There's... a Cure?
"Rebecca, you feeling better now?"
"Hoo... I'm sorry, Director. It's all because of me that everyone..."
Rebecca had been under such extreme stress when Owen, the tower master of the Tower of Truth, appeared on the podium at the grand plaza where the conference was held that she'd had a seizure and lost consciousness. That's how we all ended up back at the Beauty Tower.
"It's fine. Honestly, there wasn't much left to learn there anyway, and I didn't even want to see those Wind Tower bastards after their momentum died down. We didn't need to go in the first place, so forget about it today and get some real rest."
"Yes, Director."
After confirming in the inpatient room that Rebecca's vitals were normal, I stepped out.
"Walter, you busy?"
"No, sir. What is it, Director?"
"I couldn't check out the mansion because of the conference earlier. I'm heading over now—want to come?"
"Of course. I'll lead the way. Kellogg's probably inside the mansion. Word is he spends most of his time there these days."
I'd been too swamped to pay much attention, but with completion so close, I couldn't help feeling excited inside.
I wonder how well Kellogg did?
Just as the witches had grown into full-fledged pharmacists, nurses, and now even doctors, Kellogg had made massive strides too. The stubborn top blacksmith who'd only cared about weapons had started studying the Beauty Tower's medical tools, furniture, and machines, sparking his interest in crafting beyond arms. Lately, he'd been working with laborers sent by the Ecna ducal family to build the mansion, even custom-making interiors and furniture.
I really need to look after Kellogg more.
Back from Breath of Fire, heartbroken, he'd turned into a workaholic rivaling me or the witches. Depending on how well he'd tailored the mansion's interiors to my taste, I figured it was time for a raise...
Screeech—
The long wooden panels surrounding the mansion like a barricade had kept me from glimpsing the construction inside. Walter lifted one up, letting us enter the grounds, and the sight hit me like a punch to the gut.
"Whoa..."
Unlike the drab wooden fence, the interior screamed noble estate. The landscaping jumped out first—the vast, pristine lawn and flowerbeds radiated peace just to look at.
"I think it's stunning every time I see it."
"...Yeah."
Especially the massive fountain statue at the garden's center, obligatory for any noble pile, spraying cool jets of water. But...
"That statue shape... Kellogg make it?"
Fountains usually had water gushing from a cherub's wee-wee or a mermaid's mouth for dramatic flair, but mine? A giant syringe.
"I asked him too—it wasn't Kellogg. Young Master Ecna insisted the workers make it that way."
"Hm... It's quirky, but it doesn't look half bad up close. Let's head inside."
"Yes, Director."
Honestly, after crash-landing alone in this isekai world, I'd cursed every god I could think of—Jesus, Buddha, Allah, you name it. But my new completed home washed all that bitterness away, purifying my soul. It felt like reward for all the grind. Good times ahead, I thought, stepping inside.
* * *
September 25th by the Ailene calendar. Three weeks since moving into the mansion with its badass syringe fountain.
"Director! Rash patients are piling up!"
"The lesions?"
And just like that, sweet dreams of the new house scattered like a midsummer night's fantasy. All because of the horde flooding the hospital today.
"All kinds! Arms, torsos, palms, soles—you name it."
"Fever and headache cases too, Director. This doesn't feel like some ordinary bug. I hear patients with similar symptoms started popping up last weekend."
Hazel and Stella rushed over, looking frazzled. We didn't do clinic hours on weekends, so a cluster over the break? I scanned the paperwork on waiting patients' symptoms from Hazel. Not good.
Rash anywhere—trunk, palms, soles. Skin ulcers, fever, malaise, lymphadenopathy, headaches...
It all pointed to one diagnosis. And I prayed it wasn't that.
"Hazel, Stella—bluebird. Serum tests on all matching cases. I'm heading to the territorial office. Payment day's today."
"Got it, Director!"
"Yes!"
Serum tests take about twenty minutes. I messaged Walter via elevator to ready a carriage out front.
"You're here, Director."
"Territorial office, straight away."
"Yes, sir."
Last three weeks, shifting from VVIP inpatient to the mansion full-time, unpacking nonstop between home and hospital—I hadn't been out much.
...Streets are empty?
Way quieter than usual. Last time I'd ventured far was late August for the Wind Tower quack's conference—grand plaza had been packed. Now it looked deserted.
"Here, Director."
"Be back soon."
Snapped out of it—territorial office. I dashed inside as Walter held the carriage door.
What the...? Even the office is a ghost town?
The territorial office was one of Frederik Dungeon Zone's busiest spots, alongside Beauty Tower and adventurer clinic. But just staff? Eerily empty.
Squelch—
I snatched a number from the ticket snail and bolted to window three. And there she was, still bad luck personified... Huh?
"Haa... You're here. I'll handle the payment."
"...Rash on your hand—when'd it start?"
"Pardon? Just pay up."
"No, wait—here."
Handing over this month's fee to territorial office Rachel, I spotted the rash on her hand taking the coins.
"Receipt?"
"Nah."
"Haa... Then beat it."
Her heavy sigh reeked of malaise. But Rachel was always a jerk to visitors, so hard to judge—then the crystal orb buzzed.
Bzzz— Bzzz—
"Yeah, Stella."
—Director, results are in! Treponema pallidum detected!
This... Shit.
I'd hoped not, but bingo.
"...Syphilis. Most of the patients I checked earlier match secondary syphilis. Hit 'em with penicillin stat, and healing magic too. On my way."
—Yes, Director!
Ended the call, bolted out.
"Damn it."
"Director? Not going?"
"Walter, hold up."
Back inside the office. Not the best blood between us, but hey, even hated folks get extra rice cake.
"Hey, Rachel."
"Take a number."
"I was just here! It's not business—"
"Number."
"Ugh, seriously!"
Remembering her endless petty jabs, I was pissed, but doctors don't judge worth—treat the patient, treat the disease.
Grabbed another ticket from the snail, tossed it at window three. Rachel smirked, satisfied, taking it.
"More payments?"
"Cut the crap. Rachel, rash on palms, soles, elsewhere? Ulcers, fever? Headaches making you ache?"
"...?"
Her brow twitched.
"No more payments?"
"Don't dodge! Yes or no?"
"...No payments? Out."
"Rachel, listen. Sounds like syphilis. You need treatment ASAP. We're not buddies, but come to my clinic. Gotta treat it."
"Syphilis? You mean dungeon disease?"
Dungeon disease? No clue the term, but clearly syphilis. Earth history had it under many names too.
Syphilis spread post-Columbus from New World to Europe, then East Asia.
"Dunno if it's called dungeon disease here, but that's what you've got. Easy fix—come on."
Europeans slapped enemy names on it: Italians "French disease," French "Naples disease," Dutch "Spanish," Russians "Polish," Poles "German," Greeks "Bulgarian," Brits "French pox."
Name didn't matter. Highly contagious, high fatality—treat now.
"Hah, get this."
"...?"
She eyed me with contempt, pointing to a corner behind the counter.
"No flirting with staff... Wait, you joking?!"
"I, uh, got someone. Mind your business."
"Got it—dungeon disease syphilis spreads mostly mucosal contact, STD."
"Hah, sexual harassment now?"
Damn it. Trying to save her ass, and this is the thanks?
Primary, secondary, early latent syphilis? One penicillin IM shot cures it—for modern me. But here? COVID mutated milder over time; early syphilis killed fast, months sometimes.
This isekai. No cases in a year here. Fatality way higher than Earth's.
"What're you on about? Dungeon disease is dangerous. Rash, fever, headaches now—but untreated, it hits the brain!"
"Don't worry. I got the cure."
"A cure... exists?"