Alcohol Shortage, Garlic to the Rescue

On the eighth day, the torrential rain finally ceased. The lead-gray clouds were torn apart in places, allowing sunlight to slant through the cracks and cast a glow on the muddy earth. The rising mist carried the scent of rotting grass, spreading in all directions. Although the devastation left by the flood was still shocking, the appearance of the sun brought a slight sense of relief.

Inside Weimin Medical Hall in Changsha, the place was packed with wounded patients. Wei Lan and Ming Yi were overwhelmed with work. The beds in the clinic were long filled, and even the front and back courtyards had been converted into makeshift shelters to accommodate more patients.

Most of the injured were laborers and commoners wounded by the flood—some were struck by floating debris, others were crushed by collapsing houses. The severity of their injuries varied.

Wei Lan moved swiftly between beds, skillfully treating wounds and bandaging the injured. Ming Yi was equally busy preparing medicine and directing the apprentices to distribute herbal decoctions and bandages. Under their coordination, the clinic operated in a steady, orderly manner.

However, amid this tense atmosphere, Shun Xing suddenly appeared at the entrance, looking flustered. His voice trembled slightly as he announced, “We’ve run out of alcohol.”

The news instantly disrupted their rhythm.

Wei Lan’s heart sank at Shun Xing’s words, feeling as if a heavy stone had pressed down on her chest. She had anticipated a high demand for alcohol, but she never expected it to run out so quickly. She had stocked up based on normal usage, but the number of injured from the flood far exceeded her expectations—things were far worse than she had imagined.

She stopped what she was doing and looked up urgently. “Ming Yi, can we find more alcohol anywhere?”

Ming Yi, who was crouching beside a patient, held a pair of tweezers still stained with decayed flesh he had just removed. He frowned and tossed the tweezers into a ceramic basin. “I’ll go look.”

The patient in front of him had pus and blood trickling down his leg, forming a dark streak. The putrid smell was overwhelming, making the nearby apprentice pinch his nose.

Ming Yi quickly wiped the wound with a clean cloth to minimize the patient’s pain. After finishing the bandage, he stood up and walked to the medicine cabinet, pulling open a drawer and rummaging through its contents.

His movements were fast, but his expression was filled with frustration. “There are only a few bottles left—not nearly enough.”

Wei Lan bit her lip, scanning the injured around her.

Some wounds were already inflamed and swollen. Others were still bleeding, soaking through their bandages. She knew that without alcohol for disinfection, infections would spread, making the patients’ conditions even worse.

After a moment of thought, she turned to Ming Yi. “We’ll have to distill alcohol from grain liquor.” Then she looked at Shun Xing. “Da Shun, go buy as much grain liquor as you can!”

“I’m on it!” Shun Xing shot up, understanding the urgency of his task. Without wasting a second, he dashed out of the clinic, heading straight into the muddy streets left behind by the flood.

He searched every corner of Changsha, but the situation was dire—shops were either shut tight or had their liquor stocks destroyed by the flood.

When he reached Chen’s Distillery in the Western Market, he found the shop barely standing. The door hung crookedly, swaying in the wind. Inside, the sound of clinking ceramic echoed.

Shun Xing pushed the half-open door. The place was a wreck—shelves had collapsed, broken bottles littered the floor, and the air reeked of strong liquor mixed with dust.

A burly shopkeeper crouched in a corner, carefully counting what little stock remained. When he noticed Shun Xing, his eyes gleamed with suspicion.

“Buying liquor,” Shun Xing said, brushing damp hair from his neck.

The shopkeeper kicked aside a shard of broken pottery, grabbed three green ceramic bottles from a slanted shelf, and tossed them onto the counter. “Five silver per bottle. Cash only.”

Shun Xing’s fingers clenched, his knuckles turning white. His eyes darkened.

Liquor that normally cost five copper coins per bottle was now priced at ten times that.

Suppressing his irritation, he gave a half-smile. “Quite the businessman, aren’t you? But this price is ridiculous.”

The shopkeeper scoffed, revealing yellowed teeth clamping a dry grass stem. His tone was rough. “It’s a disaster year, brother. The flood wrecked my distillery, and most of my stock is gone. What’s left, I risked my life to save.”

“This money is burning hot in my hands. Take it or leave it.”

Shun Xing narrowed his eyes and took a slow step forward, lowering his voice. “You really don’t know what’s good for you.”

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his blade, the engraved patterns pressing into his palm. His gaze locked onto the thick veins pulsing in the shopkeeper’s neck.

If he struck now, a simple flick of the blade’s back would snap the man’s neck without spilling a drop of blood. The broken ceramic shards on the ground could easily mask the injury as an accident.

The shopkeeper must have sensed the danger—his throat bobbed, and his attitude softened. “How many bottles do you need?”

At that moment, an image flashed through Shun Xing’s mind—Wei Lan’s bright, warm smile.

She had always believed that as long as he changed, he could be a good person.

A battle waged inside him. The ruthless instincts ingrained in his bones clashed with the desperate longing to be accepted. If he let his old habits take over, if Wei Lan found out—if she cast him away—

No. He couldn’t bear to lose her.

Shun Xing exhaled sharply, forcing down his violent impulses. His grip loosened on the hilt, and instead, he pulled out a pouch of coins and slammed it onto the counter. “I’ll take them all.”

—

Back at the clinic, Shun Xing rushed to the entrance, holding the bottles high. “The liquor’s here!”

Wei Lan immediately ran out, relief washing over her face. “Quick, bring it in!”

Ming Yi took the bottles and directed the apprentices to set up the distillation equipment in the courtyard. Soon, flames crackled under a makeshift still, and the process of extracting alcohol began.

Despite the urgent efforts, Wei Lan knew the supply wouldn’t last. The injured kept arriving, and the demand far outweighed their resources.

Leaning against a wall, she closed her eyes briefly, her mind racing. She recalled her medical studies, flipping through pages of memory in search of an alternative.

Then, an idea struck her. Allicin!

Her eyes flew open. If alcohol was scarce, could they use garlic instead?

She hurried to Ming Yi, her voice urgent yet excited. “Ming Yi, let’s try using garlic! Allicin has antibacterial properties—it might help as a disinfectant.”

Ming Yi walked to the bookshelf, pulling out an old Emergency Prescriptions from the Armchair Physician and flipping through it. His frown slowly eased.

Closing the book, he turned to Wei Lan. “Ge Hong recorded that garlic can be used for detoxification. It might actually work as a substitute. Let’s try it.”

Wei Lan’s eyes widened in surprise. Modern science had already proven garlic’s medicinal properties, but she hadn’t expected ancient Chinese medicine to have discovered it so early.

She asked, “How should we prepare it? Mash it into a paste? Boil it?”

Ming Yi smiled and retrieved a clay jar from the medicine cabinet, unsealing it. A strong, pungent aroma filled the air.

“This is aged garlic tincture, triple-distilled in summer. But it’s too strong to apply directly—it could burn wounds.”

Wei Lan inspected the thick amber liquid. “Can we dilute it?”

Ming Yi considered. “Dilution might weaken its effect. Instead, we can crush fresh garlic and mix it with honey—it’ll be gentler yet still effective.”

Wei Lan nodded. “Then we need more garlic. Where can we get enough?”

Ming Yi paused. “We should ask Master Zhang at the medical bureau. He might help.”