The lantern light felt like a physical blow, freezing Lin Wei and his men in a tableau of guilt. The fragile warmth of their success evaporated, replaced by the cold certainty of punishment. Flogging, at best. Execution for theft from the army warehouses, more likely.
Clerk Zhao stepped forward, his lips curled into a smug sneer. He was a man whose petty authority was his entire identity, and he relished this moment. "Stealing from the Emperor's warehouse," he tutted, his voice oily. "A flogging for each of you will be just the start. And you," he said, pointing a bony finger at Lin Wei, "the disgraced doctor. Leading them. Commander Xin will be so interested to hear this."
But Lin Wei didn't see a powerful official. His physician's eyes, sharpened by years of diagnosis and the silent prompts of his system, saw something else entirely. He saw the man's posture—a subtle, constant shifting of weight from one foot to the other.
He saw the slight movement Zhao tried to hide when he took a step. The system, ever observant, confirmed his suspicion with a silent, glowing text only he could see:
"[Subject: Clerk Zhao. Observable Symptoms: Perianal discomfort, postural adjustments to alleviate pelvic pressure. Likely Diagnosis: Severe Hemorrhoids.]"
While Sly Liu began a frantic, wheedling excuses and Ox Li tensed for a fight they couldn't win, Lin Wei remained preternaturally calm. He took a half-step forward, ignoring the stolen goods at his feet.
"Clerk Zhao," Lin Wei said, his voice low and even, cutting through Liu's babble. "The Emperor's werehouse is safe. We are not thieves."
Zhao barked a laugh. "I have eyes, convict!"
"You see men taking what they need to keep other men from dying of festering wounds," Lin Wei countered, his gaze unwavering. "But that is a debate for another time. Right now, I am more concerned with your health."
The nonsequitur stunned everyone, including Zhao's two guards, who exchanged confused glances. Zhao's sneer faltered. "My… my health? What nonsense is this? Do not try your quack's tricks on me!"
"It is no trick," Lin Wei continued, his tone that of a consultant delivering a difficult diagnosis. "The pain you feel is quite real. A burning, itching sensation that makes sitting a trial and walking a torment. It wakes you at night. You've tried salves, but they offer little relief." He was describing the symptoms with a clinical precision that was far more unnerving than any magical threat.
Zhao's face flushed a deep, burning red. His eyes darted to his guards, who were now trying very hard to look like they weren't listening. This was a humiliation worse than any insult. His secret, painful shame was being laid bare in front of subordinates and convicts.
"How… how dare you!" he spluttered, but the anger was undercut by a flicker of desperate hope.
"I am a physician," Lin Wei said, as if stating a simple fact. "I see a man in pain. I can help you. The condition is… manageable. I have an ointment far more effective than anything you've used. It can give you your nights back, your peace."
He let the offer hang in the thick night air. It wasn't a bribe of silver or favor. It was a bribe of relief. Of dignity.
The conflict on Zhao's face was plain. His pride warred with his agony. He looked from Lin Wei's calm face to the stolen supplies, then back again. The threat of punishment was a lever he understood. The promise of an end to his private hell was a far more powerful one.
"These… supplies," Zhao said slowly, his voice losing its bluster. "They would be for your… hospital?"
"They are for preventing men from becoming corpses you have to account for," Lin Wei replied plainly.
One of the guards, a man with a phlegmy cough that Lin Wei had noted, shifted uncomfortably. The system tagged him:
"[Subject: Guard #1. Likely chronic bronchitis.]"
The other guard nervously rubbed a wrist that was clearly stiff with an old injury.
"[Subject: Guard #2. Old sprain, poorly healed.]"
Lin Wei looked at them. "The night air is bad for that cough. A simple tea of coltsfoot and honey would ease it greatly." He glanced at the second guard's wrist. "And that joint could be reset. It would hurt for a moment, but the stiffness would be gone."
The dynamic shifted entirely. The confrontation was no longer about crime and punishment. It was about a doctor making house calls. Clerk Zhao saw the change in his men's posture. They were no longer looking at convicts; they were looking at a potential source of relief.
With a sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body, Clerk Zhao made his decision. "This never happened," he muttered, not meeting anyone's eyes. "I saw nothing. You convicts were… on a work detail. Assigned by… by me. To clear debris." He gestured vaguely. "These supplies are… payment in kind."
He looked at Lin Wei, his expression a complex mix of shame, gratitude, and resentment. "You will bring the… the ointment. Tomorrow."
Lin Wei gave a single, curt nod. "Of course."
Without another word, Clerk Zhao turned and shuffled away, his walk still betraying his discomfort, but now layered with a new, bewildering burden. His guards followed, throwing backward glances filled not with threat, but with a kind of awed curiosity.
As their footsteps faded, the penal soldiers stood in stunned silence. They were not being dragged to the flogging post. They were standing there, their arms full of stolen goods, with the tacit permission of the very man who had caught them.
Sly Liu let out a long, shaky breath. "By the gods, Doc… you just talked a tiger into becoming a house cat."
Lin Wei looked at the supplies, then in the direction Zhao had gone. "No," he said quietly. "I just gave a man in pain a reason to need me alive." He had won his first political battle. He hadn't fought with a spear, but with a diagnosis. And he had discovered that in an army camp, the most powerful currency was not silver, but health.