This Is Unfair, But I Can Afford to Lose

Wendy Summers's unusual composure forced Serena Feng to pay close attention. Today’s contest was supposed to be Wendy’s weak spot, yet she remained unruffled, even as Serena stole the spotlight, maintaining the poise expected of a high-born lady. Something was definitely off.

Wendy had never shown any grace toward Serena before—if she’s acting strange, there’s trouble brewing. Serena reminded herself to stay sharp and not fall into a trap set by Prince Damien of Southlyn and Wendy Summers.

Someone acting like Wendy Summers either believes she’ll win for sure, or doesn’t care about losing. After three straight defeats, her reputation is in ruins—she can’t afford another loss. Serena was certain Wendy was confident of victory, eager to win in her own field.

Serena’s lashes flickered, hiding her deep suspicion. She discreetly sized up everyone present, but every person here was a seasoned schemer. Serena didn’t have the microexpression-reading skills to spot the trick so easily.

Crown Prince Colin ignored Prince Damien’s provocations, knowing it was pointless to argue. He signaled for the eunuch to bring the lot-tube to Serena Feng and Wendy Summers. “Miss Wendy Summers is our guest—she may draw first.”

The eunuch humbly approached Wendy Summers with the lot-tube. Serena Feng’s uneasiness grew stronger—she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Serena Feng watched every move the eunuch made, but she missed the fleeting look of smug satisfaction in Prince Damien’s eyes.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Wendy Summers stood up gracefully, barely glancing at the tube as she drew a lot. “Number Eight.”

Patient No. 8 was a woman so pale she looked gravely ill, but Serena Feng noticed her eyes were bright and lively—she wasn’t nearly as sick as she appeared.

If Wendy Summers drawing No. 8 was luck, then Serena Feng getting No. 9—a healthy-looking youth with dead, hopeless eyes—was no coincidence. There was more to this than chance.

Serena Feng turned the wooden lot in her hand, meeting Prince Damien’s gaze. Her calm, mocking eyes silently told him: I know exactly what game you’re playing—but I can afford to lose.

It wasn’t paranoia—Serena knew there were no pure coincidences in this world. Out of ten patients, Wendy Summers drew the sickliest, and Serena got the healthiest-looking one—who just happened to look half-dead.

Serena wasn’t picking her patient—she was just a doctor. She could fight death, but she couldn’t win every time.

Win or lose, Serena would take responsibility for her patient. She wasn’t a god—she couldn’t save everyone, but she would give everything she had to try.

Serena’s piercing gaze made Prince Damien feel exposed for an instant—like a clown putting on a show for someone who’d seen through him all along. But he quickly recovered, smiling as if nothing had happened.

So what if Serena Feng knew? She didn’t have the power to investigate. Those who did—like Nolan Drake—were publicly “gravely ill,” giving Prince Damien all the time he needed to erase every trace.

“The patients are chosen. Everyone else may leave. Treating illness takes time—according to the contest rules, you have fifteen days. During those fifteen days, both ladies may enter and leave the Imperial Medical Directorate as imperial physicians would.”

The two patients will be protected by guards, and either lady may enter the palace to treat them at any time. During treatment, I, Prince Rowan, Prince Damien, and another noble will rotate as supervisors. The first patient to recover wins. If neither recovers in fifteen days, the contest continues until there’s a clear result.” Crown Prince Colin calmly reread the agreed rules.

The rules were deeply unfair to Serena Feng—Wendy Summers could rely on advisors behind the scenes and win without truly understanding medicine.

But the contest was only proposed because Serena Feng excelled in medicine—so even if the rules favored Wendy Summers, no one complained, and Serena herself wouldn’t mention it. Pointing out the unfairness now would only undermine her own confidence.

“No objections,” Serena Feng answered first. She tossed the bamboo lot back into the tube with a flourish—arrogant, yet no one dared criticize her.

Prince Damien’s narrow eyes twitched—Serena Feng really was bold and skilled. Even knowing he’d set her up, she remained carefree, showing the true style of a renowned figure.

With the Emperor absent, there was real freedom.

“No objections from me either.” Wendy Summers smiled warmly. Though the contest had just begun, she already looked like she had the whole situation under control.

To outsiders, Wendy Summers’s poise looked like aristocratic training, but Serena Feng knew it was real confidence. That No. 8 woman’s “illness” was probably as fake as Nolan Drake’s—she could recover at any time. Serena’s patient might be truly incurable, and definitely wouldn’t recover in fifteen days.

“Since both Miss Summers and Miss Feng have no objections, you may begin treating your patients now. Of course, you only have fifteen minutes.” The medical contest lasted fifteen days, but the Crown Prince and his party couldn’t spend every day here. After today, they would take turns accompanying Serena Feng and Wendy Summers—both as supervisors and judges.

Serena Feng nodded and approached the No. 9 youth. She pulled gloves and a mask from her pocket—no matter what illness he had, she had to maintain strict hygiene. Germs were invisible, but very real.

“What’s your name?” Serena Feng asked as she put on her gloves, her tone icy and businesslike.

“What does that have to do with you treating me?” Haoting shot back, refusing to show Serena Feng any respect—even in front of the Crown Prince and others.

“It matters. You’re my patient, and you’ve entrusted me with your life and health. You have to trust me—otherwise, I can’t treat you. Patients don’t choose doctors they don’t trust, and doctors don’t treat patients who don’t believe in them.”

If a patient doesn’t trust the doctor, how can they cooperate? Even a miracle-worker couldn’t help an uncooperative patient—and Serena Feng was no miracle-worker.

A faint light flickered in Haoting’s dull eyes. He raised his long lashes and looked seriously at Serena Feng. “I can’t tell you my family name, but you can call me Haoting.”

“Haoting. I’ll remember.” Serena Feng nodded—this boy was clearly unusual.

In fact, all ten patients chosen by the imperial physicians were unusual. But Serena Feng had no intention of probing their identities—she was here as a doctor, and all that mattered was building basic trust.