Lin Wei's reputation, like ripples on a pond, eventually reached the seat of local power.
The summons to the Magistrate's compound came on a day when the air itself felt heavy with impending rain. Lin Wei's modest clinic, still smelling of drying herbs and the faint, clean scent of the antiseptic wine he used, was suddenly filled with the presence of the Magistrate's steward. The man's silk robes seemed out of place amidst the humble surroundings.
"Physician Lin," the steward said, his voice devoid of warmth. "The Magistrate requests your immediate presence. A matter of grave illness."
Refusal was not an option. As Lin Wei followed the steward through the increasingly opulent courtyards of the compound, he felt the weight of the situation. This was not another farmer or craftsman; this was power. And power, when sick, was infinitely more dangerous.
The air in the inner chamber was thick with a desperate silence, broken only by the labored, wet breathing of the man on the bed. Magistrate Wang stood over his uncle, his face etched with a helpless anxiety that transcended his authority. By his side stood Doctor Wang, the local physician, whose expression shifted from professional concern to thinly veiled hostility as Lin Wei entered.
The patient was a portrait of suffering. His body was emaciated, yet his abdomen was monstrously swollen, the skin stretched to a painful gloss. Lin Wei didn't need his system to tell him it was a classic case of end-stage ascites, but the interface flickered to life anyway, confirming his fears with cold, clinical precision. The prognosis was poor, the risk of infection from any invasive procedure—catastrophic.
He conducted his examination with a methodical calm that seemed to amplify the tension in the room. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, each one chosen to bridge the gap between his modern knowledge and their ancient understanding.
"The illness has caused the body's waters to flood the wrong chambers," he explained, his gaze steady on the Magistrate. "They now crush his lungs and heart from below. The herbs you have used are like bailing a flooded boat with a thimble. They cannot keep pace."
He then presented the terrible choice. "There is a way to release the waters. I can insert a fine tube and drain them, which will grant him immediate relief. He will breathe easily again." He paused, letting the glimmer of hope shine in the Magistrate's eyes before delivering the necessary blow. "But the act is a double-edged sword. To drain the fluid is to open a gate into the body's fortress. It offers relief, but it also invites the smallest, most vicious invaders—the corruptions that cause raging fevers. Once these invaders are inside, my power to fight them is… limited. The risk is very real, and very high."
Doctor Wang could contain himself no longer. "Preposterous! To pierce the body is to violate the natural order! It is butchery, not medicine!"
The Magistrate looked from the confident, traditional doctor to the grave-faced newcomer, then back to his uncle, whose eyes pleaded for relief from the suffocating pressure. The old man gasped a single word: "Please."
With a tortured sigh, the Magistrate gave his consent. "Do it. Ease his suffering. The consequences are mine to bear."
What followed was a tense, silent ballet of preparation. Lin Wei, ignoring the suspicious stares, transformed a corner of the luxurious room into a crude imitation of a sterile field. He demanded the finest bronze probes, had them boiled repeatedly over the fire, and cleansed the patient's skin with meticulous care. When he finally made the puncture, the release of fluid was swift. The uncle's breath eased into a deep, relieved sigh almost instantly. The gratitude in the room was palpable, the Magistrate pressing a heavy purse of silver into Lin Wei's hand with tearful thanks.
But Lin Wei felt no victory. As he left the compound, the purse felt like a lead weight. He had delivered his warning, and he knew with the certainty of a scientist that the clock was now ticking. The days that followed were spent in a state of grim anticipation, each knock on the door of his clinic sending a jolt of fear through him.
The knock that finally came was not a request for entry. It was the sound of the door splintering under the force of guards. The Magistrate stood behind them, his face transformed by grief into a mask of cold fury. Doctor Wang was at his elbow, his expression one of grim vindication.
"The fever came," the Magistrate said, his voice trembling with rage. "A fire in the blood that no prayer or potion could quench. He died in agony." He pointed a shaking finger at Lin Wei. "Your quackery killed him."
There was no trial, only a swift, public sentencing in the town square. "Lin Wei, for the crime of causing death through reckless medical malpractice, you are hereby condemned to serve the Emperor on the Northern Frontier. You will join the penal battalion and expend your life in defense of the realm."
The chains were heavy and cold around his wrists. The journey north was a blur of hardship, a procession of despair marching toward the edge of the known world. The fertile, familiar landscapes of his home gave way to harsh, scrub-covered hills and a biting wind that spoke of the vast, hostile empire of the Jin that lay beyond.
Weeks later, they arrived at a military camp that was little more than a fortified dirt yard surrounded by a wooden palisade. The air stank of sweat, smoke, and despair. He was issued a rust-pitted spear and a threadbare uniform, his identity as a physician stripped away as completely as his freedom. He was now just another convict, a disposable body for the front lines.
As he stood in the mud, surrounded by the hardened faces of thieves and murderers, the system interface, which had been silent since the catastrophe, flickered once in the corner of his vision. No diagnoses, no skill updates. Just two simple, stark words that defined his new existence.
"[Directive: Survive.]"
The war for his life was no longer metaphorical. It was about to begin.