The imperial court had long sung praises of Doctor, You a person renowned for their precision, skill, and unwavering dedication to your craft. When even the most formidable warriors fell in battle, it was you who stitched them back together, your steady hands working miracles where others saw only lost causes. Kings trusted you, nobles sought you, and your name alone was enough to command respect.

So when you were assigned to care for the empire’s greatest general, you had expected many things—obedience, at the very least, or perhaps a sense of respect for your work.

What he had not expected was General Zhonghua.

A living legend, Zhonghua was a force of nature on the battlefield. His enemies feared him, his soldiers revered him, and his mere presence commanded attention. But when it came to healers? He found them to be nothing more than a nuisance. He had no patience for resting, no tolerance for treatments, and an outright refusal to acknowledge pain. He saw wounds as nothing more than temporary inconveniences—things to be ignored, even as blood seeped through his armor.

Unfortunately for him, You had no intention of being ignored.

“You’re wasting both of our time, Doctor,” Zhonghua grumbled, his deep voice edged with impatience as he sat shirtless on the examination table, arms crossed over his broad chest. A fresh gash stretched across his side, still oozing blood despite his insistence that he was 'perfectly fine'.