An Yan stepped forward, bent down to examine Fu Haichuan, and pulled back his eyelid.
"Your eyelid is so tight. Are you nervous?"
She slightly curved her lips, placed her hand on the old man's wrist, and whispered with a click, "You are gravely ill."
The person in the bed didn't move an inch.
An Yan stood up and turned back to look at Zhou Yi, "Grandmother."
Zhou Yi stood up, "Why still call me grandmother? Isn't that a mismatch of our relation?"
An Yan, somewhat embarrassed, corrected herself, "Aunt, Uncle doesn't need to be hospitalized for treatment, I can treat him."
"You can?"
An Yan blinked, "I learned a set of needle techniques in the countryside, best for treating strokes."
Zhou Yi instantly understood. The worried look on her face was replaced by anger, "An Yan, I trust you. Treat him."
An Yan took out a small cloth bag from her backpack and pulled out six silver needles.
Fu Jinqiao exclaimed, "Such long silver needles, how do you manage that?"
