The Doctor’s Dilemma

The Imperial Clinic was a quiet bastion of tradition within the Forbidden City, a place of healing where the ancient arts of acupuncture, moxibustion, and herbal medicine were practiced with a near-religious reverence. Its head, the elderly physician Dr. Zhuang, was a man who had dedicated his life to the delicate balance of qi and the wisdom of the medical classics. He had been deeply shamed by the recent intrusion of the French doctor, an event he saw as a grave insult to his profession and his heritage. He had since retreated into his work, quietly treating the coughs and ailments of the court, trying to forget the humiliation.

One evening, long after the clinic had closed its doors, a secret visitor came to his private office. It was the girl known as An, the Emperor's new, quiet senior maid. Dr. Zhuang recognized her, though he found her presence here, at this hour, deeply irregular. She moved with a silence and a stillness that was unnerving, her eyes holding an intelligence that was far beyond her station.

She entered and bowed low, her message direct and shocking. "Honorable Physician," she began, her voice a low, steady whisper. "I am here on behalf of the Son of Heaven. The Emperor is not sick. He is being systematically poisoned."

Dr. Zhuang stared at her, his heart giving a sudden, painful lurch. He thought at first that she was mad, or perhaps part of some elaborate and dangerous political plot. "That is a grave accusation, girl," he said, his voice stern. "The Emperor's food is tasted. His health is monitored daily. Such a thing is impossible."

"Not with common poisons," Ying replied, her gaze unwavering. "With a poison of patience. A poison of whispers."

She did not come with mere accusations. She came with proof. From a discreet silk-wrapped bundle, she produced a series of items, laying them out on his examination table. Each one was a piece of the invisible war being waged against her master.

First, she presented a small, sealed vial containing a fine, grey powder. "This is the dust collected from the Emperor's bed curtains over the course of one week," she explained. "It is the pollen of the flower known as the 'Desert Rose,' a beautiful but toxic plant. A gift from the Summer Palace."

Next, she unwrapped a calligraphy ink stick. "This was delivered for the Emperor's lessons. Our own analysis found it to be mixed with a minute quantity of ground cinnabar, the mineral from which mercury is derived. Not enough to kill, but enough to cloud the mind over time."

Finally, she placed a small, dead canary on the table. The bird's vibrant yellow feathers were dull, its body frail. "This bird was kept in a cage near the Emperor's chambers," she said, her voice cold. "For one week, it was fed from the same kitchen, its water from the same well. Yesterday, it began to tremble. This morning, it died."

Dr. Zhuang, the master physician, looked at the evidence before him. He leaned in, his old eyes sharp and analytical. He took a pinch of the pollen dust and rubbed it between his fingers, smelling it. He scraped a tiny amount of the ink stick onto a piece of paper and held it over a candle flame, observing the color of the smoke. He gently examined the dead bird, noting the slight discoloration of its beak and the tension in its tiny claws.

He did not need Western machines or chemical tests. His own senses, honed by a lifetime of diagnosing subtle imbalances and hidden ailments, told him the truth. The girl was not lying. Each piece of evidence pointed to a different agent, a different method, but they all pointed to the same conclusion: a slow, methodical, and incredibly sophisticated attempt was being made on the Emperor's life. It was not the work of a clumsy assassin, but of a master toxicologist.

A cold, professional fury rose in him. This was not just a political crime; it was a profound violation of his own sacred craft. The art of medicine, the knowledge of herbs and minerals, was being perverted, twisted from a tool of healing into a weapon of insidious murder. And its target was the Son of Heaven, the living embodiment of the dynasty he was sworn to protect.

"Who?" he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Who would do this?"

"The hand that now resides in the Summer Palace," Ying answered simply. "But we cannot make a public accusation. To do so would tear the court apart, it would incite a civil war between the factions. The scandal would destroy the dynasty far more effectively than any poison."

Dr. Zhuang understood. They were trapped. They knew the truth, but to reveal it would be to set the entire empire ablaze.

"Then what do you ask of me?" he said, his voice heavy.

"The Emperor is strong," Ying explained. "He has his own… methods of resisting this assault. But we need your help to fight the war beyond his chambers. We need a record. We need an expert witness."

The request was audacious. "His Majesty's faction requires a private medical ledger. A secret dossier, compiled by you, detailing the declining health of the Dowager Empress Cixi."

Dr. Zhuang stared at her, stunned.

"She believes she is poisoning the Emperor," Ying continued, her voice flat and cold. "But the poisons she sends are being collected. And they are being returned to her, in her food, in her incense, in the very flowers that decorate her rooms. Her own body is now a living testament to the efficacy of her poisons."

The brilliance of the counter-attack was as stunning as its cruelty.

"We need you," Ying said, her gaze intense. "You are one of the few physicians with legitimate, unquestioned access to the Summer Palace. You will be called upon to treat her for her 'ailments.' We need you to observe her. To document her symptoms in meticulous detail—her fits of rage, her moments of confusion, her complaints of sleeplessness and paranoia. You will create a secret medical record that proves her mind and body are in a state of decay. It will be the final weapon, a document that can be used, if necessary, to prove to the Imperial Clan Court that she is not just politically unfit, but medically and mentally incompetent, a danger to herself and to the state."

The choice before Dr. Zhuang was stark. He could refuse, remain a loyal but ignorant servant of the old order, and allow this invisible war to continue. Or, he could step out of the light of orthodox medicine and into the shadows of political conspiracy. He could become a medical intelligence agent, using his skills to serve his Emperor in a way he had never imagined.

His decision was never truly in doubt. An attack on the health of the Emperor was an attack on the very heart of the dynasty. His duty was clear.

"I will do it," he said, his voice firm with a newfound resolve. "The health of the Dragon Throne must be protected. By any means necessary."

He had just become a willing and crucial part of Ying Zheng's conspiracy. He would be the one to officially document the slow, steady, and ironically self-inflicted decline of the woman who had once ruled them all.