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.
pí bì
Obstruction lodged in the spleen, reached through the flesh and the long summer. The chapter gives it four signs: the four limbs go slack, there is coughing and vomited fluid, and above there is a great blockage. It is the one store obstruction whose signs are given almost entirely in terms of the limbs and the upper body.
pí fēng
The third stage of the disease that begins as wind-cold in the skin. Untreated at the lung it becomes lung impediment; untreated there it passes to the liver and becomes liver impediment; and then it reaches the spleen, where it is called spleen wind. Its signs are the eruption of heat, heat inside the abdomen, vexation of the heart, and the passing of yellow. It is the stage at which the chapter still allows three treatments — pressing, medicine and bathing — before the disease moves on to the kidney, where the options narrow to two, and then to the heart, after which death is a matter of counting days.
huài bìng
What an illness becomes after the wrong treatment has been repeated. Sweating, vomiting, purging and warming needles have all been tried and the disease still stands; the original pattern is gone and no single prescription fits. The book's instruction is therefore not a formula but a method: read the pulse and the signs, find what was violated, and treat that. It is also where 桂枝湯 stops — not because the formula is weak, but because there is no fixed pattern left for it to answer.
tóu xiàng qiáng tòng
The signature complaint of taiyang: pain running from the head into the nape, with the muscles there drawn stiff. The book puts it in the nine-character definition of taiyang disease, beside a floating pulse and aversion to cold, and every later pattern in the chapter is a variation on that sentence. It persists after mistreatment, which is how the book uses it a second time: the exterior has not been cleared.
wèi fēng
Stomach wind closes the chapter's catalogue. Food and drink will not go down, the diaphragm is blocked, the belly is full, cold food brings diarrhoea, and on examination the body is thin but the abdomen large. It is the only wind of the six named for a palace rather than a store.
shí shuǐ
In the seventh chapter, what yin and yang produce when they knot awry and there is much yin and little yang: stone water, and the lower abdomen swells. The name is a diagnosis in two words — a swelling below that has gone hard, because the yang that should move the water is not there to move it.
qí xié
An evil that has lodged where the channels do not run, and the one case in the chapter where needling crosses the body. If the disease is in a stray evil, then it is the stray evil's vessel that is treated, and it is treated by contralateral puncture — the left for the right, the right for the left. The chapter adds a second and slower rule for evil that has settled: if it lingers, the body wastes and does not move, then needle it by stages. Stray evil is thus distinguished from the winds of chapter one by where it sits rather than by what it is: not the evil that comes in season, but the one that has wandered off the map of the channels.
cù
Sudden. Chapter 39 reads the graph cù rather than zú, and suddenness is the mark of the pains it is about: they arrive all at once, and the worst of them are sudden enough to look like death.
bó jué
The collapse that follows a paroxysm of anger: the qi of the form is cut off, the blood collects in the upper body, and consciousness is lost. Later texts connect it with what is now called stroke.
hàn chū
Sweat appearing on the body. The book reads it three ways: as the sign of wind strike when it comes with fever, aversion to wind and a slack pulse; as the sign of recovery when it follows a shiver and the pulse is right; and as the sign of yang leaking away when it runs like beads of pearl or will not stop after sweating has been used. The same two characters can mean deliverance or danger, and only the pulse and what comes with it decide which.
lǒng qǐ
To swell up in a ridge. Chapter 27 uses the image three times: the river heaves into ridges when a sudden wind rises, the arrival of the pulse also swells at times, and — the decisive case — when true qi and evil have merged the wave-swell no longer rises. That last use is why the word matters. The swell is the only thing that can be watched; when it stops there is nothing left to wait for, and the physician has to change method entirely, from meeting the evil to regulating by what is full and empty among the three regions and nine indicators.
yē yē
The smothering heat of a malaria fit — heat of the sun-and-sultry kind rather than the flaming kind. The chapter pairs it with 熇熇 so that the two words between them cover the whole feel of the fever: blazing outward, stifling inward. It occurs once in the Suwen, here.