Everyone—Prince Qi, Chancellor Yun, Director Zhang, the physicians of the Imperial Medical Bureau, and every onlooker—stood agape at Yun Xi’s actions.
Some of the refugees, faces raw with hunger and anger, muttered that she behaved like the daughter of a treacherous minister—cruel, taking pleasure in their misery. The whispers grew into outright indignation.
“Your Highness the Crown Prince, Chancellor Yun…this—” Director Zhang faltered, torn.
Qi Yu’s gaze, however, fixed on Yun Xi. Without a second thought, as if warding off a storm, he strode over and put her behind him, shielding her from the jeers and the shoves. He meant to pull her to safety. But Yun Xi didn’t move; she stood rooted, unafraid.
“Why are you doing this?” Chancellor Yun asked gently as he and Director Zhang joined them. He knew his daughter was not wantonly cruel; he tried for patience. If she was merely disgruntled, he would soothe the crowd and apologize on her behalf.
Yun Xi met their eyes with an unflinching calm. “Father,” she said, “it isn’t only this time. We must do it this way from now on, or refugees will keeled over and die.”
The words fell like a stone. Everyone fell silent.
“What do you mean?” Director Zhang’s face turned grave at the mention of sudden deaths. He needed a reasonable explanation.
Yun Xi scanned the line of people awaiting bowls of porridge. She bowed once, then pointed to a man near the front—one who had already queued four times for rations.
“You,” she said. “Tell me honestly—can you eat any more?”
The man looked at the empty bowl clutched in his hands, rubbed the bloated curve of his belly, and tried to answer—only to hiss at a sudden burn in his mouth. He’d eaten so fast he’d scalded his lips and throat without noticing. He shook his head truthfully, then doubled over as a sharp pain seized his stomach. Sweat broke out across his brow and, before anyone could reach him, he crumpled to the ground.
“What’s wrong?!” Director Zhang’s face went white. The Bureau physicians hurried to take his pulse. One of them, eyes grave, said, “Director Zhang—this matches the earlier symptoms.”
At that remark, understanding spread through the crowd like a chill. These were the harbingers of sudden collapse.
Yun Xi’s face hardened. She had not expected to stumble onto such a case by chance, yet the signs were unmistakable. The man’s muscles twitched; the attendants readied needles and emergency measures. The lead physician moved to begin acupuncture—an automatic reflex from years of practice—but Yun Xi stepped in front of him and stopped the hand.
“Make him vomit,” she ordered. “He’s died from overeating.”
The doctors exchanged doubtful looks. Yun Xi crouched, pried the man’s mouth open, and pushed her fingers to the back of his throat. It was a desperate, dirty maneuver—one she had no certainty would work—but there was nothing else to try. She forced a gag reflex.
Director Zhang, watching, felt the world rearrange itself in that instant. The man began to retch, bringing up a mass of half-chewed porridge. He vomited for a long time before finally losing consciousness. Director Zhang pressed his fingers to the man’s wrist; the pulse was faint but present.
They carried him to a tent and set him down. Director Zhang turned to Yun Xi with a new look—reverence mingled with shame. “Miss,” he said, “how did you think of this?” His voice carried genuine respect. After years of treating such victims, he had missed the crucial link; a young girl had seen what he had not.
Yun Xi’s explanation was steady, practiced. “I’ve been studying medical manuals at home,” she said. “I’ve only a rudimentary grasp of theory, but there’s a saying—‘excess is as bad as deficiency.’ It applies to the body as well.”
She pointed to the line of refugees. “Those who have starved for a long time are terrified there won’t be a next meal. When they finally get food, they scarf it down. But prolonged emptiness weakens the organs. A sudden, excessive meal can overload the digestive system and cause a catastrophic failure.”
Hearing this, the physicians’ skepticism melted into comprehension. Yun Xi continued, “That’s why I mixed bran into the porridge—bran irritates the throat as it passes, makes people cough, prevents them from gulping everything at once. It slows them down and reduces the risk of scalded mouths. As they strain the bran out while they eat, they eat more slowly and less recklessly.”
One of the younger physicians, who had been among those privately cursing Yun Xi moments before, couldn’t help admiring the idea out loud. “It’s brilliant.”
But then he frowned. “Do you mean to keep putting bran in the porridge every day?”
“No.” Yun Xi cut him off. “There are four porridge tents set up. Just put the bran in one and direct all the newly arrived refugees to that line. People who reached the city earlier and have been fed regularly are not as desperate. Infants and children should be given special rations.”
She laid out the logistics with calm clarity. “This won’t be permanent. We’ll watch the effects and adjust. Within seven days we’ll know if it works.”
Director Zhang listened, nodded, and clapped once in quick, sincere approval. “On behalf of the Imperial Medical Bureau, I thank you for saving lives today. If this proves effective, I will report it to His Majesty and make sure everyone knows your contribution.”
Refugee deaths from sudden overconsumption were not confined to the outskirts of the capital; reports from northwest cities told the same grim story. If Yun Xi’s measure proved sound it could be adopted everywhere—perhaps saving thousands more lives. She had acted not for praise or reward, but because any life spared lessened the weight of tragedy by one.
They passed under the city gate and into the press of people. Yun Xi’s hands trembled slightly; she had not realized until now how much pressure she had been carrying, how uncertain she’d been that her forced vomiting would be enough to save the man.
Prince Qi had watched her from the start without taking his eyes off her. He saw the tremor in her fingers. Without fuss, he slipped off his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders, drawing the ties snug and fastening them with practiced fingers.
“Are you cold?” he asked softly.
She leaned into the warmth for a heartbeat and, for the first time since the morning’s chaos, allowed herself a small, tired exhale.