The Feral Child of the Slaughterhouse

Hmm. A peaceful day in the Red-Light District, as always.

For the record, I didn't write down the very last patient. It was someone who had an... interesting object stuck in an embarrassing place during some kinky play at a brothel, and I didn't feel like immortalizing that in writing.

'Right. This is the Limbus Pit average.'

I've been living in the upper districts for too long; I forgot how deep the bottomless pit of human nature goes. I wonder if someone raised as gently as me should even be looking at this stuff.

I closed the medical log. Setting down my pen, I rolled my neck, which let out a loud crack accompanied by a dull ache. It's not a good habit to start at my age.

“Whew...”

My clinic hours were over. Only after wrapping up today's patients did I suddenly remember the backlog from the past six weeks. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I needed to organize the report Wangcho had handed me this afternoon—the one containing the information I had requested. To be precise, it was a pathetic scrap of a memo that barely deserved to be called a report.

I pulled the folded paper from my pocket and smoothed it out. Then, in my own way, I began translating that memo into a proper report format.

My fingertips trembled slightly as I turned the page. Eighty people in six weeks. And that was only counting those within this clinic's sphere of influence, under Wangcho's direct management. In the places out of sight, far more corpses must have piled up.

I folded the paper and slipped it back into my pocket. In the twenty-first century, this would have been a major disaster ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠triggering emergency alerts, breaking news broadcasts, and congressional hearings. Yet, the comment Wangcho had made when handing me the memo transcended my wildest imagination.

“We held the line pretty well,” Wangcho had chuckled, adding, “The ground was frozen solid, so burying them was a pain, but on the bright side, the cold kept the bodies from rotting, so there was no smell. Since we were short on firewood, we cremated a few of them to help keep the heating going. The living have to survive, after all.”

“...You used them as firewood?”

“They're just lumps of meat once they're dead anyway. The ones ground up in the factory gears didn't even have enough left to salvage, so we just washed them down the sewer.”

“...Wangcho.”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Do not burn corpses for heating in the future. Inhaling that smoke is bad for the lungs of the living.”

“Aigoo, as expected, you are truly merciful, Doctor. Showing respect even to the dead.”

“...”

I thought about it every time, but I simply couldn't adapt to the morality of this world. Then again, I had no intention of adapting in the first place. After all, a true protagonist doesn't adapt to the world; they make the world adapt to them.

Calmly finishing my notes, I locked the report away in the safe.

“Ngh.”

With that, my clinical duties were finished. But my day was far from over. A protagonist always has plenty of work to do.

A year after I began selling Quinine through my father's merchant guild, I introduced a new medicine to them. It was none other than Insulin. Thanks to this, the pharmaceutical guild was preparing for its second golden age, following the success of Quinine.

“Wangcho. Is what I requested ready?”

This was also the reason I had formed such a close relationship with Wangcho. Just as Quinine required tree bark, Insulin required pig pancreases. The interesting part was that slaughterhouses, being avoided facilities, were located in Limbus Pit. And the one who ruled the slaughterhouse business was none other than Wangcho.

'To think these things would connect like this.'

Perhaps it was only natural. In the Middle Ages, it was undertakers and information guilds; in the early modern era, slaughterhouses and waste disposal; in the modern era, construction materials and junkyards. In any era, the avoided industries—the ones that were bad for your health and felt cursed, yet were absolutely essential—were always the lifeblood of criminal organizations.

In that sense, Wangcho and I might have been destined to become close even without his gout.

“Wangcho. Are the pigs ready?”

“...”

“Wangcho?”

“...”

“Wangcho!!!”

“Gah!”

Wangcho, who had been dozing off at the entrance, snapped awake with a start.

“Huh? Ah, yes! Of course, Doctor. I've personally set aside the pancreases from the plumpest ones among today's slaughter.”

“Thank you as always. Let's go.”

Wangcho guided me with an incredibly polite attitude. In his demeanor, there wasn't a single trace of the pride expected of the ruler of the Red-Light District. But considering our relationship, this was only natural. Currently, our merchant guild was responsible for half of his slaughterhouse's total revenue.

“Hehe. Doctor. Or should I call you Director starting from this hour?”

As the business hour arrived, Wangcho brought up the shift in our dynamic—from patient and doctor to a director of a conglomerate and a subcontractor. But I shook my head.

“It gets confusing, so just call me Doctor.”

“Understood, Doctor.”

That was the nature of the underworld. No matter how terrifying they looked on the surface, they would ultimately starve to death if money didn't flow in from the legitimate world. Even if Wangcho owned a hundred slaughterhouses, without a merchant guild to buy the meat, it would just be a pile of rotting flesh. Wangcho knew this all too well, which was why he humbled himself so much before me.

“By the way, Doctor. It's already been a year, so shouldn't you start speaking casually to me? Your polite speech is far too generous for someone like me.”

“You are not my subordinate, Wangcho.”

Regardless of business, I never treated Wangcho with disrespect. I had a character concept I'd been building since I was four years old. If I started tossing around casual, rude speech, it would look incredibly cheap. What I aimed for was a dignified, elegant young noble who exuded an air of mystery, not some nouveau riche drunk on power.

“Besides, courtesy does not discriminate based on the person. I will continue to speak formally, so please keep that in mind.”

“Tsk. Talking to you always makes me feel ashamed of myself.”

“Then let us go, Wangcho. You, I, and Mr. Otto all need to rest tonight, do we not?”

With Wangcho scratching the back of his head sheepishly in the lead, we set off toward the slaughterhouse. As we stepped out of the clinic's back door, my bodyguard and driver, Otto, came into view. Otto was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his hat pulled down low, killing time. I had wondered if he really needed to stay outside in this freezing weather, but he had stubbornly insisted that a bodyguard must always do so, so I let him be.

“Hard at work, brother,” Wangcho greeted Otto with easy familiarity. Otto acknowledged him with a slight nod. With Wangcho leading the way, I followed, and Otto trailed behind us at a distance like a shadow.

“This way. The snow is melting, so the smell might be a bit foul.”

Our destination was the slaughterhouse located next to the waste disposal site, specifically the warehouse behind it. The ground was squelchy with a liquid that could have been rainwater or blood.

Splat.

Avoiding the puddles, I stepped under the eaves. Faded red strips of cloth danced beneath the roof, welcoming me.

'I can never get used to this, no matter how many times I see it.'

Perhaps because it was night, the place felt incredibly eerie. Hanging among the cloths was a blackened, rotting wooden sign.

< 屠 (Slaughter) >

The character was caked in blood and grease, making it hard to read, but it clearly indicated what kind of place this was.

“Here we are, Doctor. It's dark, so watch your step over the threshold.”

“Thank you.”

On either side of the doorframe Wangcho pointed out, two pig heads impaled on hooks hung like gatekeepers. Apparently, they were good luck charms, but I still couldn't comprehend this aesthetic.

...Damn it. We made eye contact. I should have something other than pork for dinner tonight.

I walked past the empty eye sockets of the pigs and headed toward the warehouse. The moment the door opened, the metallic stench of blood and the smell of rotting entrails bypassed my mask. Every time I came here, I thought that if I weren't wearing a mask, I would have broken character and gagged. In contrast, Wangcho merely sniffed his nose, showing no other reaction.

Wangcho strode inside. Pointing toward a drum barrel that should have been filled with pancreases, he said, “They should still be warm... Huh?”

Wangcho, who had been leading the way, suddenly froze.

“What is the matter?”

“No, it's... Hold on. Did you not hear that, Doctor?”

“I did not hear anything.”

I was a normal human, not a beastman. I couldn't even use mana yet.

Wangcho made a shushing gesture and signaled for me to follow him. He led me toward the area where the blood troughs—the buckets used to collect blood—were gathered. As we drew closer, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I finally understood what he meant.

Slosh, splash, gulp.

The sound of something quenching its thirst echoed in the dark.

Wangcho scowled and grabbed a torch hanging from the wall.

“What crazy beast dares to touch my stuff...!”

As we got close enough to the source of the sound, Wangcho muttered a string of coarse curses and rolled up his sleeves. The torch in his hand cut through the darkness. At the sight that was revealed, I couldn't help but let out a soft exclamation.

“Ha.”

“Well, look at that.”

The creature greedily consuming the blood was not a beast. Standing there was a small child.

The child had her head buried inside a bucket of pig blood. Seeing her face plunged into a tub of red liquid, hungrily devouring the stale blood, made me wonder if she could even be called human.

Wangcho cried out in shock. “Y-you crazy brat, again?!”

At his shout, the child startled and pulled her head out of the bucket. From beneath her matted, blood-soaked hair, ruby-red eyes were revealed. Glinting like a beast's in the torchlight, those eyes showed no trace of reason.

“Hiss—!”

The child hissed and bolted toward the exit. However, there was no way her scrawny legs, starved for days, could outrun a healthy adult male. It was even more impossible when that opponent was a beastman who had conquered the Red-Light District with his fists.

Wangcho grabbed the child by the scruff of her neck in an instant.

“Gotcha, you little brat!”

“Let go! Let me go!”

The child thrashed, trying to bite Wangcho's arm. Wangcho scowled, about to slam her onto the ground. But then, remembering I was watching, he refrained from throwing her down and instead forced her to her knees, shoving the bucket over her head.

“I'm sorry, Doctor! I made sure the doors were locked, but I don't know how this wretched thing crawled back in...!”

“Do you know this child?”

“Yes. She's famous around these parts. The Blood Fiend's Bastard.”

“The Blood Fiend's Bastard?”

A Blood Fiend. It was the term used to describe the feral, predatory main (demons) outside the walls who consumed human blood. Here, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Blood Fiends were not elegant nobles who sipped blood from wine glasses like vampire counts. They were monsters devoid of dignity who ripped open human chests and buried their faces inside to suck blood. Wangcho was claiming this child was the offspring of such a monster.

“She sneaks in like this every night to steal animal blood. On her unlucky days, she gets caught trying to lick the wounds of drunkards and gets beaten half to death. She's a blood-crazed vampire brat.”

“That was a misunderstanding, for your information!” the child shouted from inside the bucket. Even in this situation, she clutched the bucket tightly with both arms, terrified of losing whatever blood was left inside, looking exactly like a starving stray dog guarding a bone.

“Shut up, you brat!”

Wangcho raised his foot, raising his voice at the child. Even though she couldn't see anything, the child's shoulders flinched. She knew instinctively that a kick was coming at this exact moment.

“Wait.”

At that, I broke my neutrality and stepped between them. The appearance of a clearly unique, named character of the Red-Light District disrupting my daily routine—this was undoubtedly an event. Whether it was a companion event or a precursor event, I couldn't just stand by and let this child get beaten.

“Calm down, Wangcho. You aren't planning to hit a child in front of me, are you?”

“...My apologies, Doctor.”

Wangcho lowered his foot. I knelt down in front of the child and gently placed my hand over hers, which were clutching the bucket. Realizing I was trying to remove it, Wangcho hurriedly tried to stop me.

“It's dangerous, Doctor! That thing might go after your blood!”

“Dangerous? You don't truly believe this child is a Blood Fiend's offspring, do you?”

“Pardon?”

“If she were a real Blood Fiend's bastard, you would have killed her long ago. The fact that you haven't means you instinctively know she is actually human, does it not?”

“...”

Wangcho fell silent. Humans are truly contradictory creatures. They call someone a witch just to throw stones at them even when they know she isn't, and they call someone a monster just to hate them even when they know they are human.

“I'll give you something much tastier than blood. Do you want to take off the bucket?”

The child's grip on the bucket loosened. I brushed her hands aside and gently lifted the bucket off her head. Squinting as if the sudden light stung her eyes, she looked up. I met her gaze at eye level. Though trembling in sheer terror, she was still licking the pig blood smeared around her mouth. It was a grotesque yet pitifully contradictory sight.

I reached into my pocket and leaned closer. The child flinched and ducked her head.

“I'm not going to hit you, so look up.”

“...”

When she still refused to raise her head, I pulled a star candy from my pocket and shook it in front of her eyes. It was my secret weapon for treating children. In the twenty-first century, giving kids something like this would probably earn me complaints about treating them like soldiers, but in this world, its effectiveness was unparalleled. Suddenly, I felt like looking for hardtack and milk. Anyway.

Showing interest in the star candy, the child slowly raised her head. I took the opportunity to carefully examine her face under the torchlight. Her tangled, short hair was matted with pig blood, making its original color hard to discern, but the strands catching the light had a dark reddish hue. She wore a beige shirt and brown suspenders. Overall, she looked like a boy, but a closer look revealed she was a girl.

I looked back at her face. Beneath the blood splatters, her skin was deathly pale. Her lips were tinged blue. First, check for anemia.

“Let me see your eyes.”

I lifted her chin with my finger and peeled back her eyelid with my other hand. The sclera was stained yellow. Check for jaundice.

“I'm going to touch you here.”

Finally, I shifted my gaze to her abdomen. Without waiting for permission, I felt her left flank. Before she could squirm away, my fingertips detected a firm mass. A swollen organ protruding beneath her gaunt ribs. Splenomegaly—an enlarged spleen.

“All done.”

I withdrew my hand and popped a star candy into her mouth.

“You.”

“Munch, munch...”

“What color is your first urine when you wake up in the morning?”

“...”

The child didn't answer. But her silence was answer enough.

“Don't worry. Having dark urine doesn't make you a monster.”

“...!!”

The child's breath hitched.

“Cough, cough!”

She choked and spat out the star candy. Seeing her try to pick it back up out of desperation, I kicked the candy away to stop her and handed her a fresh one.

“Don't eat that, it's dirty. I'll give you a new one.”

I placed a handful of star candies in her palm and gently took her wrist.

“Before that, would you like to come get treated?”