You Guys Aren't Doctors, You're Undertakers.
“Director, is something wrong?”
“No, just...”
I clicked my tongue as I read the letter delivered from Harish Ecna, the little marquis. Walter approached and asked.
“He bought land next to the Beauty Tower. In my name. Paid in full.”
“Land? But under the Dungeon Zone Special Law, you can't build anything permanent, right?”
“...”
What I said was spot on. Their family had so much money rotting away that they'd gotten permission from Duke Frederik himself and paid a hefty fine to the territorial office just to snag the plot. In the end, this isekai world was ruled by the almighty power of gold, where money trumped the law and solved everything. I just hadn't reached that level yet.
“If they had that kind of cash, they should've just paid what they owed me. Tsk.”
“Pardon?”
“No, how'd they settle it? Paid the fine, apparently. And now they're sending workers soon to build a full mansion... Jeez...”
“Congratulations, Baron!”
“No thanks. Get things ready for the territorial office. I have to register in person to finalize it.”
“I'll prepare the carriage right away.”
We rode Walter's magic carriage to the territorial office. And today, as always, the number ticket snail spat out ticket number 3. That godforsaken window handled by Rachel.
“Old sayings never lie, huh.”
“...”
“They say East Continent folks are obsessed with money.”
Rachel spouted her nonsense today too, without even needing a response.
“You seem to keep forgetting I'm a noble. Or do you just not realize how rude you're being?”
Suppressing my boiling anger, I spat the words out. Rachel smirked and pointed with her index finger to the corner under her window.
“...Under the Dungeon Safety and Health Act, protective measures for territorial office workers are now in effect. Please refrain from verbal abuse, assault, sexual harassment, etc., toward office staff—”
“Not that. The line below.”
“Territorial office workers are also someone's precious family—”
“Lower.”
“Degrading or insulting territorial office workers, causing feelings of humiliation or lowered self-esteem, will result in a 2 gold fine... Ha, fine.”
“Need a receipt?”
“Forget it!”
The very bottom line Rachel pointed to was in distinctly different handwriting. Clearly tacked on sloppily at the end—it screamed extortion attempt. Not wanting to get tangled up further, I finished signing the land and mansion construction registration forms and bolted out of the office.
“Let's go, Walter.”
“Right away, sir.”
The magic carriage ran on mana, which made it convenient in so many ways. Set the destination, and it handled Tesla-level autopilot. Speed control was a breeze too.
'Ride quality's a bit rough, but otherwise, pretty decent...?'
“Walter! Stop the carriage—now!”
My sudden shout brought it screeching to a halt. Ignoring whatever Walter was about to say, I jumped out.
We'd stopped right in front of the Wind Tower. And a huge commotion was unfolding there.
“What the hell do you think you're doing? That's my grandson! My one and only grandson!”
“Haha, hero, if he's your one and only, you should've raised him better. Brain disease needs treatment—it's obvious. Why'd you wait so long?”
“He's been fine until now—what's with this all of a sudden?!”
Pushing through the crowd, I spotted the man from the carriage earlier. It was definitely someone I knew: retired hero Bomba, who'd come to me for phantom limb pain therapy. Looming over him with a slimy grin was Wind Tower mage Elvin.
“Haha, hero. Even in old age, you need to watch your words. It wasn't 'fine until now'—you were hiding it. Now that treatment's done, it's out.”
“Left pocket? Left pocket? No? Where then? Tree branch won't work? Why? Why not a tree?”
Between Bomba and Elvin stood a young man in his late teens or early twenties, muttering nonsense to himself. Elvin gazed at him intently, that slimy smile creeping back.
“Hero, you can see your grandson's mental illness too, right? Talking to no one—who's he chatting with? Or... can you hear it all too?”
“...”
Bomba couldn't respond to Elvin's words, just working his parched lips.
“Haha, no need to worry. We at the Wind Tower know exactly how to surgically treat mental illness like this.”
“N-no! No surgery—absolutely not!”
Bomba cried out, clutching his grandson tight. Elvin's smile vanished.
“Clear mental illness, but refusing surgery...”
Elvin trailed off, turning his head as if searching for someone.
And then.
Ding-a-ling—ding-a-ling—
'What the hell?'
From the direction Elvin turned, people in pitch-black cloaks adorned with glowing crescent brooches approached him.
“You know too, hero. Mental illness shows aggression—must be brought to Wind Tower immediately for treatment.”
Elvin bared his teeth in a grin.
“It's one of the laws under the Dungeon Zone Special Law. Don't want to follow? Perfect timing—Black Moon Church priests are here. Maybe heresy trial instead?”
“N-no... Please, spare him. He's only nineteen!”
“Haha, hero, really? Nineteen—he could have kids already. Choose: heresy trial or treatment.”
“What kind of 'treatment' is that even?”
I'd been listening quietly to gauge the situation. But this quack's brazen bullshit pulled me in.
“Haha, Baron Gold. Long time no see.”
Elvin flashed a bright smile at me, like we'd bumped into each other at a conference.
“Baron...”
Bomba, the retired adventurer, grabbed my hand with rough, wrinkled fingers, eyes full of relief.
“Heard the commotion on my way back from the office—stopped by.”
I shot Elvin a sharp glare.
“Overheard something interesting. Retired hero's grandson has mental illness—treatment's surgery? What exactly? Like limbs, you cutting off his head?”
“Pfft—hahahaha!”
Elvin doubled over laughing, as if it was absurd.
“Long time no see, and still cracking jokes. Cut off the head? We don't do barbaric stuff like that. Mental surgery has way lower mortality than standard amputations.”
“What surgery, then?”
“Haha, curious about Wind Tower's surgical secrets again?”
Elvin shrugged, like he was about to school me.
“Fine, I'll tell you. Duty as a senior mage and doctor to enlighten someone lacking in magic and medical knowledge like you, Baron.”
“...”
“Hero and grandson—listen up, it'll help you too. Simple: drill a hole in the skull. Shove in a sharp spoon, scoop out part of the frontal lobe. Not full removal—just partial. Minimal bleeding, eliminates hallucinations and aggression like now.”
“My boy never showed aggression! Just occasional delusions!”
Bomba yanked his grandson close, protesting fiercely, but Elvin just smirked.
“I've treated mental patients at Wind Tower over twenty years. They turn aggressive over time. Proven by countless studies and treatments at the Magic Academy. Ignorant hero like you can't argue.”
“Yeah, Wind Tower wouldn't be wrong. Experts in mental treatment, at least.”
“Bomba's been off lately. Protesting, then going to Beauty Tower? Phantom pain nonsense.”
“Bomba got mental issues too? Always yelling.”
Elvin's words stirred vile murmurs from the onlookers. He signaled his disciples with a winner's grin.
As the whispers grew, three vacant-eyed people stepped forward under the mages' guidance, joining Elvin.
“Behold! Special today—our cured patients from Wind Tower! All had frontal lobectomies. And this woman up front—latest surgery. Mary, come forward. Haha, much quieter now, right? Let me bring her closer.”
'Is "quieter" the right word here?'
Elvin's group all wore forced smiles. Especially Mary, escorted by him—her reactions screamed impaired cognition.
“Mary got the latest: frontal lobectomy with anesthesia!”
“Anesthesia? What's that?”
“Remember? When that tooth-puller Clementine came—Beauty Tower said they could do it.”
“Oh, the no-pain thing?”
They hid it well, but their shock mirrored mine. I couldn't hide my surprise either.
'Anesthesia? They ignored everything I said about it, and now they've "invented" it?'
I didn't like Wind Tower mages sabotaging me. But anesthesia meant their gruesome surgeries could at least be less painful. Relief outweighed annoyance.
Until his next words.
“Ice water anesthesia!”
“Ice water? What's that?”
A curious onlooker shouted. Elvin grinned ear-to-ear, like he'd been waiting.
“Soak in a tub full of ice—body passes out. Then this! Ice pick for chiseling—lift eyelid, insert over eyeball.”
These lunatics. I'd foolishly hoped they'd developed real anesthetics.
“Lift eyelid, hammer the end to pierce orbital bone separating eye and frontal lobe—insert finger-length.”
“Ugh...”
“That's brutal.”
“Anesthetized—no pain.”
Opinions split. Elvin kept talking to seize control.
“Wiggle the pick side-to-side in the brain to sever frontal lobe nerves—done. Simple. Orbital bone's thin, easy reach. Costlier than standard, but fast recovery, minimal scars, no pain.”
“Hmm...”
Bomba started wavering at Elvin's pitch.
No good. Can't let that bullshit sway him.
“Listening to this crap—it's insane. Let me say it again: Wind Tower mages, you're not doctors. You're undertakers.”