"However, that’s the reality. Without the conviction and support of your peers, relying solely on word-of-mouth from patients, you’re destined to remain in one place your entire life."

Du Heng sat upright, listening intently to Lan Changhua’s counsel.

After a moment of thoughtful silence, Lan Changhua shifted the conversation back to Du Heng. "Now, let’s talk about you. Your current abilities are, without a doubt, at the pinnacle of the traditional Chinese medicine field."

Seeing Du Heng about to offer a modest deflection, Lan Changhua raised a hand to stop him. "There’s no need to be self-deprecating; facts are facts. Moreover, your online fame, particularly among doctors who popularize medical science, truly makes you an outstanding person; you’re exceptional. Logically, with your reputation and tens of millions of followers, you should be so busy your feet don’t touch the ground. Your hospital should be overflowing with patients.

"But what’s the actual situation?"

Lan Changhua looked seriously at Du Heng, who returned his earnest gaze.

This was something he’d always wondered about.

His patient numbers had indeed increased somewhat, and the hospital did have more patients. Some had even traveled from across the country, drawn by his reputation.

However, the volume wasn’t substantial, just barely meeting the threshold for a typical Class A hospital’s patient load. It couldn’t compare to Capital Hospital, let alone Jinzhou’s Provincial First Hospital, the first affiliated hospital of JZU, JZU Second Hospital, or the Military Region Hospital.

He truly wanted to understand why.

Lan Changhua’s voice resumed, "Seeking medical treatment is, for any patient, undoubtedly one of the few major events in their life. And when they need to see a doctor, patients will invariably first choose a locally renowned hospital, and within that hospital, the best doctors. This choice stems from word-of-mouth referrals and introductions from acquaintances. There’s no other reason. It’s simply due to familiarity, and that familiarity breeds trust."

Du Heng understood this point deeply. A significant portion of his current patients had indeed been referred by previous ones.

"No matter how well-produced your online videos are, or how authentic your disease records seem, patients unfamiliar with you will always harbor a sliver of doubt. So, when they consider coming to see you, they’ll inevitably do one thing: find a doctor they know and ask for that doctor’s assessment of you and your video content."

Lan Changhua smiled faintly at Du Heng. "What do you suppose those doctors, when asked, will say about you?"

Du Heng was silent for a moment, then let out a long, slow breath. "Uncertain, unfamiliar, no comment, proceed at your own risk." He based this summary on his own attitude towards peers.

Lan Changhua chuckled. "Exactly. Most doctors who are asked will react just as you’ve described. But those are still the reactions of relatively decent individuals. What about the doctors who proclaim a strong sense of justice and morality yet are consumed by jealousy? Do you think they’ll stop at those three ’nos’? No, what they say might be even more scathing.

"So, when you have no peers vouching for you, how much credibility do you think your online fame truly carries? You must remember, you’re treating illnesses. This isn’t like selling goods online, where you can just call out ’Hey, family!’ a couple of times, and they’ll travel miles to place an order with you. This isn’t about a few dozen or a few hundred yuan. Once they decide to seek your help, it involves sums in the thousands or tens of thousands, not to mention the critical question of whether their life is safe in your hands.

"Unless they’re at their wit’s end, with no other options, no one will come to you."

Lan Changhua spoke slowly, but the conviction in his voice gradually brought a look of dawning understanding to Du Heng’s eyes.

This change made Lan Changhua’s serious expression soften slightly.

He cleared his throat gently, and once he had Du Heng’s attention again, Lan Changhua continued at an unhurried pace, "What we just discussed was how peers can help your personal professional progress. Now, let’s talk about your career development prospects."

The moment this topic was introduced, the clarity in Du Heng’s eyes clouded over with confusion again. "Isn’t that the same thing?" he asked.

Lan Changhua merely shook his head gently, not directly answering Du Heng’s question, but continuing with his own line of thought. "Not long ago, someone in Modu City publicly organized an ’anti-Chinese medicine’ conference, and they promoted it heavily online. You know about this, right?"

"Of course, I know." Du Heng nodded decisively. "I saw those photos. It made me angry, but I also felt helpless."

Cao Binghe, who had been silent until then, suddenly interjected with indignation, "Before the era of modern medicine, traditional Chinese medicine served our nation for millennia! Yet, in the end, it’s being opposed and discredited by our own people. It’s truly... truly..."

Cao Binghe seemed genuinely overcome with anger, momentarily unable to find the right words to express his fury.

After taking a couple of sharp breaths, Cao Binghe went on, "Whenever the discussion turns to efficacy, they bring up emperors as examples, attempting to use a single, prominent individual to generalize about all the achievements of traditional Chinese medicine."

At this point, Kang Zhirong, perhaps not thinking clearly, blurted out, "Well, as far as I know, not many emperors lived long. The most famous is probably Emperor Qianlong, who lived to be 89."

The instant Kang Zhirong chimed in, Cao Binghe became visibly agitated. "How can those be compared? Is there any valid comparison?"

As he spoke, Cao Binghe gestured emphatically with his arm. "Anyone who has studied history, anyone with even a little historical knowledge, knows that in ancient China, the emperor appeared to be the supreme ruler, the highest authority. But guided by the sentiment ’Are emperors and generals destined by birth?’ the position of emperor was just that—a profession, and the most high-risk profession in society at that time. If it rained too much and caused floods, it was the emperor’s moral failing, and he had to issue an imperial edict of self-reproach. If it didn’t rain and there was a drought, it was still the emperor’s moral failing, and he had to go to the ancestral Temple to offer apologies. Even if an earthquake struck, it was still considered the emperor’s problem; he had to take the blame. Even if he wasn’t ill, wouldn’t he be driven to death by sheer frustration?

"Besides, an emperor had so many wives, but he couldn’t just favor whomever he wished. Intimacy was dictated by strict schedules and rules, with someone literally standing at the door to time him! How depressing is that? Eating a few extra dishes was deemed wasteful. Having too many palace maids, eunuchs, and guards was considered extravagant. Wouldn’t such a life be suffocating? Living like that long-term would lead to Qi stagnation and liver depression. It would be impossible not to die young."

Seeing Kang Zhirong about to speak again, Cao Binghe cut in, "And add to that all the power struggles, conspiracies, and intrigues—it’s no wonder emperors often died young. It’s more surprising when they lived long! Moreover, why always use emperors as examples? They could just as easily use the civil and military officials from each dynasty. These individuals are also named and recorded in history. Why not use them as examples?"

Watching Cao Binghe speak with such fervor, Kang Zhirong slowly added, "But statistics show the average lifespan in ancient times was forty years, while today it’s seventy-eight. Doesn’t that prove something?"

"’Proof? What nonsense!’" Cao Binghe retorted, his voice sharp. "First, how was the average lifespan of ancient people calculated? That’s a rough generalization. Second, even if that’s a rough estimate, forty years is not the average lifespan for our nation historically. According to approximate statistics from the ’Special Study on the Population History of Ancient China,’ the average was 60.5 years during the Western Han Dynasty and 64.5 years during the Eastern Han Dynasty. Only in times of war and turmoil did this figure drop below sixty, and even then, it remained above fifty-five. In fact, during the peak of the Tang Dynasty, the average lifespan reached 65.6 years!"

Cao Binghe emotionally refuted Kang Zhirong, as if Kang Zhirong himself were one of those online trolls, and Cao Binghe finally had the chance to confront one in person.

"That’s where your statement is flawed, and you need to recognize it," Cao Binghe stated firmly. "Now, let’s address the reasons for the increased average lifespan in modern times. First, social stability and the secure lives people lead. Second is the widespread availability of medical care. Our current three-tier diagnosis and treatment system, in particular, has vastly improved public health security. Third, the implementation of the medical insurance system has given many less affluent, and even impoverished, families access to medical treatment."