Whoosh!
The foreign journalist’s question instantly sent a wave of shock through the crowd. In an instant, the Shaoyuan Garden buzzed with murmurs.
The previously polite atmosphere of the academic debate turned tense—like gunpowder quietly sprinkled, suddenly ignited by a single spark, erupting into a storm.
“Is traditional Chinese medicine (TCM) truly in decline?”
The question was undeniably provocative, almost disrespectful to TCM. Yet, if one were honest, it wasn’t entirely baseless. The current state of TCM was evident to all—its influence had waned over time, paling in comparison to the dominant rise of Western medicine. To say it was “in decline” wasn’t entirely wrong.
But to claim that “TCM has been reduced to amateur-level practice”?
That was nothing short of slander—a blatant provocation and an insult to the dignity of Chinese medicine!
No matter how much TCM might have declined, no matter how scarce its talents had become, it remained one of humanity’s greatest legacies—an indispensable part of history. No matter how advanced or widespread Western medicine became, it could never fully replace TCM!
Just as Western medicine had gradually encroached upon Eastern markets, pushing TCM into an awkward position, the reverse was also true—TCM had made inroads in the West. While not as widespread, it still held a presence in many Western countries.
So when this foreign journalist posed his loaded question, the reaction was immediate. Aside from the Western medicine delegation, who remained expressionless (some even smirking), nearly everyone else wore looks of anger.
The members of the TCM Association, in particular, glared daggers at the journalist, as if they wanted to tear him apart for his outrageous claims.
Jiang Fei, the man at the center of the question, narrowed his eyes, a flicker of irritation rising in his chest.
He had openly admitted his skill in music—because that was an undeniable fact. But when had he ever claimed to be an amateur in medicine?
And now, this journalist was taking it further, dragging TCM into it, declaring it “amateur-level”!
Seeing the young TCM experts beside him seething, ready to snap back, Jiang Fei quickly raised a hand, signaling for them to stay silent. He would handle this himself.
With a calm smile, Jiang Fei addressed the journalist:
“First, TCM is absolutely not an ‘amateur’ practice. It is a medical tradition that has contributed immensely to humanity—an indispensable part of our history. This is an ironclad fact, beyond debate. Over a thousand years ago, even just a century or two ago, when Western medicine hadn’t yet discovered sterilization or blood typing—when it was practically a form of butchery—TCM was already saving countless lives.”
The crowd erupted in applause, with many guests and domestic journalists shouting, “Well said!”
The foreign journalist, listening to the translator’s English rendition, shifted uncomfortably.
Jiang Fei waited for the cheers to die down before continuing:
“As for whether I’m an amateur… if you insist on thinking so—then sure, I am.”
Whoosh!
The abrupt twist left everyone stunned.
The future chairman of the TCM Association… admitting he was an amateur in medicine?
Was this a joke?
An amateur representing TCM in this exchange? An amateur leading the nation’s most prestigious TCM organization? Wouldn’t that prove the journalist’s point—that TCM had indeed declined, with no true masters left?
It’d be like “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king!”
“Jiang Fei, you—” The TCM members around him paled, urgently trying to interject.
They knew better—Jiang Fei’s skills were anything but amateur. If even he was an amateur, what did that make them?
Were they even qualified to practice medicine?
Jiang Fei raised a hand again, his calm gaze silencing them. He wasn’t finished.
The foreign journalist, sensing victory, pressed on: “So, Mr. Jiang, you admit that TCM is in decline?”
“Wrong.”
Jiang Fei’s smile vanished, replaced by a sharp, almost disdainful expression.
“This doesn’t prove TCM is in decline. It proves that after thousands of years of refinement, TCM has become so vast and profound that even an ‘amateur’ like me—who’s only grasped a fraction of its knowledge—can still stand here, treating patients and holding my own against Western medicine!”
Crack—
Silence.
The crowd froze, stunned by Jiang Fei’s audacious counter.
This was a masterclass in turning the tables.
The journalist had framed it as “TCM has no real talent left.” Jiang Fei flipped it: “TCM is so advanced that even our ‘amateurs’ can outmatch you.”
By any measure, Jiang Fei’s words were brazen—borderline arrogant. Western medicine’s global dominance wasn’t without merit; it had its strengths. Jiang Fei’s dismissal of it might have sounded like empty boasting.
Yet, in this moment, no one saw it as arrogance.
It felt perfect.
After the journalist’s insults, humility would’ve been weakness. Chinese culture prized modesty—but only toward friends. To enemies? Modesty was cowardice.
The applause that followed was thunderous, shaking the walls of Shaoyuan Garden.
Only the foreign journalist and the Western delegation remained stony-faced.
“Arrogance! Save your boasts for after you’ve beaten us!”
“You think you’re qualified to face us?”
“Find someone sane to represent you, or you’ll lose embarrassingly!”
The young Western doctors, unable to contain their fury, broke protocol, hurling insults. The tension exploded—no longer a debate, but a battlefield.
With emotions running high, the organizers quickly conferred. The academic exchange was cut short, and the event moved straight to the “practical competition.”
The venue shifted from Shaoyuan to an international hospital in Beijing.
Two challenges were agreed upon:
-
Treating blood stasis (a TCM diagnosis for stagnant blood circulation).
-
Surgical procedures.
For the first round—blood stasis—TCM required nothing but silver needles. Western medicine, however, needed specialized equipment and surgical intervention.
The rules were simple: Each side would select two doctors to treat two patients. The better the recovery, the winner.
The teams set off.
Before departure, the TCM Association finalized its lineup:
-
Blood stasis treatment: Jiang Fei and Cui Xiuping.
(One, heir to the Divine Needle Eight Methods; the other, master of Ghost Gate Thirteen Needles—both among TCM’s top acupuncture lineages.) -
Surgery: Jiang Fei and Zuo Jun.
(Zuo Jun, from the Evil-Expelling School, was a rising star in TCM surgical techniques.)
At the hospital, patients were selected randomly for fairness. But to ensure difficulty, each side would pick the opponent’s patients.
As Jiang Fei observed the lineup, he leaned toward Cui Xiuping and whispered:
“Has it always been like this? Picking each other’s patients?”
Cui Xiuping nodded. “Tradition.”
“And have we ever… rigged the selection?”
Cui Xiuping blinked. “Never. It’s impossible—patients are chosen on the spot, under scrutiny.”
Jiang Fei’s eyes narrowed. Watching the Western team assign their patients, he muttered:
“Then why does this feel like a setup?”
Without hesitation, he stepped forward and checked the patients’ pulses.
Within seconds, his face darkened.
“There’s a trap here!”
