The Doctor's Forbidden Research
The man who drew a number ticket and approached the counter was a male merfolk with bronze skin. He had the upper body of a shark, dressed in neat clothes with a well-groomed beard. Though he'd chosen short sleeves for the hot Kikiwai climate, he exuded elegance nonetheless. Up close, it was clear he wasn't quite elderly enough to call an old man—probably in his sturdy fifties or sixties. The serene aura he carried had tricked me into mistaking him for one from afar. Even among elderly bank customers, this was a first.
His calm, sunken eyes fixed on me, giving the odd sensation of facing an immortal sage.
"How may I assist you?"
I addressed the clearly unusual customer first.
"I'd like to apply for a loan."
The man seemed well-practiced at this, pulling out prepared documents and succinctly explaining his situation.
His name was Marcus Bernard. He was a doctor seeking funds for research into an incurable disease. I'd seen customers apply for loans to open private clinics before, but never for research funding to treat an intractable illness.
Incurable disease research... That's no easy task. Impressive.
But didn't most cases like this get government grants or subsidies? Or funding from some foundation? Truth be told, I knew nothing about this field, so such thoughts were pointless.
"This might be sudden, but what you're doing is admirable."
Personally intrigued, I wanted more details on the disease.
"If it's alright, could you tell me about this incurable disease you're researching? I probably won't understand, but I'm just curious."
"I get it. It's not like you're seeing someone borrow for a hospital—first time for research funds from a bank, right?"
I nodded. That doubt had partly prompted my question.
"No misunderstanding. My experience is limited, so this is new to me."
The loan amount Dr. Bernard requested was substantial but feasible—far less than what people borrowed for private hospitals. Research seemed costly; I wondered if this would even suffice.
"Yes. Even long-time bankers don't see this often. Usually, it's grants or pharma investments."
"Right, that makes sense."
His eyes held a detached serenity, but he was grounded in reality. Of course—a doctor.
"My research doesn't qualify for that."
"Is there a reason?"
"Yes. Religious groups, bioethicists—they all oppose it. No corporate or government backing."
"......"
I couldn't grasp it. What kind of research would make enemies of people trying to cure an incurable disease? Some unethical human experimentation?
Did my suspicion show? Dr. Bernard gave a wry smile.
"My specialties are neurology and necromancy."
"...Necromancy?"
"Yes, surgery that cuts and stitches souls—it's infamous for that."
Instinctively, my gaze flicked to Deputy Manager Razma in the private banking sector. Coincidentally, his aquarium-like glass helmet faced my way.
"Laws banning undead discrimination have been around for ages, but surgeries related to them rarely get insurance coverage."
"I see... I didn't know."
"I'm not here to argue their rights. It's just that undead get sick too—a fact not widely known, contrary to popular belief."
Dr. Bernard spoke matter-of-factly.
"The disease I'm researching now is a real headache. The vessels holding young undead souls are starting to collapse."
Young undead. Familiar words, alien combination.
I wasn't clueless about undead. The guC faction—veterans from the Interdimensional Neptune Bank, a pillar of Dimensional Credit Vault—were all long-standing undead. They'd expanded branches across dimensions before safe dimensional travel tech, doing work only undead could endure. Why they'd clung to banking vaults after shedding living bodies, I couldn't say. But every undead I knew had lived full adult lives before becoming wraiths.
What were young undead? What horrors created them?
I couldn't ask more. Instead, I checked his potential with my Job Authority as usual, sorted documents, and completed the application.
"Once HQ's personal lending division approves, I'll visit your hospital with the reviewer," I said. The doctor bowed lightly and left.
That day, after the doctor left and I'd finished closing and tallying, an unexpected figure approached.
"Assistant Manager Kim Jian."
Razma, the ectopl. Top performer among guC private bankers. He'd never approached me like this before.
"Yes, Deputy Manager? What is it?"
"Marcus Bernard, who visited earlier. Report the full progress of his loan to me."
"...Pardon?"
Unbelievable. Despite rank differences, Kikiwai Multidimensional Branch was special—no interfering in others' domains.
Even if I refused here, no issue. After pondering, I replied.
"I can't share customer info, but I can tell you if the application passes."
"...I hoped for a more useful answer, but no helping it."
Dissatisfied with my vagueness, Razma turned and left first.
"Why's he like that...?"
"Who knows. Personal interest, maybe."
Isaac nearby caught my mutter, out of Razma's earshot.
"Interest? Him? Seems interested in nothing but work."
"His emotions are faint, sure, but as a sentient being, he must have non-work interests."
True, on reflection. My view of Razma as an extreme workaholic was bias. No matter his inorganic form or ancient death, a soul meant human-like qualities.
"Yeah. Maybe I judged him too harshly."
His clients were all visually extraordinary, though.
"But, Kim Jian."
"Yeah?"
"Why didn't you get Dr. Marcus Bernard's autograph earlier?"
"...He's famous?"
Isaac's usually stoic eyes sparkled with excitement—rare.
"You really don't know?"
"Nope."
"......"
What? Who did I just talk to?
That evening, back at my lodging, I thoroughly researched Dr. Marcus Bernard.
"...He's no joke."
Astonishingly, the refined gentleman from afternoon was Great Huuriten's medical world's "last conscience"—a famed surgeon. His feats read like a comic's "God's Hand" cliché made real; I gaped.
Raised in slums, he'd risen through effort and talent to top education, shining in complex neurosurgery. Over decades, he'd succeeded hundreds, thousands of "impossible" operations, pioneering treatments for intractable diseases into practice.
Not just that. He'd devoted all to society, still teaching generously between practices, fostering successors. The living embodiment of benevolent medicine. Even extreme species discriminators respected him for upholding merfolk honor amid high crime stigma.
Such a man tackling a "fatal" soul disease—why no support from corps, universities, government?
It nagged; more searches revealed why.
......
Exactly since Dr. Bernard shifted from pure neurology to undead ailments. Media barraged him then.
"......"
I'd forgotten gods and magic existed here. Never hospitalized beyond checkups, I'd missed it: medicine fused magic and science, diverging from Earth.
Like Dimensional Credit Vault tellers borrowing Dis Pater's power, leading medics wielded divine authority in healing.
Undead rights? Just decades old. Youth decried discrimination as outdated, but medical giants and religious backers still excluded undead from tech benefits.
Simple reason: To them, undead were cursed—defying fate, chaining souls to earth post-death. Unworthy of salvation or earthly joys. Unclean.
A doctor aiding their longevity? Religious zealots wouldn't stand it, gods' views be damned.
"That's why the bank."
I finally understood why Dr. Bernard came.
"They recognize undead as taxable lives—can't play these games."
If Dimensional Credit Vault's involvement leaked, short-term image hit. Board would weigh risks regardless.
Didn't matter. Failing to back a world-changer disqualified any banker.
"Can't let puny reasons halt this research."
This loan succeeds, come hell or high water.