ITIEQ C18

Chapter 18 – A Spark of Fire

“Teacher Shen.”

Having left the pharmacy, Gao Rong suddenly spoke.

“Perhaps … I have a plan.”

Shen Qinghe gestured for him to continue.

“Though they monopolize the market and have cut off several of the herbs prescribed by the Imperial Physicians, they cannot cut off all medicinal supply. I’ve read through many medical volumes in the Academy, and there are precedents for curing plagues.” Gao Rong’s expression turned solemn at the thought of thousands of lives in the refugee camp. “Might you allow me to give it a try?”

“Of course.” Shen Qinghe exhaled a deep breath. His brows relaxed and he put on a lighter expression. “What method have you in mind?”

“In the Treatise on Cold Damage Disorders (《傷寒論》), there is a curious strategy called the ‘Epidemic Garment Method’ (疫衣法). That is, the clothes worn by a patient are removed and put onto a healthy person. The healthy one first feels mild illness but within days recovers—and thereafter resists reinfection from the same plague. This method needs only mild herbs rather than the harsh prescriptions given by court physicians.”

Shen Qinghe’s eyes lit up. Wasn’t this essentially vaccination!

A controlled, mild exposure, followed by medicine to ensure survival. Limited by current medical conditions though it may be, it should still reduce mortality greatly.

The only difficulty: convincing the venerable Imperial Physicians of something so unorthodox … but surely not harder than dealing with aristocratic clans!

He swung to the saddle, gave one last look at the gilded plaque of Qixiang Pharmacy, and spurred his steeds through plumes of dust straight back toward the refugee camp.

Leftover herbs could last five to seven days, but new infections grew by a hundred every few days. Now stocks might last only three.

“Gao Rong, what heretical book did you read that has you scraping off people’s scabs to grind into powder? Can such things really work? If it weren’t a volume in our Academy, I’d call it foreign witchcraft!”

You Luo muttered behind his thick mask as he carefully plucked a flaking scab from a patient.

Gao Rong ignored him, cutting coarse cloth into neat squares. “It’s written in the books. I’ve never tried either.”

Lang Xingyue meanwhile was gathering the scabs into a mortar, grinding them fine into powder and pouring them into a porcelain bottle for Gao Rong.

“You can guarantee this works?” You Luo jabbed a finger at the mortar.

“I cannot.” Gao Rong replied evenly. “But we shall know soon enough.”

Then, removing his mask, and before either boy could stop him, he lifted the porcelain bottle and inhaled the powder through a reed tube. He fell into harsh choking coughs.

Shocked, You Luo grabbed for his arm. “What are you doing! Do you want to die?”

Breathing hard, Gao Rong steadied himself. “Did not our forebears taste hundreds of herbs in pursuit of cures? I am but one body testing a remedy—what is the alarm? If I catch the plague, I will better know how to dose, how much to prescribe.” Tucking the bottle into his sleeve, he saw the tear-brimmed eyes of his classmates but turned his face aside. “If this succeeds, not only the refugees here, but all under Heaven may benefit. Fear not—I am a physician. I know my limits. This is the desire of my heart.”

Lang lowered his eyes. “…Gongzi, such righteousness.”

Within half a day, Gao Rong’s cheeks flushed. Ever attentive, You Luo rushed with a bowl of medicine. “Quick, drink!”

By nightfall, he burned with high fever. The two panicked. Though ordered to secrecy, they chose to report to Teacher Shen outside the camp.

Hearing, Shen Qinghe’s face hardened, and he rushed in.

Gao Rong lay unconscious, face ruddy with fever, neck streaked in scarlet rash. Everyone gasped.

Shen stormed, “Gao Rong! You’ve always been the most reliable, and now in the crucial moment you play silent hero! If this method must be tested, it should be me— not you! A healer healing himself into collapse—leaving us outsiders fumbling—what nonsense is this? And you two, helping cover it up—do you want a life on your conscience?”

This was a soldier’s gamble, a dice roll with life. And if one of his students died for it, he’d never sleep again.

“Clear back! Don’t block his breath. Bowen, take my pass-token and fetch the Imperial Physicians from the palace! You Luo, you run fastest: drag any local doctor here!”

They sped off.

Moments later, You Luo dragged in an elderly physician, literally pulling him by the arm. “Save my friend!” he cried, heedless that the man clutched sleeve to mouth, terrified of plague.

Pressured by young eyes, the physician took the pulse, then shook his head.

“What!” You Luo yelled.

Covering his face, the man said: “Even if you eat me, it changes nothing. His pulse is chaotic, heat rampant within, chills without. Hopeless. Prepare his last rites…”

“How could that be…”

The students’ eyes reddened. Gao Rong, half-conscious, forced out pale lips: “It’s … nothing…” before fainting again.

Then at last the Imperial Physician arrived, carrying his chest. Hearing his prized pupil had tested on himself, he was grief-stricken. Entering, seeing despairing faces, his own heart dropped. But upon gauging Gao Rong’s wrist, his brows suddenly twitched.

“Gao Rong!” You Luo sobbed aloud. “If only I had stopped you—if only I grabbed it—You wouldn’t die so young!”

But the Physician waved impatiently. “Cease wailing! He needs rest, not your noise scaring him half to death.”

“…What?”

“The two heats battle inside him. If he survives tonight, his life is secure. I prescribe Si Ni Tang*—make him sweat, and he’ll recover.”

* (Si Ni Tang 四逆湯 – ‘Decoction for Frigid Extremities,’ a classical formula to rescue yang and balance internal cold/heat.)

He sighed heavily. “Curious though—the illness resembles plague, yet is far weaker. How?”

The students haltingly explained all.

The physician’s eyes shone. He pondered long—then burst into loud laughter. “A brilliant stratagem indeed! But—one must refine further. Select source carefully, purge venom, distill essence intact. Then safe beyond harm. This time—he lived by fortune. Next time—may not. Restrain him henceforth!”

“Of course!” they cried, still shaken.

That night, none returned home. They piled thick straw, laid cloth, and kept vigil. You Luo even sang old lullabies—songs his mother crooned when he was ill—annoying Xu Lesheng in the next camp who cursed he’d sing Gao Rong to death either way.

At dawn, past weary night, Lang Xingyue saw Gao Rong’s lashes tremble. Fever waned at last.

Thus, across a war-scorched land where plague was deemed death’s mark, there dawned at last a cure-in-the-making. Frail as a candle in the wind, yet given time, a spark to kindle prairie fire. The hope of survival would be tied forever to Gao Rong’s name, carried across the soil of Great Yong.

For centuries, nobles had called peasants as worthless weeds. But weeds need only the smallest drop of Heaven’s rain—and life springs forth again.

The “Garment Method” and the “Scab Method,” backed by the Imperial Physician’s own witness, spread quickly. Death still came—but compared to once, when ten of ten died, now lives were spared beyond counting.

With mortal needs steadied, refugees finally took breath. They walked, they washed, they lived again. Shen Qinghe then laid plans to push “Relief through Labor” into full motion.

Refugees are like flowing water: easy to guide at source, impossible to dam downstream. In past famines, Great Yong opened the Ever-Normal Granaries not only to store grain, but, Shen Qinghe now said, to ‘store people.’ He called it “Labor Ever-Normal Granary” (勞動力常平倉).

Those bankrupt, landless, unregistered—recruited into storage. When the famine ended, release them back to labor land. Meanwhile, during storage, their labor could ‘appreciate’: teach new trades, build skills, raise value. This was true one-move-for-many-gains, treating root and branch.

Work in years of famine cost little. Aristocrats were ever hungry for projects—palaces, towers, silk, and wine. Workers hungry for food, masters waste no coin.

Implementation Shen designed: refugees divided by households into dozens of squads—A, B, C, D, each about two hundred. Each squad picked literate, esteemed locals as leaders and deputies to distribute food, enforce order, and manage labor—powers and responsibility both.

Over these were overseers, Shen’s own men, who kept records of each cohort.

As for job types: those funded by state are “public works”—riverworks, engineering, fortifications. Those funded by nobility “private works”—palaces, textile, brewing. Shen set rough wage standards based on trade, adjustable by report. Key: fairness mattered more than plenty.

What if noble clans obstructed? The Censorate would oversee, and Shen would memorialize all to the throne. Who gave more, who less, would be written black-and-white. And the officials tainted by the last Censor’s disgrace now had motive to relentlessly prove themselves.

Completed, the scheme lay ready. Shen presented it before Emperor Zhaohuan, standing tall in the hall.

His Majesty finished reading, set it down.

“Your method is bold and new, reform amid rot. Great Yong choked long on old bureaucracy—such new blood we sorely lack.”

Shen’s heart lifted; approval had come.

“The matter’s continuation—I entrust to Censor Kong.”

The red imperial seal pressed onto his words.

Shen froze.