The Emperor's bedchambers, usually a place of quiet solitude, had been turned into a clinical theater. A team of the most senior physicians from the Imperial Medical Academy stood in a silent, solemn group, their faces grim, their leather medicine bags exuding the sharp, clean scents of herbs and medicinal powders. They had been summoned by direct order of the Empress Dowager Cixi.
Ying Zheng sat on the edge of his massive bed, clad only in a simple silk sleeping robe, his small bare feet dangling high above the floor. He maintained a placid, slightly confused expression, the perfect picture of a child bewildered by all the fuss. But internally, his mind was a fortress of cold, calculating calm. He knew exactly what this was. His performance as a frail, mentally overwrought child had been too successful. Cixi, ever the pragmatist, was not content with reports from tutors and eunuchs. She needed empirical evidence. This medical examination was not about his health; it was an intelligence-gathering mission of the most intimate kind. It was her new test.
Li Lianying, Cixi's ever-present shadow, orchestrated the proceedings. He glided into the room, his voice a smooth, calming balm that failed to hide the sharp edge of authority beneath.
"Her Majesty, the Empress Dowager, in her infinite compassion, grows worried for Your Majesty's health," he announced, bowing low. "Your recent headaches and fatigue have troubled her heart. She has therefore sent the most skilled physicians in the empire to ensure your 'dragon body' is in perfect harmony and to diagnose the root of this disharmony."
Ying Zheng understood the subtext perfectly. Is his weakness real, or a performance? Is his outburst in court a sign of genius, or a symptom of a fevered, unstable mind? The physicians were Cixi's tools to find the answer.
The Head Imperial Physician, a man named Dr. Zhuang, stepped forward. He was an elderly man in his late sixties, with a long, thin beard and the steady, confident hands of a man who had practiced his craft for half a century. He was highly respected, a man whose loyalty was to the ancient science of medicine and the well-being of the imperial line, not necessarily to the day-to-day political games of the Dowager Empress. He knelt on a cushion before Ying Zheng.
"Your Majesty," he said, his voice a low, respectful rumble. "This humble servant must be so bold as to examine your pulse. It is the river that reflects the health of the entire body. Please, extend your wrist."
Ying Zheng obediently held out his small, thin wrist. Li Lianying watched from the side, his dark eyes missing nothing. This was the first, most crucial test. The pulse, to a master physician like Dr. Zhuang, was a story. It told of strength or weakness, of fever or chill, of balance or chaos.
As Dr. Zhuang's two weathered, surprisingly warm fingers rested upon the delicate pulse point on his wrist, Ying Zheng put his plan into action. He turned his will inward, focusing on the small, powerful muscle in his chest, the one he had practiced commanding in the dead of night. He didn't stop it—that would be too dramatic, too unbelievable. Instead, he made its rhythm chaotic, weak, and erratic, a perfect imitation of a patient suffering from what the classic texts called 'deep vital energy exhaustion.'
Thump-thump… The rhythm began normally. Then, under his silent command, it faltered. …thump…..thump-thump-thump… A skipped beat, a flutter, then a weak, rapid series.
Dr. Zhuang's professionally calm eyebrows shot up. His eyes, which had been half-closed in concentration, opened wide. He pressed his fingers down harder, trying to get a clearer reading. His brow, smooth a moment before, was now deeply furrowed with concern. He said nothing, but his expression shifted from routine examination to serious diagnosis. He held the pulse for a full, silent minute, his face a mask of intense concentration.
Next, another physician stepped forward. "Forgive this servant, Your Majesty. I must ascertain if there is a latent fever." He gently placed the back of his hand on Ying Zheng's forehead.
As the physician's hand approached, Ying Zheng focused his will on his skin. He drew the warmth inward, away from the surface, commanding his capillaries to constrict. He imagined the cold stone floor beneath his feet, projecting that sensation to his own flesh. By the time the hand made contact, his forehead was unnaturally cool and felt slightly damp, like the skin of someone in a state of shock or suffering from a deep, internal chill.
The physician withdrew his hand, a look of puzzlement on his face. He turned to Dr. Zhuang. "His skin is cool to the touch. Yet the eunuchs' reports speak of him complaining of headaches, as if from a fever."
This contradiction, a cool body presenting symptoms of heat, was a classic sign of a deep-seated imbalance in traditional medicine. It deepened the mystery.
Finally, Dr. Zhuang himself took the lead again. He opened his leather bag and produced a silk-wrapped case. Unrolling it revealed a set of long, slender silver needles, gleaming in the lamplight. They were the tools of acupuncture, designed to interact directly with the body's flow of life-energy, the qi.
"Your Majesty, I must check the flow of your energy through the main meridians," Dr. Zhuang said, his voice now laced with gravity. "A slight prick, nothing more. This will not be painful."
This was the most dangerous, most unpredictable moment of the test. Fire and water were external elements. His heartbeat and skin temperature were flesh. But the qi, his own life force, was now intertwined with the immense, alien power of the dragon's spark. What would a direct conduit like an acupuncture needle reveal? Could Dr. Zhuang feel the immense, slumbering power coiled within him?
He had to suppress it. He had to be an empty vessel.
As Dr. Zhuang expertly, almost painlessly, slid the first needle into a major pressure point on his forearm, Ying Zheng felt a bizarre, powerful resonance. The silver needle seemed to vibrate in harmony with the latent power within him, like a tuning fork struck against a great bell. It wanted to surge, to react to the foreign object. With a supreme act of will, he forced the power down, deep into the recesses of his consciousness. He imagined his energy pathways, his meridians, as sluggish, muddy, and blocked rivers.
Dr. Zhuang inserted three more needles, his touch light and precise, his face a study in concentration. He gently manipulated each one, feeling for the response, the subtle push and pull of the body's energy. He felt… nothing. Or rather, he felt a profound lack. The qi was weak, stagnant. There was no healthy, vibrant rebound.
After a long moment, he removed the needles as gently as he had inserted them. He sat back on his heels, his face grim. He had his diagnosis. He turned to the expectant Li Lianying.
"The Emperor's condition is complex," he began, his voice low and serious. "His pulse is what the classics describe as 'thready' and 'scattered,' a sign of a profound deficiency in the Heart and Spleen. His vital energy, his qi, is stagnant and depleted. This is not a simple ailment of the body. It appears to be a form of deep nervous exhaustion, a disharmony of the spirit likely caused by great mental or emotional stress."
Li Lianying's face remained a perfect, servile mask, but Ying Zheng saw the flicker of triumph and satisfaction deep in his eyes. This was the perfect diagnosis for Cixi. It validated her belief that the boy was weak. It explained his outburst in court not as a sign of terrifying intelligence, but as a symptom of his sickness, a fever of the mind. The pressure of his new position was simply too much for him. He was fragile. He was overwhelmed. He was, in short, the perfect puppet.
Ying Zheng had passed the test flawlessly. He had turned Cixi's intrusive probe into a powerful confirmation of his own disguise. He had used his power not as a sword, but as the ultimate shield, reinforcing his cover story more effectively than any act of feigned stupidity ever could. As the physicians packed their bags and left, murmuring about prescriptions for calming herbal broths and complete rest, Ying Zheng allowed a small, weak-looking smile to touch his lips. They thought they had found his weakness. In reality, they had only glimpsed the true depth of his strength.