Qinghe chose a side room behind the infirmary, where the stone walls were thick and the window looked onto a blank courtyard wall. No listening charms hung from the rafters. She shut the door and waited until Yan had checked the latch himself.
“You asked for privacy,” he said.
“I asked for a room without listening charms. There is a difference.”
“I know.”
“Good. I have compared the marks from Ma Zhen’s knife with the pulse readings after Furnace Two. Your cuts and burns behaved like ordinary injuries. The two methods you chose left your channels unusually healthy.”
“They were different kinds of harm.”
“That’s what I want to understand.” Qinghe placed her notebook on the table, but kept it closed. “If the sect decides your body is a reason to test other apprentices, I want a record that separates what happened to you from what can happen to anyone else.”
Yan looked at her hands. Her nails were trimmed short, and one cuff carried a faint green stain from medicine. “What do you gain?”
She considered the question. “A record that might keep someone from using one exception to put other people at risk. And an answer to a question I have as a physician. Your channels are strange. I want to know whether I’m looking at a temporary reaction or something repeatable.”
“You could write down that you don’t know.”
“I will. It’s not the only thing I can write.”
Qinghe met his eyes. “The last time a powerful result appeared, other people began asking what they could do to repeat it. I don’t want a candidate with no choice to swallow something because an elder wants a comparison.”
“You think they’d make them?”
“I think they might call it an opportunity.”
Yan touched the sealed medicine sleeve. “Then write down who chooses.”
“I can record that you agreed to this dose.”
“And that I checked the label first.”
“I will.”
“I want to know what happens to me. I also want to get stronger. Those are both reasons I’m here.”
“That is useful to know.”
“You don’t need to write down that I like being stronger.”
“It may matter if the result is pleasant.”
“Then write it down.”
Yan pulled out a chair. “What are you asking me to do?”
“A controlled test with a weak cultivation lozenge. The label lists a modest qi gain and a predictable headache. I’ll check your pulse first and measure the dose. You can read the label, inspect the stone, and stop before you take anything.”
“Will you record the result whether it fits your theory or not?”
“I don’t have a theory yet.”
“Good.”
She opened her notebook. On the table she placed a paper sleeve bearing the medicine stamp and a narrow measuring stone with a shallow groove cut across its face. Yan read the label from top to bottom. He checked the seal for a split, then turned the stone to see whether the mark was worn.
“The headache begins when the qi gathers?” he asked.
“That is what the label says. It usually fades after the first rise.”
“How much?”
She showed him a dose smaller than the mark on the stone. “One half of the listed amount. If you want to test the full amount later, we can discuss it after this result.”
“You’re not going to decide I should take more?”
“No. I’m recording what you agree to take.”
He liked that answer. “All right.”
Qinghe checked his pulse at the wrist, then again with the pulse stone. She read out the baseline while he watched the needle. It moved steadily, though the rhythm was so even that he expected her to call it artificial. She only wrote the measurement down.
“Starting pulse is clear,” she said. “Any pain from the arm?”
“Only if I twist it too far.”
“That’s the old knife cut, not the lozenge. I’ll note it.”
“Make sure you call it an outside wound.”
“I know what a knife does.”
Yan took the measured lozenge. Its taste was chalky, with a sharp edge of ginger. He swallowed it with a sip of water and sat back while the qi began to gather low in his abdomen.
The familiar pressure built behind his eyes. He waited for the headache described on the label. The pressure tightened for a moment, then opened into a clear, bright focus. The qi remained. He felt it settle through his meridians with a small, satisfying gain, while the unpleasant pressure became a sharper sense of the room around him.
He blinked. The wood grain on the table seemed crisp. He could pick out the fine nick in the pulse stone and the uneven thread at the edge of Qinghe’s sleeve.
“What do you feel?” she asked.
“The qi gathered. The headache didn’t stay.”
“Did it hurt?”
“It pressed, then it cleared.”
“And now?”
“Now I feel stronger.” He grinned. “I like this medicine more than I expected.”
Qinghe’s brush paused. “Is that relief or excitement?”
“Both. The label promised a headache, and instead I can see that your sleeve has a loose thread.”
She glanced at the cuff. “You are not allowed to charge extra for noticing it.”
“I’d have to be very good at noticing.”
She wrote down his words without turning them into a conclusion. Then she checked his pulse again. “The qi gain is present. The reading is steady. I’m recording the change in focus as your report, not as a medical fact until we repeat it.”
“That’s fair.”
“Do you want another dose?”
“After food and a rest. The first one settled well. I don’t need to rush the next.”
“Then we’ll stop here.”
Qinghe copied the readings onto a separate sheet and gave it to him. “This is your copy. I’ll keep the original in my notebook.”
“And the medicine label?”
“You can have that too.”
He folded the sheet carefully, though he could read it without the paper. “I thought physicians were supposed to worry about patients liking their medicine too much.”
“I worry if they ignore the dose. You read the label, checked the measure, and told me what happened. Liking the result is not a diagnosis.”
“I’ll write that down.”
“Don’t.”
“Too late.”
She shut the notebook and smiled. “Eat before the next examination. The lozenge isn’t a meal.”
He stood. The qi in his body felt settled and ready, and his vision remained sharp enough to catch a tiny crack at the edge of the window frame. He did not need the room to confirm the change. His own body had already done that.
“I’ll come back after lunch,” he said.
“If you still want to.”
“I do.”
“Then I’ll leave the room open.”
He glanced back at the table. “If this works again, I’ll want to try a stronger method.”
“You mean another medicine?”
“A technique, perhaps. One I can practice without borrowing someone else’s body.”
“Then we’ll talk about it before you begin.”
“I’d talk with you even if you weren’t writing it down.”
“That is good to hear.”
He smiled. “But if you write it down, you can remember that I said it.”
Yan went back into the corridor, carrying the record and the small warmth of new strength. Behind him, Qinghe returned to her notes. The door shut quietly, and the side room stayed private.