Yan finished a bowl of rice before he returned to Qinghe’s side room. She had lowered the shutters against the noon glare and set the same measuring stone on the table. The medicine sleeve was still sealed where she had left it.
“I thought you might change the dose,” he said.
“The first measure settled without trouble. I want the second half of the same lozenge, after food, with another reading. I don’t want a different batch mixed into the result.”
“Good.”
She asked whether his arm still hurt when twisted. He turned the wrist carefully. “The cut pulls if I go too far. It’s the same as before.”
Qinghe marked that note separately. “The first dose’s effect has settled. Pulse is steady. You can still decline the second half.”
“I want it.”
“Then show me the amount you think is right.”
Yan set the measuring stone beside the label. The dose line indicated a full lozenge for a first use, but they had divided it evenly. He placed the second half on the groove and turned the stone until the broken edge aligned with the mark.
“That is the same measure,” he said.
Qinghe checked it and nodded. “It is.”
He swallowed the second portion. The qi gathered more quickly this time. The pressure began behind his eyes, but before it could sharpen into a headache, the sensation cleared into a clean edge of attention. The room came into focus: grain in the table, a hairline crack in the cup, a tiny red thread caught at the seam of Qinghe’s sleeve.
Yan leaned back and laughed. “You really do have a thread.”
Qinghe looked at her cuff. “That is not the result I hoped to measure.”
“It’s a very clear result.”
“Tell me what you can see.”
He described the crack in the cup and the brush jar behind her. The jar’s blue glaze had chipped beside its foot. He could make out two broken roof tiles through the narrow window and a red thread tied to a laundry pole farther away.
Qinghe moved the screen, then asked him to cover one eye. “Name the objects again.”
He closed his right eye. The brush jar remained sharp; the distant thread blurred slightly. When she asked him to switch eyes, the roof tiles stayed clear but the red on the laundry line faded.
“It’s not perfect,” he said. “The farther object changes more.”
“Good. Don’t call it perfect.” She wrote the observation down. “Does the focus feel forced?”
“No. It’s easy. I’m not straining.”
“Any pain?”
“No.”
“Any nausea, dizziness, or weakness?”
“No. I feel better than before I took it.”
“The qi gain?”
“Still there.”
She checked his pulse stone. The needle moved steadily. “The improvement is real, but modest. I can measure the rhythm. I can’t measure ‘seeing clearly’ by looking at you.”
“You can ask me what I see.”
“I am.”
“Then you have a report.”
“Yes. A report from one person after one batch.”
Yan grinned. “You’ve found a way to make a good result sound dull.”
“I’ve found a way to keep it from becoming a promise to every candidate in Ashfall.”
He leaned toward the window and pointed to the laundry pole. “The red line is still there.”
“Can you see whether it’s tied to the top or the middle?”
“Top. The cloth is pinned over it.”
“And the roof tiles?”
“One is cracked through. The other is missing a corner.”
She changed the screen again. “What about now?”
“The red is fainter. The tiles are unchanged.”
She noted the screen. Yan’s eyes felt clear, not sharp in a painful way. There was no strain behind them and no need to force a blink. He sat back and let the room take its ordinary shape.
“How long has it been?” he asked.
“A few minutes since the dose.”
“It still feels clear.”
“We’ll check again after the qi settles.”
Qinghe lowered the lamps. She made him rest his eyes for several breaths, then asked him to read a line from the label. He read it without leaning forward. The fine focus had softened after several minutes but remained stronger than before the dose.
“There,” he said. “You can call it a result now.”
“I can write that the sharpness faded after several minutes and some clearer focus remained. I’ll ask the next time whether the same thing happens.”
“And if it does?”
“Then I’ll have two observations.”
“A thrilling body of work.”
“It is more useful than one dramatic claim.”
Qinghe drew a small mark on the window frame with a bit of chalk. “Can you see the line from your chair?”
Yan squinted. “Yes. It bends at the corner.”
“Now close your eyes for ten breaths.”
He did. When he opened them, the chalk line was still clear, though not as sharp. She asked him to read a sentence from the label across the table, then move it one hand span farther away. He could read it both times without leaning. The letters held their shape; his eyes did not ache.
“What did you expect?” he asked.
“I didn’t know. I wanted to find out whether the change was only for distant objects.”
“It’s not. The tiny print is clearer too.”
She placed the measuring stone near the window and asked him to name the groove. He could see a pale chip in its edge, nearly hidden beneath the thumb mark. “There’s a chip on the left.”
“There is.” She checked it herself and added the observation. “That does not tell me whether the effect is sight, attention, or both.”
“It tells you I saw the chip.”
“Yes. I’m glad you did. Now I know what to test next.”
Yan rolled his shoulders. He felt energized, not strained. The two halves had left him with a modest qi gain and an unusually clean sense of sight. “Can I take a walk before the next trial?”
“Yes. Stay out of the sun for a little while.”
“That sounds like an instruction.”
“It is.”
“Will you write it down?”
“Only if you make me repeat it.”
He left her the empty sleeve. She wrote the duration beside the pulse readings, then added a small question about whether the effect depended on dose. Yan glanced at his copy before folding it. The mark from his first dose and the mark from the second were distinct, though the medicine had come from the same lozenge.
“I’ll bring the notes next time,” he said.
“Bring yourself. The notes can wait.”
He tucked the folded reading into his coat. “I like that the dose gave me qi and made the room clearer. I don’t want to pretend the headache is waiting somewhere to catch up with me.”
“I didn’t observe a delayed headache.”
“You didn’t observe any headache at all.”
“You reported pressure, then a change in focus.”
“That’s what happened.”
“Then that is what I’ll write.”
Yan glanced at the window. The roof tiles were still distinct, but the fine line on the frame had softened. “I’d like to repeat the test another day, with a different dose and not right before an exam.”
“That would make the comparison cleaner.”
“And I can be rested instead of listening for the next bell.”
“You are learning to design a test.”
“I’m learning to get the best result.”
He grinned and went out into the corridor. The exam voices and footsteps sounded crisp, the stone floor showed every seam, and his body felt ready to move. He walked back toward the courtyard with a new advantage he could enjoy without pretending it meant more than it did.