Not a Fox Spirit

As soon as the words were spoken, the air in the yard seemed to freeze in an instant. Even the wind stopped, and all that remained was the faint sound of breathing between the two. Liu Mingyi’s pupils contracted sharply, and he squeezed out a dry voice from his throat, “What did you say…?”

Wei Lan pouted slightly, a bit deflated, and said, “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

Mingyi struggled to calm the storm inside his heart, and after a long while, he slowly exhaled and reassured, “I… believe you.”

Wei Lan began to explain on her own, “I don’t even know how I ended up here. Everything I’ve learned is modern medicine, which, to you, is future medicine. So…”

In Mingyi’s mind, scattered memories suddenly clicked together like pieces of a puzzle. Her extraordinary medical skills, her strange inventions, and those “common sense” ideas that he had found hard to grasp. If she truly came from the future, everything made sense.

This truth was even more shocking than the “fox spirit” theory, but it was also more reasonable.

“I understand now.” He repeated “I see” several times, a relieved expression crossing his face, clearly having pieced everything together.

Suddenly, a key thought flashed in his mind, and he blurted out, “Then when is your birthday?”

“Huh?” Wei Lan’s eyes widened in surprise, her face full of disbelief. “Is that the point? You know I come from the future, and the first thing you ask is this? Don’t you want to ask something else?”

Mingyi smiled slightly, “We’ll have plenty of time to ask later.”

Wei Lan felt a warmth in her heart, but for some reason, her nose tingled. Mingyi’s reaction was much calmer than she expected, almost too calm. She couldn’t help but ask, “Do you really believe me?”

“I truly believe you,” Liu Mingyi said seriously.

Wei Lan leaned closer to Mingyi’s ear and whispered her birthdate.

Liu Mingyi quickly calculated, then raised his eyes and smiled. “How old are you now?”

Wei Lan pursed her lips and smiled. “I’m only sixteen this year!”

Mingyi shook his head slightly. “Tell me your actual age.”

Wei Lan deliberately pouted and hummed, “I won’t tell you! I’m not telling!”

Mingyi was about to ask again, but Wei Lan shifted the topic. “Tomorrow, come with me to the medical records room in the academy and help me with something, okay?”

Mingyi smiled and nodded. “Sure.” He swallowed the words that were on the tip of his tongue and silently noted that there were many more questions he needed to ask her.

That night, Wei Lan thought about how to better combine modern and ancient medicine in the second book, beyond the “little bug theory,” and how to standardize treatment plans.

The next day, in the medical records room, Wei Lan stood on tiptoe, her fingers gliding between the spines of books on the shelf, searching for suitable medical texts.

“Which dynasty are you from? Who is the ruler there?” Liu Mingyi crossed his arms, leaning against the door frame, his eyes following Wei Lan as she moved back and forth along the shelves. He had turned into a human version of “A hundred thousand whys,” bombarding her with questions.

Wei Lan pulled out a book, “The Complete Works of Jing Yue,” and dusted off a few pages, blowing them away lightly. She whispered, “It’s the 13th year of the Chongzhen reign, that is, 1640 AD. I come from China in 2025. If you calculate it, that’s about 385 years later.” She raised her head and smiled slightly, “In that time, there were no more emperors. The country is governed by leaders elected by the people.”

Liu Mingyi froze for a moment, a confused look on his face, clearly struggling to understand the new information Wei Lan had just shared. He continued asking, “Do you still diagnose diseases using the four traditional methods of inspection, listening, questioning, and palpation?”

“Inspection, listening, questioning, and palpation are basic, but our medicine is not limited to that,” Wei Lan explained. “We also use methods like CT scans. In simple terms, we can see bones and internal organ changes without cutting open the body.”

“See bones through the skin?” Liu Mingyi frowned even more tightly. “This device is probably a magical artifact, right?”

Wei Lan set down a stack of books on the desk, teasing, “Is everything science can’t explain now considered metaphysics?”

Liu Mingyi sat down, the bamboo chair creaking slightly, and after thinking for a moment, he asked, “Can the people in your time live as long as Peng Zu? Can you make immortality pills? Can you live for a hundred years? Bring people back from the dead?”

Wei Lan, while sorting through books, casually responded, “Some people live to be a hundred, but they still experience aging, illness, and death. We focus more on disease prevention and treatment, so people live healthier lives.”

Mingyi listened, intrigued, then asked, “Do you still use oxen to plow fields? How much grain can you harvest from an acre?”

“Stop!” Wei Lan, seeing that he was straying too far from the topic, quickly interrupted, stuffing three medical cases into his arms. “Don’t ask those things. Help me pick out medical cases from the Jiajing to Wanli periods that deal with cold-induced illnesses. We’ll talk about other things later.”

Mingyi held the books, still curious, and asked, “What do you need those for?”

“I want to standardize treatment methods,” Wei Lan pulled over a chair and sat down, frowning. “Look at these medical books. For the same cold-related illness, some recommend using Guizhi Decoction, others recommend Ma Huang Decoction, and there’s also Jing Fang Bai Du San. The students get confused, and the treatments become less precise.”

She flipped open a book to a page and pointed to it. “For example, on this page, five different formulas are recommended for treating cold-induced illnesses. The students have no idea which one to use, and that’s a problem.”

Mingyi nodded. “Indeed, the different schools of thought are a problem. How do you plan to standardize them?”

“Write a new medical book,” Wei Lan slammed a blank notebook on the table, her eyes firm. “Combine the essence of ancient texts with modern medicine and create a standardized treatment plan for each disease. For example, use this set of medicines for cold-induced illnesses, and that set for diarrhea. We can’t let everyone follow their own rules and prescribe random formulas anymore.”

“This method is good, but will the old doctors accept it?” Mingyi frowned slightly, concerned.

Wei Lan, however, seemed confident. She pulled out a few sheets of paper. “That’s why we need to use data to support it.” She lightly tapped the table. “We’ll find the answers in the old medical cases. First, we’ll define the diagnostic criteria for cold-induced illnesses, then calculate the cure rates for each formula. For example, if Ma Huang Decoction cures 90 out of 100, and Guizhi Decoction cures 70, then Ma Huang Decoction should be the standard treatment.”

Mingyi’s eyes lit up. “This is a solid approach! How do we proceed?”

Wei Lan smiled slightly and began to explain in detail: “First, sort the medical cases by year. You’re responsible for those from the Jiajing period, and I’ll check those from the Wanli to Chongzhen periods. We’ll prioritize cases with symptoms of fever, chills, no sweating, and a floating tight pulse. If there’s sweating or other symptoms, we won’t include them.”

Mingyi asked, “What if the cure rates for Ma Huang Decoction and Guizhi Decoction are similar?”

“Then we compare their effectiveness,” Wei Lan opened a register and began to take notes seriously. “Ma Huang Decoction causes excessive sweating, which can be dangerous for the elderly and children. If the effects are similar, we’ll choose the safer option.”

Mingyi pondered, “Won’t this be too complicated? Many doctors may not be used to such detailed statistics.”

Wei Lan dipped a brush into ink and poked it onto the inkstone. “There may be difficulties at first, but once they see that using a standardized prescription is faster and has fewer mistakes, they won’t want to go back to their old ways. First, let’s get the cold-induced treatment system running smoothly, then we can apply the same approach to coughs and diarrhea, and eventually, we can set standards for all types of diseases.”

Mingyi nodded. “Alright, let’s start with cold-induced illnesses and take it step by step.”

The two of them leaned close, flipping through case files, carefully screening and recording. The sunlight outside the window poured in through the wooden lattice, casting its glow on the desk, and time passed quietly with the rustling sound of turning pages.

Suddenly, Liu Mingyi pointed to a medical case and asked, “What about this case where the patient died suddenly after taking Ma Huang Decoction? How would you investigate it in your time?”

Wei Lan took the fragile sheet of paper and gently circled the words “pre-existing asthma” with a cinnabar pen, saying, “First, we need to establish a list of contraindications. For example, Ma Huang Decoction shouldn’t be given to people with poor heart or lung function… or those who have symptoms of shortness of breath and wheezing.” As she spoke, she added a red warning symbol to the draft.

By the time night fell completely, the sound of the watchman’s bell echoed from afar. Wei Lan finished checking the last twenty medical cases, placing them into a wicker box labeled “Valid Samples.” She and Liu Mingyi had been busy in the medical records room all day, even having lunch while squatting at the door.

With only the two of them working on the treatment plan, the workload was too much. She thought of the students in the academy and figured she could have them help while they were doing their internships, which would solve both the teaching and organizing tasks.

Meanwhile, Liu Mingyi had drifted into thought, his eyes distant. Since Wei Lan had confessed that she was from the future, his mind had been in turmoil. He had spent the night calculating her birthdate according to the Chinese zodiac, but the 385-year gap between the Chongzhen period and 2025 made it impossible to accurately predict. He only managed to roughly estimate her horoscope. But he didn’t dare continue.

He had always been skeptical of fate and didn’t want to be bound by it. Once a fate was calculated, it would become a chain.

The paradox of fortune-telling was this: once the result was determined, a person would be controlled by it.

“One last question…” Mingyi suddenly spoke, his voice low.

“This is your eighth ‘last question’ today,” Wei Lan rubbed her sore neck, yawning, and helplessly said, “Didn’t you say we have plenty of time to ask later?”

Liu Mingyi stared at the solidified ink block on the inkstone, his Adam’s apple moving slightly. “In the future, is there a carriage or horse that can travel 300 years back in time?” His voice was tight, and his eyes never dared to meet Wei Lan’s.

Wei Lan lowered her eyelids, let out a soft sigh, and her voice carried a trace of loneliness. “No. If there were, I would have already gone back.”

Mingyi clenched his fists in his sleeves. His heart, which had almost settled, suddenly tightened again. He had thought that asking this question would bring him peace of mind, but Wei Lan’s answer left him with an emptiness in his chest. He didn’t know if he hoped she would go back or stay with him forever.