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

The knife was drawn, the words were written, but Yang Hu didn't leave.

Yang Hu set up a bed and slept in a side hall of the Wei residence.

Everyone thought that the last cut was the most dangerous part. Cutting open the abdomen, ripping out the intestines, and then stitching them back up—that was a terrifying feat. The rest, they said, would be fine after some rest and recuperation.

Only he himself understands.

That blow pulled him back to the edge of the cliff, but the person on the edge was still dangling in mid-air, with an abyss below! Three days were truly the gates of hell.

A festering sore from a surgical wound is deadly; a persistent fever is deadly; and any problem with any of the many random things inside the stomach can also be deadly.

What he will do is wait.

He didn't close his eyes on the first night.

The young master of the household was also by the bedside, his eyes bloodshot. He kept glancing at his father's breathing and then at his complexion, as if trying to find a way out of his predicament.

The old man with gray hair by the bed had been simmering medicine all night, keeping it warm in the pot. He would take it out to reheat it when it cooled down, and then take it out again to let it cool down.

In the outer courtyard, the doctors who had signed their names were still there.

They say they're waiting for a "consultation," but really they're just waiting. They'll wait until the old man dies, until his pledge fails, and then they'll try to get back the fingerprints and money he was forced to put down.

The young apprentice, who was applying ash, sat quietly beside the medicine box, preparing the ironed cloths and surgical instruments that needed to be replaced.

It was a quiet night, and she poured him a bowl of water.

Yang Hu took it, but didn't drink it; he put it aside.

Qin Ying followed his gaze and saw him frowning as he looked at the old man's sleeping face on the bed. She had seen many patients in the military camp who couldn't survive the night, and she knew what that expression meant. This breath couldn't be relaxed until dawn.

She said nothing, but squeezed next to him, shielding him from the cold wind blowing into the room through the window.

In the middle of the night, there was some noise.

The old man suddenly started breathing heavily, and a strange color appeared on his face. Yang Hu touched it and found that his forehead was burning hot.

"He has a fever!"

The young master of the household jumped to his feet. "Dr. Yang, my father... he's not going to make it, is he?"

As if on command, the doctors in the courtyard rushed to the gate. The old doctor with the white beard peeked out, his eyes revealing an undisguised schadenfreude.

"I told you, once you're gutted and the poison hits the heart, the fever starts, and even a miracle can't save you... even a miracle can't save you..."

Yang Hu ignored him.

His heart sank slightly, because he had anticipated a fever. Such a major incision had left him extremely weak; a slight fever was to be expected. His fear was not knowing the cause—was there a problem with the incision? Or had this old man's body been completely drained by the surgery and was now burning up?

"Bring cold water and wine!" he said quickly and steadily. "Take a cool towel, wet it with cool water, wring it out until it's about 70-80% dry, and wipe the old man's body, including his armpits, neck, palms, and soles."

The young master was stunned: "He has a fever... and you're wiping him with cold water? Isn't that going to kill him?"

"The point is to draw this internal heat out from under the skin." Yang Hu rolled up his sleeves and personally placed a cool cloth on the old man's burning forehead. "Trust me."

Everyone in the room froze, watching the young doctor calmly and slowly wiping the body of a dying old man who had just been gutted and was delirious with fever.

Qin Ying also joined in, her hands steady as she applied the cloth towel. But she knew all too well how her heart would leap and then plummet as she watched the heat gradually subside.

This night was longer than that one cut.

The cool towels were changed several times. The first light of dawn was slowly breaking through the window in the room.

As the morning sun shone through the warm pavilion, Yang Hu once again felt the old man's pulse.

It was hot, so I went.

A layer of sweat appeared on his forehead, and his breathing became lighter, no longer sobbing like a bellows.

The fever has subsided.

The young master ran to the bed, touched his father's head, and burst into tears, this time crying tears of joy.

The faces of those doctors and pharmacists all turned into pancakes.

In broad daylight, Master Wei the Second arrived.

He was the younger brother of Old Master Wei, the second master of the household, and in charge of everything. A couple of days ago, when the old man was critically ill, he was the one who visited most frequently, his face filled with sorrow, which Yang Hu noticed.

This time, however, as he stepped into the warm room, he saw his elder brother's face on the bed, which had lost its warmth and was faintly tinged with color, and his foot actually stepped onto the threshold.

At that moment, he saw a joy in his eyes, though he didn't really know what it was.

Then, he put on a smile, walked to the bedside and said a few words here and there, then turned back to Yang Hu to bow and thank him, speaking politely and without any misunderstanding.

Yang Hu simply responded casually, but with his eyelids lowered, he took in every subtle change on the second master's face.

When his brother was critically ill, he wished he could be by his side every day. Now that his brother is about to come back to life, his bowing smile is uglier than crying.

In this grand mansion, who is in a hurry and who is not? Seeing a doctor is the obvious thing, but the shady dealings are what he wants to figure out little by little through these interactions.

Master Wei rambled on for a few moments, then excused himself, saying he had some things to do at home, and left.

Yang Hu watched the man walk out. He had overheard the servants talking about how this second master often dealt with the prefectural governor's mansion. He wondered if it was normal for the mansion's assets to be mixed up with those kinds of people, or if there was some other shady business involved. He needed to see this very carefully.

Over the next two days, the old man slept on and off, still very weak, but his strength improved day by day. Yang Hu stayed by his side, personally changing his dressings. The incision neither festered nor purulent, and he grew stronger each day.

Until the morning of the third day.

Yang Hu routinely checked the pulse, and as soon as he sat down, he saw the old man on the bed, who had been unconscious for three days, blink.

He slowly opened his eyes.

Those cloudy eyes darted aimlessly around the rooftop before settling on the face of the son—the bearded man.

The old man's withered lips twitched twice.

Everyone in the room fell silent.

The young master leaned closer, trembling, "Father, what did you say? Father, speak slowly..."

The old man let out a breathy sound, almost inaudible.

"Hungry……"

One word.

The young master froze for a moment, then immediately turned around, laughing and crying at the same time: "He's awake! My dad's awake! He said he's hungry! Someone, come here, eat... oh wait, Dr. Yang, what is he eating?"

"Have some rice water." Yang Hu finished washing his hands, pursed his lips, and said, "Just half a bowl, feed him slowly. If he's full, he can have some porridge for lunch."

The old butler shakily brought over the warm rice porridge, which the young master personally fed the young master spoonful by spoonful.

The old man was very weak, but he actually managed to swallow mouthfuls of rice oil.

After having his stomach ripped open, intestines cut out, and stitched back up, a person who hadn't eaten for three days was able to eat again?

This is something that none of these veteran doctors, who have been practicing medicine for decades, have ever heard of.

They stood guard at the door, looking at the gaunt face on the bed, now regaining its color. The words "sorcery that killed" and "even a god couldn't save him" stuck in their throats, and they couldn't utter a single word.

Only Yang Hu wasn't in a hurry to check the situation.

He covered the old man with the blanket, his expression becoming even more stern.

"We've survived the most dangerous three days." He stood up, looked at the people in the room, and finally fixed his gaze on the young master. "But there's still one thing I haven't done on the agreement I wrote."

The young master was taken aback: "A written agreement..."

"The old man will be able to walk again in three days," Yang Hu said calmly. "Today marks exactly three days."

The room immediately fell silent.

The faces of those doctors changed again.

It's already an incredible feat for a person to be alive and able to eat. But how can you expect someone who has been lying on the ground for three days, barely alive and with their stomach ripped open, to get out of bed and walk around?

No one knows when, but dozens of servants from both inside and outside the guard's residence had gathered outside the gate.

These words were even harsher than the knife wound from before.

With a single incision, he gambled only on the old man's life. But this statement was a gamble on the reputation of Yang Hu as a "miracle doctor."

It succeeded, and became famous throughout the world.

They lost. The "living bodhisattvas" who were kneeling and shouting their names just now have instantly become "murderous monsters."