Ning came to the clinic tent after hearing that Yan had been cut. Qinghe let her stand beside the cot while she checked the stitches. The upper-arm wound had closed at the edges, but the skin and muscle remained tender. The shallow forearm slice was covered by a narrow strip of cloth, and the bruise on his shoulder darkened beneath the sleeve.
“Does it hurt?” Ning asked.
“Yes. The knife cut still hurts.” Yan kept the arm resting across his body. When he shifted his shoulder, the stitches pulled at the skin and the bruise ached underneath. Qinghe told him to let the arm settle before she inspected it again.
“Did you sleep?” Ning asked.
“Some. I woke when I rolled onto the shoulder.”
“That’s why I told you to keep it still,” Qinghe said. She checked that the bandage remained dry and that the line had not bled through. “The skin is closing, but the muscle underneath needs time too.”
Ning looked at the two dressings. “Can I bring him home today?”
“Yes. He can walk, and he can carry a light jar tray with the uninjured hand. No lifting with that arm.” “I didn’t expect the footwork to protect me from a blade.”
“It protected your tendons from the form’s strain,” Qinghe said. “It did not stop Ma’s knife.” She checked Yan’s fingers and the pulse at his wrist. “You can lift a small jar tray, but not a furnace grate. The stitches need time.”
Ning looked at the clean dressing. “Can he carry the medicine jar home?”
“Yes, with his other hand. No heavy lifting or sudden reach.” Qinghe retied the outer cloth so it would not pull when Yan walked. “Come back if the wound becomes hot, swollen, or begins to drain.”
Yan flexed his fingers. The movement pulled at the bandage, and he stopped. The cut throbbed under the stitches. His meridians felt clear; no internal strain from the footwork remained. “I’ll keep it close.”
Qinghe returned to the herb shipment while Ning stayed beside the cot. Several bundles of dried roots lay on the inspection table. Qinghe showed her the roots spoiled by damp, pointing to the pale mold beneath the outer leaves.
The shipment clerk had returned with a replacement form. Qinghe compared the crate number to the wet bundle and refused to sign the full quantity until the replacement arrived. The clerk asked whether she could accept the clean half first. She agreed, provided the damaged roots remained in the hold box and their weight stayed off the clinic ledger.
Ning watched the two entries. “If the spoiled roots are mixed back into the clean stock, the batch number won’t tell us what was used.”
“Right,” Qinghe said. “We need the replacement to have its own tag. Then the clinic can trace it if anyone reacts badly to the medicine.”
Ning copied the crate number and the hold mark. She had seen the same faded writing in the sorting room and knew how quickly a damp tag could smear. “I can make a durable copy before the clerk takes this one away.”
Qinghe handed her a dry card. “Copy the lot and the replacement quantity. Keep the spoilage note on both.”
Ning leaned near the bundle and smelled it. “I know that odor. It’s like the old cough broth we used to get in the labor quarters.”
“Could it have been the same root?” Yan asked.
“I can’t tell from smell alone,” Ning said. “The broth’s batch record would matter.”
Qinghe nodded. “Exactly. We can identify spoilage, but we need a batch record to know where the roots went. I’ll ask the storehouse to replace this bundle.”
“Can the clean batch be reserved for the clinic?” Ning asked.
“It can, if the storehouse replaces the damaged weight. I won’t take it out of the shipment before the inventory is corrected.”
Ning offered to help label the dry stock after her shift. She knew which marks faded in furnace heat and could help the clinic keep the batch numbers legible. Qinghe accepted and wrote down her name and available time.
Yan asked Qinghe, “Why did you notice my channels so quickly?”
“A physician notices patterns that do not match the wound. Your arm was bleeding, but the circulation through your channels stayed clear.”
“I practiced the movement form from a complete manual. I feel no internal damage.”
“Did you use qi while you moved?”
“No. The footwork was a movement form. I used Ashen Marrow to brace my bones, but I didn’t gather a new charge for the steps.”
“Did the movement strain your tendons before the fight?”
“The form usually should. The strain changed into stronger tendons. The knife and the rack still hurt.”
“Do you have the manual’s source?”
“Yes. I learned the complete three-step form from the yard examination manual.”
Qinghe examined his tendons again, then his pulse. “They show no expected internal strain. I’d like to compare the readings after the stitches close.”
“Why?”
“I’m curious about a pattern that does not match the injury. I’m also treating a patient. The wound comes first; the research can wait until you’re healed enough to consent to another reading.”
Yan smiled. He was curious about her work as well as the question. “I’ll come back after the stitches are removed.”
Ning looked at the damp roots. “Could they have worsened the old cough medicine?”
“I can’t tell without the batch record,” Qinghe said. “But I can show you the smell of mold before it becomes visible. If a shipment comes to your sorting room and smells like this, set it aside and ask for an inspection.”
She held the damaged bundle at a distance and showed Ning the pale line near the base. Ning recognized the odor from the labor quarters and promised to warn the sorting crew when the next root delivery arrived.
Qinghe placed the spoiled bundle in a separate box and marked it “hold for replacement.” The clean roots stayed on the inspection table until the storehouse corrected the shipment weight. Ning copied the tag number onto her work note, keeping it separate from her treatment record.
Yan asked whether he could carry a jar tray to the dry shelf. Qinghe handed him a small one with two empty jars. “Only with the uninjured hand.”
He held the tray close to his body and walked it to the shelf without reopening the wound. The injured arm remained tucked against his side. He was disappointed he could not lift the heavy grate, but the tray gave him a task that did not strain the stitches.
Ning took the clean-root list and headed back to the sorting room. She had a new batch warning to share and a shift to finish. Qinghe wrapped the dry roots and prepared to wait for the storehouse replacement.
The cut stayed painful. Yan’s meridians remained clear, and the footwork’s internal strain had not damaged his tendons. Qinghe had a reason to see him again after the stitches were removed, but she had not asked him to reveal why his body responded differently. The injury needed time, and he would give it that time.
Before they left, Qinghe gave him a simple dressing schedule and wrote the return date on a card. She asked him to come sooner if the wound became hot, swollen, or began bleeding through. Ning put the card in her treatment pouch so Yan could not lose it among his pill notes.
Outside, the medicine cart was still against the wall. Qinghe checked that the spoiled bundle remained in the hold box and the clean roots were on the dry shelf. Ning promised to tell the sorting crew to keep the next damp crate separate until inspection.
Yan walked home with the tray in his uninjured hand. The upper arm stayed close to his body. The walk was short, but the cut pulled once when he stepped down from the clinic path. He stopped, adjusted the tray, and continued at a slower pace.