The kit sat between Yan and Candidate Dai. It was a shallow cedar case with a wax seal pressed over the clasp. Four paper packets rested behind the clear top: cooling root, white bark, red seed, and a dark powder marked with a batch number. The candidates could read the labels but could not open the case. One test strip lay on the table beside it.
“We have twelve minutes,” said Examiner Luo. “Choose a preparation and explain why. The strip may be used once. Do not damage the case.”
Dai leaned over the labels. She had a narrow face and a square ink stain on her wrist. “The red seed gives the strongest circulation. Pair it with the root and we’ll have the most powerful formula.”
Yan looked at the warning printed beside the seed packet. “It says not to combine with cooling root.”
“The batch code is old.”
“The date says last week.”
“That is the date of the label. The powder may have been replaced.”
“If we can’t check that, we shouldn’t assume it.”
Dai looked at him. “Caution can lose time.”
“So can choosing the wrong pair.”
She tapped the case. “The task is to identify a safe preparation. If we make a weak one, we lose the score.”
“If we make a dangerous one, we lose the whole station.”
“It says one test strip.”
“Then we should use it where it matters.”
Dai exhaled sharply. “You want to test the powder against the root.”
“Yes.”
“And if it comes back clean?”
“We can discuss that after we see it.”
She watched him for a moment, then crouched enough to read the small print on the dark packet. “It says ash-flower, not red seed.”
“The red seed is the next packet.”
“I know. I’m looking at the code. The last two digits are one and seven. That’s ash-flower.”
Yan looked closer. The number beneath the warning was blurred where the ink had run. Dai was right: the code ended in seventeen. He had assumed the powder was red seed because of its dark color. The warning paired it with cooling root, but he still needed to know whether the warning belonged to that batch.
“Then we need the strip,” he said.
Dai nodded once. “One drop. Not a smear.”
They read the strip’s instruction. A single drop from the enclosed vial could be applied to the paper; two drops would make the reading useless. Luo watched from a short distance but did not intervene.
Dai held her finger above the vial. “You measure.”
“You check the strip. If the paper darkens, call it.”
“Agreed.”
Yan turned the vial until the drop formed at the lip. He let one bead fall onto the strip. The paper blushed a muddy brown, then spread black from its center. Dai leaned in.
“Reaction,” she said.
“Fast.”
“The warning is right. No cooling root with this batch.”
“We can use white bark with the warming root.”
“Not with the powder.”
“We don’t need the powder. The case asks for a safe preparation, not the strongest one.”
Dai looked through the clear lid again. “We can use warming root and white bark. But what if the warming root is understrength?”
“The batch code is legible. The ledger gives its potency range.”
“It also says the root is powdered. The flakes in the packet are coarse.”
Yan checked the label. She was right again. The examiner had included a small preparation note: crush to a uniform measure, do not increase dose to compensate for the uneven cut. Yan had skimmed it. Dai had not.
“Then we say we’d grind it before measuring,” he said. “We don’t have a mortar here, but the test asks what we’d prepare.”
“And how much?”
“A reduced measure, since the patient’s standing pulse was fast.”
Dai frowned. “That case was in the written station.”
“It’s still the condition we’re treating.”
“Good. I would have used a full measure.” She pointed at the broad end of the test strip. “The color is still changing. We need to state that the reaction means the ingredients can’t be combined, not that the powder is spoiled by itself.”
Yan glanced at the clock. Seven minutes remained. “Yes. The strip only shows the reaction between them.”
“And if the candidate uses the powder alone?”
“The label says to dissolve it separately in warm water and watch the pulse.”
“Then list that as the alternative, not the main answer.”
They talked through the dosage and order of preparation while Luo circled the tables. Dai knew measures precisely. When she said a quarter spoon, she meant a quarter spoon; Yan’s instinct would have rounded it to a convenient fraction and hoped the difference was harmless. He had worked with people who could tell when a sack was short by the feel of its drag across a floor. Dai read the measure from the carved lines on a spoon.
“You’ll need to write down the temperature,” she said. “Otherwise the warming root might be too hot before the bark is added.”
“You’ll need to state that the strip only tests the pair, or they may think we used it as a general safety check.”
They exchanged a look. The disagreement had already become useful.
“You write the measure,” Yan said. “I’ll write the reaction and the order.”
“Then we both check the final card.”
They wrote on the result slate provided beneath the kit. The wax remained unbroken. Their explanation said to separate the powder from the cooling root, prepare the warming root at a reduced measure, add the white bark only after the liquid had cooled to a safe temperature, and check the pulse at rest and while standing. The powder could be considered separately only if a physician had a reason to use it and could monitor its effect.
When they finished, Dai read the answer aloud. Yan tapped the last line.
“We should say the warming root is not the only option. Warm broth and rest may be enough before a new pill.”
“That was the written case.”
“It still matters here.”
Dai added the sentence. “Now the answer is less powerful.”
“It’s more likely to work.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “You really do think a good answer is one that doesn’t make the patient worse.”
“It helps.”
They submitted the result card with one minute remaining. Luo checked the wax, the strip, and both names. He did not ask whose suggestion had come first. He read their explanation twice and made a small mark on his score sheet.
“Full marks,” he said. “You used the test strip correctly and separated its result from the question it could not answer.”
Dai’s shoulders loosened. She smiled, surprised to have done so. “Your caution saved the batch.”
“Your measure saved the score.”
“I would have rounded it.”
“I would have called the powder red seed.”
“Then we did well to be paired.”
They stepped outside together. The courtyard smelled of wet stone. Wei stood near the low wall, rolling his shoulders after his own station. He asked Yan what had happened.
“The powder reacted with the cooling root,” Yan said. “Dai read the batch code correctly.”
Wei looked at Dai. “And you let him choose the rest?”
“He didn’t choose it alone,” she said. “I fixed his measurement. He caught the reaction.”
Wei looked as if he had expected Yan to claim the result. “Most people would have taken control of the kit.”
“I wouldn’t have measured it as well,” Yan said.
“Knowing that is its own kind of control,” Wei answered. “I would have wanted to be the one deciding.”
“You can still decide how you handle the next station.”
Wei turned his wrist and checked the ink mark from his own paper. “Good. I’ll try not to carry a tray of water like it insulted my family.”
Dai laughed. “Is that the next station?”
“Movement court. They haven’t told us the route yet.”
“Then we should save our complaints until we see it.”
They gathered by the water jars while the examiners reset the annex. Dai asked Yan to check the dosage one more time. He verified the measure; she checked the ingredient order. The result card lay between them, drying on the slate.
“It’s correct,” Yan said.
Dai folded her copy and gave him a short nod. “Good work.”
“You too.”
They left the table together as Luo called the next pair forward. In the courtyard, Wei pointed toward the east court, where assistants were carrying out wooden trays and shallow bowls. The movement test had begun to take shape, one sloshing bowl at a time.