Hidden in the old alley at the end of the bluestone road is a medical clinic that is incompatible with the neon lights around it.
Ku Li Shizhen, the owner of the museum, always likes to sit on a bamboo chair on the porch, twisting dried mugwort between his fingertips, and watching the leaves of the sycamore tree across the street fall and grow again. His medicine chest contains a copper scale that is older than the years. When prescribing, he prefers to use the most ordinary plants and trees, but it can make the dying patient hear the morning bird singing again after three doses of the decoction. Neighbors say that this young man has a gentle temperament like a casserole for boiling medicine. Only those who are familiar with him know that there is an unknown stubbornness hidden in his eyes when he looks at the potion boiling in the pot.
It wasn't until Chen Du knocked on the wooden door of the medical center with his iron box that the peace was completely broken.
The poisonous white coat is always stained with the cold smell of disinfectant. The needles and scalpels fly like butterflies between his fingers, specializing in treating various "emergency diseases that cannot be cured by bitter plum". He always liked to lean on the counter, watching Ku Li Shizhen massage the patient slowly, and suddenly said: "Why take three months to solve something that can be solved in three minutes?"
One believes that "medicines have kings and ministers, and medicines have priorities." The other insists that "a quick knife cuts the knot, and Western medicine determines the outcome."
