He saved three thousand people, but no one saved him.
Shen Du was the youngest genius physician in the Imperial Medical Office.
To protect his colleagues, he took the blame for everything, had the tendons in his left hand severed, and was exiled to the Northern Frontier.
There, he met an army the imperial court had forgotten.
No banners. No provisions. No unit designation.
Just a band of scattered soldiers waiting to die.
Shen Du set down his medicine chest and said, “I’m here.”
He held a scalpel in his teeth and cleaned the pus from infected wounds in the freezing wind, thirty degrees below zero.
He broke his own rations into pieces, cooked them into porridge, and shared them with the sick.
Every night, he quietly got up to tuck in those burning with fever.
Everyone said, “Doctor Shen is the kindest person in the world.”
Everyone thought, “This time, let me protect him.”
But in the end, when the monster tide swept in and the imperial army raised its blades
Shen Du pushed the last wounded soldier to safety and stayed behind in the ruins.
His left hand hung at his side. His right still held a needle and thread.
A smile played on his lips.
His last words were, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.”
“He isn’t a saint. He’s the kind of person who, nailed to a cross, still prays for the executioners.”
