Blood (血 xuè) in Chinese medicine does more than the red fluid does in a laboratory report. It is the moistening, settling counterpart to qi: it keeps tissue supple, it gives the eyes something to see with, and — this is the part Western readers find strangest — it anchors the mind at night. A body short of it is not so much tired as unmoored.
The relationship is stated as a couplet: 气为血之帅,血为气之母, qi commands the blood, blood is the mother of qi. Qi moves it; blood gives qi somewhere to live. That is why the two shortages travel together, and why building blood in this tradition always starts with the digestion rather than with the blood itself.
Three networks share the work. The spleen (脾) makes blood out of food. The liver (肝) stores it and releases it, which is why the liver is said to open into the eyes. The heart (心) governs its circulation and, in the same breath, the settledness of the mind.
The same chapter goes on to the hands and the fingers. It is a functional definition rather than a poetic one: blood is what a part needs in order to do its job, and the classical list of signs is simply that sentence run backwards.