The sickly-sweet sll of antiseptic mixed with traditional herbal redies hung heavy in the air as I watched the scene unfold before . Dr. Desmond Davenport, the so-called "Traditional dicine God," had just finished fawning over the wealthy man's jade pendant. My jaw clenched as I observed the tear-streaked face of the peasant woman being ushered away from the consultation area.
Her child's life was at stake, yet she was dismissed because her offering wasn't valuable enough. anwhile, a man with a gold chain thick as my thumb and an attitude twice as heavy was being welcod with open arms.
"My good friend," Dr. Davenport was saying, his hand still clasping the jade pendant, "what minor ailnt brings you to today?"
The gold-chain man laughed, a sound like gravel in a blender. "Nothing serious, Doc. Just so indigestion after too many business dinners. Thought I'd get your miracle herbs rather than so cheap street vendor's concoction."
Indigestion. This man was cutting ahead of dozens of truly sick people—including a child coughing blood—for indigestion.
I approached the peasant woman as she collapsed onto a bench, silent tears streaming down her weathered face.
"Your son," I said softly. "How high is his fever?"
She looked up, startled that anyone would take notice of her. "Very high, sir. Three days now. He coughs blood, and his body burns like fire."
The symptoms were clear—acute respiratory inflammation with possible infection spreading to the bloodstream. Without treatnt, her child might not survive another day.
"Wait here," I told her.
I strode to the front of the line, ignoring the protests that erupted behind . Dr. Davenport looked up, annoyance flashing across his face as his carefully orchestrated routine was disrupted.
"Excuse ," his assistant stepped forward, clipboard raised like a shield, "but you'll need to wait your turn—"
"There's a child dying of fever while you're treating indigestion," I cut in, my voice carrying through the suddenly silent corridor.
Dr. Davenport's professional smile remained frozen on his face. "Young man, I understand your concern, but we have a system here—"
"A system based on wealth rather than need?" I stepped closer. "Is that the oath you took as a healer?"
The gold-chain man grabbed my shoulder. "Hey, watch it! Do you know who I am?"
I didn't bother looking at him. "Soone who can wait fifteen minutes while a child receives treatnt."
"Now see here—" Dr. Davenport began, his voice rising.
"No, you see here." I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small wooden box. "I have sothing that might interest you, Doctor."
Curiosity flickered across his face. Greed was predictable that way—the promise of sothing valuable always captured attention.
"What is this?" he asked, professional deanor slipping as avarice took over.
"A treasure," I said simply, opening the box to reveal nothing but air. "Oh wait, it seems empty. Just like your commitnt to healing."
The shock on his face was almost comical. The gold-chain man barked out a laugh, thinking himself exempt from my judgnt.
"You little—" Dr. Davenport sputtered, his face reddening.
I didn't give him ti to finish. My hand moved faster than anyone expected, connecting with his cheek in a sharp, crisp slap that echoed through the hallway. Check for the latest updates on My Virtual Library Empire (*).
Gasps erupted around us. The doctor staggered back, hand flying to his face in disbelief.
"That woman's son is dying," I said, my voice deadly calm. "You will treat him now, or I will make sure everyone in Havenwood City knows exactly what kind of 'god' you really are."
The gold-chain man grabbed my collar, hauling around to face him. "You've got so nerve, punk! Do you have any idea who you're ssing with?"
I t his gaze evenly. "Soone who's about to be very disappointed."
His face contorted with rage. "I'm Tyson Berg, you nobody! I own half the shipping docks in this city!"
"Congratulations," I replied. "I hope that comforts you while you wait your turn for treatnt."
He released with a shove, pulling out his phone. "You're dead. My boys are on their way right now. Nobody humiliates Tyson Berg."
Dr. Davenport had recovered enough to find his voice again. "Security! Remove this man imdiately!"
I smiled, the kind of smile that had made stronger n than these back away. "That won't be necessary." I pulled out my own phone and dialed a number.
"Roman," I said when the call connected, "I'm at the Traditional dicine Hospital on Third Street. Could use so company."
The gold-chain man—Tyson—laughed incredulously. "You think calling a friend will save you? My guys will tear through your little buddy like tissue paper."
I didn't bother responding, turning instead to the peasant woman still watching wide-eyed from her bench. "Ma'am, please bring your son forward. The doctor will see him now."
Dr. Davenport bristled. "I most certainly will not! You've assaulted ! You'll be lucky if I don't have you arrested!"
"For what? Enforcing dical ethics?" I challenged. "Perhaps I should call the dical Board instead. I'm sure they'd be interested in your... selection criteria."
Before he could respond, commotion erupted from the entrance. Five burly n in matching black jackets pushed their way through the crowd.
"Boss!" one called to Tyson. "We got your ssage!"
Tyson's confidence returned instantly. "There he is! Teach this nobody so manners!"
The n advanced, clearing space around us as patients scrambled out of the way. I stood my ground, watching as they ford a semicircle.
"Last chance to apologize," Tyson sneered.
"I don't think I will," I replied.
The lead enforcer cracked his knuckles. "Your funeral, buddy."
Just as they moved to close in, the sound of nurous vehicles screeching to a halt outside filtered through the hospital windows. Heavy doors slamd in rapid succession.
Within monts, the hospital entrance was filled with the unmistakable presence of Roman Volkov's n—all twenty of them. Massive, disciplined, and utterly imposing, they moved with military precision through the corridor.
Roman himself strode in last, his powerful fra making Tyson's enforcers look like children playing at being tough. The crowd parted before him like water.
Tyson's face drained of color. "You... you're Roman Volkov."
Roman didn't even acknowledge him. Instead, he walked directly to where I stood, wiping sweat from his brow as he approached.
He bowed his head slightly, a gesture of respect that sent shockwaves through everyone watching.
"Mr. Knight," he said, "what can I do for you..."
The gold-chain man's jaw hung open, his enforcers suddenly finding great interest in studying the floor. Dr. Davenport's complexion had shifted from angry red to ghostly white.
The balance of power had shifted in an instant, leaving everyone wondering exactly who I was.
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