"Yuan'er, this is Zhiyu. I specially invited her to treat your leg." The Duchess knelt down in front of Ling Yuan, her hand trembling as she held his.

Even though three years have passed, she still feels heartbroken whenever she sees Ling Yuan sitting in a wheelchair.

Looking at Song Zhiyu's beautiful eyebrows and eyes, Ling Yuan's breath hitched; there was a resemblance between her and his grandmother in her features.

"Alright, then I'll trouble you, Miss Zhiyu." Ling Yuan snapped out of his reverie, the coldness in his eyes fading considerably.

Although he felt that Song Zhiyu was too young to be able to cure him, Ling Yuan did not question him out of respect.

Song Zhiyu nodded, opened the medicine box, and took out silver needles from it.

"Young Master Ling, I will use silver needles to stimulate your legs later to understand the extent of the injury. If you feel pain, please tell me."

"Okay." Ling Yuan replied, a sense of anticipation rising in his heart for Song Zhiyu's words.

Song Zhiyu rolled up Ling Yuan's trouser legs. The muscles in his legs, which had been atrophied due to lack of sensation and inability to move for a long time, looked somewhat frightening at this moment.

But Song Zhiyu's face remained expressionless. She pulled out the silver needle and slowly but firmly inserted it into Ling Yuan's calf, carefully observing his expression.

Needle after needle, Ling Yuan still didn't move. Song Zhiyu's expression was somewhat solemn, but her hands didn't stop moving.

Suddenly, Ling Yuan's expression changed slightly. He felt a slight stinging pain in his leg in disbelief, and his throat felt hoarse as if it were filled with sand. "I can feel my leg again."

Although this feeling lasted only a moment, it gave Ling Yuan hope of standing up again.