Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Unsettled Physician Yang

The man in brocade standing to the side watched the rare excitement on the physician’s face with a hint of interest, and nodded toward Director Zheng.

“Very well, Dr. Yang, you may go ahead. I’ll handle the patients here from now on,” Director Zheng said, his eyes tinged with bitterness. Today, he had deliberately halved the price in hopes of attracting Dr. Yang, but even at half price, there was no profit, only loss.

Clearly, Dr. Yang no longer wished to linger; keeping him here would serve no purpose. Better to build a good relationship now, so that he might return in the future.

“Doctor, please, after you.”

At this, Zhou Linqing adopted the demeanor of a sycophant. The middle-aged physician’s urgency likely stemmed from the matter of the pulse diagnosis, so Zhou Linqing quietly weighed the pros and cons.

Earlier, when he recounted how Li Zisheng had diagnosed him, the physician’s face was skeptical and astonished—he could not believe a child of eight had made such an assessment.

Thus, the physician’s motives could only be twofold: first, to verify for himself whether the diagnosis truly came from an eight-year-old; and second, to learn about the master behind Li Zisheng’s medical skills.

If Dr. Yang knew what Zhou Linqing was thinking, he would surely be astounded.

Despite his reputation as a troublemaker, Zhou Linqing was shrewd and measured, adept at both social and practical affairs. His father’s influence played a role, but it was Zhou Linqing’s mastery of timing and discretion that kept him from punishment.

Dr. Yang, however, paid no mind to Zhou Linqing’s thoughts. His mind was consumed by curiosity about the master behind the prodigious eight-year-old physician.

Soon, Zhou Linqing led Dr. Yang to Li Zisheng’s dormitory.

“Li Zisheng, are you inside?” Zhou Linqing called, his tone subdued. The accuracy of Li Zisheng’s diagnosis, evident in Dr. Yang’s demeanor, left little doubt. Even the knock on the door was gentler than usual.

“Who knocks at my door?” Li Zisheng replied leisurely from within.

Dr. Yang’s expression turned peculiar; the boy’s retort was oddly acerbic.

“Zhou Linqing,” he answered.

Hearing the reply, Zhou Linqing felt slighted. Li Zisheng acted so grandly—did he not recognize his voice? Such affectation! Were it not for his concern that Dr. Yang might fail to cure him, he would not have humbled himself so.

With a creak, the door opened. Li Zisheng, eight years old, was short and plainly dressed, hardly the image of a prodigy. In Dr. Yang’s eyes, there was a clear disparity between expectation and reality.

“Li Zisheng, this is the medical scholar from the provincial academy. He came specifically to see you,” Zhou Linqing announced, then fell silent.

“You are Li Zisheng?” Dr. Yang asked. Though the boy differed from his expectations, his real interest was in the master behind him, so it mattered little.

“I am, sir. May I ask how I should address you?”

Li Zisheng observed him carefully. Though Dr. Yang had arrived with Zhou Linqing, he was clearly not of the same ilk. Zhou Linqing must have sought a diagnosis, and upon hearing Li Zisheng’s judgment, Dr. Yang had come to find him. If so, Li Zisheng could use this to his advantage.

“My surname is Yang,” the physician replied curtly. He saw Li Zisheng as a mere student and felt no need to reveal his full name, preferring to wait for the boy’s elders.

“Dr. Yang, what business brings you to me?” Li Zisheng asked, recognizing that the doctor’s brevity stemmed from his reluctance to converse with a child.

“You diagnosed this young man’s illness?” Dr. Yang questioned, his tone skeptical and lofty, as if instructing a junior.

“That’s correct, I did,” Li Zisheng replied calmly, neither humble nor arrogant.

Dr. Yang was bewildered. It truly seemed the boy had diagnosed Zhou Linqing alone, without guidance. Was his medical skill so refined that, at eight, he surpassed Dr. Yang himself? The thought was absurd, and he quickly dismissed it.

“How laughable! I’ve practiced medicine for decades—how could I be outdone by a child?”

Yet despite his rationalizations, Dr. Yang could not suppress his inner astonishment.

“How did you discern this young man’s illness?” Dr. Yang’s skepticism softened, his tone less imposing.

Li Zisheng remained unfazed.

“Zhou Linqing’s complexion is sallow from hunger. Though his spirit is strong, it’s clear his energy is abundant but lacks endurance—a sign of heat syndrome. His pulse is weak and floating, corroborating the diagnosis. The unusual coating on his tongue and various other symptoms point to issues with his internal organs.”

Li Zisheng stopped there, knowing Dr. Yang would understand.

The physician listened, his shock growing. Li Zisheng’s words were concise yet embodied the four pillars of classical medicine: observation, listening, inquiry, and palpation.

Moreover, his diagnosis was flawless and meticulous—his powers of observation and insight were clearly superior, and he had examined Zhou Linqing unaided.

Now, Dr. Yang’s gaze shed all doubt, replaced by fervor.

“A prodigy in the art of healing, a prodigy! Who would have thought I’d meet such a talent today? If only I could take him as a disciple, my legacy would surely flourish.”

Though his heart burned with ambition, Dr. Yang still regarded Li Zisheng as a junior. The boy’s talent was extraordinary, his observations even surpassing Dr. Yang’s own, yet decades of experience made him confident in his superiority.

“How did you come by such knowledge?” Dr. Yang, now wholly ignoring Zhou Linqing, focused only on the prodigious child before him.

“My learning is shallow, sir. I have studied medicine for two years, and Zhou Linqing is only the second patient I have examined,” Li Zisheng replied without reservation. There was no need to hide—given the registration system of the Great Tang, it would be easy to investigate his background.