Chapter Thirty-Two: Don’t Take On Work for Me Again

Emergency Room.

Jiang Tao lay motionless on the hospital bed, eyes tightly shut, his handsome face devoid of color. A conspicuous scar, recently stitched, ran across his left brow, and but for the faint rise and fall of his chest, one might have mistaken him for a corpse.

Having decided upon traditional Chinese medicine as the course of treatment, Jiang Yiyao and his wife, with Hong Chen’s tacit approval, were allowed into the emergency room. At the sight of their son’s condition, Dong Miaoyun’s eyes reddened with tears, her voice choked with sobs. Jiang Yiyao gently massaged her shoulders, patting them in a silent attempt at comfort, though agony was written plainly across his own face.

Hong Chen took the X-ray, scanned it a few times, then set it aside. He grasped Jiang Tao’s left hand and quietly took his pulse.

A full three minutes passed before Hong Chen finally let go, his brows arching high. Dong Miaoyun, unable to wait, asked anxiously, “How is he?”

Hong Chen replied with just three words: “Injuries everywhere.”

Dong Miaoyun bit her lip, releasing it again, barely able to contain her frustration at Hong Chen’s casual demeanor. Even Director Chen couldn’t help but ask, “Are you confident?”

“We can give it a try.”

Director Chen was momentarily stunned. Give it a try? Are we experimenting on a lab rat here? He was about to protest when Old Qi spoke up, “Please, no talking. You’ll interfere with the treatment.”

Director Chen swallowed his words and fell silent.

After finishing his diagnosis, Hong Chen circled the bed unhurriedly, occasionally touching Jiang Tao’s soles, shoulders, and chest. Fortunately for Jiang Yiyao and his wife, their child was a son—had it been a daughter, they might have been tempted to throttle Hong Chen themselves.

Finally, Hong Chen moved to the head of the bed. His ten fingers drifted over Jiang Tao’s scalp, tracing every feature of his face. Even Jiang Yiyao, usually steeled against emotion, felt a shiver run down his spine at the sight.

Yet Old Qi and his two colleagues showed no sign of surprise; decades of clinical experience had rendered them immune to such scenes.

Having completed his examination, Hong Chen pondered for a moment, then lifted the topmost blanket and untied Jiang Tao’s hospital gown.

With a sharp snap of his fingers, a silver needle appeared as if by magic. With great care, he inserted it into Jiang Tao’s chest. In the next moment, another needle materialized between his fingers—this one he inserted between the thumb and forefinger, and yet another at the upper edge of the navel.

In three minutes, Hong Chen had placed a total of sixteen needles. Old Qi’s eyes flickered with intrigue as he studied their positions, his brows alternately relaxing and furrowing in concentration. For Directors Chen and Shi, who were not versed in traditional medicine, the procedure might as well have been arcane script, though their eyes betrayed a certain astonishment.

After the sixteenth needle, Hong Chen paused, resting a hand on the bed rail and bowing his head in silent preparation. Then, at the head of the bed, a seven-inch silver needle appeared between his fingers.

As Jiang Yiyao and his wife, along with Old Qi and his colleagues, watched with pounding hearts, Hong Chen drove the needle into the crown of Jiang Tao’s head.

No one dared make a sound; even their breaths were held. The twenty-square-meter emergency room was as silent as a crypt sealed for centuries.

Under Hong Chen’s precise control, the needle moved in and out—at its deepest, it penetrated over four inches into the skull; at its shallowest, more than one inch.

It lasted barely a minute, though to those present it felt like an eternity. When Hong Chen finally withdrew the needle from Jiang Tao’s brain, they realized their palms were slick with sweat, their backs drenched as well.

Hong Chen swiftly removed the sixteen needles from Jiang Tao’s body, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and glanced at Old Qi and the others. “It’s done,” he said, then lit a cigarette and stepped aside to rest.

Old Qi and his colleagues exchanged incredulous glances. The sight of a silver needle driven into the brain was nerve-wracking; time itself seemed to slow. Yet the entire process, from pulse diagnosis to completion, had taken at most ten minutes. In Western medicine, that wouldn't be enough to prepare for surgery, yet Hong Chen declared the matter settled.

Speed was one thing, but Jiang Tao hadn’t even regained consciousness.

Despite their worry, Jiang Yiyao and his wife dared not approach, as if fearing their presence might aggravate their son’s condition.

At last, it was Old Qi who stepped forward to check Jiang Tao’s pulse. His expression turned quickly to one of amazement. After a deep, trembling breath, he announced, “He’s healed. Completely healed.” As his words fell, Jiang Tao’s eyes slowly opened. He exhaled a turbid breath and, seeing his parents, asked in confusion, “Dad, Mom, where are we?”

Jiang Yiyao and his wife exchanged a glance, joy and relief flooding their faces. Directors Chen and Shi also shared a look, each seeing profound shock in the other’s eyes, before busying themselves with the medical equipment.

“Young man,” Hong Chen said, flicking the ash from his cigarette as he ambled over, “next time you’re bent on dying, step on the gas and drive straight into the wall. If you want to risk your life, don’t endanger others.”

Jiang Tao’s face darkened, and he shot a hostile glare at Hong Chen. Before he could retort, Jiang Yiyao rebuked sternly, “Drunken driving, speeding, running red lights—do you want to die? If Mr. Hong hadn’t intervened today, you’d already be dead. Thank him at once.”

Jiang Tao’s bravado faltered, doubts flickering in his eyes. He remembered the crash, remembered losing consciousness—after that, he knew nothing. Could this young-looking man really have saved him?

“Thank you. Since you’ve saved my life, we’re brothers now. If you need anything, just ask. There’s nothing in Qing City I can’t handle,” Jiang Tao said sincerely, the confidence of the Jiang family’s eldest son evident in his words.

Hong Chen simply smiled. At that moment, Jiang Yiyao handed over a bank card. “It’s late and we weren’t prepared. There’s over three million in here as a token of our gratitude. Take it for now—later I’ll send a more substantial gift as thanks.”

Hong Chen uttered an indifferent acknowledgment, pocketed the card, and made to leave. Dong Miaoyun, wanting him to stay until Directors Chen and Shi completed their examination, was stopped by a glance from Jiang Yiyao.

Jiang Tao’s recovery was clear enough; keeping Hong Chen any longer might be taken as distrust, which could offend him.

Evidently, Jiang Yiyao already held Hong Chen’s remarkable skill in high regard.

Old Qi escorted Hong Chen out.

“My young friend Hong, I couldn’t make heads or tails of those sixteen needles you used just now,” Old Qi said sheepishly as they neared the elevator.

“They were to temporarily sever the connection between the organs and the brain, so that when I worked on his head, his nerves wouldn’t react. If he’d moved even slightly, it’d have been a problem,” Hong Chen explained off-hand, then eyed Old Qi with a smile. “I heard you were thirty percent confident—was that true?”

Old Qi flushed. Just then, the elevator arrived. Hong Chen waved and stepped inside. Before the doors closed, he pulled a wry face and pleaded, “Please, next time, don’t hand me another case like this.”

Old Qi didn’t respond—in truth, he hadn’t even heard. He was still digesting Hong Chen’s explanation. After a long pause, he shook his head with a sigh. “Heaven only knows what kind of master could have taught such a prodigy…”

...

Hong Chen strolled out of the emergency building, only to pause in surprise when he spotted a delicate figure beneath the dim streetlight ahead.

“Why didn’t you go home?”

Lin Yuxin approached with graceful steps, casting him a reproachful glance. “Didn’t I say I’d wait for you?”

Hong Chen scratched his head, a strange, indescribable feeling welling up inside.

“How’s the Jiang family’s young master?”

“He’s fine now.”

“Phew, it’s all thanks to Old Qi this time.”

“Why don’t you say it’s thanks to me?”

“Well, that’s true—it’s thanks to you. If you hadn’t known Old Qi, my father and the others might still be stuck inside. The lady of the Jiang family wouldn’t have apologized to me, and if you hadn’t assisted Old Qi, the operation wouldn’t have gone so smoothly. Isn’t that right?” By the end, Lin Yuxin’s eyes sparkled with mischief and teasing.

Hong Chen rolled his eyes internally, debating whether to correct her, but Lin Yuxin seemed to read his thoughts. “You want to take the credit for yourself, don’t you? Fine, since you know Old Qi, all the credit is yours. Come on, I’m a little hungry. Let’s eat before we head home.”

Hong Chen said no more, fetched the car from the parking lot, and drove Lin Yuxin away from the hospital.

Ten minutes later, their old sedan was parked by the roadside. The two sat at a barbecue stall—nearly two in the morning, the night cool and still, the occasional breeze carrying a penetrating chill.

Of the six tables, only two were occupied—Hong Chen and Lin Yuxin at one, a younger couple at the other. The man kneaded the woman’s waist with one hand while feeding her barbecue with the other. The woman nuzzled his shoulder, smiling as she chewed, the picture of happiness and sweetness.

Hong Chen glanced sideways at them, lost in thought at their intimacy. Suddenly, pain shot through his foot. Looking over, he saw Lin Yuxin glaring at him, her clear, limpid eyes brimming with annoyance, vexation, and a hint of wounded feeling.