Aside from a few scraped knees and minor sword nicks, not much action came through the infirmary in the beginning. That gave me time to study. I spent hours hunched over jars of dried herbs, flipping through brittle old scrolls, trying to decipher what each leaf, root, and fungus did.
Despite his perpetually grumpy demeanor and tendency to fall asleep mid-conversation, Old Liang turned out to be a treasure trove of knowledge. He shared his insights reluctantly, with a tone that always implied I was bothering him—even when I wasn't saying anything. Over time, I grew to respect the old grump.
But all of that quiet study time came to an abrupt end.
A young soldier stumbled in, half-supported by his comrade. Blood soaked through the cloth wrapped around his arm, dripping steadily onto the floor. His face was ghostly pale, lips tight with pain, and his eyes flickered between consciousness and blackout.
Old Liang took one look and scowled. "Too deep," he muttered, already shaking his head. "It'll take more than an herb poultice."
"We need to get him onto the bed," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. I had never stitched a living person before—pork skin back home didn't bleed or scream.
The soldier groaned as he was gently lowered onto the bed. Blood was still flowing freely, pooling onto the sheets. "First, we have to slow the bleeding," I said, grabbing a clean cloth and pressing firmly against the wound. "Hold pressure here."
Old Liang stepped closer, placing strong hands firmly over mine. "Got it."
I rolled up my sleeves, took a breath, and quickly gathered the silk thread, the needle I'd managed to curve slightly with help from a blacksmith, and the wine Old Liang had secured, alongside the saline solution I'd prepared as an impromptu antiseptic.
After several tense minutes, I carefully lifted the cloth. The bleeding had slowed significantly, now just a steady trickle rather than a gush.
The sharp, acrid scent filled the room as I poured the wine over my hands, rinsing them thoroughly, before gently pouring saline over the cleaned wound. The gash looked even worse up close—long and jagged, stretching dangerously from elbow to wrist, exposing layers of flesh beneath. My stomach twisted, but I pressed my lips together and leaned in closer.
"This is going to hurt," I said softly, meeting the soldier's glazed eyes. "But I'm going to take care of it. Please trust me."
He gave the barest nod, either brave or delirious—or perhaps both.
I reached for the needle and thread, heart pounding in my ears. As I moved to make the first stitch, Old Liang suddenly grabbed my wrist. "What are you doing?" he barked, eyes wide. "You'll tear him apart with that!"
I met his glare head-on. "Just trust me," I said, steady and clear. "I've practiced this. I can do it."
For a long second, he didn't move. Then, with a grunt that sounded like both resignation and reluctant approval, he let go of my arm.
I started the first suture.
The needle pierced skin with resistance, warm blood pooling at the site. The soldier winced, but to his credit, he didn't scream. I worked fast but carefully, the motion of stitching coming back to me in muscle memory: in, out, pull tight. In, out, pull tight. I cleaned the area as best I could between each stitch, trying to keep things as sterile as possible.
My hands were shaking by the third knot, but I forced myself to focus.
Pork skin didn't bleed. Pork skin didn't breathe or wince or make soft, pain-filled noises. But this was real—and that made it matter so much more.
The other soldiers, who had come to see what was happening, looked on with a mix of horror and fascination. Their murmurs filled the room, each whisper echoing the same sentiment: an unmarried woman, a noble guest, doing such gruesome work was unheard of.
The other soldiers murmured among themselves, their shock evident. But there was also a note of admiration in their voices. They had witnessed something extraordinary, something they would likely talk about for days to come.
Blood mixed with the wine, making everything look messier than it was. By the time I finished, the wound had been pulled closed with a line of neat, careful stitches. It wasn't perfect, but it was clean and secure.
I tied the final knot and sat back, breathless. My hands were covered in blood, my knees ached from crouching, and I could feel sweat trickling down my back. But I had done it.
Old Liang stared at the soldier's arm, then looked at me. His bushy brows were drawn tight in disbelief.
The soldier looked like he was about to pass out.
"Hey—hey, stay with me," I said, alarmed, moving quickly to check his pulse. His skin was clammy. Old Liang moved faster than I'd ever seen him, pulling a small clay bottle from a shelf. He popped the cork and pressed it to the soldier's lips. "Drink this, boy," he said gruffly. "It'll keep you from keeling over."
The soldier obeyed weakly, taking a few sips. The liquid must have been strong—judging by the way his nose wrinkled—but color slowly started returning to his face.
"He'll be fine now," Old Liang said, placing a hand on the young man's shoulder. "He needs rest. No training for at least a week."
I exhaled slowly, tension draining from my shoulders as the soldier's breathing evened out and his eyes closed—not from shock this time, but sleep.
The room started to clear out, the soldiers returning to their duties, but the atmosphere had changed. They looked at me differently now, with a mixture of awe and respect. I'd earned my place here, not as a noble guest, but as someone who could truly make a difference.
I sat down, finally allowing myself to breathe. My sister had once told me that the first patient was always the hardest. I didn't understand then, but now I did—the emotional toll, the pressure, and the sheer willpower it took were immense.
Old Liang handed me a cloth to wipe my hands. "You've got a talent," he said, his tone lighter. "But next time, maybe warn me before you start doing something so shocking."
I laughed, the sound a mix of relief and exhaustion. "I'll try," I promised. "But no guarantees."
***
The news of my rather unconventional methods spread through the Prince's quarters like a particularly juicy rumor in a sewing circle. Some dismissed it outright—"unbecoming of a noblewoman," they whispered. Others were more intrigued, fascinated by the mysterious girl who not only saved Prince Wei's life but was now stitching up soldiers like she belonged in a battlefield.
Over the next few days, I kept working in the infirmary, treating minor cuts and sprains, organizing the space, and slowly gaining confidence. But I couldn't ignore the subtle shift around me. The hallway outside the infirmary started seeing more traffic than usual. Servants would "accidentally" pass by three or four times in one afternoon, glancing in like they expected to catch something scandalous. I'd catch the tail end of hushed whispers. "That's her, right? The girl from the cave?"
The soldier I had stitched up was recovering well—too well, honestly. The rapid healing didn't go unnoticed, and naturally, that only added fuel to the gossip bonfire.
The two servant girls assigned to escort me every day began to look increasingly queasy with each new patient. Every time someone came in with a bleeding arm or a bruised rib, they'd shrink back, eyes wide, trying to look anywhere but at the injury. It was obvious: they wanted out.
One afternoon, after wrapping a particularly nasty gash on a soldier's leg, I set down the bloody cloth and turned to the girls.
"You both seem uneasy," I said gently. "You can be honest with me—do you want to keep coming here?"
The younger one, Lian, chewed her lip and glanced at her friend before answering. "Miss, it's just… we've never seen wounds like this. It frightens us."
Jia, the older of the two, gave a quick nod. "We were trained to tend to gardens, prepare tea... not this."
I offered a tired smile, wiping my hands. "I appreciate you telling me. You don't have to keep doing this. I'll speak to Madam Hui."
That evening, I brought it up as delicately as I could.
"Madam Hui," I said, trying to keep my tone respectful but firm. "The girls aren't comfortable helping in the infirmary. Is there someone who might volunteer instead?"
Madam Hui gave me a long, considering look. Her stern face softened slightly.
"It is not a task many would choose willingly," she admitted. "But I will ask."
True to her word, the next morning she met me just outside the infirmary, her expression unreadable.
"Only one girl offered," she said, already leading the way. "Her name is Xiaohua."
Xiaohua was a petite girl with bright eyes and an eager smile. Her hair, dark and glossy, was pulled back into a simple yet practical bun, with a few loose strands framing her face. Xiaohua's features were soft and approachable, with a rounded face, a small nose, and lips that curled into an infectious smile. Her skin had a healthy, sun-kissed glow, a testament to her active lifestyle within the palace grounds. She looked to be in her early twenties, with a cheerful disposition that immediately put me at ease.
"Miss, I would be honored to assist you," she said, bowing slightly.
"Thank you, Xiaohua," I replied, genuinely grateful.
As we settled into our new routine, I quickly realized that Xiaohua was a gift from the heavens—competent, curious, and entirely unfazed by blood. She didn't flinch at the sight of an open wound, didn't gag at the smell of boiled herbs mixed with sweat, and—bless her—asked all the right questions.
She learned fast, absorbing everything I showed her like a sponge. Whether it was how to wrap a sprain properly or how to grind herbs into a healing paste, she took to the tasks with a kind of quiet diligence that made me feel less like a weirdo for being so invested. It was a massive relief to have someone beside me who didn't treat the infirmary like a cursed hut in the woods.
Meanwhile, the parade of nosy palace staff continued, their curiosity clearly not satisfied. I caught glimpses of them lingering at the door, pretending to tidy nonexistent cobwebs or adjusting imaginary folds in the curtains just to sneak a look inside. Honestly, I didn't blame them. We were becoming the most exciting act in town—and we weren't even trying.
The infirmary slowly began to run like a well-oiled machine, which was great… until it wasn't.
Because for some reason—some deeply cursed reason—the number of patients started to rise. Like, noticeably.
At first, I thought it was just a coincidence. A couple of twisted ankles, a broken finger here and there—normal stuff. But by the fourth dislocated shoulder in two days, I was suspicious.
"Was there a tournament I didn't know about?" I muttered as Xiaohua handed me more clean cloth.
Then came the poor soul with a gash so deep I could see tendons. I nearly dropped the needle.
And that's when the whispers reached me.
"They're training harder now," one of the soldiers said as I stitched up his forearm, wincing. "Now that we've got a proper healer, the lads don't hold back anymore."
Oh. Oh no.
So apparently, my little humble healing station had become everyone's excuse to go full wuxia action movie during sparring. Swordplay? Harder. Grappling? Riskier. Leaping off random structures like they're auditioning for a flying scene? Apparently, yes.
I stared blankly at the soldier's bandaged arm, internal grumbling building like a pot left boiling too long. Oh sure, by all means, throw yourself headfirst into a pole. I'll just be over here, trying to invent penicillin from moss and dreams.
Of course, no one saw a problem with this. The soldiers seemed thrilled. Xiaohua was thriving. Even Old Liang, now convinced I wasn't going to accidentally kill anyone, had started calling me "Little Doctor" with a crooked grin.
Still, as the line of battered soldiers kept growing, I couldn't help but sigh.
"I wanted to be useful," I muttered, wiping blood off my hands with a cloth. "But I didn't mean this useful."