The Firefly Prince, Part 4
Thirty-four days had passed since I began my vaccine research. By the empire's reckoning, rather than my actual birth date, I had turned thirteen. Eri was busy learning magic from Department Head Shen as usual, while I spent my days building up a vast database of clinical cases at the clinic.
Hup. I stretched my arms, alone in the clinic. It had already been three years since I first opened my doors in the Limbus Pit. At some point, my patient demographic had expanded. Moving far beyond the prostitutes of D-Sector, patients from other sectors had begun seeking me out. Consequently, I had been incredibly busy lately.
Man, I really miss the three-minute consultation. Naturally, thoughts of my past life drifted in. In twenty-first-century South Korea, there was a beautiful cultural phenomenon known as the "three-minute consultation." It was entirely possible here, too. I could organize the previous day's test results and quickly push through the returning patients. Meanwhile, new patients could fill out questionnaires in the waiting room. And presto! Factory-style, three-minute medicine.
"...No, that's going too far." But no matter how I thought about it, that felt wrong. In the first place, I hadn't opened this clinic to make money. I had started it to regain my skills from my past life and to build up my reputation. Besides, I owed a debt to the residents of the Limbus Pit. I was constantly performing all kinds of experimental treatments on them—procedures I wasn't fully accustomed to, or that hadn't been properly proven in this world. I was practically gambling with their lives. For someone like me to limit consultations to three minutes just for my own convenience... that would be utterly shameless.
"Doctor! Thank you, thank you so much! I thought I'd have to live the rest of my life as a one-armed cripple...!" My musings were shattered by a man's deep, echoing sob that shook the consultation room. Sitting across from me, a gaunt young man was weeping. He was a patient whose wrist had been severed by a cutter at a paper mill. Come to think of it, today was the day of his final dressing and the removal of his bandages. His right wrist, which was tightly grasping my hand, was trembling.
"Just as you said, Doctor, I can move my fingers now...!" A ring of stitches circled his right wrist. Every time I looked at that hideous scar, I felt a swell of pride. Indeed, a surgeon's true skill lies not in how they handle a scalpel, but in how they handle the thread.
"Doctor. I can go back to work now, right?"
"It hasn't fully fused yet. Absolutely do not lift anything heavy for the time being. To ensure good blood flow to your fingers, soak your hand in warm water daily and practice clenching and unclenching it for rehabilitation." In reattachment surgery, blood flow is the most critical factor after hygiene. Ultimately, the prognosis depends on how many microvessels survive. Of course, in this patient's case, it would be harder for the prognosis to be bad. I had poured so many potions on it; it would be absurd if it didn't take. If it didn't, that wasn't my fault—it was the Alchemists' Guild's fault.
"Yes! Yes! I'll keep that in mind!"
"And if your fingertips start turning black, you must come back immediately."
"Understood! I will never forget your kindness for the rest of my life, Healer!"
I'm a doctor, not a healer, seriously.
With that, the man bowed so deeply his forehead nearly cracked against the floor before leaving the room. As soon as the patient departed, I looked at the bill sitting next to his chart. Normally, handling the finances was Eri's job. But since she was currently away for her magic training, I had to balance the ledger myself.
Let's see. The patient had just paid thirty silver coins. And the cost of the potions used to reattach that wrist was three gold coins. Hmm. Another deficit today. But a deficit of this size was negligible—it was an amount I could recoup just by breathing for ten minutes, so I didn't care.
I feel like my sense of money is getting more warped by the day. Well, it's not like I'll ever run out of money in this lifetime, so what does it matter? Shaking off the thought, I picked up the next chart. The next patient was a first-time visitor.
"Next patient, please."
Creak. The door opened, and an old man walked in slowly. He was a white-haired elder with a slightly bent back. Wearing a worn-out coat and a battered hat, he looked like any ordinary grandfather you could easily find in the Limbus Pit.
"Please have a seat, elder. Is it too cold in here?"
"My, it was practically roasting in the waiting room. You must be quite wealthy, Healer."
"We have to keep it warm for the pregnant mothers, after all."
"Haha, indeed. Ah, if my words sounded rude, I apologize."
"Not at all, elder. What seems to be the problem?"
"Haha, well, my hands have been feeling weak lately." The old man held out his hands.
"I roll cigars for a living, but my hands won't listen to me, so I can't work."
"Ah, you must have come from E-Sector." E-Sector was primarily the district for processing tobacco and medicinal herbs. Throw in some illicit drugs, and you had E-Sector's entire economy. The old man before me seemed to be a cigar artisan from that area.
"E-Sector? Ah, yes. I came from E-Sector."
"When did this start?"
"About a month ago?"
"Do you smoke cigars yourself?"
"I smoke a little. Shouldn't I taste-test the products I make myself?"
"Have you had any period recently where you couldn't smoke?"
"No, never."
That meant the hand tremors weren't caused by withdrawal. The next most likely candidate was carpal tunnel syndrome. It was a common ailment among artisans who spent all day pulling and rolling tobacco leaves.
"May I examine your hands?" With the old man's permission, I inspected his fingertips. His skin was dry, but there were barely any calluses. I examined his fingers one by one, checking for nicotine staining. If an excessive amount of nicotine was absorbed through the skin, it could cause tremors like this. However, there were no traces of nicotine on his fingers. Instead, there were several faint horizontal lines on his fingernails.
Why are these here?Mee's lines. A clinical sign of chronic exposure to heavy metals. This was a symptom rarely seen in ordinary tobacco artisans.
"...Could you try raising your wrist?" Though looking puzzled, the old man lifted his wrist. But he couldn't hold it for long, and his wrist went limp. Classic wrist drop. A symptom where nerve paralysis prevents one from lifting the wrist upward. There was only one representative heavy metal that caused this symptom: lead. It was a material a cigar artisan would never encounter. And it was certainly not something a poor old man in the Limbus Pit could afford to handle.
I stared at the old man's hands for a while. After some deliberation, I asked him, "Is 'cigar' perhaps some wizard slang that I'm not aware of, elder?" Silence fell over the clinic. I raised my head and met his eyes. The cloudy, tired eyes had suddenly regained a sharp, brilliant luster as they stared back at me. Soon, the old man broke the silence. "Hahaha." His bent back straightened. "How did you know?"
"Because the only professions that handle lead to this extent are alchemists or mages."
"My, my. Perhaps I should have introduced myself as an alchemist instead of a cigar artisan." Just as I thought. The old man before me was a mage. Lead was by no means a cheap material. Due to its symbolic property of trapping souls, it was widely used as a catalyst for various types of magic. It was heavily utilized not only by dark mages but also by other magic casters. In particular, lead was an essential catalyst when summoning familiars or making contracts with fairies or spirits. Naturally, lead was not a material an old man rolling tobacco in E-Sector could easily obtain. Thus, I was able to deduce that he was hiding his true profession.
Stroking his beard, the old man said, "Did I mention that I handle lead?"
"It left traces on your hands."
"My hands?" The old man tilted his head and looked down at his hands. "I never knew lead left traces on one's hands. How did you figure that out?"
"The bottom of society naturally pools with fallen mages who ruined themselves handling lead. I learned it naturally thanks to them." The Limbus Pit was a wonderfully convenient excuse. Whenever I claimed to have learned something from treating patients, everyone just accepted it. The old man before me was no exception. Perhaps thanks to the power of the misunderstanding genre, he understood immediately without requiring a tedious, pedantic explanation.
"Indeed. From the bottom, one can see things that are invisible from the top." The old man nodded. "We have only met twice, yet your insights give me much inspiration, junior."
"Is that so?"
"Oh? You aren't surprised?"
"Because the only mages who would seek me out are either dark mages or you, elder."
Furthermore, I already knew this man was the old magic caster I had met previously. Magic casters are inherently busy creatures. They split their time down to the second for their research; there was no way they would suddenly visit me for no reason. Thus, the only mages who would seek me out were Belgian or that old magic caster. Since Belgian was hardly the type of character to visit me in such a roundabout manner, by process of elimination, only the elder remained. And even putting deduction aside, according to the laws of genre fiction, it was about time for the elder to make an appearance.
"So, what brings you here?" I brought out some refreshments and placed them before the old man. Not knowing when he might visit, I had kept them prepared for a month. At the sight of tea and pastries—a combination rarely seen in the Limbus Pit—the old magic caster's eyes widened slightly. "You prepared this in advance as well?"
"Yes. They say opportunity only comes to those who are prepared." Throwing in a line to show off my competence was a nice bonus.
The magic caster stared intently at my mask. His gaze was unusual. I had never seen that look in his eyes before, so I couldn't be sure, but it felt like the gaze of a predator that had found its prey. "Prepared..." Muttering to himself, the old man's face began to blur. The blurred face dispersed like mist, revealing the countenance of the old magic caster I had met before.
"If my junior is prepared, then as his senior, it is only right that I grant him an opportunity." His left eye, uncovered by his eyepatch, stared at me. "Before that, let me ask you one more thing. For what reason are you currently researching dark magic?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Julian Schnabel. They say lying is a virtue when dealing with mages, but do not make the mistake of applying the virtues of ordinary mages to me."
Tsk. It seemed playing dumb would be useless. Come to think of it, trying to play dumb with someone who already knew my name before I even introduced myself was pretty ridiculous anyway. I didn't bother asking how he knew what I was researching. I merely guessed he might have used clairvoyance or some other spell. Instead, I partially corrected his misunderstanding.
"I am not researching dark magic."
"Hmm? Did you not use dark magic?"
"In the end, what I am trying to do is alchemy." Alchemy in this world was not magic. When I first heard alchemy existed, I thought I could directly alter elemental arrangements using mana, like in a certain famous manga. I thought that would make developing quinine easy. But when I actually summoned the alchemists, all they showed me was the manual labor of throwing various ingredients into a cauldron and boiling them. The only difference was whether they lit the fire with magic or a magic tool. In essence, alchemists were no different from chemists. They just had a dash of this world's unique chemical laws and new materials.
No wonder there isn't a Magic Tower of Alchemy. Anyway, alchemy was an umbrella term for any technology that altered the properties of matter. This was why I described my research to this old magic caster as alchemy. "To me, dark magic is merely a means to an end. What I wish to create is neither a magic tool nor a magical phenomenon."
"Then it was alchemy all along?"
"Yes." Distinguishing between magic research and alchemy was simple. You just had to look at whether the resulting object or phenomenon required mana. If it didn't require mana once created, it was alchemy. If it did, it was a magic tool or magic. This was why I claimed to pursue alchemy rather than becoming a magic caster. Alchemy didn't require a single shred of talent as a magic caster.
"Haha... I thought you were a junior magic caster... but you were an alchemist." The old magic caster's eyes narrowed. Seeing this, I recalled the fact that mages despised alchemists. A chill ran down my spine. It felt like déjà vu. Don't tell me this is like Belgian all over again? Was he going to get angry, claiming I had deceived him? That would be a disaster. Belgian was just a mediocre Tier 2 mage plagued by inferiority complexes, so I could manage him somehow. But the old man before me exuded an aura that was clearly light-years beyond Tier 2. If I made an enemy of him, I might not even have bones left to bury.
Even for a misunderstanding story, isn't this too much of a forced crisis? Breaking into a cold sweat internally, I opened my mouth to correct his misunderstanding. "Elder... I didn't mean to deceive you..." Cutting me off, the old man asked in a chilly voice, "Then what do you intend to use that curse for? Surely you aren't planning to spread it?"
"No. Quite the opposite, actually."
"The opposite?"
"During my recent clash with a dark mage, I accidentally discovered that once you overcome a curse, you become highly resistant to the same curse in the future."
"Hmm. That is true." This was a somewhat known fact among mages. Once a curse was overcome, one gained a certain level of resistance to it. Because of this property, curse-users rarely cast curses unless they were absolutely certain they could kill their target. If they did use one, they did so with absolute lethal intent. The old magic caster nodded, seemingly recalling this fact. "But what of it?"
"From what I've observed while treating patients here, those who survived curses often remained completely unaffected even when a plague swept through."
"Oh? Is that true?" I nodded. Who could disprove it if I claimed that was what I observed?
"Yes. So I thought that if we pre-emptively distribute a weakened version of the curse to the people, we might be able to save them from the plagues that regularly ravage us."
"..." The old magic caster fell silent. He toyed with the teacup on the desk, lost in deep thought. His single eye scanned me up and down, over and over again. How much time had passed? Just as the steam rising from the teacup began to fade, the old man finally spoke.
"You have thoroughly piqued my curiosity over the past month."
"...Pardon?"
"After I handed Belgian's grimoire over to you, I did a little background check of my own." Resting his chin on his hand, the old man continued leisurely. "At first, I thought you were merely a young noble playing healer in the slums. But the deeper I dug, the more astonishing facts I uncovered." One by one, the traces of my past deeds began to flow from his mouth.
"You created a medicine to save soldiers from the bark of a tree native to the Magic Realm, and sold it at half price."
"..."
"You extracted an elixir from the entrails of beasts, saving those dying of wasting disease."
"..."
"It was all a miracle of alchemy." The old man smiled bitterly, touching his eyepatch.
"I apologize, my junior. When one sits in a high position, there are too many things to verify. It seems living a long life has made me paranoid." The old magic caster scratched his chin. "First, I must pay my respects to your boldness in serving me tea without even asking for my name. As an apology, I believe it is only right that I reveal my true name to you." The old man stood up from his chair. "My name is Louis Edelhardt."
At that moment, a passage from a history book I had read to understand this world flashed through my mind. Louis Edelhardt. The Father of Magic. The Grand Master of the empire's thirteen Magic Towers, the only living 8th Tier magic caster, and a figure who had shaped the very history of the empire. While I was frantically trying to choose my next words in the face of this unexpected figure, Louis smiled warmly and extended his hand toward me.
"Julian Schnabel. Won't you become my disciple?"
As I stared at the Father of Magic extending his hand to me, only one thought dominated my mind. What is this? I'm scared... Just where on earth did this snowball start rolling? I felt like I could finally understand why the protagonists of misunderstanding stories always wanted to run away.