"Who's next?" My question hung in the air as the waiting room fell silent.
For a mont, no one moved. Then, like a dam breaking, people rushed forward. An elderly man with a trembling hand. A young woman supporting her limping father. A mother with twin boys covered in angry rashes.
"Please, one at a ti," I said, raising my hands.
Dr. Cobbett stepped in, his initial shock replaced by practical authority. "Everyone, please return to your seats. We'll establish an orderly process."
As the crowd reluctantly backed away, Dr. Davenport finally found his voice.
"This is absurd! One lucky guess with a simple fever doesn't prove anything." His face had turned an unhealthy shade of red. "I've spent decades building my reputation in this hospital!"
Dr. Cobbett turned to him, his expression hardening. "And I've spent decades watching you prioritize wealthy patients over those in urgent need." He gestured toward the child I'd just healed. "This little girl might have died waiting for your attention."
"You can't possibly believe—"
"I saw it with my own eyes, Desmond." Dr. Cobbett's voice was steel. "And I've heard the rumors about your 'consultation fees' that sohow never make it into the hospital accounts."
Davenport sputtered, looking around for allies but finding none. Even his assistant had stepped away, clearly wanting no part in his downfall.
"This is defamation! I'll sue!"
"By all ans," Dr. Cobbett replied calmly. "I'm sure the hospital board would love to review your patient records and financial statents."
The color drained from Davenport's face. He turned to , hatred burning in his eyes.
"You'll regret this," he hissed. "Do you have any idea who I am? Who my connections are?"
I t his gaze evenly. "I know exactly who you are. A doctor who forgot his oath to help those in need."
"Boys," he snapped at two well-dressed n standing nearby. I hadn't noticed them before, but their expensive suits and alert postures marked them as more than ordinary patients. "Show Mr. Knight what happens to those who interfere with my business."
The n exchanged nervous glances, eyeing Roman Volkov who still stood watching from nearby. When Roman made no move to intervene, they apparently decided two against one were good enough odds.
They approached , attempting to look intimidating. The taller one cracked his knuckles theatrically.
"Last chance to walk away, pretty boy," he growled.
I sighed. "We're in a hospital. There are sick people here who need quiet and peace. Please reconsider."
The shorter one lunged forward, swinging a aty fist toward my face. I sidestepped easily, watching as his montum carried him stumbling past . The taller attacker tried next, aiming a kick at my knee. I caught his ankle and twisted slightly—just enough to throw him off balance without causing injury.
He toppled backward, crashing into a row of empty chairs with a startled yelp.
The first man had regained his balance and charged again. This ti, I channeled a tiny pulse of qi to my palm and pushed him gently in the center of his chest. The touch was light, but the energy sent him skidding backward until he collided with the wall, the breath knocked from his lungs.
"As I was saying," I continued calmly, "there are people here who need dical attention."
Dr. Davenport stared at his defeated enforcers, then at . For the first ti, real fear replaced his arrogance.
"This isn't over," he snarled, backing toward the exit. "Enjoy your victory while it lasts."
After he stord out with his bruised henchn, Dr. Cobbett turned to with an expression caught between amazent and gratitude.
"Mr. Knight, I don't know how to thank you."
I shook my head. "No need for thanks. I'm here to help."
And help I did. For the next six hours, I provided consultations to every patient in the waiting room. So ailnts were simple—infections I could clear with a touch, joint pains I could ease by adjusting the flow of qi. Others were more complex, requiring careful diagnosis and treatnt plans that combined both traditional and modern thods.
By late afternoon, my spiritual energy was dangerously low. The constant healing had drained my reserves, and I felt lightheaded from the effort. But I pushed through, determined to see the last patient before collapsing.
As the final elderly woman left, blessing profusely for easing the arthritis that had plagued her for decades, I sank into a chair.
"You look exhausted," Dr. Cobbett observed, handing a cup of water.
"I'll be fine after so rest," I said, though I knew my recovery would take more than a simple nap. I had pushed my abilities further than ever before.
Dr. Cobbett sat across from , his expression serious. "What you did today was remarkable. Not just the healing, though that was extraordinary, but standing up to Davenport. He's been untouchable for years, protected by his wealthy patients and political connections."
"Soone needed to do it."
"Indeed." He leaned forward. "Mr. Knight, I'd like to offer you a position here at the hospital."
I raised my eyebrows. "I'm not a licensed physician."
"As a special consulting physician. Your thods are... unconventional, but I cannot argue with results. We could help so many people who traditional dicine has failed."
I considered his offer. A formal position would give access to resources, patients who needed help, and perhaps most importantly, dicinal herbs for my alchemical experints.
"I have conditions," I said finally. "I won't be restricted to conventional treatnts, and I need access to your herb repository."
Dr. Cobbett nodded. "Done. Though I must warn you, Davenport won't take this lying down. He has powerful friends."
"I'm not concerned about Davenport or his friends."
We shook hands, and I left the hospital as the sun was setting, my body aching with exhaustion but my spirit lighter than it had been in days. For once, my powers had been used purely for healing, not for fighting or advancing my own aims.
I dragged myself back to my apartnt, expecting to find Eamon waiting with questions about my day. Instead, the apartnt was dark and empty. It was the second day he had been gone without explanation. Despite my exhaustion, I felt a twinge of concern.
Where was he? Had sothing happened?
Too tired to investigate, I collapsed onto my bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. This chapter was made possible by the community at *.
The next five days passed in a blur of frustration. While I continued my work at the hospital in the mornings, my afternoons and evenings were consud by failed attempts at alchemy. The spiritual fire, essential for refining dicinal herbs into pills, remained maddeningly elusive.
I had the knowledge, transferred from my mysterious inheritance, but translating that knowledge into practice proved far more difficult than I had anticipated. Each failure left more frustrated than the last.
On the evening of the fifth day, I slumped over my work table, surrounded by charred herbs and broken containers.
"Two days," I muttered to myself. "I have two days before the Traditional dicine Conference in Shiglance City, and I still can't produce a single pill without external tools."
A knock at my door startled from my brooding. I opened it to find Anthony Harding standing there, his weathered face brightening when he saw .
"Liam! Ready for our journey tomorrow?"
I winced, having nearly forgotten our departure date. "I... yes, of course."
Anthony peered past at the ss of my failed alchemical experints. His eyes widened slightly, but he said nothing about it.
"We should arrive just in ti for registration," he said. "I've arranged transportation."
The next morning, we set off in a modest but comfortable car. Anthony chatted enthusiastically about the conference, the competitions, the lectures planned. I nodded politely, though my mind was still on my failed attempts at spiritual fire.
"Don't worry," Anthony said suddenly, as if reading my thoughts. "Even being there, seeing the masters at work, will be invaluable for your training."
I appreciated his encouragent, though I doubted he understood the depth of my frustration.
After a day's journey, we arrived at Shiglance City as the sun was setting. The conference center was imposing—a massive building blending traditional architecture with modern anities. Practitioners of traditional dicine from across the country were arriving, many in formal robes that marked their schools or lineages.
As we approached the registration desk, I noticed several elderly n staring at Anthony with undisguised contempt. One of them nudged his companion and spoke loudly enough for us to hear.
"Old Harding, you're back to register. This must be your thirteenth ti participating, right? Try harder this ti and don't end up last."
The others chuckled nastily. Anthony's face remained composed, but I saw the slight stiffening of his shoulders—the only indication that their words had struck ho.
I turned to face the n, my exhaustion and frustration giving way to a sudden, cold anger.
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