The Blood Fiend's Bastard (Part 2)
Meanwhile, around the time Julian finished the transfusion and resumed his consultations...
As Erika stepped out of the clinic's back door, the lingering chill of winter greeted her.
Brrr. Erika shivered slightly.
Wangcho let out a dry chuckle and pulled a beanie over her head.
“Wear it. If you catch a cold on the way, how am I supposed to look the Doctor in the eye?”
But Erika scowled deeply and shoved the hat back at him.
“Ugh. It reeks.”
“Tsk. Suit yourself, then.”
Grumbling, Wangcho pulled the beanie back over his own head. Erika walked alongside him down the alley.
Even by the standards of the Limbus Pit, which was dark to begin with, the back alleys were exceptionally grim.
Layers of bizarre, unrecognizable graffiti covered the walls, and the distant, drunken laughter echoing from somewhere only doubled the sense of foreboding.
“Listen carefully as we walk, kid,” Wangcho said, not breaking his stride.
“You'll pick up the medicinal herbs from the Chen family pharmacy on the corner of 4th Avenue. Just go in and tell them you're on an errand for the Doctor, and they'll give you what you need.”
“...Got it.”
“My boys will handle contacting the patients. Your job is just to clean the clinic, organize the tools, and do whatever the Doctor tells you to do.”
Wangcho snapped his fingers as if remembering something.
“Oh, right. When you fetch well water in the morning, don't take it straight to the delivery room. Actually, scratch that. Just boil all of it the moment you draw it. That's the safest way to avoid any trouble.”
“Why?”
“If you want to see the Doctor lose his temper and flip this entire alley upside down, go ahead and try doing it differently. If you're lucky, you might just get kicked out into the freezing streets to die of hypothermia.”
Erika nodded hastily. If the brutal ruler of this sector looked this terrified, there had to be a very good reason.
The rest of his explanations were straightforward, and Erika committed them to memory without much difficulty.
“So, wake up early in the morning, draw the water, fetch the herbs from 4th Avenue...”
“Well, look at you, little vampire. You're sharper than you look. You might just graduate sooner than I thought.”
“Graduate?”
Wangcho nodded, pulling a book of paper matches from his pocket.
With a swift, practiced flick of one hand, he struck a match against the side of the pack. Fwip.
He took a leisurely drag of his cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke, and flicked the burnt match head onto the ground.
“You're not the first kid to run errands for the Doctor.”
Taking another drag, Wangcho gestured with his chin toward the upper city, in the direction of Civitas Square.
“Way up there, there's a dessert shop. Supposed to be incredibly famous.”
“Why are you bringing that up all of a sudden?”
“The heir to that shop used to be the Doctor's errand boy. He worked for him for a month or two, and the Doctor noticed he was good with his hands, so he got him adopted into that family.”
Erika's eyes widened. While not nobility, the owner of a major dessert shop was considered a master artisan.
It was hard to believe that an orphan from the slums could suddenly be chosen as the successor to an artisan in the upper districts.
But Wangcho paid her disbelief no mind and continued.
“And over on Adventurer's Street in B-Sector... what was his name, Klaus? The Doctor bought him an expensive gunblade and graduated him. I hear he's doing so well these days he's even earned himself an epithet.”
Wangcho began counting down on his fingers.
A slave whose ankles were shattered in the arena and left for dead got a job in the city guard. A prostitute suffering from consumption retired, got married, and now ran a flower shop.
With every finger Wangcho folded, Erika's mouth parted a little wider.
“So yeah, that's how it is. You hit the jackpot, kid.”
“Then the people around the Doctor... they all...”
“Graduate?”
“Yeah. Do they all graduate like that?”
It sounded almost like some kind of new cult. But at Erika's reaction, Wangcho grimaced and shook his head.
“No, those are just the jackpot cases. You think any random street rat gets that kind of luck?”
“Oh. What's the catch, then? Is there a standard? You said I'd probably graduate soon.”
“Who knows?” Wangcho shrugged.
“It seems to be entirely up to the Doctor's whim. Though, to be fair, his assistants usually end up far better off than his patients.”
Wangcho swept his gaze over Erika from head to toe.
“Well, it seems the younger you are, the more tragic your story, or the more bizarre your illness, the higher your chances.”
He patted his own thick, muscular forearm and grumbled.
“Damn it. If only I'd been born five years later. Or if I'd at least gone to him with a broken arm. Being too healthy is a curse, I tell you. A curse.”
Wangcho flashed a grin, holding up two fingers.
“Anyway, you've got all three of those factors, and you're quick on the uptake. That's why I said your chances of graduating are high.”
Erika swallowed hard. Her gaze drifted down to her thin, bony wrists.
She saw her frayed, threadbare sleeves and the stubborn dirt caked under her fingernails.
A miracle has already happened.
Life in this place offered no tomorrow. The urine she passed every morning was always dark, her stomach was constantly hollow, and her tongue craved blood.
She had thought that if she could just escape that horrific daily existence, she would never ask for anything more.
Yet the moment she stepped out of it, she began to yearn for a different kind of happiness.
Graduation...
She allowed herself to dream of the life after "graduation" that Wangcho had described.
Inside those iron walls. A place with warm soup, clean clothes, and a future where no one could look down on her.
Her stomach rumbled at the thought.
...Yes. Just for a little while.
Ambition flared deep within Erika's eyes.
She still didn't trust this man who claimed to be a practitioner of some strange profession called a "doctor."
If you were a healer, you were a healer; if you were an alchemist, you were an alchemist. What on earth was a doctor?
From the very introduction, she couldn't shake the impression that he was a charlatan.
And it wasn't just his profession—his motives were equally suspect.
In the depths of the slums, there was no currency more worthless than "goodwill."
But still, it's worth holding out.
Whatever that eccentric healer's true motives were, if she stood to benefit in the end, wasn't it a ship worth boarding?
I have nothing to lose anyway.
Since a miracle had already occurred, graduation would just be a bonus. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
Just as Erika was about to put a spring in her step, lost in her sweet daydreams of the future—
“But kid.”
“Yeah?”
“It's your business if you want to count your chickens before they hatch, but keep one thing in mind.”
Wangcho's low, heavy voice cut through her thoughts.
He turned to look down at her. His golden eyes, unique to the hyena beastmen, gleamed in the dim alleyway.
“When people work for the Doctor, there's always one or two who mistake his authority for their own and cross the line. Especially idiots who use his name to pull stunts at other shops.”
“…Is the Doctor really that powerful?”
“Have you seriously not heard the rumors floating around these streets?”
“I only go out at night, so I don't really know.”
“Right. I already forgot what state you were in just a few days ago.”
The tension radiating from Wangcho dissipated. Feeling a bit foolish for suspecting a clueless young girl, he rubbed the back of his neck and spoke.
“Well, you'll find out soon enough once you start working, but I'll tell you now.”
He tapped his cheek with his index finger.
“This might be your first time meeting him, but none of us have ever seen the face beneath that mask either.”
Wangcho searched his memories of the past year.
Over the last year, not a single soul in the Red-Light District had seen the face behind that mask.
He even ate and drank in a private room by himself, leaving everyone to fill in the blanks of what lay beneath the crow mask with their own imaginations.
“But you can gather a few things if you listen to his breathing.”
Wangcho pointed to his torn hyena ear.
“This is a secret, but sometimes I hear him coughing from inside the examination room. It's been like that ever since he first arrived a year ago.”
A cough was one thing if it lasted a day or two. But when it persisted for weeks, then months, one couldn't help but suspect a chronic illness. Erika reached the same conclusion.
“Does he have a bad throat?”
“Who knows. The cough sounds like it comes from deep down. Personally, I think the inside of his throat was burned. By fire, chemicals, or something else.”
Erika furrowed her brow.
“Who would do such a thing?”
“The nobles, most likely,” Wangcho replied flatly.
“What race do you think the Doctor is?”
“Uh...”
Erika thought about it.
His frame was small compared to his commanding tone and presence. Yet he was far too slender to be a dwarf. And above all, there was that delicate, precise handiwork he displayed when finding her veins during the transfusion.
“A gnome?”
“Exactly. A gnome. This part is just my theory, but I think the Doctor crossed paths with some demi-human haters.”
“Demi-human haters?”
“You know how those high-and-mighty bastards operate. They probably called him 'Doctor, Doctor' to his face while waiting for him to slip up. The moment a treatment went slightly wrong, they pounced on him.”
“Ah.”
It sounded plausible. Many of the cripples who drifted down to the Limbus Pit carried similar tragic backstories.
A dwarf whose hands were crushed so he could never forge a weapon superior to the ceremonial sword he had made for a noble.
An elf, once a promising magic researcher, whose eyes were gouged out because he had "observed too much."
A beastman actor who offended a noble during a satirical play and was forced to drink boiling water.
In these back alleys overflowing with every kind of tragedy, Dr. Schnabel's presumed past was entirely believable.
“Given his incredible skills, the fact that he doesn't use divine magic makes me think he lost his faith back then too. Ah, forget I said that. It's just my own speculation.”
“R-Right.”
“Anyway, even after going through all that, he still seems to have connections up top. That's why I'm telling you not to get cocky. The wings you're flying on aren't yours—they belong to the Doctor.”
“I-I understand.”
Erika nodded, stammering slightly. Wangcho's point hit home.
The one with connections to the nobility was the Doctor, not his lowly errand girl. Know your place and don't overstep.
Since this was a vital virtue for survival in the Limbus Pit, she accepted it without hesitation.
“Good.”
Wangcho nodded in satisfaction. To be fair, he didn't think Erika was the type to cause trouble.
Seeing how she had spent the last few years hiding in the dark, doing nothing more than stealing blood to survive, she possessed a self-awareness far beyond her years.
But since one could never predict human nature, the warning was necessary.
If another idiot like that pops up, it'll make life difficult for all of us.
During the heavy snow season last year, some fool had tried to sell narcotics under Dr. Schnabel's name.
Fortunately, Wangcho had caught him and put a stop to it before Dr. Schnabel returned, but—
If the Doctor had actually seen that mess...
Just the thought of it made a cold sweat break out on Wangcho's back.
A healer with noble connections who also served as a director of a pharmaceutical merchant guild.
He had no desire to deal with the fallout if someone in his territory impersonated such a figure and caused a massive incident.
He just wanted to rule his little corner of the slums and live in peace. Getting tangled up with nobles was the absolute last thing he wanted.
“But, Wangcho.”
Erika's voice snapped Wangcho back to reality.
“Why would someone like that come all the way down here? Aren't you suspicious?”
“Of course I am.”
“Then why do you speak as if you trust him completely?”
“What choice do I have?” Wangcho shrugged.
“The Doctor saved over eight hundred of my people last year alone. When someone does that much for you, even if he came down here to conduct human experiments, common courtesy dictates we turn a blind eye to a few missing bodies, kid.”
“...”
“Besides, a dog doesn't pick and choose what's in its bowl. The ones who did all starved to death.”
When you lived in this gutter, you didn't have the luxury of vetting your healer. Leaving her with those words, Wangcho resumed guiding her.
Erika fell into deep thought as she followed behind him.
A dog doesn't pick and choose what's in its bowl. It wasn't wrong. That was exactly how Erika had survived until now.
But still. Nobles. The word pricked at her mind like a thorn.
Will I really be okay?
There was an old saying: A rope woven of gold is still perfectly suited for hanging.
The more dazzling the lifeline, the more surely it would choke the life out of you if you mishandled it. It was a proverb warning against forming ties with the nobility—and it perfectly described the rope Erika had just grasped.
Of course, whether this rope will pull me up or leave me dangling in the air remains to be seen.
It was an unforgiving game with no clear rules for graduation or grounds for elimination.
Even Wangcho, after a whole year, could only tilt his head in confusion. The criteria were entirely subject to Dr. Schnabel's whims.
Yet one thing was certain: it was far better to hang from a golden rope than to plunge to her death clutching a rotten thread.
Her predecessors had likely accepted this path with the exact same sentiment.
If I'm going to die, I might as well go out in style.
With that thought, she willingly stepped aboard the perilous vessel.
How many years had it been since she last slept in a room with a proper roof and heating?
Left alone in the clinic after Julian went home, Erika pondered.
It was a remarkably cozy living space for the Limbus Pit. And from now on, this was her room.
If I graduate... will I go somewhere even better?
She pulled the bear-fur blanket Wangcho had tossed her over her shoulders.
Yet perhaps due to the anxiety she couldn't quite shake, she found herself tossing and turning—a restlessness she had never experienced even when sleeping in the freezing alleys.
And in her dreams, she lived a day that no one had ever lived.
“...Where am I?”
There was blood on her hands. No matter how much she washed, it wouldn't come off.
It seemed to have seeped under her fingernails, into the creases of her palms, deep into her very bones.
Ah, right. She had been working today as well.
The slaughterhouse ceiling was high. Carcasses hung from hooks, swaying in long rows.
Pigs, cows, and—
The scent of blood tickled her nose. A familiar, sweet fragrance.
Type A. Today's batch was Type A.
The blood type of the slaughterhouse's owner.
“...”
What was his name again?
Her hands trembled as she tried to recall it.
The memory of those golden eyes losing their light flashed before her.
There had been no surprise, no resentment—just a vacant, blank stare.
Ah, it was you. He seemed to say.
What were his last words? Did he say he was sorry? Or did he say he should have killed her sooner?
She couldn't remember. It wasn't worth remembering anyway.
All that mattered was that the slaughterhouse had belonged to her ever since.
“...He said he needed a pancreas and kidneys today,” she muttered to herself.
With practiced movements, she carved out the organs and placed them inside a silver steel carrier.
The various meats were packed with ice into the sleek, luxurious-looking case.
“...”
She carried the case and headed up. The carriage climbed the slope.
The scenery of Sanctum Hill rolled past the window.
Streets lined with gas lamps, white brick mansions, and meticulously manicured gardens.
She felt as though she had once yearned for these streets.
But humans were creatures of adaptation; now, Erika felt nothing as she passed through them.
The carriage came to a halt. A familiar mask insignia hanging at the entrance of the villa greeted her.
Knock, knock. The door opened, and a tall, strikingly handsome man with hair as dark as crow feathers welcomed her.
A man with a pale complexion that looked as though it had never touched the sun. A face she didn't know, yet knew intimately.
“Welcome, Miss Erika.”
His cold eyes curved slightly. He possessed the kind of looks that could seduce countless women—and indeed, he had.
“The quality is excellent. Thank you, as always.”
The stranger she knew took the case and inspected its contents.
No warmth radiated from his hand as he took it, but Erika didn't mind.
Ever since this man had found her freezing to death in the back alleys, “warmth” had long since become a distant, forgotten concept to her.
Erika simply bowed her head. Whatever kind of person her creator and master was, it didn't matter to a mere thrall like her.
However, her fastidious master was sensitive about how he was addressed.
Cult leader, Your Excellency, Master. Though society had many names for him, only one title was permitted to Erika.
That man was... yes, the Doctor.
The Doctor disappeared inside with the case. His destination was likely the aging cellar. The harvest from a few days ago would be there as well.
“Since you've traveled so far, why don't you stay for dinner?”
Refusal was not an option. Erika made her way toward the dining room.
As she walked down the hallway, her eyes met a framed portrait on the wall.
A happy family portrait. In the center stood a young Doctor with a gloomy expression.
A black ribbon was draped over the frame. Was it a sign of mourning?
It was impossible to imagine that man harboring an emotion like grief.
If she, a mere thrall, dared to guess, he probably just regretted not being able to show his “art” to his family. That was likely the true meaning of the black ribbon.
Well, it wasn't particularly important.
Erika passed the portrait and continued to the dining room.
Upon entering, she saw a white tablecloth gleaming beneath a chandelier, silver cutlery, and crystal glasses.
The Doctor sat at the head of the table.
She took a seat at one of the guest spots. And in the remaining seat—
“Mmph! Mmmph—!”
A woman bound and gagged with a blood-stained cloth thrashed in her chair.
She was young, beautiful, and dressed in an expensive gown.
Ah, one of those. A noble lady ensnared by the Doctor.
There were many such women in this city.
Women who had heard rumors of a cold, handsome healer, dreamed of being a fairy-tale princess, and ended up at this dining table.
“...”
Erika stared at the noble lady in silence.
Just then, the Doctor, wearing an apron, set a dish on the table.
“The Roman gourmet Apicius considered flamingo tongue to be the ultimate delicacy. They understood the potential of the tongue.”
Rome? Sometimes the Doctor was too intelligent, casually spouting knowledge she had never heard of.
But since it didn't matter to her, she let it go in one ear and out the other.
“It's quite fascinating. The muscle that moves the busiest and most violently during life becomes incredibly tender when slow-cooked at a low temperature. It will be even more flavorful if you enjoy it with Madeira sauce.”
Clatter, clatter! The gagged noble lady tried to thrash, but the chair, bolted to the floor, didn't budge.
Erika indifferently picked up her knife. At that moment, the Doctor spoke to her.
“Miss Erika. Do you not know this lady?”
“I don't really care.”
Had she insulted Erika at the last ball, complaining that she smelled like pigs? Or had she scowled at Erika in passing?
She didn't know. She crossed paths with too many noble ladies to keep track.
Besides...
“It's not like knowing her changes anything.”
“It is important. It changes the order.”
The Doctor tilted his wine glass.
Before long, the noble lady, who had been letting out muffled screams, went limp with exhaustion.
The Doctor wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up.
“Miss Erika.”
“Yes?”
“Stay here for a few days. The flamingos have been quite active lately.”
Erika nodded. Flamingos. It was their slang for the knights patrolling Sanctum Hill.
She calmly finished her meal and locked eyes with the noble lady.
“Mmph! Mmmph!”
“Nothing personal. A hound doesn't have the luxury of choosing its prey. I'm sure you understand.”
She held the knife in a reverse grip. As Erika drew closer, the lady wailed. Splat. Red wine splattered across a newspaper lying on the corner of the table.
“...What was that?”
The next day, in the clinic of the Limbus Pit, the red-haired girl rubbed her eyes and sat up.
Retaining only the vague memory of having had a deeply unsettling dream.