Limbus Pit Ecological Report, Part II

*Cough, cough—* On my way to the clinic, I cleared my throat behind my mask. Since being reborn as Julian, I had never really considered myself physically weak. However, the air and stench of the Limbus Pit were a bit too much for the lungs of a delicate young master from Sanctum Hill.

'I wonder when I'll finally be able to take this mask off.' Coughing repeatedly at the long-unfelt stench, I made my way toward the clinic. Along the way, my eyes met those of a man smoking across the street. A pair of half-lidded golden eyes lazily swept over me.

"Hmm?" Those searching, half-closed eyes suddenly went as wide as full moons. "Oh! You're back, Dr. Schnabel!" The hyena beastman tossed his cigarette onto the street and strutted over. As he drew closer, the scar running across his brow and his half-cut ear came into view.

He wore a burgundy mandarin-collared shirt under a black silk vest embroidered with golden arabesque patterns. Much like the buildings of the Red-Light District, his attire made his origins instantly clear.

"Ah, Wangcho." Wangcho. He was the boss of the Scarred Hyena, the criminal syndicate that ruled this Red-Light District. For the record, "Wangcho" was just a nickname; his real name was Tao Chen. But I simply called him Wangcho, as he had insisted on it himself.

"It has been a while, Wangcho. Have you been well?" "Haha. I'm always in tip-top shape, Doc. Did you make it through the heavy snows alright?" "I was resting comfortably in a warm place." "Well, that's a relief. Whenever you're down here, you never get any warmth—just endless work that wears you down to the bone. It's only right that you get to relax for at least a month out of the year." He rubbed his hands together, wearing a genial smile.

His affable attitude made him look like a shady salesman asking, 'So, what kind of budget are we looking at today?' But one must never be fooled by his appearance. Despite his demeanor, this man was the undisputed king of the brothels, the ruler of this entire gutter. ...Come to think of it, his nickname didn't carry much gravitas either.

"But honestly, Doc, I was shocked when your letter arrived saying you wouldn't be able to make it for six weeks." "I recall writing that I couldn't come due to the heavy snow. Did I forget to mention that?" "Oh, I saw that, of course. But that's not really what I meant." Wangcho looked around warily, then leaned in close to my ear. He whispered, "I thought you'd been... dragged off by the Duke's house."

"...So suddenly?" "Come on, Doc, no need to play dumb with me. I know all about it. You... well... up in Sanctum Hill..." Wangcho winked, as if to say I should catch his drift by now. Only then did I realize what he was getting at.

"I understand what you are trying to say, but those are nothing more than rumors." A certain rumor about the Crow Doctor, Dr. Schnabel, had spread throughout the Red-Light District. It claimed he was once a slave healer for some ducal house who had his face horribly burned after a failed treatment, forced to wear a mask to hide the scars, and subsequently banished to the slums to live a life of penance—a bizarre gnome with over a hundred and fifty years of medical experience.

The sole reason for this rumor was my mask. I only wore it because the slum air was too harsh for my body, which had grown accustomed to Sanctum Hill, and to prevent secondary infections. But to people who had no concept of "infection," my refusal to take off the plague doctor mask suggested some tragic backstory. Their imaginations ran wild, layering theory upon theory until it coalesced into that ridiculous rumor. It was honestly impressive how much of a novel they could spin out of a single mask.

"I have no connection to any ducal house." "Eh? But Doc, didn't you just get out of a carriage? Didn't you come straight down from Sanctum Hill?" Carriages—specifically, magical motorcars—were the exclusive privilege of the nobility. From the mana-stone kerosene required to run them, to the garages needed to store them, to their general maintenance, simply operating a functional machine in this city was a direct display of power.

'The mana-saturated smog makes machinery break down at the slightest provocation.' The more delicate the machine, the more astronomically expensive it was to run and maintain. Naturally, the absolute pinnacle of this luxury was personal transport like motorcars or airships. Thus, it was only natural for Wangcho to link my arrival in such a vehicle to the rumors of my noble connections. I waved my hand to correct his misunderstanding.

"There was a patient up there who required my services." "Don't tell me the Duke's house summoned you back?!" "...Not every noble is a duke." "So you're saying that even if they aren't a duke, you're connected to some other high noble...?" "..." "Could it be... that noble gifted you the car out of gratitude...?" I couldn't say a single word without him twisting it. The worst part was that he wasn't entirely wrong, leaving me at a loss as to where to even begin correcting him. Then, a sudden realization flashed through my mind. I had seen this pattern before. Yes, this was the classic trajectory of a massive misunderstanding. No matter what I said, it didn't seem like I could dispel his delusions. Realizing this too late, I chose silence.

"..." Come to think of it, it wasn't a lie. I was technically of noble birth, even if it was just a barony. That made me roughly 0.01% of a duke. Since that was still a higher concentration than actual strawberries in strawberry-flavored milk, I wasn't technically scamming anyone.

"Do... Doc?" "..." "...I won't pry any further." Wangcho interpreted my silence in his own way. As if eager to avoid getting tangled up in the affairs of high ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠nobility, he abruptly changed the subject.

"Ah, right. Just as you requested, I kept an eye on the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠clinic while you were away." Wangcho handed me a set of keys. The reason I had entrusted the clinic to him was simple: in the Red-Light District, the lock on an empty building was about as secure as a courtesan's virtue. No matter how expensive a lock you installed, someone would eventually break it. It was far safer to ask someone powerful to watch over the property.

"Are you going to start treating patients right away?" "What other reason would a doctor have for showing up to work?" "Haha. True enough. That was a foolish question." *Clink.* Holding the ring of keys, I stood before the clinic. It had a roof with slightly upturned eaves, faded red pillars, and a worn lantern hanging above the door. Originally, it was a boarding house run by a beastman shaman who had been the local beastmen's only healer. Eight years before I arrived in the Red-Light District, she passed away from pneumonia, leaving the building vacant until I took it over. The panda-carved lantern that once guarded the entrance had now been replaced by a sign shaped like a crow mask.

*Click.* I unlocked the door and stepped inside. "It's been a while." First, the narrow waiting room came into view. Beyond a partition at the back lay the examination room. A treatment table barely wide enough for one person to lie down. A creaking wooden chair. A cabinet stocked with medicines. And past the closed door at the back of the examination room was a delivery room for expectant mothers, with a nursery for newborns on the second floor. This was my clinic. Since it was a remodeled boarding house, one couldn't expect the sleek interior of a twenty-first-century hospital. Still, it was a perfectly serviceable clinic.

"You even cleaned up." Though the distinct odor of the Red-Light District lingered, there was no musty smell of dust, suggesting Wangcho had cleaned the place regularly. First, I placed a container of deodorizing herbs near the entrance. Next, I checked the medicines inside the shelves. Wangcho approached, rubbing the bottom of his nose.

"I checked the medicines every single day. Even if they're my own men, they've got sticky fingers, so I couldn't take any chances." "I wouldn't have minded if you took one or two." "How could I do that? Even beasts know to repay a debt of gratitude. I might not be a righteous man, but I'm no beast." "Thank you, Wangcho." The medicines were all accounted for, though a few had expired and needed to be thrown out.

Finally, I picked up the mana-stone lamp from the shelf beside the treatment table. I wound the small key embedded in the bottom of the palm-sized brass casing, and a warm orange glow bathed the room. For the record, this mana-stone lamp was the third most expensive item in the clinic. Light sources that didn't emit soot or grease were incredibly rare in this world. It was an indispensable tool for my examination room, where hygiene was paramount.

"Come to think of it, Dr. Schnabel... my medicine is about to run out..." "Didn't I give you more than enough? Did you somehow suffer ten gout flare-ups in just six weeks?" "Haha..." "Step inside. Let me take a look before I prescribe anything." On the day the clinic reopened after so long, my very first patient was Wangcho.

My first patient in six weeks was indeed the slum boss. Wangcho sat on the small bed and pulled off his socks. "Oof... please bear with the smell, Doc." The joint around his big toe was swollen and reddish. The skin was stretched so tautly that it shone, looking as if it might burst at any moment.

Gout. A disease so painful that even a gentle breeze could cause agony, historically known as the "disease of kings" or the "noble's disease." Even to the people of this world, it was known as an ailment caused by an overindulgence in protein—specifically, purine-rich meats and alcohol—which led to uric acid crystals accumulating in the joints. They knew this through empirical observation. 'Though in the twenty-first century, plenty of research suggested that genetics and kidney function played a far greater role.'

By the twenty-first century, the medical consensus on gout had shifted slightly toward metabolic issues rather than purely dietary habits. Still, the influence of diet could not be entirely dismissed. Furthermore, the patient before me was a man who thoroughly enjoyed his meat and alcohol, fitting his title as the ruler of the Red-Light District. In his case, it was definitely his diet. With the amount of beer he guzzled down, even a perfectly healthy kidney would give up and trigger gout.

"You haven't cut back on meat or alcohol at all, have you?" "Hahaha... Can you tell just by looking?" "The tophi have grown larger. Of course I can tell." I sighed and lightly pressed the affected area. "Argh! Ow-ow-ow!" Wangcho shrieked, pulling his foot back. To think that the ruler of the Red-Light District would break into a cold sweat just from having his toe poked. Even a 1st Tier superhuman was utterly defenseless against the agony of gout.

"Look at this. Both the size of the nodules and your pain have worsened. Keep this up, and your kidneys will fail." "Come on, Doc. Life is tough down here. If I can't even have a drink, what joy is there left? Haha..." "If you keep looking for joy like that, you'll find your way to the afterlife first." Despite my scolding, I turned back to the shelves. With a familiar rattle of keys, I unlocked the cabinet and retrieved a medicine bottle.

It was a brown bottle containing colchicine, an alkaloid extracted from the bulbs of the autumn crocus.

"Ah, speaking of which, Doc, it's been incredibly hard to get crocus from outside the walls lately. Those potion-makers are buying up every last bit of it." "It must be because of the hibernation season. Demand for potions always peaks around this time." The period immediately following the heavy snows was known as the hibernation season. Alternatively, it was called the subjugation season. It was the time of year when the half-asleep magic beasts could be hunted with relative ease. If their numbers weren't thinned out now, autumn would be a nightmare, so people pushed themselves to cull as many as possible during this window.

"But why on earth do those potion-makers put this stuff in their brews anyway? Every time I drink a potion, my backside leaks like a broken faucet the next day. It's so embarrassing that I hesitate to drink them even when I'm dying." "It can't be helped. Otherwise, you'd suffer far worse from other symptoms."

Potions didn't just possess healing properties; they also contained trace toxins that risked accumulating in the internal organs if left inside too long. The autumn crocus was added to induce diarrhea, flushing those toxins ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠out of the body as quickly as possible. In other words, it wasn't an unintended side effect of the potion, but a deliberate design. When I explained this, Wangcho clapped his hands in realization.

"No wonder. So when my sphincter went loose after taking your medicine last time, that was also a deliberate effect?" "No, that was because you failed to follow the prescribed dosage." His comment brought back memories of our first meeting. Our relationship had begun when I diagnosed his limp and treated his gout. The problem back then was that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I had severely underestimated the common sense of the people in this world. They genuinely believed that the more medicine they took, the better.

On the very first day I prescribed his medicine, this man took four pills at once and had diarrhea so violent it felt like he was going to turn his intestines inside out. It was a legendary incident where the ruler of the Red-Light District and a 1st Tier superhuman nearly crossed the River Styx due to sheer dehydration. I had to pump him with water, feed him potions, force-feed him porridge... it was an absolute nightmare. Anyway, Wangcho grinned as he accepted the paper packet of medicine.

"Haha. Well, what's a little diarrhea in the grand scheme of things? This medicine is practically a miracle. In the past, I seriously contemplated cutting my own toe off, but a single dose of this and the pain vanishes by the next morning." "What's the point of taking medicine if you refuse to change your habits? Do you have any intention of cutting back on meat and alcohol?" "Hahaha..." Wangcho let out a dry chuckle as he accepted the packet containing exactly five pills.

For the record, the only reason I rationed his medicine so strictly was because I didn't trust him. He operated on a miraculous logic where the more spare pills he had, the more comfortable he felt drinking even more alcohol. As Wangcho carefully tucked the packet into his inner pocket, I spoke to him as he rose from the bed.

"I will see you next month. If you have a severe flare-up before then, come back immediately." "Thank you, Doc." Wangcho pulled his socks back on and stood up. He paused near the door, snapping his fingers as if suddenly remembering something.

"Ah, right. Doc." "Yes?" "There's a bit of a backlog of patients from the last six weeks. We have the midwives you trained, but they can't exactly replace you, can they? I've sorted them out in order of urgency. Shall I start sending them over?"

This was the secret behind how he had become the Slum Boss. To the state, the Limbus Pit was nothing more than a meat shield, unworthy of protection. It was Wangcho who stepped in to care for the impoverished masses who fell outside the reach of government administration. Consequently, the vast majority of the patients and expectant mothers who visited this clinic were sent here by Wangcho.

"Please do." "Understood. I'll take my leave, then." Once Wangcho left, I quietly surveyed the empty examination room. It was peaceful for now, but I knew better. Within half a day, this place would undoubtedly be filled with the shouts of midwives and the cries of newborn babies. Considering the six-week backlog of patients, it was bound to turn into a chaotic marketplace. They didn't call it the calm before the storm for nothing. 'Sigh... I should rest while I can.' I leaned back in my stiff wooden chair, savoring the brief moment of tranquility.