Ji Ping’an replied, “However, the red rash and scattered pulse are a bit unusual. If it were just heatstroke, you wouldn’t have bothered testing me with it, Doctor Yan. After thinking it through, I suspect… the patient may have suffered from a case of cold damage complicated by yin constraint?”

  Yan Xishan raised a brow. “And how would you treat it?”

  Ji Ping’an answered calmly, “Fumigating the navel area with cloves, myrrh, and aconite would be effective.”

  Doctor Li sat off to the side, his eyes darting between Yan Xishan and Ji Ping’an, looking at whoever was speaking next.

  But the longer he listened, the more shaken he became.

  His junior, Yan Xishan, was already considered a standout among their generation—he’d followed their master for more than ten years, receiving his complete teachings. Add to that twenty years of treating patients across the nd, and he’d studied more ancient texts and case records than most could even dream of.

  And yet this young Miss Ji, barely in her teens and born into wealth, seemed to possess extraordinary insight. The conditions and obscure illnesses she described—he had never even heard of them. What stunned him most was how clearly and precisely she id out each case. That crity allowed Yan Xishan to use theory and experience to deduce the diagnosis and treatment, keeping up with her round after round.

  But in real clinical practice, patients rarely describe their symptoms so clearly. Often, they speak in vague terms, and it’s up to the physician to interpret the pulse and symptoms. Ji Ping’an’s case examples were almost impossibly exact—too precise to be real.

  It was frightening. Absolutely frightening.

  Doctor Li quickly pulled out a pen and paper from his sleeve, determined to record every word of this discussion.

  “Impressive, impressive!”

  Suddenly, Yan Xishan shouted with admiration. The arrogance on his face vanished, repced by the fervent gleam of someone encountering a rare kindred spirit. His expression was flushed with excitement.

  “Miss Ji,” he excimed, “I have another patient. Five years ago, due to extreme grief, she became bedridden. Though her health slowly recovered with long-term care, her digestion never returned to normal. She has episodes of diarrhea sting for months, followed by complete intestinal blockage. The cycle repeats endlessly. To this day, she’s emaciated—skin and bones. Yet strangely, though her limbs are thin and frail, her belly is swollen taut like a drum.”

  Ji Ping’an asked, “What does her abdomen feel like to the touch?”

  Yan Xishan replied, “Hard and unyielding. The swelling won’t subside.”

  Ji Ping’an continued, “And her pulse?”

  "Floating and rough," Yan Xishan replied.

  Ji Ping’an stared at him steadily. He blinked, unsure of her meaning. “Miss Ji?”

  She asked, “The patient you’re describing—is it the Princess?”

  Yan Xishan nodded. “A belly swollen like a drum, and foul breath from the mouth—that’s exactly the case of the Princess. I, Yan Xishan, may be greedy, but I still understand loyalty. The Princess has supported me for many years, yet I’ve done nothing to ease her suffering. I’ve carried deep shame in my heart. That’s why I cast aside my pride today to ask for your insight.”

  Ji Ping’an said gently, “Doctor Yan, the condition you describe is complex and unusual. I do have a few ideas after hearing it, but you know as well as I do—medicine is a game of inches. A slight misjudgment by the physician and the medicine becomes poison. Could you bring me Her Highness’s full case records? If possible, I’d also like to see her in person—examine her appearance, listen to her voice, check her pulse, and ask questions. Only then can I determine how best to treat her illness.”

  “You mean…” Yan Xishan was stunned, his expression slipping entirely. “You’ve seen this illness before?”

  He stared wide-eyed. “May I ask, Miss Ji, who was your teacher? Your master must be the finest doctor in all the nd!”

  To hear such words from a man like Yan Xishan—proud, arrogant, and dismissive of all others—was as rare as the sun rising in the west.

  Doctor Li was so shocked, his jaw nearly hit the floor.

  Ji Ping’an merely smiled, saying nothing—her air mysteriously unreadable.

  After all, there was no way to expin thousands of years of accumuted Eastern and Western medicine—or the professor who used to jab her forehead with his finger and yell at her during rounds.

  “Very well!” Yan Xishan stood abruptly. “Miss Ji, I’ll return to inform the Princess immediately. Please await my good news.”

  And with that, he grabbed Doctor Li, who was still scribbling furiously at the table.

  “Senior Brother, let’s go!”

  “Wait, wait!” Doctor Li protested, struggling. “I haven’t written everything down yet! Repeat the st bit!”

  “I’ll recite it to you ter,” Yan Xishan said.

  “You’d better not ghost me!” Doctor Li shouted.

  And so, the two old men bickered their way out the door.

  Ji Ping’an couldn’t help but ugh.

  Dongchun came over and lowered her voice. “Miss, Fourth Miss Song is here.”

  Ji Ping’an raised a brow. “Hmm?”

  “She’s been waiting for quite some time.”

  Ji Ping’an asked, “How long exactly?”

  Dongchun did a quick calcution. “Nearly two sticks of incense.”

  “That is a while,” Ji Ping’an murmured. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “She said your health was more important, and that she didn’t mind waiting. She didn’t want to disturb you.”

  Ji Ping’an lowered her gaze. She doesn’t mind waiting? Hardly. It’s a cssic bitter-meat ploy.

  (Transtor Xiaobai: A "bitter-meat ploy" (苦肉计, kǔ ròu jì) is one of the cssic "Thirty-Six Stratagems" from ancient Chinese military strategy. It literally means “the stratagem of inflicting pain on oneself,” and refers to a tactic where someone deliberately suffers or pretends to suffer in order to gain trust, sympathy, or to deceive others for strategic gain.)

  Otherwise, if she saw someone was in the room and didn’t want to interrupt, she could’ve just returned ter. There was no need to stand outside all this time.

  “Please invite Cousin Zhishu in,” Ji Ping’an said.

  “Yes, Miss.”

  A moment ter, Song Zhishu entered, her maid Taoxiang following behind.

  By then, Dongchun had already cleared the table and repced it with a fresh pot of tea. The fragrant steam curled through the air. Song Zhishu’s eyes lit up slightly. “This scent… is that Longtuan Shengxue?”

  Longtuan Shengxue? Ji Ping’an blinked. What the heck is that?

  She took a sip from her teacup. It tasted nicer than what she was used to.

  But the tea she’d drunk in her past life came from the dregs of whatever her advisor was too zy to finish—ten bucks a pound at best—so she honestly couldn’t tell good tea from bad.

  Ji Ping’an looked around the room in silence.

  Since arriving at the Song residence, everything in her room had been arranged by Dongchun.

  If even a prestigious official’s daughter like Song Zhishu was shocked by the quality of the tea, then… it really must be something special.

  And if this was the tea, then the rest of the decor—what Dongchun had used to dress up the room—was probably equally extravagant.

  Ji Ping’an turned a slow, mournful look toward Dongchun. Girl… maybe tone it down just a little?

  Dongchun misread her expression. “Of course, Miss. Since Fourth Miss Song likes it, I’ll prepare a whole bag of it and gift it to her ter.”

  Ji Ping’an: “…” Tone. It. Down. You brainless little gremlin.

  “Oh, that’s far too kind,” Song Zhishu said with a smile, lowering her eyes in faux modesty. “Taoxiang, go with Dongchun and fetch it for me. I’d like to speak with my cousin alone.”

  “Yes, Fourth Miss.”

  With the maids dismissed, Song Zhishu got straight to the point. “Cousin Ping’an, I’ll be frank.”

  “Please go ahead, Cousin Zhishu.”

  Song Zhishu fidgeted with the corner of her light green embroidered handkerchief—a telltale sign she was nervous.

  “In two days,” she said, “it will be the Princess’s birthday. Ever since she fell ill, she rarely leaves her residence, except on this day each year. She cannot refuse the Empress Dowager’s request and receives guests on her birthday. Both my sister and I have received invitations.”

  She paused. “On such an occasion, all the noble dies attending must be properly dressed. Not too ostentatious to steal the show, of course—but dignified, elegant, and well-mannered.”

  Ji Ping’an nodded. “And?”

  Song Zhishu bit her lip. “I… was hoping to borrow some of your jewelry. Just to help me keep up appearances.”

  “…Ah.”

  Ji Ping’an hesitated.

  As the saying goes, lending money is easy; asking for it back is hard.

  Jewelry was no different.

  She’d only been at the Song residence two or three days and still didn’t know the household well. The original novel was a male lead-centered story, and everything was written from Song Huaizhang’s perspective, leaving her in the dark about most of the Song family.

  What little she did remember was that many people had tried to get their hands on the original Ji Ping’an’s fortune. Some borrowed things and never returned them. Some sweet-talked her into investing. It was a pattern.

  She couldn’t be sure whether Song Zhishu was someone who borrowed and conveniently forgot to repay, or someone who valued her word.

  But sentimentally speaking, Zhishu had waited outside her room for nearly an hour without compint. And logically, Ji Ping’an was still a guest here, indebted to the household’s generosity, and fated to live under this roof for some time.

  Whether by emotion or reason, refusing would make things awkward.

  Ji Ping’an gave it a moment’s thought. “Cousin Zhishu, before my father passed, he sold off most of our family’s assets. So when I came to Bianjing this time, I didn’t bring many pieces of jewelry. I’m not sure if what I have would be up to the standards of noble dies.”

  Song Zhishu replied, “Little cousin, you’re being modest. The things you have here… they’re far more luxurious than what most noble dies and madams own.”

  Ji Ping’an: “…” At this rate, the original owner really was a fat sheep waiting to be sughtered.

  Song Zhishu added, “Little cousin, I know it’s presumptuous of me to even ask, but this birthday banquet is truly important to me. Please—I’m begging you. Help me just this once.”

  Ji Ping’an smiled slightly. “Cousin Zhishu, I was born to a merchant family and have always been sickly. My father rarely allowed me to attend banquets growing up. I’ve heard the Princess is the most distinguished woman in all of Daye—might I go with you, just to broaden my horizons?”

  If Doctor Yan hadn’t yet gotten her an audience with the Princess, then the birthday banquet might at least offer a close glimpse. Maybe seeing the Princess in person—her complexion, her voice—might help confirm what illness she actually had.

  As Ji Ping’an spoke, her dark eyes sparkled with anticipation, her whole demeanor full of eager curiosity—she looked exactly like a merchant’s daughter yearning for a glimpse of high society.

  Give and take—Song Zhishu understood that well. “If you just want to see the spectacle,” she said, “I’ll speak to Third Sister. You can come along with us under the Song family’s name. That shouldn’t cause any trouble.”

  Ji Ping’an beamed. “Thank you, Cousin Zhishu. And please thank Cousin Zhiyin too.”

  Without dey, she sent Dongchun to fetch her jewelry box. Song Zhishu’s joy was clear and genuine as she eagerly began selecting pieces. Soon, she picked out a pair of butterfly-and-flower earrings, a gemstone-studded hairpin, and a jade bracelet.

  Handing the selected items to Taoxiang for safekeeping, she said gratefully, “Little cousin, I’ll take great care of these. I promise to return them just as they were.”

  Ji Ping’an smiled warmly. “Of course.”

  Once Song Zhishu and Taoxiang had gone, Ji Ping’an pointed at the teapot in front of her. “Dongchun, how much did this teapot cost?”