A divine healer, a general, a young marquis! Who can rival them!

The final match was scheduled for the following day.

Yang and Hu won the first two matches. For the third match, people from all over the city flocked to the event, crowding the largest clinic in the city to the point of being completely packed, and even the long street outside was filled with people.

Song Yitie arrived early. He was dressed in a faded blue robe and sat upright behind the consultation table. His expression was no longer as arrogant as it had been the previous two days, but rather more solemn.

The elderly doctor in charge cleared his throat: "Mr. Song, what would you like to see for the third round? Please advise."

Song Yitie stroked his beard and slowly stood up.

"I lost the first two rounds." His voice was not loud, but every word was clear. "The first round was about eyesight, and the second round was about prescriptions. Both were about 'skill.' For the past fifty years, I have been proud of this skill. But after losing two rounds, I thought about it all night and finally understood something."

The room fell silent.

"In the path of medicine, technique is merely the foundation. Above that foundation lies something else." Song Yitie's gaze fell upon Yang Hu. "In this final match, I will not be testing technique. I will be testing this."

He raised his hand, gesturing towards the outside.

Two servants, supporting a woman, slowly walked in.

She was a woman in her early thirties, her face sallow and her appearance haggard. Supported by others, she moved slowly, her eyes vacant, staring ahead as if she saw nothing. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, tears streamed down her face, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed softly. After a few cries, she stopped abruptly, letting out a series of yawns, her body trembling uncontrollably.

"This is the daughter-in-law of the Pa family in the east of the city," Song Yitie said slowly. "She's been like this for half a year now. She cries for no reason, laughs for no reason, and has seizures at night. When she has seizures, her hands and feet tremble wildly, and her eyes roll back. The doctors in the city say she has epilepsy, or that she's possessed by an evil spirit. They've consulted shamans, performed rituals, and given her calming and tranquilizing medicine for half a year, but she hasn't gotten any better. On the contrary, she's getting worse every day."

He paused, then looked at Yang Hu: "Dr. Yang, in this round, let's each take a look. It's not about who can cure faster, but about who can see more accurately."

Song Yitie stepped forward first. This time, he was exceptionally cautious, taking her pulse for a long time, examining her tongue, and inquiring about her daily life and diet from her family. After a while, he straightened up, this time with genuine certainty in his expression.

"I diagnose this as epilepsy, nor is it possession," Song Yitie said, emphasizing each word. "This is called 'hysteria.' Her illness isn't due to physical signs in the muscles and bones, nor to any substantial symptoms in the internal organs, but rather to a problem with 'qi.' Her qi and blood are stagnant and unable to disperse, which is why she's prone to unpredictable crying and laughing, and so deeply saddened. There's an ancient prescription called 'Licorice, Wheat, and Jujube,' which is precisely for treating this 'hysteria.' Am I right?"

A murmur of admiration filled the room. This time, the old doctor Song hadn't misjudged the situation. To be able to spot something "dirty" amidst all that chaos of "evil spirits" and "epilepsy" was an extremely rare and remarkable skill.

It was Yang Hu's turn.

He stepped forward, but did not rush to take her pulse. He first sat down on the stool in front of the woman, looked her in the eye, and gently asked her a few questions about her family. He asked her where her family was from, what she liked to eat, and who else was in her family.

When asked the last question, the woman's empty eyes suddenly twitched.

Her lips trembled, and tears welled up again, but this time, it wasn't without reason. She bit her lip tightly, unable to utter a single word, her whole body shaking like a leaf in the wind.

Yang Hu slowly stood up and bowed to Song Yitie.

"Old Master Song's diagnosis is absolutely correct," he said in a deep voice. "The prescription of sweet wheat and jujube is exactly what's needed. But old master, this prescription may cure her body, but it won't cure her illness."

Song Yitie's brow furrowed: "What do you mean by that?"

"Because her irritability has a root cause." Yang Hu's gaze fell on the woman, his gaze extremely slow and gentle. "If the root cause isn't removed, medicine can only suppress it temporarily. Even if it's suppressed, it will relapse after a while."

He turned to face the Napa family and asked, word by word, "Is her husband gone?"

The family's expressions changed drastically. An elderly woman collapsed to the ground, tears streaming down her face: "Last autumn, she went with the army to the north, to the pass, and never came back. Her family was afraid of upsetting her, so they kept it from her, only saying that her husband was still serving in the pass."

Upon hearing this, the woman stiffened abruptly, and then a heart-wrenching wail, suppressed for half a year, burst from her throat. She cried until she almost lost her breath, but her eyes, empty for half a year, gradually regained their sparkle in this wailing.

"She's not crazy, nor is she possessed," Yang Hu said slowly, his voice heavy with unspoken sorrow. "She's been bottling up this immense grief inside, with nowhere to vent it. Over time, this stagnation of qi and blood has led to her irritability. You've been keeping it from her because you're afraid of hurting her. But you can hide this grief for a while, but you can't hide it from her own heart. Her unpredictable crying and laughing isn't an illness; it's her heart crying for her."

He stood up and said to the old woman, "Prepare the medicine according to Mr. Song's prescription. Sweet wheat and jujubes, to nourish the heart and calm the mind. But more important than the medicine is to stop hiding it from her. Let her cry freely, let her cry out all the tears she's held back for the past six months. Let her set up a memorial tablet for her husband and burn incense. Only when the knot in her heart is untied will this illness be truly cured."

The mother-in-law hugged her weeping daughter-in-law and kept kowtowing to Yang Hu.

The audience was initially deathly silent, then a low, complex sigh rose up. Many people had tears in their eyes.

Song Yitie stood aside, staring blankly at the scene. His expression changed inch by inch on his old face, which had been practicing medicine for fifty years.

After a long while, he let out a long, long sigh.

"I admit defeat wholeheartedly in this battle." His voice held no trace of competitive spirit, only deep emotion. "For the past fifty years, I've only seen the illness, not the person. I could see her stagnant blood and qi, but I couldn't see the man who died in her heart. I treated the 'illness,' you treated the 'person.' There's a saying in an ancient book that I truly understand today: 'The best doctor heals the heart.'"

He took a step back and bowed deeply to Yang Hu.

"Dr. Yang, I did not lose unjustly."

Yang Hu hurriedly stepped aside and supported his arm: "Sir, you flatter me. I only asked a few questions about family matters. In terms of fifty years of skill, I can't even come close."

Song Yitie waved his hand, and a hint of mutual appreciation appeared in his cloudy old eyes. In the three matches, he went from being unconvinced at the beginning to being convinced at the end, and he had even developed a friendship with this young man in his early twenties, despite the age difference.

As the event ended, the crowd surged. Song Yitie, however, did not rush to leave. He pulled Yang Hu aside, away from the crowd, lowered his voice, and his expression suddenly became serious.

"Dr. Yang, I'm taking the liberty of offering you a word of advice," he said slowly. "Your reputation as a doctor is widespread throughout the city, which is a good thing. But the waters in this city run much deeper than you think. A few days ago, someone from the army came to me, saying he wanted me to treat a 'noble person,' and the offer was outrageously generous. I've practiced medicine for fifty years; what kind of people haven't I seen? The way that person looked at me, the way he handed over the invitation, didn't seem like he was there to seek medical help; it seemed more like he was there to probe for something. I pretended to be sick and turned him away."

Yang Hu's heart suddenly tightened.

"You're young, and your medical skills are superior to mine, but you may not be as insightful about the depths of people's hearts as I am." Song Yitie patted the back of his hand. "In this city, not everyone who seeks medical help is actually looking for a cure. Be careful."

Having said that, he said no more, put his hands behind his back, and slowly blended into the dispersing crowd.

Yang Hu stood there, gazing at the old man's hunched back, motionless for a long time.

The army came seeking him, offering generous gifts; it didn't seem like he was seeking medical help, but rather like they were probing his situation. Song Yitie's unintentional words were like pebbles thrown into the already turbulent waters of his heart. That man surnamed Zhou, that military camp, that line that delivered grain out of the city every night—all of these things drew closer to him in his mind.

He won this highly anticipated medical contest. But he knew that the truly dangerous battle was only just beginning.