He didn’t truly know how to read a pulse in the traditional way—he had no physician’s training. But he had something else.
“System. Activate Insight.”
There was no sound, no glow. Just a sudden shift in perception. A faint shimmer passed through his vision, and then—clear and sharp—a translucent screen blinked into view above Lady Yu’s wrist, visible only to him:
[SYSTEM DIAGNOSIS – SUBJECT: YU YUE]
Age: Early 30s
Occupation: Merchant / Information Broker / Assassin
Status:
- Congenital Asthma (Chronic, managed since childhood)
- Internal Injury (Residual trauma, lungs & diaphragm)
- Vital Energy: Fluctuating
- Prognosis: Stable, vulnerable to cold and emotional strain
Zhao Ming’s eyes briefly widened—Assassin? It explained far more than it should. The calm precision. The way she held her poise even while coughing blood. And how she wore perfume laced with medicine as if it were just another layer of silk.
But he didn’t let it show.
He kept his expression composed, gaze focused on her wrist. His fingers pressed lightly, mimicking what a healer would do, while his mind absorbed the screen’s data.
Ying’er watched from the side, wringing the cloth she held. Though doubt flickered in her eyes—after all, Zhao Ming was no doctor—there was also hope. Her mistress had suffered silently for years. If this young man could ease even a portion of that pain, wasn’t it worth trusting him, just this once?
Lady Yu’s posture remained still. She observed Zhao Ming with faint curiosity—her lips curved into a soft smile, though her skin remained pale. There was no fear in her. Only a subtle, guarded interest.
“You’re more serious than I expected,” she murmured. “I thought you came to tease a fan-dancer, not diagnose her soul.”
Zhao Ming didn’t answer immediately. He was still studying the symptoms—connecting dots in his head, watching how her pulse, breath, and energy lined up with the system’s findings. When he finally let go, he didn’t rise right away. He looked up and met her eyes.
“You’ve been living with this since you were young,” he said softly. “It’s not just the cold. Your breath shortens under strain, and when your emotions rise too fast, it weighs on your lungs. You hide it well, but you’re pushing yourself too far.”
Ying’er gasped, tears glinting in her eyes. “You… you really could tell?”
Zhao Ming nodded gently. “It’s an old ailment, but not without ways to ease it. You’ve been managing on tonics and breathing techniques, but something recently made it worse—an internal injury. Perhaps from a fight or a bad fall?”
Lady Yu’s eyes narrowed for a moment—but there was no denial.
Zhao Ming didn’t push further. He simply exhaled and said, “If you’d let me… I can show you a better way to alleviate the symptoms. It won’t cure it, but it may give you more strength than relying on medicine alone.”
Lady Yu looked at him, the teasing glint in her gaze replaced by something deeper—curiosity, perhaps even respect.
“You’re full of surprises, Young Master Zhao.”
Zhao Ming stood at last, folding his hands behind his back. “And you, Lady Yu, are far more than you let on.”
He turned to Ying’er, whose eyes were still wide with hope. “I’ll write instructions. They’ll require effort… but I think they’ll help.”
And with that, the room grew still again. Outside, the bells of the silk quarter chimed gently in the breeze. But inside, something subtle had shifted—between healer and patient, between two people who had seen more than they spoke of.
After a moment of silence, Zhao Ming turned slightly toward Ying’er and spoke in a calm, thoughtful tone.
“Do you have a smoking pipe? One carved from jade or bone?”
Ying’er blinked, startled by the unusual request, but quickly nodded. “Yes, Young Master. We have one—Lady Yu only uses it when her breathing worsens in the cold seasons.”
“Good,” Zhao Ming said. “Also, prepare a mix of medicinal leaves—mugwort, mulberry, and dried apricot pit. Grind them coarsely, not too fine. I’ll show you how to use it.”
After Zhao Ming gave his instructions, Ying’er nodded briskly and hurried out of the room, her embroidered skirt swishing lightly against the polished wooden floor. Her steps were quick, driven by more than just obedience—there was a hopefulness in her eyes, a belief that perhaps this strange, clever young man could offer her mistress even a sliver of relief.
Left in the quiet of the room, Lady Yu leaned back against the plush curve of her reclining couch. Her long sleeves pooled like mist around her hands, and her silver-accented hairpin shimmered faintly in the filtered daylight. She tilted her head slightly, amusement glimmering in her eyes as she regarded Zhao Ming.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Ying’er’s always been like that,” she said softly, her voice tinged with dry amusement. “She nags more than a mother hen when I so much as cough twice. I sometimes think she’s more anxious about my body than I am.”
Zhao Ming glanced toward the door, then back at Lady Yu. “She worries because she sees someone worth worrying about.”
Lady Yu’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Flattering, but unnecessary. I’m a merchant, Master Zhao. We trade in coin, not sentiment.”
Her words were cool, but her gaze lingered on him, evaluating. Measuring. Not with the eyes of a woman amused by a young man’s attention—but with the sharpened instinct of someone used to gauging threats and opportunities in the same breath.
“You’ve surprised me more than once now,” she said. “First the poem at Anxi—one that could rival the old masters—and now this. A gift for a girl, and suddenly you're treating an old lung condition like it’s part of your daily chores.”
Zhao Ming remained calm, folding his hands behind his back as he answered, “I’ve learned a bit here and there. Enough to know when something can be managed… and when it’s serious.”
Lady Yu tilted her head slightly, watching him as if trying to peek beneath a veil. “But you’re not a physician. You don’t wear the robes, and your hands—” she gestured gently toward his calloused fingers, “—tell the story of someone who’s held more than brushes and medicine jars.”
Zhao Ming smiled slightly. “I never claimed to be one.”
She gave a short laugh, a breathy sound muffled by the silk handkerchief resting loosely in her palm. “And yet here you are, giving orders like a field medic. You intrigue me, Zhao Ming. You don’t try to impress, and still, you leave impressions.”
Her voice dropped into a lower register, more thoughtful than teasing now. “I’ve dealt with nobles, generals, and wandering scholars—most of them predictable. But you? I can’t quite decide what kind of man you are.”
Zhao Ming remained quiet for a moment, then replied evenly, “That’s probably for the best, Lady Yu. People live longer when they don’t know too much.”
Lady Yu smirked, her amusement returning. “Spoken like someone who's seen too many knives in the dark.”
Before she could say more, the curtain rustled and Ying’er returned, her arms full—one hand holding a polished jade smoking pipe, the other cradling a small silk pouch filled with a coarse blend of dried medicinal leaves. Her cheeks were slightly flushed from running.
“I brought the best pipe we have, and the herbs you requested, Young Master,” she said breathlessly.
Lady Yu leaned forward with a light chuckle. “See? Told you. She treats me like a porcelain vase about to crack.”
“I’d say that’s devotion,” Zhao Ming replied mildly, then turned to inspect the items Ying’er brought.
But in his mind, he was already sorting through symptoms, dosages, and possible long-term treatments. Not because she was a merchant or someone useful, but because she was a piece of this fragile world—one that could either crumble or stabilize, depending on the hands guiding it.
Zhao Ming knelt beside the low table, carefully opening the silk pouch filled with the grinded medicinal leaves. He took a pinch between his fingers and brought it close to his nose, inhaling the scent with practiced subtlety. The mix had a pungent, slightly minty undertone, layered with a faint bitterness—typical of herbs used to soothe the lungs and ease internal heat.
“Hm,” he murmured. “The ratio’s a little off.”
With calm precision, he pointed at the mixture, giving Ying’er instructions. “Add a quarter more of the mulberry leaf, and just a pinch of apricot kernel—too much and it’ll be too harsh. Mix it evenly.”
“Yes, Young Master,” Ying’er replied, already moving with swift, silent hands.
Zhao Ming took a small portion and lit it in a separate bronze bowl placed to the side. Thin trails of smoke curled upward, carrying a clean, cool aroma. He watched it rise, the scent lingering lightly in the air like mountain mist.
He nodded. “Good. Mix again, then fill the pipe.”
Ying’er obeyed swiftly. She packed the jade pipe with care, making sure not to tamp it too tight, and then handed it over to Zhao Ming. With both hands, he offered the pipe to Lady Yu, who accepted it with a faint smile.
She raised the pipe to her lips with elegance born from long habit. Her fingers, pale and slender, adjusted the length with ease. When she took the first breath, the movement was fluid—graceful and deliberate, like a dancer’s pose frozen in stillness. Smoke escaped her lips in a slow exhale, curling through the golden light filtering through the carved window screens.
Zhao Ming watched in silence.
For a brief moment, he found himself caught—not by lust, but by appreciation. Lady Yu, with her knowing gaze and unhurried confidence, possessed a kind of beauty that did not shout but lingered. A beauty like dusk on winter’s edge: quiet, soft, yet dangerous if one drew too near.
He glanced away, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
If I didn’t have Murong Xue in mind… he thought to himself. This woman might’ve swept me off my feet without even trying.
Lady Yu exhaled again, the smoke escaping from her lips like a ghost slipping past silk. “Ah… this is better,” she murmured. “I can breathe without feeling like my chest is wrapped in iron.”
She looked toward the window, where the breeze outside stirred the edge of the drapery. “Even the winter wind doesn’t feel as sharp now.”
Zhao Ming nodded. “Use it twice a day—just a few minutes in the morning and again at night. If the taste turns bitter or sharp, stop immediately.”
He paused, looking at her squarely. “Also… take a walk under the sun each morning, if the wind isn’t too strong. And instead of using a furnace at night, it’s better to keep the room warm with an earth dragon stove. Less dry heat. Better for your lungs.”
Lady Yu arched an elegant brow, pipe held loosely between her fingers. “You nag just as much as Ying’er.”
At that, Ying’er pouted and folded her arms. “Mistress! At least I don’t sound so serious when I nag…”
Zhao Ming gave a small laugh and stood, brushing off his robes. “Then that’s a good balance. One nags with concern, the other with knowledge.”
Lady Yu gave a small, knowing smile. “You’re an odd one, Zhao Ming. A court official who talks like a healer, writes poetry like a wandering scholar, and thinks like a general.”
Zhao Ming only offered a half-bow in response. “I try to be useful, Lady Yu.”
He turned to leave. “I’ll take my leave now. Rest well. And… tell Ying’er not to let you smoke too much, even if it tastes sweet.”
“I heard that!” Lady Yu called after him with a playful lilt.
Ying’er followed him out, her steps light but respectful. At the entrance, she bowed slightly. “Thank you, Young Master Zhao… truly.”
Zhao Ming waved it off with a faint smile. “She’s strong. Just needs a bit of balance.”
With that, he descended the stone steps and stepped back into the bustle of Beihai’s streets, the cold wind brushing past his cloak. Behind him, Lady Yu reclined once more in her cushioned seat, the faint smoke still curling around her like a silk veil, her thoughts lingering on the curious young man who had stepped into her world like a breeze from an unexpected direction.