When Jiang Fei heard that the second challenge, aside from surgical skills, involved treating localized blood stasis and congestion, he was quite surprised.
It’s common knowledge that traditional Chinese medicine (TCM) has a long and profound history in treating bruises, sprains, and blood stagnation—dating back thousands of years. Techniques like acupuncture, cupping, and massage are remarkably effective, often producing immediate results. In this area, Western medicine is indeed at a disadvantage compared to TCM.
“Is Western medicine worried about their reputation?” Jiang Fei chuckled in disbelief. “They set surgery as the first challenge, knowing they’d have the upper hand, but then felt guilty about dominating both rounds. So, they deliberately chose a TCM specialty for the second round to appear more balanced in front of the media?”
Cui Xiuping shook his head. “We’re just as puzzled. But we should stay cautious. You’ve never dealt with these Western Medical Association folks before, so you don’t know their tactics. They’re not the type to act out of fairness or goodwill toward TCM. The more generous they seem, the more suspicious I get.”
In truth, Cui Xiuping held back some details.
There had always been an unspoken tradition in these exchanges: whether TCM visited the West or vice versa, the host side usually held an advantage in arranging certain matters. However, the choice of challenges had always been the guests’ prerogative.
A month earlier, when the TCM delegation visited the West, they hadn’t been particularly accommodating—picking challenges that heavily favored TCM to put Western medicine on the spot. Unfortunately, Western medicine had advanced so much that TCM still suffered a crushing defeat. If not for Elder Cui stepping in to salvage the situation, TCM’s reputation would have been ruined.
Back then, on their home turf, the Western doctors had been relentless, showing no mercy. Now that the tables had turned, why would they suddenly hold back out of courtesy?
“Something’s definitely fishy,” Cui Xiuping thought.
Jiang Fei nodded indifferently. “Whatever comes, we’ll handle it. As long as it’s within medical boundaries—it’s not like they’ll hand us a corpse to revive. Let’s see what tricks they have up their sleeves.”
He wasn’t worried. One saying rang especially true to him now: “All schemes crumble before absolute strength.” And Jiang Fei was confident in his own.
With that, the two headed backstage to join the others.
By now, both sides had nearly assembled.
On the TCM side, aside from Jiang Fei and Cui Xiuping’s youth delegation, Elder Cui and the leaders of the three major schools were also present. They wouldn’t participate directly but were there to oversee the proceedings.
The seven members of the exchange team were all top young talents in TCM, some of whom Jiang Fei recognized from the previous Medical Arts Competition—like Lan Caijie of the Fire God School with her ponytail, Du Kang of the Danxi School, and Zuo Jun of the Gongxie School.
Back then, these elites had looked down on Jiang Fei, dismissing him as an unknown outsider. But now, their eyes held nothing but respect—some even outright admiration, especially those who’d heard rumors of Jiang Fei potentially filling the long-vacant position of TCM Association president.
If Jiang Fei led the charge in today’s exchange and then assumed the presidency, he’d be nothing short of a savior for TCM. His name would be etched into history alongside legends like Hua Tuo, Bian Que, and Zhang Zhongjing.
Jiang Fei acknowledged their greetings with a nod.
“Elder Cui, is this the Jiang Fei you’ve spoken of?” A smooth, baritone voice cut in—its accent so flawlessly Beijing-style that one might mistake the speaker for a native.
But when Jiang Fei turned, he was startled to see a blond, blue-eyed foreigner.
The man, clearly one of the Western delegation’s leaders, stood beside Cui Qinghe, Kong Yun, Yan Xiping, and Yu Ruzhi, smiling amiably.
“This is Jiang Fei,” Cui Qinghe confirmed. “After today’s exchange, he’ll be the new president of the TCM Association. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to work with him, Howard.”
He spoke with absolute certainty, omitting any “maybe.”
Howard studied Jiang Fei for a long moment before remarking, “An impressive figure indeed. I look forward to his performance today.”
Cui Qinghe smiled. “Don’t worry—he won’t disappoint.”
“You seem even more confident in him than in your own grandson, the heir to your Ghost Point Needle Technique,” Howard said, his words carrying a hint of provocation.
Unfazed, Cui Qinghe replied, “My grandson is inferior to Jiang Fei.”
“…”
Cui Xiuping showed no resentment. Instead, he whispered to Jiang Fei, “That’s Howard, vice-president of the Western Medical Association. A pioneer in surgery, he’s performed several groundbreaking operations and was awarded the Order of the British Empire five years ago. His influence in Western medicine rivals my grandfather’s in TCM.”
Jiang Fei nodded. Unlike TCM, where elders remained revered figures, Western medicine’s top practitioners were typically active professors in their fifties. By the time they reached Cui Qinghe’s age, most had long retired, their hands no longer steady enough for scalpels.
Lan Caijie, the ponytailed woman, added, “Notably, Professor Howard spent five years in China as a young man. That’s where he picked up his flawless Beijing accent.”
“Ah,” Jiang Fei mused. “I thought ‘learning the enemy’s skills to conquer them’ was our specialty. Turns out foreigners understand it too.”
Cui Xiuping, however, remained serious. “Howard visited nearly every renowned TCM master during his time here—including my grandfather.”
While the elders chatted amiably, the younger participants were far less cordial. The fourteen competitors stood apart, tension thick in the air, their gazes sharp with rivalry.
Once everyone had gathered, they moved to the front of Shaoyuan Garden, facing a crowd of reporters and guests.
Despite being a medical exchange, formalities couldn’t be skipped. The Minister of Health gave a ten-minute opening speech before the real event began.
Of course, an “exchange” didn’t start with direct competition. First came the civil debate—TCM advocates extolling their methods, Western doctors praising theirs, each side subtly undermining the other. Then came Q&A, where journalists grilled both sides on medical philosophies, differences, and the purpose of the event.
When Jiang Fei’s identity was revealed, it caused a stir. Reporters flocked to him, overshadowing even Cui Qinghe and Howard. Though it felt more like a press conference, Jiang Fei maintained a polite smile throughout.
Nearly an hour in, as the debate wound down, a Western journalist suddenly stood.
“Mr. Jiang Fei,” she asked, “I’ve heard you’re not just a doctor—your true expertise lies in music. At Qiao Yiyi’s recent concert, you performed as a pianist, hailed by critics as a world-class master. Is that correct?”
Jiang Fei was taken aback. He hadn’t expected mainstream media to bring up gossip.
“I am indeed skilled at the piano,” he admitted.
The reporter pounced. “So, as a piano virtuoso who treats TCM as a side pursuit, does your presence here imply TCM has declined to an amateur level?”
