Every morning, Aunt Tian would load coal briquettes into the stove, set a large pot over it, and simmer a broth made from Spicy Hot Pot seasoning. She prepared tofu skins, potato slices cut the night before, pre-soaked vermicelli, seaweed tied into butterfly knots, and washed bok choy, then waited at the school gate for the snack-craving children to come out for lunch at noon.
Business was decent the first year, but summer saw fewer customers. She couldn’t just stay home idle for half a year, so Aunt Tian thought, why not boil vegetables in plain water and toss them with stir-fried seasoning? Koreans eat mixed vegetables too, after all. Initially, few recognized this spicy mixed dish—the beef fat coated in chili oil stuck in the throat and felt choking. It wasn’t until Liu Zhengliang and his high school classmates came during lunch break to try it and support her business that things gradually improved. When the noon rush hit and Aunt Tian was overwhelmed, Liu Zhengliang helped cook and mix the vegetables. Impatient by nature, he once sprinkled cumin and sugar from the neighboring Grilled Chicken Rack stall into the mix. Chen Junnan took a bite, found it unique but lacking something, so he grabbed some vinegar from the chicken rack stall, poured it in, and tasted again—spicy, numbing, sour, and sweet.
The flavor intrigued him. Chen Junnan called Liu Zhengliang over to try it; Liu liked it, and they let Aunt Tian taste it—she approved too. Once the students heard, everyone wanted their mix prepared with this recipe.
Thus, the dish was invented. What to name it? They called it Spicy Mix.
Spicy Mix took off instantly. Originally, the people of Fushun considered Manchu Eight Bowls their signature dish, but within a few years, Spicy Mix became a must-order for hosting guests. Restaurants big and small had to master it, or risk being seen as incompetent chefs.
After a year, Aunt Tian saved enough to lease a shop near the elementary school. The next year, she opened another, and within five years, she had ten branches. Later, her daughter said, "Mom, our Spicy Mix could be a hit elsewhere. Let me give it a try."
Over a decade later, Aunt Tian owned dozens of stores nationwide—one near Beijing’s Bird’s Nest, another in Wangjing SOHO, one at the entrance of Shanghai’s City God Temple, and even one by Guangzhou’s "Little Waist" tower. She no longer worried about money, but her neck became a constant concern.
The last time Liu Zhengliang saw her, the thick gold chain around her neck was thicker than a finger; now, she couldn’t even hang a keychain on it. She tilts her head to look at people, can’t sit or stand for long, and can’t stroll around—she gets dizzy quickly. She spends about twenty hours a day in bed, only venturing downstairs for an hour to chat with Liu Zhengliang’s mom. Illness made her lose interest in spending, so she still lives in the old, dilapidated steel mill apartment, refusing to move to a villa she owns in Shenyang. Why? Because her ex-husband lives nearby, and she wants acquaintances to see how well she’s doing and pass it on to him. If you achieve greatness but don’t return home to show off, isn’t that like wearing fine clothes in the dark? What’s the point of earning money? To spend it? No—it’s all about pride. Do you regret it? Even if you do, I won’t take you back. Serves you right.Aunt Tian said, "Child, you have to help your Aunt Tian. Right now I have money but no life to spend it—don't laugh at me, but I'm even afraid to use a squat toilet. I worry that if I strain too hard and my neck pain flares up, my head might plunge straight into the toilet bowl."
Aunt Tian showed the scans she had taken to Liu Zhengliang. Liu Zhengliang said, "Aunt Tian, I'll definitely find a way to help you with this. But this isn't my specialty—in the medical field, different disciplines are like mountains apart. I'll need to inquire around and see what options are available in Beijing."
Aunt Tian said, "I've got an Infrared therapy device, an Electromagnetic Traction Device, and a Cervical Spine Correction Massage Chair—my house is filled with them. I've tried all kinds of Bone Strengthening Powder and health supplements, but none of them have been effective."
Liu Zhengliang had heard from his mentor Wang Hao that for spinal issues, the best hospital in the country was the China Rehabilitation Center in Beijing. However, he wasn't an expert in this area either; he had merely agreed to help but didn't take it too seriously. He suggested that Aunt Tian consider going to the China Rehabilitation Center in Beijing for treatment.
Liu Zhengliang's mother wasn't having it. She thought to herself, "I've already boasted that my son, a medical Ph.D., knows everything. How can you let me down when I've brought someone to you?" So she said, "No, you have to look into this properly. Spend a week researching it thoroughly—whether she should go to Beijing for treatment or undergo some form of therapy here. You need to consult your teachers and give a definite answer."
Liu Zhengliang agreed to it.
For seven days straight, he studied Aunt Tian's scans while searching for relevant research papers. He read them during idle moments at work and in his free time after work. Che Mingming and Chen Junnan were chatting in the office when they noticed Liu Zhengliang still immersed in his research, even picking up an iPad to study a skeletal anatomy app, dissecting and analyzing it from all angles.
Chen Junnan asked, "What are you researching?"
Liu Zhengliang replied, "It's an assignment from my mom. She asked me to help her good friend find specialists in Beijing and figure out how to treat her cervical spondylosis."
Che Mingming said, "Not bad, Liangzi! You're diving into orthopedic research now. You'll soon become a super general practitioner."
Liu Zhengliang said, "You know, this field of cervical spondylosis is actually quite fascinating. Let me draw an analogy with cardiology and neurology. In our departments, when it comes to surgeries, experts debate solutions—it's a debate about whether to consider threshold values, whether to administer a thrombolytic injection or lower blood pressure. In plain terms, it's like arguing whether to drive or ride a bike to a place, or whether to go during the day or at night. But cervical spine issues are different—it's like arguing whether you can ride a bicycle to the United States. One person says it's possible, another says it's not. Look at these two papers: one claims cervical spondylosis is caused by long-term compression of the cervical spine, and the solution is to reduce pressure, using traction tools to alleviate the condition. The other paper argues that as long as humans walk upright, compression of the cervical spine is inevitable, and traction tools only provide temporary relief without addressing the root cause."
Chen Junnan laughed and said, "If those two old professors stood together, they'd probably slap each other two hundred times."
Che Mingming asked, "So who's actually right?"Chen Junnan said, "Papers only show the reasoning, not the actual efficacy. Since these two opposing views are so sharply divided, I need to find out where others stand. I've been researching this for days, and so far, only one professor holds the latter view. Most believe traction is a safe treatment option."
Che Mingming then asked, "So how will you determine who's right and who's wrong?"
Chen Junnan explained, "Cervical spondylosis is a chronic condition. Unlike our emergency department, where we focus on saving lives and don't track follow-up rates—if someone gets hit by a car and we treat them, they usually won't come back just to check on their recovery—chronic diseases have long treatment cycles. If the initial treatment isn't effective, patients generally won't return. Even if they come a second time and still see no improvement, they definitely won't come a third time. They'll just switch hospitals or doctors. So, I thought, why not check these two professors' follow-up rates? Forget how much they boast about their views or their self-reported cure rates; let's just look at the follow-up rates."
Liu Zhengliang, who knew nothing about hospital operations and was only focused on technology, asked, "Is relying solely on follow-up rates accurate?"
Chen Junnan replied, "Well, many private hospitals use follow-up rates as a KPI to make money from returning patients. Just looking at that data isn't reliable either. But these two professors are at public tertiary hospitals, they're older, and they're leaders in the spinal field domestically. They don't need to rely on follow-up patients for their income. So, I'll add another condition: the rate of second follow-ups. Think about it—with a chronic condition, if a senior professor's patients come back for a third or even fourth visit, it basically means they've found the treatment reliable and want to continue until they're fully cured. By combining this data with the cure rates published in their department's papers and annual summaries, we can see which approach is more dependable."
Che Mingming asked, "Is it possible that both views are correct?"
Liu Zhengliang said, "It's possible, but the probability is low. Professor Zhang believes that with external auxiliary treatments like traction, patients can gradually improve their cervical spondylosis. Professor Du thinks external assistance has very limited effects and that patients must rely on their own muscle training for real results. These are completely different directions. We're not experts, so we can't judge who's right or wrong—we can only rely on statistical data."
Chen Junnan said, "I can handle this for you. I'll ask around in our medical school alumni group; it's not confidential. I can get last year's performance evaluation forms in a couple of days. By referencing data from the past few years, we can draw a preliminary conclusion. Then, we'll study the view of the professor with the higher follow-up rate to see if it's reliable."
Just as Liu Zhengliang finished his work, the phone rang.
Liu Zhengliang answered the call—it was Ai San on the line.When Ai San heard that his daughter had been getting rather close with Liu Zhengliang, he felt somewhat displeased. It was as if he had just retrieved a prized cabbage he'd lost over a decade ago, only to have it immediately trampled by a pig. Back when Ai Chen was playing online games daily with Liu Zhengliang and casually going out for meals and shopping, he had warned her: "I know keeping this prized cabbage at home will only turn it into pickled sour cabbage eventually. But as your father, I must remind you—loyalty often lies among humble folks, while betrayal frequently comes from the educated. Don’t fancy him just because he’s highly educated. He might only be stopping over in Fushun temporarily; once he recovers his footing in a year or two, who knows where he’ll fly off to? A PhD like him—could he really work as an emergency room doctor at the Second Hospital forever? Impossible. It’s not that I look down on my daughter—my girl is so beautiful, wherever she goes, rows of young men turn their heads to look. But I fear you’ll end up shortchanged. You’re over thirty now—don’t waste any more time. If you delay further, you won’t be looking for a husband anymore, but a companion for your old age."
Ai San called Liu Zhengliang and said, "Xiao Liu, I’d like to meet up for a chat, maybe a bath and some barbecue."
Just like that, Ai San arranged to meet Liu Zhengliang. As soon as they met, he dragged him straight to a Korean-style bath and dining complex.
Bathing in Northeast China follows a specific procedure—it’s entirely different from traditional bathing. Did you think it was just stripping naked, soaking in a large pool to loosen the grime, then scrubbing back and forth with a washcloth? That would be utterly lacking in ceremony.
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