Liu Zhihan · Chat

The first frost of early winter has fallen over the capital. Inside the study of the Liu estate, the charcoal fire burns brightly, warming the room and making the scent of medicinal herbs thick and dense. Liu Zhihan sits behind a red sandalwood desk, holding a vermilion brush, with a half-finished official memorial spread out before him. He is coughing. Not a softly suppressed cough, but a violent coughing fit rising from the depths of his lungs, as if it would tear his very organs apart. He covers his mouth with a handkerchief, his knuckles turning pale from the strain. When the coughing finally subsides, a small patch of dark red has bled into the fabric. Expressionless, he folds the handkerchief and tucks it into his sleeve. Then, he continues reviewing the memorial, as if nothing had just happened. "Creak—" The door is pushed open. It is not a servant. Servants would never dare enter his study without announcing themselves. It is you. Liu Zhihan's vermilion brush pauses for a moment. He doesn't look up, only speaking softly, "The time for today's pulse reading has not yet come. You are early, Divine Physician." His tone is as flat as water, but having been with him for three years, you can hear what is suppressed beneath that calmness—he is feeling awkward about yesterday's matter. Yesterday, you told him that his chronic illness required an extremely rare medicinal ingredient, and you wanted to go to Mount Yunwu outside the city to find it yourself. He didn't object at the time. But when you pushed open your door this morning, you found twenty guards stationed in your courtyard. "I'm not going anymore," you say, walking to his desk and putting your medicine chest down. "That ingredient... I can temporarily substitute it with another prescription. Though the effect will be slower, it is not impossible." The vermilion brush stops. Liu Zhihan looks up at you. His face is as pale as paper, with a faint shadow of dark circles under his eyes, showing he clearly didn't sleep well last night. But his eyes—the very eyes that the civil and military officials of the court claim can "see through human hearts"—are looking only at you right now. "Why aren't you going?" he asks, his tone devoid of any actual questioning. "Because someone won't let me go." You open your medicine chest and take out the pulse pillow. "...I never said you couldn't go." "You put twenty guards at my courtyard gate, Lord Liu." He sets down the vermilion brush, leans back in his chair, and speaks softly and slowly, "That was to protect you. Mount Yunwu is often frequented by wild beasts." "I grew up in the mountains. I know wild beasts better than you do." He has nothing left to say. It is rare to see Liu Zhihan speechless—the Grand Secretary, who debates dozens of scholars in court without batting an eye, now purses his thin lips into a line, looking almost... in the wrong. You sigh, sit down opposite him, and gesture for him to stretch out his hand. He places his right hand on the pulse pillow, his sleeve rolled up slightly to reveal his wrist. Having been kept out of the sun for years, his skin is so pale it is almost translucent, with blue veins clearly visible beneath, like the glaze showing through fine white porcelain. Your fingers touch his wrist. His pulse is extremely weak, sometimes rapid, sometimes slow, like a candle flickering in the wind. But the moment your fingertips touch his skin, you clearly feel it—his pulse skips a beat, then suddenly quickens. "Palpitations?" You look up at him. "...No," he says, lowering his eyes, his eyelashes casting a small shadow on his pale face. "Your hands are just too cold." You pull back your left hand, warm it against the back of your other hand, and place it back on his wrist. This time, his pulse is a bit steadier, but still faster than normal. You don't press further, focusing on feeling the changes in his pulse. The room falls silent, save for the occasional soft crackle of the charcoal fire. After a long while, you withdraw your hand. "Your pulse is slightly better than last month. But coughing up blood indicates there is still stagnation in your lung meridian." You take out your acupuncture kit from the medicine chest and unroll it. "I need to give you a couple of needles." He nods slightly. You move behind him and ask him to loosen his collar to expose his shoulder. He complies—shedding his heavy cloak and loosening the collar of his official robe, revealing his thin shoulders and neck, along with a pale stretch of his nape. You take out a silver needle, twirl it between your fingertips, and precisely insert it into his Fengmen acupoint. His shoulders tense for a fraction of a second, then he forces himself to relax. "Does it hurt?" "...No." A lie. The Fengmen acupoint brings a distinct, aching soreness during the first treatment. But when he says it doesn't hurt, he likely means—because it's you administering it, it doesn't hurt. You stand behind him; from this angle, he cannot see your face. Perhaps because of this, he speaks words he would never utter face-to-face. "Last night, I had a dream." The second silver needle in your hand pauses. "What dream?" "I dreamed that you went into the mountains and never returned." His voice is very soft, almost swallowed by the crackle of the charcoal fire. "I sent people to search, searching for a very long time. In the end, they found your medicine chest at the bottom of a cliff." You remain silent. "Just a dream," his tone returns to its usual flatness. "Do not pay it any mind." But you see his hands resting on his knees, his knuckles white from gripping tightly. You insert the second silver needle into his Dazhui acupoint. This time, his shoulders do not tense; instead, his whole body relaxes slightly—as if he has finally laid down a fraction of some heavy burden. A quarter of an hour later, you withdraw the needles. He adjusts his collar and drapes his heavy cloak back on, returning once more to the cold, noble Grand Secretary. "I've adjusted the prescription. I'll have someone brew it and bring it to you later." You pack up your medicine chest and sling it over your shoulder. "About the guards—" he speaks before you can turn around. You look back at him. Liu Zhihan stands before the desk, wrapped in his thick cloak, his face as pale as the frost-covered branches outside the window. His lips tremble slightly, and in the end, he only says— "The guards will stay. But you may go out." He pauses. "...Take them with you." You cannot describe the feeling in your heart. This Grand Secretary, who holds supreme power in court and can decide life and death with a casual smile, does not know how to say, "I am afraid something will happen to you." The only way he knows is to surround you with twenty guards, and then, when you get angry, clumsily take a small step back—just a tiny step. "Alright," you say. His eyelashes flutter, as if he didn't expect you to agree so easily. "I'm leaving. Remember to take your medicine." You turn and push open the door, cold wind rushing in through the gap. "Actually—" His voice comes from behind you. You turn back. He is still standing by the desk, the firelight flickering across his pale face. He parts his lips, but in the end, he only says— "It is nothing. Go on." You nod and step over the threshold. The cold wind sweeps through the courtyard carrying fallen leaves. You tighten your collar and walk along the corridor toward the medicine dispensary. After walking about a dozen steps, you glance back. On the window paper of the study, a slender silhouette is cast—he has walked to the window at some point. Seeing you look back, the silhouette pauses for a moment, then moves away. You continue walking forward, your lips curving up slightly. The fire in the medicine dispensary is still simmering. You push open the door, and a familiar herbal scent washes over you. You put down your medicine chest, walk over to stir the medicine pot, calculating the dosage for the new prescription in your mind. Suddenly, your hand pauses. On the table next to the medicine pot lies a book. It is not a medical text or a pharmacopoeia, but a gazetteer on the geography and local customs of Mount Yunwu—and the open page happens to describe the growing environment of the medicinal ingredient you mentioned yesterday. At the corner of the page, someone has made annotations in very faint ink. The handwriting is slender and powerful; one look and you know whose it is. "This herb fears cold; it is best grown on sunny slopes. The mountaintop is unsuitable." "There is a village at the foot of the mountain where one can lodge." "Do not travel during the rainy season. It is best to depart next April." You stare at those lines of text for a long time. Next April. That is the season when his illness is at its most stable. He had calculated it all. He never said you couldn't go. He had simply calculated everything, thinking through your mountain path, your lodging, and your departure time—one by one, all for you. And then, in the most understated way, he left it where you could see it. You set down the medicine pot, close the gazetteer, and hold it gently to your chest. Outside the window, the capital sees its first snow of the winter. Fine snowflakes fall on the roof tiles, on the withered branches in the courtyard, and on the person who has stood at the entrance of the dispensary courtyard at some unknown point. He does not come in. He simply stands there, a thin layer of snow resting on his heavy cloak. Only when the sound of grinding medicine starts up again in your dispensary does he turn and leave. A trail of shallow footprints is left in the snow, soon covered by the fresh snowfall. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Push the door open, go out, and demand to know why he always refuses to say it outright when he is clearly so worried and cares so much.</choice> <choice id="2">Pretend you don't know he is outside, but intentionally leave a crack in the door.</choice> <choice id="3">Chase after him without saying a word, and simply pull him out of the snow and into the medicine dispensary.</choice> </choice_group>