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A small courtyard house of mixed earthen and wooden construction showed its age through cracked wooden beams exposing weathered brown timber beneath. The roof tiles lay broken in places, unrepaired but for patches of thatch scattered across gaps.
Huang Zhong sat silently on a stone stool in this modest courtyard.
From inside came violent coughing fits—hacking, lung-racking sounds that twisted the heart.
Every year when cold weather arrived, Huang Zhong's son would begin coughing, the spells lasting four or five months. The colder it grew, the worse the attacks became, easing slightly in summer before worsening again come autumn—a cycle repeating for years.
Huang Zhong had once managed decently, hunting game in the mountains. Prime pelts occasionally brought enough coin to save. But since his son's illness began, the family's meager savings had dissolved into those endless coughs.
Many physicians had come, prescribing countless medicines, yet nothing brought lasting relief.
The doctors always spoke in terms Huang Zhong could hear but never comprehend—phrases like "defensive yang depletion causing qi circulation failure" or "yin failing to anchor yang with lost diffusion and descent." Their exotic prescriptions required ingredients sometimes impossible to find, forcing them to brew incomplete decoctions that brought only temporary relief.
Thus the illness lingered—sometimes better, sometimes worse, but never cured.
As the saying went: men fear coughs, women fear flux. Years of coughing had wasted the boy's constitution. Though nearing adolescence, his frail frame resembled a child of ten...
The coughing inside crescendoed, culminating in what sounded like phlegm being expelled before gradually subsiding into labored breathing.
The door curtain lifted as a sallow-faced woman emerged carrying a wooden tray. Seeing Huang Zhong, a single tear traced down her cheek to the ground.
Huang Zhong's jaw clenched, veins bulging at his temples as he stood abruptly and entered the house, emerging moments later with his wrapped bow. "...I'll check the mountains again," he muttered, hoping to hunt fresh game.
His wife's lips parted as if to speak, but only managed: "...Be careful..."
Both knew the odds—in this lingering cold, animals remained scarce, and Huang Zhong had already combed these hills with little success. Yet going offered some slim hope.
Nodding, Huang Zhong reached the gate just as two riders approached at a steady pace. The lead rider spotted him and waved enthusiastically.
To Huang Zhong's surprise, it was Huang Chengyang, patriarch of the Huang family, accompanied by his son-in-law Fei Qian.
Huang Chengyang's voice carried ahead: "Ho! Off hunting again, Hansheng?"
Fei Qian noted their timely arrival—had they been later, they'd have missed Huang Zhong entirely.
After ushering the guests inside, Fei Qian tended to the horses—feeding each handfuls of roasted beans from his pack before patting their necks and retrieving a cloth bundle and gourd from his saddle.
Huang Chengyang, though having visited before, noted with sadness how the courtyard had grown even barer since last time.
Seeing Fei Qian's bundle, Huang Chengyang said cheerfully: "We chanced upon a hare en route. Knowing your skill with game, we thought to impose on your culinary talents."
Fei Qian presented the bundle: "Our thanks for your trouble."
After a silent moment, Huang Zhong bowed slightly and accepted the offering. "Please wait here while I prepare it," he said before disappearing inside.
Surveying the surroundings, Fei Qian marveled that such a martial expert lived in such poverty—crumbling walls eroded by rain, patched roofs of thatch instead of tiles, all screaming destitution.
Why had Huang Zhong never taken office? Beyond his son's illness, his personality likely played a role. Huang Chengyang's instruction to bring only a hare—no other gifts—had hinted as much.
Soon Huang Zhong returned with an earthen pot of stewed hare. The three men sat around the stone table, sharing the modest meal with wine.
After a few bites, Huang Chengyang set down his chopsticks. "Hansheng, this old man has a favor to ask..." He explained Fei Qian's diplomatic mission and need for protection along the hazardous route.
Fei Qian stood and bowed deeply. "Having witnessed your martial prowess, I'd be honored by your protection."
Huang Zhong hastily raised Fei Qian up, hesitating before replying: "Not that I decline...but family matters make travel difficult..." He sighed, shaking his head.
Huang Chengyang started to speak when another coughing fit erupted inside, silencing his persuasion.
How could he insist? Asking Huang Zhong to abandon his sick son risked tragedy—if the boy worsened in his absence, how could Huang Zhong live with himself?
But Fei Qian, listening carefully, suddenly asked: "Does the fever persist?"
Though abrupt, Huang Zhong understood, eyes brightening slightly. "It comes and goes. These past days, none."
While no physician, Fei Qian's modern knowledge—especially from that global pandemic where coughs sent crowds panicking—gave him basic understanding. Many conditions caused coughing, but pneumonia was most feared—contagious and fatal without antibiotics, often progressing to consumption (tuberculosis).
Yet pneumonia typically involved high fever. Since Huang Zhong mentioned intermittent fever, it likely wasn't pneumonia but perhaps chronic bronchitis or asthma—conditions unnamed in antiquity.
Though incapable of prescribing treatments, Fei Qian saw an opportunity...
*****
A/N: Ancient medicine often lumped illnesses under single terms—like "wind-cold" encompassing everything from pneumonia (early stage) to tuberculosis (late stage). Recognizing coughs as contagious, Huang Zhong's refusal to invite guests inside reflected necessity, not rudeness. Historical records suggest Huang Zhong's son died before adulthood (hence lacking a courtesy name), and that Huang Zhong took office before 192 AD—placing his current age between 30-35, in his prime