Cure My Enemy

My name is Yves Yeager. On the plaque in the main hall of the Yeagers' home, the characters "Prohibition of Healing" have faded to a light brown. My grandfather said these three characters were earned by our ancestors at the cost of half their lives. In the Q Dynasty, the Yeager Family produced a legendary doctor named Sigmund Yeager, whose single silver needle could bring the dead back to life. That year, the elderly master of the military minister's mansion was gravely ill, and the entire imperial medical team was powerless. The steward, clutching gold bars, knelt overnight in front of the Yeager Family's residence. Sigmund Yeager spent three days and three nights and managed to save him. But within half a year, the minister fell from power, and the Yeager Family was accused of "treason and rebellion." When the officers came to ransack the house, breaking down the doorframe, Sigmund Yeager realized he had saved the wrong person. Thanks to the protection of local officials, the Yeager Family was spared complete ruin. Before his death, Sigmund Yeager gritted his teeth and established an ancestral instruction: no descendants of the Yeager Family shall ever practice medicine; violators will be expelled from the clan. But the art of medicine is like ink soaked in water, long since seeped into the bones and blood of the Yeager Family. When I was ten, my grandfather pressed the "Yeager Medical Cases" and the silver needle set into my hands, saying, "You must learn even if you can't use it, and you won't use it if you don't learn." He taught me to identify herbs, read pulses, and apply needles; each acupuncture point's depth had to be practiced thousands of times until the silver needle could pierce tofu without going through—only then was I considered qualified. After I became an adult, I worked as a technician in a machinery factory, nine to five, living a life as plain as water. Only when relatives or friends came to me would I occasionally show off my skills. My third aunt had suffered from migraines for three years. I applied acupuncture needles to several of her Acupuncture Points five times, and since then, the migraines never returned. The son of my childhood friend developed pediatric malnutrition, looking pale and thin. I prescribed some medicine, and within half a month, the child had visibly gained weight. I never charge money; at most, I accept a basket of eggs or a few pounds of fruit brought by the patient. Over time, the saying that "Yves Yeager is a miracle doctor" spread within our small circle. I was especially cautious about this and repeatedly warned others not to spread it outside. But my wife, Yolanda Quincy, thought otherwise. She works as an administrator at a foreign trade company, and every day after work, she keeps talking about how her colleagues have bought new cars and moved into bigger houses. "It's such a waste to keep your skills hidden," she said as she served me rice, her eyes shining. "Kate's cousin in our neighborhood makes more in one month doing physiotherapy than you do in half a year." I moved the bowl aside. "The ancestral instruction must not be broken." "What kind of era is this to still cling to old rules?" Yolanda Quincy slammed her chopsticks on the table. "My son is starting elementary school next year, and we're still 200,000 short on the down payment for a school district house. Do you plan to send him to an ordinary school?" That struck a nerve. My son, Jasper Yeager, is smart and lively; I've long promised to get him into the best school. But after paying the mortgage and living expenses, my salary hardly leaves any savings. Yolanda Quincy saw I was silent and softened her tone: "You could occasionally help outsiders and charge a small fee for your trouble." I firmly shook my head. "No. If my grandfather found out, he'd rise from his grave and scold me." I thought the matter was settled—until a weekend, half a month later.