The moment her words fell, there was dead silence. Several of the overseas Chinese glanced at each other, finding it almost laughable. Such brazen audacity! Among the entourage were doctors, specially brought by the Wei couple for their son. He had just checked the boy—though a little weak, he was completely out of danger. He’d also seen the medical records: the boy’s first seizure had occurred at night when he was five, and since then, he had one every six months to a year. Over the past year, the frequency had increased to roughly once every two weeks. According to what she had just said, the boy had already had an episode, so there was no way he would have another one in ten minutes.
This person clearly didn’t want to miss such a good opportunity to make an impression and was being dramatic.
“Little girl, the human body is intricate and complex. No matter how advanced or expensive your instruments are, you cannot precisely determine the timing of a seizure. It’s fine to have ambitions, but please respect science, respect our intelligence. You say ten minutes—what is that based on? Your Eastern witchcraft? Or your comforting TCM?” His casual expression and mocking tone made it hard for anyone to accept—especially a young, sensitive girl.
In the West, traditional Chinese medicine had long been labeled with all sorts of ugly stereotypes: charlatanry, ineffective remedies, mere placebo. In reality, Western medicine relies on instruments, whereas TCM diagnoses and treats through observation, listening, questioning, and pulse-taking, often addressing problems at an early stage. For conditions like stroke, paralysis, or epilepsy, TCM could be faster and gentler on the body. Its millennia-long legacy had its own remarkable effectiveness.
Sang Zhi remained calm and unflinching, turning to Wei Lingdong. “You probably started having episodes about three months ago, right? At first, once every two or three days, and in the last month, almost daily. But the symptoms weren’t severe—slight twitching of hands and feet, lasting about five minutes before subsiding?”
He knew Wu Guan hadn’t kidnapped him. He also understood how much effort had gone into saving him but chose to remain silent. Sang Zhi, naturally rebellious, decided to press the matter—if he wouldn’t make her comfortable, she’d make him squirm. He hid his condition from his parents to avoid worrying them; she was determined to expose it.
Wei Jingrui hadn’t experienced such turbulence in years. At this moment, he had only one thought: to leave this absurd place as soon as possible. The polite façade disappeared; he nodded to the leaders and left. Only the bodyguard, Ah Cai, hesitated, glancing back every few steps.
The situation had unfolded neither particularly well nor terribly. At least everyone could report back. Only the two who had struggled to save the child bore the brunt of the work. Wang Zhang wanted to investigate who had administered the sedative. Seeing his friend’s clothes on an unfamiliar female comrade, his curiosity spiked. Jiang Yan, knowing his friend’s personality, quietly explained, “She’s a relative of Chief Cai, like a younger sister.”
As soon as he said this, his “sister” approached with a look of disdain. Without greeting anyone, she decisively buried her head in his chest. Wang Zhang’s hair stood on end—he hadn’t expected such immediate face-slapping. Jiang Yan, naturally stoic and unemotional, hadn’t anticipated public hugging in broad daylight, even with most people gone. If the disciplinary joint patrol had seen this, they’d be dragged off for a lecture.
Since returning this time, Sang Zhi had been outrageously bold, never missing a chance to get close to him. Now, fully in his embrace, Wang Zhang raised his eyebrows, smirking with meaning, “Sister…” before retreating in time.
Alone, Jiang Yan stood stiffly, hands at his sides, gaze lowered to her dark head. “Sang Zhi, I used to think you were different—quiet, aware of boundaries. Now you’re increasingly unruly. A female comrade should maintain self-respect and dignity. How can… how can you publicly hug a man? I’ll let this slide for now, but next time…”
He was handsome, from a good family, and many admired him—but only in words. Affection, hugs, and closeness, she had monopolized. The conservative man wanted her to understand limits and spoke sharply.
Sang Zhi wasn’t trying to take advantage. She hadn’t eaten much at lunch, had spent the afternoon saving and carrying a patient, and her energy was nearly spent. Dizziness and low blood sugar made her collapse into his arms for support.
Hearing his admonishment, her heart ached. Why, in the story, did her cousin fail to save anyone, returning only a corpse, yet receive recognition? After all her effort, she got distrust and mockery. And Jiang Yan—her savior—was she not allowed to show self-respect and care for herself? Was this the right way to treat someone who had saved her life?
When she lifted her face, her complexion paler than fresh snow, Jiang Yan immediately felt uneasy. Her eyelashes trembled, eyes misty and brimming with tears—so delicate, so wronged.
“I…” Jiang Yan reached to touch her forehead, but she forcefully pushed him away, showing a stubborn refusal to yield. Pulling away, she spoke coldly, “Captain Jiang is right. Female comrades must maintain self-respect, and male comrades should as well.”
Staggering against a utility pole, she fumbled in her pocket, secretly drawing out candy from her spatial storage. Her pale face made her heartbeat race even faster.
Seeing her body about to collapse, Jiang Yan moved to support her, but the moment his hand touched her, she bit him hard. Why should he make himself miserable? Why speak to her like that! Her fierce reaction reminded Jiang Yan of the dying, yet ever-ready-to-strike, wild animal cubs he had encountered during field exercises.
Apparently, hearing the commotion of someone returning, Sang Zhi finally released her bite in frustration. Wu Guan had returned before her. After eating a piece of candy, she regained some strength, ignored Jiang Yan, and allowed Wu Guan to guide her forward. Jiang Yan wanted to catch up but felt embarrassed. The three of them maintained a shifting distance—sometimes close, sometimes far.
The conversation of the two in front occasionally drifted back with the night wind.
“Those people really don’t recognize kindness—after leaving, they still mocked you, calling you an Eastern shaman, a charlatan.” Sang Zhi was defending herself.
She wasn’t angry. “These days, people who bite back without reason are everywhere, but they’ll soon be proven wrong.”
Wu Guan, unaware that she was subtly referring to her idol, nodded along. Even though the boy in front seemed fine, showing no signs of illness, he would, like Sang Zhi, defend her!
As they drew closer to the main group ahead, the doctor proudly pointed at the watch on his wrist, clearly smug.
“See? I told you it’s unreliable. I’m no King of Hell—you can’t just say ‘ten minutes’ and expect it to be exact. Ten minutes passed, and he’s still fine…”
No sooner had he spoken than the boy, held by bodyguard Ali, suddenly began to convulse without any warning.