Chapter Sixty-Seven: Love Deeper Than Water

As the old master’s adopted son, saying he didn’t want to trouble the old man felt so distant, and Lin Yang couldn’t help but recall a torrent of memories. He remembered vividly the origins of the old master’s illness—it traced back to when he was fifteen, and if memory served, it was a kind of poisoning. Strangely enough, both of them fell ill at the same time, which was truly hard to comprehend.

When Zhang Zifeng suddenly left, Lin Yang had questioned the old master about it, but instead received a stern scolding. Though it puzzled him, he chalked it up to his youth and never dwelled on it. Now, looking back, he realized there were far too many unanswered questions.

After some investigation, Lin Yang learned that Zhang Zifeng’s injury was at his waist. From Su Qin’s description, the wound nearly spanned his entire lower back and was three centimeters deep. Thinking of such a gruesome injury, Lin Yang felt a chill—what kind of man could survive such a wound, especially while carrying a deadly toxin?

Time was life; learning that Zhang Zifeng’s condition was critical, Lin Yang stopped asking questions. He suppressed his curiosity about Su Qin’s unusual attire, stood up, and left, asking Liu Meng, the beautiful nurse and personal doctor, to handle any follow-up care that couldn’t be managed at home.

Returning to his office, he took the clearly anxious Su Qin and headed out.

“Yang, don’t you still have patients to treat?” Su Qin paused, confused. Before coming to Thirteen Blades Plastic Surgery Hospital, she knew all the rumors and gossip about the place. Lin Yang’s principle of treating only four patients a day was well-known, and now he was leaving with her, apparently abandoning the rest. This moved her, but also filled her with guilt.

“It’s fine. If need be, I’ll treat them tomorrow. It’s not as if skipping a day will kill them,” Lin Yang said, carefree, flashing a mischievous smile at the newly disguised Su Qin—a beautiful woman now looking every bit the learned scholar.

“I’d like to thank you on Feng’s behalf,” Su Qin’s voice broke. Years of hardship had etched themselves deeply into her face. She’d maintained herself well, but a closer look revealed the traces.

Despite her efforts, tears welled up and spilled from her eyes. Lin Yang reached into his pocket for a tissue, handing it to the now sobbing Su Qin, and steered her through the crowded throng toward the striking police car outside.

With the roar of the engine, the police car gradually sped away.

…

“Miss Nurse, what’s going on? Why the sudden change? Where’s Doctor Lin?” After waiting in a long queue and finally being selected, patients were told the mysterious Doctor Lin had urgent business and would treat them tomorrow. Such news was infuriating.

“Director Lin has an emergency. Please come back tomorrow; you won’t need to queue, you’ll be treated immediately,” Liu Meng explained patiently. Seeing the three patients refuse to let it go, her expression soured, and she couldn’t help but resent Lin Yang’s departure—no one liked dealing with such thankless tasks.

The three grumbled and left only after receiving a definite answer.

Once they were gone, Liu Meng relaxed, taking a deep breath of fresh air. She dreaded another incident where patients, in their anger, smashed up the hospital—she’d be blamed for that.

Still, she couldn’t help but dwell on the beautiful woman who had just arrived, after all, she’d whisked away their dear director.

“Sigh! When will I be able to confess my feelings to him without reservation?” Liu Meng sat by the window, her gaze distant, lost in thought, muttering to herself.

…

“Aunt Qin, you live here?” Nearly an hour and a half of relentless driving, aided by the police car’s privileges, brought them—guided by Su Qin—to the eastern edge of Nanxiang District’s slum.

Dilapidated houses, muddy and filthy roads, frail elderly beggars in tattered clothes lining the streets, and the occasional mentally ill person scavenging for food among the trash—it was a scene that made Lin Yang recall the old saying: the stench of meat and wine indoors, famine and bones outside.

“Surprised? Actually, it’s not so bad here—less competition, less intrigue. We may be poor, but at least the people are honest and kind,” Su Qin forced a smile uglier than crying, her words heavy with meaning.

In the slum, besides poverty and filth, the greatest issue was the narrow, congested roads. When the police car entered the alley, the path was barely wide enough for three people abreast; the car could go no further, so they had to walk.

Fortunately, Su Qin’s home wasn’t far. Soon, they stopped before a single-story house, its rusty iron gate offering no security, but in a place this poor, theft was rare.

The autumn rains had been frequent, and though the day was unusually bright, water still dripped from the asbestos roof, forming small puddles under the eaves.

“We’re here,” Su Qin said with a smile, showing little emotion. It seemed that years of hardship had tempered the once gold-digging woman.

Lin Yang smiled in silence. He didn’t know what to say; he’d never imagined that Uncle Feng, once the old master’s capable right hand, had fallen so far.

Su Qin gently pushed open the door, which groaned harshly. A strong, medicinal aroma assaulted Lin Yang’s senses—even he, accustomed to hospital smells, was taken aback.

Inside, the scene was clear: besides daily necessities and a battered, ancient twenty-one inch television, the room was so simple as to be almost indescribable.

A yellowed double bed was piled crookedly in the corner, its legs propped up by a square wooden block, likely because it had lost balance. The houses in the slum were so densely packed that even on sunny days, sunlight barely reached inside, leaving the room damp and musty.

On the bed, following Lin Yang’s gaze, a pale, emaciated, unshaven middle-aged man lay quietly, eyes closed, breathing weakly—each breath a struggle.

“That’s Uncle Feng?” Staring at the man, who looked nothing like a human, more like a dried corpse, Lin Yang could hardly believe his eyes.

“Yes, Yang. Who would have thought your Uncle Feng would be reduced to this after just a few years?” Su Qin said, her voice heavy with sorrow as she looked at her husband, so ill and frail.

Lin Yang glanced at this beautiful woman, battered by time and family trials, and felt deeply unsettled.

Without further questions, he walked straight to Zhang Zifeng’s bedside. As he drew near, he finally saw the man’s face clearly.

Thin—so thin it was almost grotesque. His cheeks were sunken beneath taut skin, his bones like a skull beneath the flesh.

With a sigh, Lin Yang reached for Zhang Zifeng’s right wrist. Though he wasn’t a traditional doctor who could diagnose with a touch, Lin Yang had his own unique method.

True energy—a rumor as mythical as legend—was now at Lin Yang’s command.

He placed his right hand on Zhang Zifeng’s pulse and silently channeled his true energy, letting it flow through every corner of Zhang’s body.

Nearly half an hour passed, the investigation uninterrupted, before Lin Yang finally discerned some clues.

Poison—without a doubt, Zhang Zifeng had been poisoned, and with a rare, chronic toxin. The source was that terrifying wound at his waist.

Years of spreading and relentless erosion had infected most of Zhang Zifeng’s lumbar vertebrae; the ends were already necrotic, and the nerves in his waist were almost entirely destroyed. It would be a miracle if his lower body wasn’t paralyzed.

Moreover, traces of the toxin could be found elsewhere in his body, though these toxins differed from those in his spine.

What kind of life-and-death battles had this man endured to suffer such mortal wounds?

Seeing Lin Yang sigh, Su Qin’s heart clenched, and her body trembled with nervousness.

When the last glimmer of hope turns to despair, the blow is crippling—at that moment, Su Qin might have wished to follow her husband to the underworld.

“Aunt Qin, don’t worry, Uncle Feng still has a chance for treatment. But with my current skill—oh, with my current medical abilities, I can’t cure him in one go. It would take at least a year or two,” Lin Yang said gravely.

To give others hope is the greatest virtue—at this moment, Lin Yang sounded like a Zen master saving the suffering.

“Really? There’s still hope?” Su Qin rushed to Lin Yang’s side, trembling, and asked excitedly.

So moved, her grip on Lin Yang’s arm was surprisingly strong, her nails digging deep into his skin, making his face contort with pain.

“Aunt Qin, if you squeeze any harder, I might lose my arm,” Lin Yang joked, a hint of grievance in his voice.

Embarrassed, Su Qin quickly let go, having overlooked her excitement. Still, she couldn’t help but ask again, “Yang, you can really treat Uncle Feng? You’re not just comforting me, are you?”

“No,” Lin Yang nodded firmly.

“Thank you, thank you, Yang.” Realizing she wasn’t dreaming, Su Qin, tearful, hugged Lin Yang tightly, letting him nuzzle against her full chest.

Zhang Zifeng, weakened and semi-conscious from the toxins, had no awareness of their intimate embrace.

After about five minutes, Su Qin calmed down, released Lin Yang, and pushed him away, urgently asking, “Yang, can you treat him now?”

Lin Yang shook his head, shrugging helplessly. The environment was unsuitable—without any safety measures—and even that last true energy check had drained him. His reserves were depleted; to treat Zhang now would be impossible.

Seeing him shake his head, Su Qin felt disappointed, but quickly hid it and comforted herself, “It’s fine. If not today, then tomorrow.”

“Oh, by the way, Aunt Qin, it seems Qiqi isn’t living at home?” Lin Yang glanced around, using the question to change the subject.