Each entry gives the term in traditional and simplified form, its pinyin, the senses it carries in the classical corpus, the passages where it does real work, and how published translations have rendered it.
dà líng
陽中之太陽，心也，其原出於大陵，大陵二 — the heart's source point, two of them, one on each wrist. The chapter assigns it to the heart; later needling assigns 大陵 to the pericardium channel and keeps 神門 for the heart, and the difference is not a scribal error but a change in how the heart was mapped. The site keeps the chapter's assignment and notes the later one, because a reader who needles will meet the later name.
shī
Dampness as a disease evil, and in chapter 29 the specific counterpart of wind. The chapter assigns the two by behaviour: yang receives wind qi and yin receives damp qi, and because wind is light and rises while damp is heavy and sinks, the one harmed by wind is affected above first and the one harmed by damp is affected below first. That single observation — two lines of the chapter — became the basis of everything later medicine says about where damp settles and how it is recognised. The chapter's damp arrives on the yin side, which is to say from the inside and from below.
rú xiè
Dampness soaking into the body and then draining out of it — the fifth of the chapter's five conquests, and the only one that names a discharge. Suwen 5 gives the run in a single sentence: wind overcomes and the body moves, heat overcomes and it swells, dryness overcomes and it dries, cold overcomes and it floats, dampness overcomes and it soaks and drains. The word holds both halves of what dampness does — it soaks first and drains afterwards — and this site's base text keeps the old graph 寫 where modern texts print 瀉. The chapter's other statement of the same relationship comes in the five phases: 濕傷肉，風勝濕.
dān nüè
Malaria with heat and no cold. The yin qi has been cut off first, so the yang qi breaks out alone: scant qi with fretting distress, heat in the hands and feet, a wish to vomit. The late passage locates it — inward in the heart, outward between the parted flesh — and names its end stage, wasting and scorching until the flesh is stripped off.
dàn dàn
A reduplicative describing a rocking, unsteady sensation, as of something adrift on water. Chapter 32 uses it once, in the kidney heat disease: when the qi counterflows the nape aches, spins, and will not be still. It is set beside 員員, which describes the turning, so that the two words together give the quality of the pain from two sides.
dàn zhōng
The fifth office, and the one whose name readers meet twice: as the office from which joy issues, and as the acupuncture point between the breasts. 膻中者，臣使之官，喜樂出焉 — the chest centre is the envoy, the one who carries the ruler's commands outward, which is why what issues from it is 喜樂 and not judgement. Later tradition identifies it with the pericardium (心包絡), the wrapping that takes the blow on the heart's behalf.
dào
Both a road and a method, and the texts lean on both senses at once. 'Knowing the Way' (知道) is not assent to a doctrine but knowing how to conduct a life; the second chapter's line about the sage practising it and the fool merely wearing it depends on that.
xuán fǔ
The dark openings — 玄 xuán, what is dim and cannot be made out; 府 fǔ, a chamber where things are stored — and the chapter gives its own gloss for them: 所謂𤣥府者，汗空也, the dark openings are the sweat pores, 空 read kǒng after 王冰: 空，孔也. That reading is worth holding against 骨空 in chapter 60, one chapter back, where the same graph is read kōng as written; the two are not the same hole. What makes the word worth an entry is the other place it is used, where the chapter is arguing rather than defining: 腎汗出，逢於風，内不得入於藏府，外不得越於皮膚，客於𤣥府，行於皮裏，傳爲胕腫，本之於腎，名曰風水. The sweat of the kidney has come out and met wind; it can get neither back into the depots nor out past the skin, and so it lodges in the dark openings — the 玄府 is the place a thing is stuck when it can move in neither direction — and what is stuck there turns into the swelling the chapter is about. 後世 took the word further: 劉完素 made the 玄府 the gates by which qi and fluid go out and in, and found them everywhere, in the viscera, the skin and hair, the sinews and membranes, the bone and marrow, the nails and the teeth. The chapter itself needs none of that; it needs only a pore that will not let sweat past. The base text writes the graph 𤣥, an old form of 玄, and this is kept as written. The word occurs twice in this chapter and has not appeared in any chapter transcribed on the site before.
píng dàn
The chapter's first rule, and the one a modern reader is most likely to skip past: take the pulse at 平旦, at dawn. The reason given is entirely negative — the yin has not stirred, the yang has not dispersed, no food has been taken, the conduits are not yet full, the network vessels are even, the qi and blood are undisturbed. Diagnosis wants the baseline. It is the same instinct behind asking a patient to sit quietly before the examination begins, stated as a rule about the hour of day.
dà yuān
陽中之少陰，肺也，其原出於大淵，大淵二 — the lung's source point, two of them, one to each wrist. Received editions read 太淵; this base text writes 大淵, and the site prints the base's graph. The point is the same. Its interest for the chapter is that the lung, which is the lesser yin within yang, has its source at the place where the pulse is felt — the one source a physician touches without looking.
dé
Not moral goodness in the English sense. De is what something has and does by being itself — and when heaven 'stores' it (藏德), the point is that its efficacy is invisible rather than displayed.
huán sǐ
The shortest of the chapter's death sentences and the worst: 中心者，環死. Strike the heart and the person dies within one circuit, which the commentary tradition takes as a single day, the qi going round once. It sits among intervals counted in days — five for the spleen and the lung, seven for the kidney, a year for the diaphragm. The chapter is doing arithmetic on dying, and 環 is its smallest unit.