Chapter Four: Blind Eyes? Finally, Someone Worth Looking At

Imprisoned.

Isn’t the usual script supposed to go: I make some cookies, everyone’s astounded, I’m crowned the culinary deity, and I get to bask in the glory? What on earth is happening here?

In ancient times, there was no glass. What passed for glass was called “liuli,” and only the emperor possessed it. Doors were simply a few wooden slats pasted with paper, barely letting any light through. So, even at high noon, the room looked as gloomy as a haunted house.

Ming Tian was tied firmly to the main beam in his own room with hemp rope. Despite this being ancient times, the knots were impressively tight—no matter how much he struggled, there was no escaping. He’d heard his father, Zhuge Fang, had once been a fisherman. The art of knot-tying really lived up to his old reputation.

“Is anyone there? Let me go! I’m so thirsty! Just a sip of water! If you won’t give me water, at least take that damn spittoon away from me! It’s full of filth! It reeks in here!”

Ming Tian howled and wailed within the room. Through the paper window, he could see a number of servants stopping outside his door, but not one dared to come in and speak to him.

Thanks to the distortions of historical novels and TV dramas, Ming Tian had suffered a major loss last night. The truth was that cooks held an extremely low status; after he’d cooked, everyone assumed he was mentally unstable.

As for the cookies—did anyone care if they were good? Only an idiot would think that a madman making something normal meant the madness was cured. People have basic self-control; only in novels does someone get so shocked by a trivial thing they’re left speechless all day.

So, early this morning, before Ming Tian even woke, his own father had him tied up and hauled out of bed, bound to the column. Judging by his father’s tone, he’d called for a doctor.

Ming Tian was thus left tied to the pillar for a full two hours. Thirst gnawed at him, misery welled inside—couldn’t they at least let him relieve himself before binding him up? Ming Tian had been over thirty in his previous life—this bit of humiliation wasn’t going to make him cry, but he couldn’t help feeling a sting in his nose. If only he’d just died last night; what fresh hell was this? A doctor? What kind of nonsense?

Despairing of this era, Ming Tian began to imagine the perverted methods an ancient physician might use to “treat” him.

Sure enough, before long, his father’s voice sounded from outside the door.

“Doctor, my son is inside. I beg you, please save him. Zhuge Fang is willing to spend everything he has.”

Gulp.

Why do these lines, straight out of a melodramatic family drama, sound so terrifying right now? Ming Tian could clearly hear his own swallowing, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

What sort of doctor was coming? Frankenstein? A mad scientist? No, wait, those are basically the same thing… Or would it be something out of a slasher film? No, there are no chainsaws in this era—maybe a wooden saw… Which is even more terrifying! When did Lu Ban invent the saw, anyway? Ming Tian couldn’t remember. Lu Ban, you’d better not have invented it yet; otherwise, if I ever get back to the modern world, I’ll tear down your ancestral tomb! Mom, I miss you! Not Mrs. Fang Tian, my real mother from the modern era! What was her name again? I can’t even remember!

Faced with the vague, slight figure at the window—introduced by his father as the doctor—Ming Tian was so frightened he forgot even his own mother’s name.

Creak.

The door hadn’t been oiled; there was no such habit in this time. The screech was as jarring as fingernails on a blackboard. Ming Tian felt as if his heart stopped the moment the door opened.

No exaggeration—had he been any more timid, he’d have wet himself on the spot.

And yet, as his pupils struggled to adjust to the sudden light and finally focused on the figure in the doorway, his halted heart began to beat again.

Her hair was unadorned, cascading like a waterfall—so lustrous and fine, Ming Tian couldn’t help but wonder what brand of shampoo she used. In this ancient world, the woman before him had hair that was clean, smooth, and gleaming.

In the past four days, everyone Ming Tian had seen, including his own mother, had hair so filthy and matted it barely deserved the name. But this doctor was a woman? Wait—weren’t there no female doctors in ancient times?

Her looks were average by modern standards—at best, passable. Yet compared to all the women Ming Tian had seen in this era, she was nothing short of stunning. Next to her, the rest were less women than mere females.

Her clothing required no description—just the plain cloth robe and cap common to the time. He only hoped her feet beneath the robe were not those disgusting bound feet. Wait, when did foot binding become a thing? Surely not this early? Ah, if only he’d read more historical novels! Please, no bound feet… If women were this unattractive and all had bound feet, death would be preferable.

“Hello, my name is Zhuge Ming Tian—Ming as in dazzling, Tian as in sky, both impossibly handsome. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Remembering his training as an actor, Ming Tian raised an eyebrow and introduced himself in a deep baritone. Yet, this only made the female doctor frown in discomfort. She grabbed his bound wrist to take his pulse.

The delicate touch sent Ming Tian’s heart rate soaring to 160.

“Doctor, how is my son?” Zhuge Fang asked anxiously, his wide sleeves twisted in his grip.

“Hmm.” The doctor nodded, then spoke in a way that startled Ming Tian.

She thickened her neck, speaking in an unmistakably fake male voice: “Young Master’s pulse is disordered and rapid. I fear a malignant spirit has possessed him. Ordinary medicine is powerless. I must combine medical arts with Daoist rituals to expel the evil before prescribing further treatment. You must all leave; no one can disturb my ritual.”

What the—evil spirit? Rituals? Are you a doctor or a Daoist priest?

Ming Tian was stunned, then remembered that from the Han to the Tang dynasties, mysticism flourished. This was the age of a hundred schools, rife with superstition. Any blind man with a bamboo stick could call himself a “half-immortal.”

Wait a minute—Dad, are you blind? She’s a woman! Can’t you tell?

“Very well, we’ll leave it to you, sir,” Zhuge Fang said, bowing before hastily closing the door.

“Hey, Dad, am I really your son?! Dad! You can’t just swap sons like phone cards in this era!” But Ming Tian was given no chance to speak—Zhuge Fang ignored him and firmly shut the door.

In that moment, Ming Tian was drenched in sweat.

He watched as the female doctor produced a roll of cloth from her waist pouch, spreading it out on the table to reveal more than fifty silver needles.

She was going to perform acupuncture—but these needles were… In modern times, acupuncture needles are as fine as hair; in this era, they were as thick as sewing needles—thicker, even! You’d hesitate to mend a sack with these, let alone pierce flesh.

The woman approached with five needles in hand, expressionless. “Now, Young Master Zhuge, the evil spirit within you is deep. I must first seal your Taiyang, Tianling, and Shuanghui points before I begin the ritual.”

“Wait, I just want to confirm something.” Staring at the blood-stained needles, Ming Tian could already envision his gruesome end.

“What do you wish to know?”

“Are you sure you’re going to use those needles on me and not on the two oxen in our back yard?”

One jab from those would kill a cow! Are these needles or porcupine quills?

And what evil spirit? Maybe some pent-up fire—if you want to help, how about relieving that?

“Enough talk, let’s begin,” the woman said impatiently, raising a needle to pierce Ming Tian’s forehead.

At that instant, his survival instincts kicked in. In a tenth of a second, he grasped the crucial fact.

“If you dare stick me, I’ll shout that you’re a woman!”

Those twelve words stopped the needle at the very moment it touched his scalp.

The doctor’s face instantly paled, her hand trembling so violently the needle tickled his forehead—almost pleasant in its way.

Five, maybe ten seconds passed in frozen silence, then the doctor, her voice trembling in its true feminine register, asked, “How… how did you know I was a woman?”

Thank heavens! The most clichéd line had arrived! Everyone in this era must be blind! Blindness forever! Long live clichés!

Ming Tian cheered inwardly.

“How I know is unimportant. For now, untie me, tell everyone I’m cured, and then return. Meet me on the back hill tomorrow—I have questions for you. You have no choice; refuse, and I’ll expose you immediately.”

This was exactly how a time traveler should talk—classic, self-assured, and just a little arrogant.

…