Zhao returned before the afternoon bell. He brought Attendant Wu and a fresh pulse strip, but the cup itself was gone from the room.
“Tell me exactly what you felt,” he said.
Yan glanced at the blank strip. “Is this going into the same file as yesterday’s readings?”
“Yes.”
“Will I get a copy?”
“The infirmary keeps its own copy.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Mei set the old strip on the table. “He can see the readings taken in the infirmary.”
Zhao looked from her to Yan. “The laboratory results are separate.”
“Then write that down,” Yan said. “I don’t want the two records confused.”
Yan sat on the edge of the infirmary bed. Nurse Mei had removed the empty bowl but left the second reading beside him. He gave the account he had already given: bitter taste, qi rising through the abdomen, heat along the channels, pain easing after it peaked.
“Did the pressure continue after you lost your grip on the cup?”
“It started before I dropped it.”
“Did it travel through the legs?”
“No.”
“Did you feel cold?”
“No.”
Zhao watched his face while Yan answered. The questions were precise, and the elder did not look satisfied with any of them. “Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
“Stand.”
Yan rose slowly. He kept his knee loose and let his shoulder tremble. The tremor was real enough from the strain of holding himself tense, though his legs felt steady.
Mei checked his pulse. “He can stand. I still recommend observation through the next reading.”
Zhao’s eyes stayed on the pulse strip. “The channels are clean.”
“They were clean on the last reading too,” Mei said.
“Could the dose have been too small?”
Wu looked at his notes. “The cup was full. I measured the weight before he drank.”
Yan held his hands still. Zhao turned to him. “Did you swallow all of it?”
“Yes.”
“Did anything remain in the cup?”
“I dropped it. Some spilled.”
Zhao took the testing card from Wu and reviewed the measurements. “Perhaps the sediment changed the potency.”
Wu shook his head. “The fresh sample has no sediment.”
“Then the mixture is inconsistent.” Zhao turned to him. “Return the first cup to the laboratory. Preserve it under seal. Keep the new sample separate.”
Yan watched Wu write down the order. “Will you throw the remaining draught away?”
“No,” Zhao said. “We need to know why it produced an unusual reading.”
“I’d like to see the batch card.”
“You are not part of the laboratory.”
“I drank it.”
“And we recorded the ingredients.” Zhao folded the card and put it inside his sleeve. “That is enough.”
Yan did not reach for the cup or the card. He had a new strength he could not explain and a closed door between him and the test. He was curious, but the first drink had already taught him that curiosity did not make every choice wise.
Wu lifted the pulse stone from its padded case and set it beside the bed. Zhao nodded toward it. “Take a reading while he follows a simple circulation.”
Mei looked at Yan. “Do you feel steady enough?”
“Yes.”
“Then one turn. Stop if the pain returns.”
Yan sat upright and followed the beginner route. It moved through the widened channels without catching. He stopped after the first full circuit. The stone showed an even line, then a small rise when he breathed out.
“That’s not a damage pattern,” Mei said.
“Could he have had a natural improvement?” Zhao asked.
“I can’t determine the cause from a pulse stone.”
Wu wrote the measurement, then checked the starting mark against the previous day. “The change is consistent.”
“Consistent with what?” Zhao asked.
“With a steady circulation. The instrument does not name the cause.”
Zhao took the stone from him and checked its calibration against the reference bead. The line stayed level. “Record it as unusual, not unexplained.”
Mei said, “Those aren’t the same thing.”
“The report can say both.” Zhao returned the stone to the table. “Preserve the first cup until we know whether the sediment altered the mixture.”
“The fresh sample had none,” Wu said.
“Then compare the two.”
Wu packed the stone away. Zhao took the fresh pulse strip but left the infirmary copy with Mei. The two records now had separate keepers.
Mei asked Zhao to leave so she could finish the examination. “His readings are stable. I’ll send a note if anything changes.”
“Send it to me directly.”
“I’ll send it to the infirmary record.”
Zhao looked at her, then at Yan. He turned and left with Wu. The door shut softly behind them.
Yan flexed his fingers. “Was that a good answer?”
“It was an accurate one.” Mei checked his wrist. “The test hurt. You said so. The reading is clean. I’ll record both.”
“Will the record say I told you it hurt, or only what the pulse stone showed?”
“Both, if I write the note.”
“Can you put them in separate lines?”
Mei studied him, then took the strip and turned it over. “Your report belongs beside the reading, not inside it. I can write that the pressure rose during the dose, eased afterward, and is not present now. The pulse is a separate observation.”
“That would be clearer.”
“It would be accurate.” She wrote the symptom note in the margin and read it back to him. Yan corrected the timing by a few breaths. Mei changed it, then initialed the addition. He watched the ink dry before she returned the strip to its sleeve.
“What if they say I’m hiding something?”
“Then they can ask again. You don’t need to invent an explanation you don’t have.”
She handed him his boots. “You can go back to light work after the next check. No heavy carts until morning.”
Yan put them on. “The tally is short two jars.”
“Then the clerk can count them.”
“It’s my count.”
“It will still be there tomorrow.”
He smiled. “I’ll consider it.”
He stayed until the afternoon reading. It remained steady. Mei wrote that he could return to light work and set a follow-up for the next day. Yan walked back to the yard without staggering. He made his steps careful and did not test the new route in the open.
The first cup went to the lab in a sealed box. Zhao had a reason to study it, but the sample had not explained the smooth pulse. Yan knew the grey sediment had been there. He knew the draught had hurt. He knew that now his channels carried qi more easily. The facts stayed separate in his mind, without an answer tying them together.