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

Yang Hu's reputation for winning three consecutive matches and outskilling Song Yitie spread beyond the city walls to the surrounding towns and villages within a few days.

At noon that day, outside Yang's house in the east of the city, there was a sudden sound of rapid hoofbeats. A fast horse rushed to the gate, and the man on horseback dismounted, tightly holding a child in his arms, and scrambled into the gate.

"Miracle doctor! Please, miracle doctor, save my life!"

It was a seven or eight-year-old child whose face was now bluish-purple, and a hoarse, bellowing sound came from his throat. His small chest heaved rapidly, a frighteningly labored manner. Each breath seemed to be using up all his strength. His neck was swollen thicker than his head.

"Where did you come from?" Yang Hu rushed forward and hugged the child tightly.

"From Willow Town in the south of the city." The man, the child's father, was so anxious he could barely speak. "He was fine yesterday, but last night he developed a fever and a sore throat. This morning, his neck swelled up, and he couldn't breathe. The doctor in town said it was laryngitis, incurable, and told us to prepare for the worst. I didn't believe it! I heard there was a miracle doctor in the city, even better than the old Dr. Song, so I rushed here on horseback!"

Willow Town is about forty or fifty miles from the city. This man carried his child and ran forty or fifty miles in one go, gambling on a chance to survive.

The man's clothes were soaked with sweat and dust, clinging to his body. He probably hadn't even had a sip of water the entire way. The child in his arms was his only son. When the doctor in Willow Town shook his head and said there was no hope, he didn't cry or make a fuss. He simply held the child close, mounted his skinny cart horse, and galloped desperately towards the city. Forty or fifty miles, he was gambling on the miracle doctor in the city, a doctor he'd only ever heard of, and on the fact that his son still had a breath left.

Yang Hu's heart clenched instantly. He lifted the child's eyelids and pried open his mouth to see that the child's throat was swollen and shiny red, with only a thin slit blocking the airway. This throat ailment was caused by poisonous fire accumulating in the throat, swelling and blocking the airway. If they delayed any longer, the child would suffocate to death.

The patients waiting outside, hearing the commotion, all crowded around, craning their necks to see. Some timid women, seeing the child's bluish-purple face, covered their mouths in fright. Others, less knowledgeable, muttered that the child was probably doomed, and even a miracle doctor might not be able to save him.

Yang Hu had no time to pay attention to any of that. His eyes were fixed solely on the blocked airway. In his mind, he already had a ready-made method, a first-aid technique he had devised through his travels and experiences of life and death, a method unheard of by others.

"Quick! Lift him onto the examination table, head tilted back!" Yang Hu gave the order, making a swift and decisive decision.

"Old Master Song's diagnosis is correct; it is laryngitis." He said in a deep voice while quickly washing his hands and removing the needles. "The danger of this disease lies in its 'rapid' nature. If you were to administer ordinary throat-soothing medicine after it has been decocted, the person would suffocate before the medicine even takes effect. Right now, there is only one way. First, we need to puncture this swelling to drain the toxic blood and pus inside, open a crack in his airway, and save his breath before administering any medicine."

When the child's father heard that they were going to stick a needle into the child's throat, he turned pale with fright: "This, this is going to happen! What if...?"

"Believe it or not, it's all about this moment." Yang Hu's gaze was as calm as a still pond. "If you believe me, this child can be saved. If you don't, take him home and prepare for his funeral."

Looking at the child's bluish-purple face, the man steeled himself and knelt down with a thud: "I believe! I believe in the miracle doctor! Please save him!"

Yang Hu said no more. He took out the finest silver needle, dipped it in strong liquor, and, using the light, aimed at the most swollen and translucent spot. With his wrist as steady as a rock, he inserted the needle.

The needle pierced the flesh, and a stream of dark red pus and blood spurted out.

The child jolted suddenly, and with a "hoarse" sound, the pain eased somewhat. Yang Hu continued his work, inserting several more needles to slowly squeeze out the toxic blood and pus stuck in the throat.

The father watched in horror, his heart pounding. Several times he tried to rush forward, but Liu Ye calmly stopped him each time. He clenched his fists, his nails digging deep into his flesh, his eyes fixed on the needle in Yang Hu's hand, as if that needle were holding half his life.

After about the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, the child's bluish-purple complexion gradually faded, the rise and fall of his chest became even, and his wheezing, like a broken bellows, subsided and slowed. He then cried out in a daze.

Being able to cry means you've calmed down.

Yang Hu straightened up, a fine layer of sweat beading on his forehead. He checked the child's breathing and pulse; though still weak, the pulse had stabilized. The most dangerous hurdle had been overcome.

"He's alive! My son is alive!" The man held the child, crying and laughing, and kowtowed repeatedly to Yang Hu.

Yang Hu did not let up. He prescribed another formula to clear heat, detoxify, reduce swelling, and soothe the throat, instructing him to decoct it and give it to the child to clear away the remaining poisonous fire. Only then was the child pulled back from the brink of death.

The man thanked him profusely and wanted to leave all the money he had on him for his journey. Yang Hu only accepted the consultation fee and the medicine money, and stuffed the rest back into his hand: "Take this, buy some food for the child on the way. You've traveled forty or fifty miles, it must have been hard for you."

The man stood there, stunned, holding the few copper coins that had been handed back to him. His eyes instantly reddened. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but in the end, he said nothing. He simply held his child, whom he had lost and found again, and kowtowed three more times before leaving, turning back to look at him every few steps.

This story quickly spread. People in the city said that the name of that miracle doctor in the east of the city was now known even in Willow Town, which was forty or fifty miles away. People from the countryside who had acute illnesses that they couldn't cure knew to come to the city to find him.

In the teahouses, storytellers incorporated this incident into their tales, recounting how the miraculous doctor Yang from the east of the city saved a child from Willow Tree Town with a single acupuncture needle, drawing cheers from the audience. The owners of several large pharmacies in the city were eager to curry favor with this legendary doctor, hoping to bask in his immense fame. In no time, that small clinic in the east of the city became the most sought-after place in this border town.

After seeing the father and son off, Yang Hu stood at the door, gazing in the direction of Willow Town, lost in thought.

The man had casually mentioned something earlier. He said that along the way, when they passed the official road north of the city, they saw a group of soldiers escorting grain carts, who were checking them very strictly. Even he, who was holding a dying child, was stopped and questioned for quite a while.

North of the city. Again, north of the city.

Yang Hu quickly went through everything he had found out in the past few days. The night cart at the grain store in the west of the city, the Zhou man who delivered the message in the army, the military report that had been concealed about "fighting to the death for the country," and the soldiers checking the grain carts on the official road right now. All these things, which were originally scattered in different places, were being gathered together little by little by an unseen hand towards that military camp.

That supply route that used to deliver grain to the border every night is now being guarded and checked by soldiers even on the official roads during the day. Yang Hu's eyes gradually turned cold. It was a good thing that his reputation as a doctor was spreading far and wide. But the hand hidden in the shadows was also using that reputation to lead him step by step into that military camp.

He knew that the days he could leisurely make arrangements in this city were probably numbered.