Led by the old man, they crossed the courtyard and entered the inner room. Peter Brooks saw a two- or three-year-old child lying in the arms of a sobbing woman. The child's limbs and face were twitching uncontrollably. As Peter Brooks moved closer, his brow furrowed even more—the child's eyes had rolled upward, his face was bluish-purple, and sweat was pouring down his cheeks like rain. Without hesitation, Peter Brooks rolled up his sleeves and placed his hand on the feverish child's forehead. The moment he touched it, Peter Brooks instinctively pulled his hand back—scalding hot!

Chapter Eleven: A Prescription with a Carrying Pole

"Febrile convulsions!" Peter Brooks blurted out instinctively. The woman was startled by Peter Brooks's sudden action. She hadn't expected a well-dressed young gentleman to appear in her home and, without a word, place his hand on her child's head. She was about to ask a question when her husband, father-in-law, and another stranger entered the room. Her husband signaled her to stay calm, realizing that perhaps a benefactor had come to save their child.

The old man, who had followed Peter Brooks into the room, saw Peter Brooks place his hand on the child's forehead and utter a term he had never heard before. He was both alarmed and hopeful—alarmed because Peter Brooks's expression was grave, suggesting the illness was serious, but hopeful because Peter Brooks could name the disease, even if he didn't fully understand the words.

At that moment, Peter Brooks turned around and said, "Silver needles, quickly, give me silver needles."

"Silver needles?" Paul Brooks stood there, completely confused, and the old man beside him was equally baffled. Seeing this, Peter Brooks grew anxious and stomped his foot. "Do you want to save your grandson or not? Hurry up and get the silver needles..." Having studied traditional Chinese medicine since childhood, Peter Brooks noticed the looks on their faces and suddenly remembered that this was the late Han dynasty—this wasn't a clinic or a hospital, so how could there be silver needles? They probably didn't even have copper ones.

"The kind used for acupuncture—bone needles or stone needles will do. Do you have any?" Peter Brooks saw that everyone looked like fools, but the child's life was hanging by a thread. Furious, he stamped his foot and shouted.

It was the woman holding the sick child who reacted the fastest. Upon hearing Peter Brooks's words, she quickly lifted a corner of the straw mat on the clay bed. "There are bone needles here, used for sewing clothes."

Peter Brooks instinctively thanked her and took the bone needle to examine it. Although it wasn't as fine or delicate as a silver needle, it was more than enough to pierce the skin and achieve the desired effect. Holding the bone needle, Peter Brooks glanced around and spotted a steaming clay pot on the nearby fire. He strode over, intending to toss the needle in for high-temperature sterilization, but couldn't bear the thought of scalding his fair hand. He quickly asked someone to fetch a pair of chopsticks.

After much effort, Peter Brooks finally got hold of the still-hot bone needle, grimacing as he signaled the woman to hold the child tightly. In full view of everyone, he aimed for the philtrum point beneath the child's nose and inserted the needle. With practiced fingers, he held the end of the bone needle, while everyone stared dumbfounded at Peter Brooks performing the procedure. The old man behind Peter Brooks wrung his hands anxiously, wanting to speak but afraid to interrupt the young gentleman treating his grandson.

Paul Brooks's mouth hung open as he stared at his young master. He had never known that the young master possessed such skills—could it be inherited from the old master? But healing and saving lives wasn't something that could be passed down, was it? Peter Brooks's actions left the poor servant utterly bewildered.

※※※

It wasn't long—just a dozen or so breaths—before the child's convulsions began to subside. The bluish-purple hue faded from his face, replaced by the flush of a high fever. His breathing was still rapid, but at least he was temporarily out of danger. Peter Brooks let out a long sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his own forehead. It seemed his own body was still a bit weak—he'd need to train more, lest he go weak at the knees in a real emergency and make a fool of himself.

"He's finally better," Peter Brooks said, offering a reassuring smile to the woman holding the child. At that moment, the old man dropped to his knees. "Thank you, young master, for saving my grandson's life. I have nothing to repay you with—I'll be your servant or your beast of burden..."

"Please, sir, don't be so hasty. I've only relieved his suffering for now. Your grandson's illness still needs timely medication," Peter Brooks said, not wanting to hear such words. To save lives was the duty of a physician—at least, that's what Peter Brooks, who had been taught medical ethics by his father and grandfather for so many years, believed.

Paul Brooks silently praised his young master's abilities. With just a sewing bone needle pricked into the child's lip, the child improved in no time. Hearing the young master's reasonable explanation, his confidence soared and his worries vanished. He quickly helped the old man up, then gave the still-dazed middle-aged man a push. "I'm talking to you—does anyone nearby have pen and ink? Lend them to my young master so he can write a prescription to save your child."