I Traded Forty-Seven Records for the Title of Royal Psychologist

Day twenty-three at the front.

Midway through the morning briefing, a courier bird arrived. A flutter of wings, and a sealed letter stamped with the Queen's crest landed in Marta's hand.

My mood was fucking fantastic.

Marta passed it over without ceremony.

"It's from the palace."

"Already?"

"Of course already. People who produce results at this pace on the front line are rare."

I broke the seal. Elena's handwriting.

Royal Psychologist.

From Special Advisor to Royal Psychologist. One more rung up the ladder.

A fucking promotion. An advisor is merely someone who gives advice—a Royal Psychologist is an office. An official post of the crown. I had become a regular civil servant of the state. The man once written off with a trash-tier skill appraisal now carried credentials that read 'royal official.' This world's promotion cycle spins like mad.

And fuck, honestly, it's kind of hilarious. In Korea I was an unemployed bum who'd bombed five interviews; here, the Queen throws a government post at me because I melted a handful of women. So that's the truth of human value—it sways with the market. Fair in the most fucked-up way imaginable.

"What does it say?" Marta asked.

"Orders to return. And a promotion—I'm to be made Royal Psychologist."

"Royal Psychologist."

Marta repeated the title slowly. There was feeling in that pace.

"Hm. It suits you."

"It does?"

"It does. You wear 'official' better than you'd ever wear 'healer.' You have the temperament of a bureaucrat."

"Is that praise or an insult?"

"Interpret it however you like."

Marta gave a dry snort. Her gray eyes ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠held mine for two seconds—eyes that weren't drained of feeling, but carrying it. A different face from the ice sheet of two weeks ago.

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"That's fast."

"It is."

Marta nodded once, briefly. Regret was soaked into the brevity.

"Doctor Marta."

"What."

"Erika will take over the follow-up counseling. She's mastered the techniques thoroughly."

"That girl cracks jokes with her patients these days."

"Jokes?"

"Yesterday she told a soldier with his arm in a cast, 'Time to practice your left-handed penmanship.' The soldier laughed."

The corner of Marta's mouth lifted.

"Two weeks ago, that girl didn't have laughter in her at all."

"Erika's already a counselor who can stand on her own. All I did was set the direction."

"She wandered for three years because she couldn't do that. You settled it in two weeks."

"Thank you."

"Thank you."

Marta said it. Briefly. A military physician with twenty years of service had said thank you twice. Measured against the distrust from the day I arrived, it was a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn.

"I'm grateful too. I learned a great deal."

"Learned what? I didn't teach you a thing."

"I learned the reality of the front. That's not something books can teach."

Marta snorted again. That smile where only the corners of her mouth rose. A smile whose temperature had changed.

She fell silent for a moment, then spoke again.

"Kang Do-hyun."

"Yes."

"Keep your eyes open. The higher you climb, the more enemies you collect. The Royal Psychologist sits close enough to touch the ears of the powerful. The nobles won't leave you be."

"I'll be careful."

"Careful won't be enough. Sometimes you have to cut first."

A warning from a twenty-year physician. From the mouth of a woman who survived the front lines, the word cut is no metaphor. Me—I've never so much as gripped a sword. I can rake through people's heads with a whisper, but in front of a real blade I'm nothing but a slab of meat. Lovely. The further I climb, the clearer it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠becomes just how defenseless I am.

Late morning. Writing the report.

After Marta left, I settled at a desk tucked into the corner of the main building's second floor. The final report for the Queen. The paper was premium by this world's standards and thick, coarse pulp by modern ones—rough under the fingertips.

Quill in hand, title first. Scratch. Scratch.

'Comprehensive Report on Field Hospital Deployment — Kang Do-hyun'

Beneath it I laid out the items. One: trauma treatment results—acute remission achieved in forty-seven of fifty cases. Two: a recorded thirty percent rise in the return-to-duty rate. Three: a follow-up counseling system established, with Military Physician Erika installed. Four: the interest of the Demon Intelligence Bureau detected. Five: unstable supply distribution in the rear villages, and word of suspicious peddlers.

Under each item I attached a couple of lines of evidence. Dry sentences. Zero emotion. Elena likes data—numbers, not drama.

The final paragraph.

'Proposals going forward. Make the field hospital counselor position permanent. Appoint Military Physician Erika as the official successor. Allocate a budget to keep the rear-village intelligence network running on a continuing basis.'

The ink dried. I slid the report into an envelope and pressed the royal seal into the wax. Thunk. That closed out the morning.

All the paper would carry to the capital was the number forty-seven—but on a separate sheet, I had written out every one of their names. Even in the report, these people would be people, not results.

Afternoon. Preparing to leave.

The carriage would come tomorrow morning. One day of breathing room.

Things to settle. Handing the patient records over to Erika. Sorting the herb kit, with what remained donated to the hospital. And the farewells.

I spoke to Erika first.

Second floor of the main building. Erika's room.

Erika sat down and poured the tea. Silver hair cut short. Lilac eyes. Nowhere in them was the 'feelingless gaze' I'd met two weeks ago. What sat in Erika's eyes now was anxiety.

The pale line of her throat as she leaned in to offer the cup. The white nape showing between strands of silver. ...Fuck. I came here to say goodbye and the back of her neck turns me on. A dull ache gathered low in my gut. My cock stirred once. Hold it. Clamp down, hard. If that shows itself through my trousers right now, that will be my real farewell.

She had already guessed why I'd come.

"I leave tomorrow."

The hand raising Erika's teacup stopped.

"I see."

Her voice kept its calm. Her hand didn't. The cup wavered faintly. Clink.

"Erika."

"Yes."

"You're going to be a fine counselor. I only ever taught you the basics—but you have the one thing that matters most."

"What's that?"

"Real empathy. Because you've lived through it yourself."

Erika's lilac eyes wavered. Her lips trembled.

"Can I do it without you?"

"You can. You're already doing it."

"It's not the same as when you were watching over me."

"It shouldn't be. Your counseling belongs to you—not to my shadow."

Erika looked at me for three seconds. Then she nodded.

"Okay."

She set down her cup and stood. Standing over me, looking down.

"Do-hyun."

"Hm?"

"Thank you. For melting me."

Erika kissed me. She moved first. Softly. Her lips were warm—not the cold lips from the day we met. A human temperature.

When the kiss came apart, Erika smiled. A small smile, but a certain one.

"In the capital. We can see each other again, can't we?"

"We can. The Royal Psychologist will be making inspection tours of the front, too."

"I'll wait until then. Karin will come to me often. I'll see her treatment through to the end."

"Karin is in your hands."

"Then I have a request too."

"Which is?"

"That you melt even more people in the capital. The way you melted me."

Erika caught the front of my shirt once, then let go. A firm squeeze. The hand releasing me was slow. Slightly shaken.

The feelings I'd melted were now putting a question to me: are you going to melt more people? Fuck—the answer comes far too easily. Yes. I am. It's how a man like me makes his living. I melted a twenty-eight-year-old military physician and not one gram of guilt followed, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠which means I went rotten a long time ago. And still—because Erika's lips were warm, because that warmth was real—I will rationalize to the very end: isn't this woman more alive now than she was before she melted? A fucked-up justification. I know it is. I have no intention of stopping.

After leaving Erika's room I passed Marta's door. Through the half-open gap I caught her from behind, seated at her desk, re-copying the list of the front's dead. Scratch. Scratch. A ritual twenty years in the repeating—a woman who mourns by writing the names of the dead one more time.

I walked past without knocking. I had no right to interrupt that ritual. It's true I did in two weeks what she couldn't—but Marta has kept something for twenty years, too. Both are right in their own ways. I keep the living alive by melting them; Marta keeps the dead alive by writing their names. One way is filthy and the other clean, and judged only by the outcome, both are acts of holding someone in this world. It left a bitter taste.

Karin's tent.

Tent three. Karin was up on her bed taking a sword stance with a tree branch. Her right arm worked again.

"Karin."

"Huh? Do-hyun!"

She lowered the branch and turned. A face split open in a grin. Freckles.

"I leave tomorrow. For the capital."

Karin's smile cut off.

"Already?"

"The Queen's orders."

For three seconds she studied me. Feelings raced through the green of her eyes—surprise, disappointment, resolve. Fast transitions. A knight's discipline.

"Okay."

Karin raised the branch again.

"Then I'd better file my transfer request fast. To the capital's knight order."

"The bandages came off barely any time ago?"

"I'm fine! I can move just fine like this!"

She cut the air three times with the branch. Whish. Whish. Whish. Her form was good—fundamentals rock solid. On the third swing her right arm shuddered. Not fully recovered yet.

"Don't push it."

"I won't!"

A lie. She'll push it. This kid is built to move only forward.

"Karin."

"Yeah?"

"Give it one more month of recovery before you file. Instructor Helga separates fully healed trainees from wounded ones. Show up hurt and she'll start you on treatment before she starts you on training."

Karin paused. The face of someone actually thinking.

"That's fair, actually."

"Spend the month recovering—and take counseling with Erika."

"I don't need counseling, though."

"Take it. The whole month."

"Why?"

"There's more about your squad leader you still haven't gotten out. Erika will listen."

Karin lowered the branch and looked at me.

"If you're the one saying it, Do-hyun, I'll do it."

A straight answer. A knight's honesty.

"Do-hyun."

"Yeah."

"Tonight. It's the last time, isn't it?"

Karin's cheeks went red. Her five-foot-five frame hunched in a little—but her green eyes didn't look away.

Hunched shoulders, scarlet cheeks, and still those eyes refusing to retreat. That combination is fucking lethal. ...She's asking about the last night and my gut is already going taut. My cock stirred again. Steady. Wear the face of a grown man saying his farewells, and keep everything below deck pressed down hard.

"It is."

"Then tonight, I'm taking the lead on all of it. A knight will send you off properly."

A knight's farewell.

That night, Karin's farewell was brief and honest. She kissed me first, and once again she was the one to set the bounds. We already knew each other's signals by heart. We didn't hurry, and we crossed no line we hadn't agreed on.

Afterward, Karin pressed a little sword carved from wood into my hand.

"Keep it until we meet again. Next time, I'll be carrying a real one."

"I won't lose it."

"And I won't lose mine—the reason I picked up a sword again."

Karin fell asleep leaning against my chest. At dawn there were no tears; she rose first and helped me get ready to leave.

Morning of departure.

The field hospital entrance. The carriage stood waiting, horses shifting.

Marta stood with her arms crossed.

"Take care."

"Thank you, Doctor Marta."

"If business ever brings you back to the front, drop by. The soup will be waiting."

"Soup you made yourself?"

"Soup Erika made."

"Ah."

"I can't cook. Gave up on it twenty years ago."

Marta's smile. Short and solid. A smile that hadn't existed the day we met.

Erika stood beside her. Silver hair lifting in the morning wind. Lilac eyes found mine. Wet—but she wasn't crying. Three years' worth of tears had already been cried to the end.

"Erika."

"Yes."

"The patients are yours."

"Yes. Leave them to me."

Erika smiled. A confident smile—nothing like the emotionless face from two weeks ago.

"Do-hyun."

"Yes?"

"When we meet in the capital—buy me a drink."

"A drink?"

"I want to try my first-ever counselors' dinner."

"Deal. The most expensive bottle on the shelf."

Erika laughed. A small laugh, but a certain one.

Karin came sprinting in.

"Do-hyun! Wait!"

She skidded to a halt in front of me, breathing hard.

"Hah—hah. Here."

She handed something over. A small piece of wood, whittled roughly with a knife. The shape of a sword. A miniature made of timber.

"I carved it. Swordsmanship is all I know, so it's all I can make."

"When did you carve this?"

"Last night, while you were asleep."

"You skipped sleep for that?"

"A knight doesn't need sleep!"

Face scarlet, she looked up at me.

"It's a charm. Keep it until you come back."

A wooden sword on my palm. Crude. The cuts clumsy. Light as nothing. And yet.

"Thank you."

"If you're thankful, buy me dinner in the capital!"

"Only dinner? Erika asked for drinks."

"Erika's an adult and I'm a trainee! Adult food comes later!"

Karin beamed. A smile that set her freckles shining.

I climbed into the carriage. Marta, Erika, Karin—three people seeing me off. Marta, arms crossed, giving only a nod; Erika, one small wave of the hand; Karin, both arms swinging wide.

"Do-hyun! See you in the capital!"

Karin's shout grew ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠distant.

"Be well!"

Erika's small voice.

Marta said nothing. But her silence carried the most words of all.

The carriage rolled out. Rattle. Rattle. The field hospital fell away behind us. The tents at the mountain's foot. The outline of the fortress line. The scenery of the front.

I took Karin's wooden sword out of my pocket. A rough little carving. Next to it, Rosa's herb kit—nearly spent, a few empty vials still left. In my bag, a copy of Erika's counseling records and the report for the crown.

What the front lines had given me. Trauma treatment results for fifty people. A fine successor named Erika. A growing knight named Karin. Marta's acknowledgment. A thirty percent rise in the return-to-duty rate. And one danger sign: the Demon Intelligence Bureau had its eyes on me.

The carriage ran on toward the capital. A wooden sword in my pocket, Erika's counseling records in my bag, a report bound for the royal house. What I'd truly gained at the front was not the numbers—it was the people left to carry them on.

The field hospital would keep counseling without me. Karin would go to the training grounds. Marta would write the names of the dead and keep watch over the beds of the living.

Near sunset, I unfolded the letter again.

Below that sentence, the letter said nothing about what the mission was. The Queen intended to tell me only after I arrived.

Each time the wheels crossed the gravel, the wooden sword tapped against my thigh. It sounded less like a road home and more like something sinking deeper in.