Chapter 96:

On the way back to the hotel, restrained by the presence of so many people, Yin Ledan and Kong Han suppressed their anxiety and didn’t ask Qin Chaoyu what had happened. They even helped fend off those who came to probe for information, both openly and covertly.

But as soon as they entered the room, Yin Ledan couldn’t hold back anymore. She grabbed Qin Chaoyu’s hand and asked, “Chaoyu, how did you finish so quickly? Did you figure everything out? Don’t be too careless.”

“Yeah, this round of selection is about accuracy, not speed. You didn’t need to rush,” Kong Han chimed in.

Seeing their genuine concern, Qin Chaoyu, though confident she hadn’t done anything wrong, patted Yin Ledan’s hand reassuringly. “Do you think I’m the kind of person who’s reckless? I wouldn’t be so foolish as to do something that benefits others at my own expense just to show off. Don’t worry, I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Well…” Qin Chaoyu’s firm assurance left Yin Ledan and Kong Han exchanging glances, unsure of what else to say. They could only sigh helplessly and silently pray that things would turn out as Qin Chaoyu claimed.

Because of their close relationship, Yin Ledan and Kong Han’s attitude, though tinged with reproach, was rooted in concern. Other competitors, however, were far less kind-hearted, each one more gleeful than the last.

Especially after the two people in Qin Chaoyu’s group spread the word about how she had diagnosed the patients, the schadenfreude reached new heights.

At the hotel dining area, Fu Hu cut a piece of steak and savored it—his favorite flavor, cooked medium-rare, was pure enjoyment. After happily finishing a bite, he looked up at Xing Weiyue across the table and suddenly remembered yesterday’s events. Curious, he asked, “Hey, Yue-ge, what’s the deal with that Qin Chaoyu? How did she finish so quickly?”

Hearing this, Xing Weiyue, who already had little appetite, lost even more interest in his food. He absentmindedly stirred his spaghetti, set down his fork, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and replied, “She’s quite remarkable. She must have real skill, probably trained under a master.”

“Oh?” Fu Hu hadn’t expected Xing Weiyue to say that. To him, Qin Chaoyu didn’t seem like someone with extraordinary abilities. Noticing Xing Weiyue’s mood, he tried to console him. “But no matter what, Yue-ge, she definitely can’t compare to your medical skills. Besides, even if she’s talented, ten minutes—averaging two minutes per patient, not even counting waiting for others or moving around—how could she possibly diagnose accurately in such a short time?”

Xing Weiyue thought there was some logic to that, but the lingering unease in his heart refused to subside. His intuition told him that Qin Chaoyu was a formidable rival.

“Forget it, Yue-ge, let’s not talk about this. You’ve barely eaten. Since we finally have some time off, why don’t we go out and have some fun?” Fu Hu set down his utensils and pulled Xing Weiyue up insistently.

~

No one expected the day of the results to arrive so quickly. On the evening of the second day after the exam, every participant received their scores via their phones.

The results were compiled into a document and sent to the temporary group chat created for the selection process.

The ranking was detailed, listing each participant’s position. As a result, Qin Chaoyu’s glaringly perfect score and first-place ranking caught the eye of everyone checking their results.

The moment Xing Weiyue saw the results, his earlier sense of foreboding was confirmed.

Just as he had suspected, this junior Qin was someone of extraordinary ability.

“Damn, Qin Chaoyu really is that good?” Fu Hu exclaimed in disbelief as he stared at the results. He waved his phone excitedly, voicing his doubts. “Maybe the patients in her group had simple conditions? This…”

Before he could finish, another student from Huajing University of Traditional Chinese Medicine hastily tugged at his sleeve, signaling him to stop. Xing Weiyue was right there—if the patients’ conditions were truly that simple, what did that say about Xing Weiyue, who had been outperformed and hadn’t even scored full marks?

Realizing the implication of his words, Fu Hu quickly apologized. “S-sorry, Yue-ge. I was just upset on your behalf and spoke without thinking.”

“It’s fine,” Xing Weiyue shook his head, though inwardly he was still reeling from shock and disbelief. He warned Fu Hu, “Watch your mouth. Don’t speak carelessly. This selection is a matter of national prestige—the organizers wouldn’t act irresponsibly. If you have questions, wait until tomorrow when the professors explain. For now, let’s just sleep.”

Fu Hu sighed. “Fine.” He’d wait until tomorrow to see how the organizers would justify this.

Xing Weiyue’s approach mirrored that of most participants. They didn’t doubt the fairness of the organizers, so Qin Chaoyu’s performance had to be legitimate. Tomorrow would reveal the truth!

Little did they know, an even bigger bombshell awaited them the next day.

Since the session was just for Q&A, there was no need to travel far to the mountains. The venue was instead arranged at Huajing University’s School of Medicine—a spacious location, albeit one focused on Western medicine.

Holding a traditional Chinese medicine competition in a Western medical school carried a hint of provocation.

This decision stemmed from an incident a few days prior. To demonstrate the fairness and authority of the selection process, the organizers had invited several additional professors to the capital. Out of courtesy, they hosted gatherings and dinners. At one such dinner, a few Western medicine professors were also present. After a few drinks, one professor, loosened by alcohol, began subtly disparaging traditional Chinese medicine—not outright, but the implication was clear.

This infuriated the TCM professors. Were it not for their restraint and dignity, they might have erupted in anger.

Coincidentally, the offending professor was from Huajing University’s School of Medicine.

Scholarly disputes call for scholarly resolutions. The TCM professors collectively proposed to the organizers that the Q&A session be held at Huajing University’s School of Medicine, insisting that relevant faculty—especially the one who had dared to belittle TCM—attend. They even suggested inviting students to witness the event.

Their reasoning was simple: *You think TCM is unreliable? You believe its diagnostic methods are inaccurate? Then let us show you just how profound and invaluable our ancestral heritage truly is!*

The organizers were caught in a dilemma. They weren’t hardcore TCM practitioners but politicians and businessmen, unable to fully grasp the professors’ indignation. Yet, given the professors’ stature, outright refusal wasn’t an option. They hedged, promising to discuss it with the university’s leadership.

Dissatisfied but unwilling to make a scene, the professors relented—until Zong Nanhan stepped in and settled the matter.

Zong Nanhan agreed for a straightforward reason: he proposed recording the Q&A session and uploading it online. If handled well, it could generate support and attention for the international competition later.

With younger generations increasingly skeptical of TCM and Western medicine practitioners often dismissive of it, the field faced decline. This event could serve as a platform to showcase TCM’s merits.

This idea struck a chord with the TCM faction among the organizers, securing their approval. The rest reluctantly followed suit.

As for Zong Nanhan, he was half a TCM advocate himself—his grandfather had been a seasoned practitioner. Though he hadn’t pursued TCM, he held it in high regard. In short, it was a matter of pride: *I can criticize my own, but outsiders have no right to look down on it.*

Thus, Zong Nanhan also wanted to teach that professor a lesson. As an organizer, he couldn’t openly endorse this, but behind the scenes, he pushed for it.

When the participants learned the venue was Huajing University’s medical school, their confusion was palpable.

On the way there, Kong Han asked curiously, “What’s the organizers’ game here? Holding it at a Western med school—is this a provocation? Are we about to witness a brawl? I should warm up.” He flexed his wrists, clearly eager for drama.

Yin Ledan, setting down her book, smacked Kong Han’s head in exasperation. “Get a grip. The organizers aren’t as unreliable as you. I don’t know why they chose this location, but it’s definitely not what you’re imagining. Though…” She rubbed her chin. “There might be a hint of provocation.”

“Pfft.” Kong Han scoffed. “And here I thought you had some profound insight. Never mind, I’ll just go back to my phone.”

“You—” Yin Ledan fumed, itching to throttle him.

Qin Chaoyu interjected, “Don’t overthink it. We’ll find out when we get there.”

The organizers had arranged for a bus to transport them all together. Oddly, after the first round, the participants were no longer required to travel independently.

But that was beside the point.

The venue, though labeled as the medical school, was actually a small auditorium at Huajing University—not enormous, but easily accommodating six to seven hundred people.

By the time Qin Chaoyu’s group arrived, the room was already half-full.

To their surprise, cameras were set up at the front and back, lending an air of formality to the event.

Kong Han muttered under his breath, “What’s all this? Cameras? Are they filming us? Isn’t this just going over the answers?”

*Going over the answers*—an apt description.

Wasn’t that exactly what it was? Post-exam, the instructors would explain the solutions.

Though Yin Ledan privately agreed, she nudged Kong Han, signaling him to keep quiet.