The Crown Prince personally investigating, the Imperial Hospital couldn't be without someone following. If something went wrong, someone had to take the blame.
When Deputy Director Sun saw me, his eyebrows twitched slightly. Very light, like a ripple on water. He was probably thinking:How is it a maid? Following the Crown Prince to investigate?
He didn't speak, just glanced at me, then stood by Zhu Houzhao's side.
That row of low houses was still the same. Adobe walls covered in mold, windows still pasted with torn paper. But today there were twice as many soldiers at the door—ones Zhu Houzhao transferred last night. He didn't say a word, just arranged it properly. Only then did I realize: He is the Crown Prince. He has this power. Just doesn't use it often usually.
The door was pushed open.
That smell hit my face—sweet, stifling, like a wet cloth kept too long. But today there was another smell: medicine. Bitter medicinal smell mixed with the scent of decay, like someone trying to cover garbage stench with perfume.
Deputy Director Sun walked in front. Entering, he quickly covered his nose with his sleeve, movement fast, but I still saw it. Zhu Houzhao didn't. He walked straight in, steps steady, like walking into a perfectly ordinary room.
Yesterday's patients still lay in place. Some had changed positions—moved as I said yesterday, feverish to the left, non-feverish to the right. Rash by the window, no rash by the door. Although zoned, the effect was minimal. This room was too small, separating was only a few steps distance. Air still circulated, wind blowing in from broken window holes, carrying heat from left-side patients, blowing onto right-side patients' faces.
Deputy Director Sun squatted down and started taking pulses. Technique very standard, three fingers on the patient's wrist, eyes closed, like listening to some extremely distant sound. Finished one, then another. His frown grew tighter.
"Epidemic." He stood up, patting dust off his knees. "Indeed an epidemic. Pulse floating and rapid, tongue coating yellow and greasy, this is damp-heat evil—"
"It's not an epidemic." I said.
Deputy Director Sun turned around. This time his frown was deep, like someone stepped on his foot.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Jiang Li. His Highness's—"
"Medical Officer." Zhu Houzhao interjected.
I paused. He looked at me, didn't explain more. Deputy Director Sun also paused, but didn't press. The Crown Prince's face, he dared not gainsay.
"You say it's not an epidemic," Deputy Director Sun looked at me, tone still polite, but with a layer of ice underneath. "How so?"
I walked to a patient—yesterday's young man with the leg burn. He was still lying there, face worse than yesterday, gray-yellow, like an old cloth left too long. Lips chapped, breathing very shallow.
I squatted down, rolled up his trouser leg.
The wound was a circle larger than yesterday. Black edges spreading outward, like ink slowly spreading on paper. Pus in the middle increased, yellow-green, very thick, emitting a fishy sweet smell. I gently pressed the skin around the wound with gauze—hard, like pressing on a wooden board. No temperature, no elasticity, no blood color. That patch of skin was already dead.
"This," I said. "Is not an epidemic symptom. Epidemics don't cause skin necrosis. This is a chemical burn. Something touched this skin, burned the tissue, then infected, then spread."
Deputy Director Sun leaned in, looking closely. His nose almost touching the wound, sniffed, frown twisting tighter.
"Burn?" he said. "In a military camp, burns aren't rare. Cooking, heating, blacksmithing—"
"Look at the edges." I said.
He leaned closer, looked for a while.
"Edges are neat." he said, voice lowering, like talking to himself.
"Right." I said. "If burned by fire, edges wouldn't be so regular, there would be blisters, eschars. But this—edges are like cut by a knife. Liquid, or powder, fell on the skin, burning in bit by bit."
Deputy Director Sun didn't speak. He stood up, stepped back, looking at me. That gaze changed—no longer scrutiny, but a kind of "I don't know you, but what you say seems reasonable" confusion.
Zhu Houzhao stood aside, silent the whole time. He watched us, like watching a play whose ending he already knew.
"Look at this too." I walked to another patient—yesterday's bleeding gums one. His gums were swollen badly, teeth loose, seeping blood with a light touch. Inner lips covered in ulcers, white, like a layer of milk skin stuck on flesh, couldn't wipe off.
"This," I said. "Looks like scurvy."
"Scurvy?" Deputy Director Sun frowned. "That's a disease gotten on ships. Only people who don't eat vegetables for years get it. Military camps—"
"What do military camps eat in winter?" I asked.
Deputy Director Sun paused.
"Cured meat, pickled vegetables, dried rations." Zhu Houzhao's voice came from behind, flat.
I turned to look at him. He stood there, sunlight shining in from broken window holes, falling on him. No expression on his face, but I could guess what he was thinking—if the camp ate cured meat and dried rations all winter, scurvy wasn't impossible.
"Scurvy is lacking something," I said. "Something in fresh vegetables, not in pickled ones. Can't get fresh vegetables in winter, get it after a long time. Symptoms are bleeding gums, loose teeth, skin ecchymosis, wounds not healing."
I looked at that patient's gums, then at the ecchymosis on his arm—purple, patch by patch, like pinched.
"He has it all." I said.
Deputy Director Sun didn't speak. He squatted down, carefully examined that patient's gums, arms, legs. Movements slow, pondering each check.
"You make sense." he said, voice low like squeezed through teeth. "But—"
"Look at this too." I cut him off, walking to a third patient—yesterday's high fever, diarrhea one. Face flushed, lips chapped, eyes bloodshot. I touched his forehead—scalding. Opened his eyelids—conjunctiva red as rabbit eyes.
"This looks like typhoid." I said.
"Typhoid?" Deputy Director Sun's voice raised. "You say scurvy, typhoid, chemical burn—in the same camp?"
"Right." I said. "Same camp. Seventeen people, four different diseases."
Deputy Director Sun looked at me, gaze like looking at a madman.
"This is impossible." he said.
"Impossible?" Zhu Houzhao's voice floated from behind. Very light, but every word clear.
Deputy Director Sun's back stiffened for an instant.
"Your Highness, what I mean is—"
"Did you check?" Zhu Houzhao asked.
Deputy Director Sun didn't answer.
"Since you came in," Zhu Houzhao's voice still light, like chatting about something trivial. "Took five people's pulses. Then said epidemic. Did you check their wounds? Did you ask what they ate? Did you look at their gums?"
Sweat started beading on Deputy Director Sun's forehead.
"I—"
"She checked." Zhu Houzhao said. He looked at me, something in that gaze—not praise, but a certainty of "I know you would do this." "She checked wounds. She asked about food. She looked at gums. You did nothing, then concluded."
Deputy Director Sun knelt down. "Your Highness forgive my crime, I—"
"Get up." Zhu Houzhao said, tone plain as water. "Not asking you to confess. Asking you to learn."
Deputy Director Sun stood up. Face flushed red, sweat trickling down temples. He looked at me, gaze complex—unwillingness, confusion, and a trace of... curiosity.
"You say four diseases," he said, tone much softer than before. "Then how did they come?"
I looked at those people lying, curling, moaning on the ground. Seventeen.
"I don't know." I said.
Deputy Director Sun paused.
"But I can find out." I said.
Zhu Houzhao laughed. Very light, mouth corner slightly upturned, like wind over water.
"Listen to her." he said.
Deputy Director Sun looked at him, then at me. Lips moved, wanting to speak, then swallowed it back.
"Yes." he said.
This time, no hesitation.
I squatted down, restarted the examination. Deputy Director Sun stood aside, handing gauze, water, things I couldn't reach. He didn't speak again, but movements were cooperative. Like someone putting down airs, starting to work.
Zhu Houzhao leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching us.
Sunlight fell on him, black clothes warmed slightly by the sun. Mouth corner upturned, like watching something comforting.
I checked three people.
First was the leg burn one. I cleaned the wound, wiped away pus, revealing tissue underneath—deep red, still seeping blood. Not necrotic black, still alive. Still savable.
"Need clean gauze, change dressing daily." I said.
Deputy Director Sun nodded, writing in his notebook.
Second was one with a small hand wound. Wound not big, like pricked by something, but surrounding redness and swelling severe, fingers couldn't bend. I pressed, pus inside—not surface infection, but deep, already an abscess.
"This needs cutting, drain the pus." I said.
Deputy Director Sun frowned. "Cut? Cut with what?"
I took a silver needle from the medicine box. Not a thin acupuncture needle, but one I had a blacksmith modify yesterday—blunted tip, sharpened edges, like a tiny knife. Soaked in wine overnight, then roasted over fire.
"This." I said.
Deputy Director Sun stared at that needle, expression subtle. Like someone seeing something unfamiliar used by another, wanting to say "wrong," but already lost face, dared not speak again.
Zhu Houzhao walked over, looked down at that needle.
"Will it work?" he asked.
"Yes." I said.
He didn't ask more. Stepped back, leaned against the doorframe again.
I used the silver needle to make a small incision at the softest part of the abscess. Pus gushed out, yellow-green, very thick, with a fishy smell. I caught it with gauze, gently squeezed, until what flowed out turned red blood.
That soldier cried out. Body tensed, but didn't dodge. Zhu Houzhao pressed his shoulder.
"Don't move." he said. Voice very light, like coaxing a child.
The soldier didn't move.
I wiped the wound clean, applied crushed herbs—honeysuckle, dandelion, ready-made in the Imperial Hospital medicine box, anti-inflammatory. Then wrapped with clean gauze.
"Change dressing daily." I said.
Deputy Director Sun wrote another note.
Third was that scurvy one. Gums swollen like two rows of small steamed buns, teeth so loose they wobbled with a light touch. Inner lip ulcers patch by patch, white and yellow, couldn't wipe off.
"This isn't infection," I said. "It's lacking something. Need to give him fresh vegetables. Greens, radishes, bean sprouts—anything. Also oranges, pomelos. Sour."
Deputy Director Sun frowned. "Military camp, winter—"
"Then find a way." Zhu Houzhao's voice came from the door.
Deputy Director Sun shut up.
I stood up. Legs numb again—squatted too long. Knees made aka sound.
Zhu Houzhao looked at me, mouth corner twitched up.
"Done?" he asked.
"Done." I said.
He turned and walked out. I followed. Deputy Director Sun stayed in the room, still writing in his notebook.
Walking outside, sunlight stung my eyes. Air was cool, clean, with scent of soil and withered grass. I took a deep breath, replacing that sweet decay smell in my lungs with clean air.
"You just now," Zhu Houzhao背对着 (back to) me, said. "Were glowing."
I paused. "What?"
He turned back to look at me. Sunlight fell on his face, eyes reflecting light—not candlelight, not moonlight, but daylight, bright, warm light.
"Nothing." he said, turned back, continued walking forward.
I followed behind him. Heart beating a bit fast.
He said I was glowing.
I didn't see light. But I looked at his back—black clothes warmed by the sun, shoulders seemed broader than yesterday, steps steadier than yesterday.
He was glowing too.
Just didn't know it himself.
(End of Chapter 12)