Chapter 130

Chapter 130: She’s an Old Chinese Medicine Practitioner

“Is Black Whirlwind too fat?”

Oh boy. Here we go again.

The comment section was on fire.

“He’s just sturdy, okay? Where’s the fat?”

“My uncle works at Lingyuan. He says their feeding plan is super scientific. Their animals barely get sick!”

“Y’all just think he’s fat because he’s next to Zongbao. Those two aren’t even the same age!”

“Ugh, can’t even make a comment without the panda stans going feral. This one is fat, okay? Other animals can’t be compared to pandas. Remember Shannan Zoo? They let three pandas die.”

“I watched carefully. Black Whirlwind never stops eating. Just his daytime meals already match a full adult panda’s daily intake. And that’s not counting nighttime snacking.”

“…First time I’ve seen panda fans accusing a zoo of overfeeding. Aren’t they usually mad about underfeeding?”

Xiao Su reported the online chaos to me. She’s a panda fan herself, but not an expert, and honestly? That nitpicking commenter had a point. Most zoos have vets with just enough qualifications to skate by. Just because they’ve got a breeding license doesn’t mean they’re panda whisperers.

And treating animals, especially huge ones like this guy? Not exactly plug-and-play medicine. You need to anesthetize a panda for IV fluids. Every. Single. Time.

I rubbed my temples. Ever since we launched the live stream, our follower count had exploded—and so had the headaches. Ignore comments? People assume we’re hiding something. Respond to everything? I’d have to clone myself.

The panda drama started when Black Whirlwind and Zongbao shot past Guan Yu and Chao Hu in popularity rankings. Yeah. That fast.

Our already-packed livestream schedule got even tighter. Thankfully, the platform stepped in with a backend upgrade: one account, multiple live channels. Viewers could flip between streams like a buffet. I ordered more cameras. Gave pandas their own channel. Problem solved.

Except… not really.

Now that people could spy on the animals 24/7, the questions got weird.

“Where does the panda poop? Did he sneak behind a rock or something?”

And of course: “Why is Black Whirlwind so dang big?”

Here’s the thing—he is larger than average. And yeah, he’s chunkier than most pandas. But that’s not the problem. The real problem?

He’s unstoppable.

He doesn’t just eat the scientifically portioned food we set out for him—he forages. After hours, he takes strolls around the zoo, helping himself to whatever he finds. Like a bamboo-devouring shadow.

So now people are wondering if we’re secretly stuffing him with treats. The truth is scarier: we’re not the ones feeding him.

“It’s okay,” I told the staff calmly. “Xuanfeng’s perfectly healthy. Just… large.”

I got the vet data to back it up. We check vitals daily per our agreement with the panda center. Weight, diet, energy, vitals—the works.

Yes, he’s overweight. But his health metrics? Chef’s kiss. This panda’s built different.

We released the data online. Instant credibility boost.

Netizens were floored.

“Okay I’m convinced. So fat yet so healthy? Not just fluff after all!”

“Shut up, haters. Let Black Whirlwind eat in peace!”

“Other zoos should be taking notes. This guy’s THRIVING.”

“I wanna send more ‘bamboo’ gifts to the stream!”

(“Bamboo” is what viewers send during live streams. Like tips, but in panda currency.)

Anyway, with the fire put out, I went on my daily walk. Gotta stretch or I’ll fossilize in that office chair. These days, I take my sweet time. And since the resort hotel just opened, I usually swing by the free-range area.

This time, I saw a group of old men in the hotel’s lounge, gathered around a stone table like a calligraphy mafia.

“Director Duan!” they called out in unison.

I cursed their excellent eyesight under my breath and strolled over. “Good afternoon, masters. Having a good time?”

Brushes, ink, and stacks of xuan paper covered the table. These weren’t just retirees. They were the city’s calligraphy elite—some were association members, others rich hobbyists with family connections and big egos.

Turns out, they’d been drawn in by Bai Suzhen’s calligraphy on our hotel umbrellas and porcelain. Once the hotel photos started trending, they rushed over like it was a pilgrimage.

Some wanted to buy the art. Others just wanted to meet “the artist.”

Too bad. Nothing was for sale, and Bai Suzhen kept brushing them off. “Busy,” she’d say, with a wave.

I tried explaining she was a part-time designer helping a friend. They didn’t care. Now they were camping at the hotel just to wait for her.

“Director Duan,” one of them whispered conspiratorially. “Where exactly does Miss Bai work? I even asked around in the city, but no one knows.”

I nearly choked. They were investigating her?

“She’s… a temp,” I blurted. “Can’t be traced. Not on any org chart.”

Cue instant debate.

“She should join the Literary Federation!”

“Or be an art consultant for my son’s company.”

“My son’s still single—”

“Shut up! He’s almost forty!”

I raised my hands. “Everyone, Bai Jie already has a boyfriend. And she’s just doing a friend a favor. I can’t pressure her.”

Still, they grumbled.

“She’s so young, yet so accomplished. But no respect for her elders…”

Right. If they only knew.

See, Bai Suzhen’s not rude. She just works all day and studies at night.

And not art.

Medicine.

That’s right. She’s diving deep into Chinese medicine—and Western medicine too, just to see what the fuss is about.

Calligraphy and painting? Side hobbies. Prescription-writing warmups.

“She’s exploring other interests now,” I said vaguely.

“A genius,” one sighed. “Even her distractions are master-level.”

“I wonder what she’s studying?”

Well… they found out that night.

Mr. Sun, the same elder who’d spoken, collapsed from a heart attack.

People screamed. Staff rushed in. CPR, meds, chaos.

Too far from the hospital.

“I knew we shouldn’t have stayed here,” someone said.

And then—

“Director!” someone called out. “Director Duan!”

I came running. Dragging Bai Suzhen with me.

“I haven’t finished this chapter,” she protested.

“You’re up. Life or death.”

The elders froze when they saw her. No time for greetings. Bai Suzhen pulled out silver needles like some kind of ancient assassin.

Gasps all around.

“Is she a TCM doctor?”

“Can acupuncture fix a heart attack?!”

“She’s so pretty—wait, is she really a doctor?!”

Even my staff looked confused. I whispered, “Don’t worry. She’s the real deal. Years of experience.”

Technically true… depending on how long you think she’s lived.

“She learned calligraphy writing prescriptions,” I added helpfully. “Those brushstrokes? Straight from drawing acupoint diagrams.”

They stared at me like I’d gone mad.

Meanwhile, Bai Suzhen was calm, fast, and terrifyingly precise. A few needles in, a few arm massages, and just like that—Mr. Sun opened his eyes.

“Miss Bai…?” he croaked.

“You may call me Doctor Bai.”

Gasps. Cheers. Phones recording.

“She saved him in three minutes!”

“She’s so cool!”

“I’m posting this—modern beauty, ancient skill!”

The elders, still skeptical, muttered about hospitals.

“You’ll waste resources,” Bai Suzhen said flatly. “They won’t find anything.”

Still, we called an ambulance, just in case. I figured a few modern test results would calm their old bones.

Later, she pulled me aside.

“Director, what if I write a medical book? Print it for the people?”

“Uh… we’d need a book number. Otherwise it’s illegal…”

“…”

“But those old guys? They know publishers. I’ll ask around. Want to go viral?”

“I don’t care about fame,” she sighed. “I just want people to learn. But… who would learn from someone like me?”

I pointed to the growing crowd filming her every move.

“Trust me, Sister Bai. You’re about to become legendary.”

She didn’t answer. Just looked quietly at the camera lights.