How Many Moles Would You Like Removed?
Finishing Jeff's hair transplant surgery and catching up on some much-needed sleep, Minho woke up in the staff lounge bed to find noon had already passed.
"Healing magic... this is turning out to be more lucrative than I thought."
Recalling the miraculous surgery from that morning, a satisfied smile crept across his face.
That morning, right after Jeff's procedure, he'd headed down to the basement and shaken awake the soundly sleeping dragon hatchling.
"Ughhh... I wanna sleep moreee..."
"Snap out of it, dragon. You said you could turn invisible, right?"
"Yeahhh, but whyyy?"
"Stay completely hidden—no slip-ups. I'll give you a signal, and when I say cast healing magic, you do it right then. Got it?"
With that, he shoved a gold coin into the dragon's mouth and returned to the 11th floor where Jeff lay, applying recovery magic.
Good thing the little guy's magic works better than expected.
Once the dragon cast its healing spell, the wounds on Jeff's freshly transplanted scalp healed in nearly a minute flat. That meant the dragon's magic was equivalent to a mid-grade stamina potion. And it could be used just like any decent mage or priest.
"Haa... this is driving me crazy."
But reality crashed back in, bringing a explosive sigh. The monthly tribute due to the territory office loomed large in his mind, paid like clockwork on the 25th. With only two weeks left until this month's deadline—and the first month being light at just 23 gold—he still needed to scrape together 16 more.
"Time to check how sales are going today."
He grabbed a quick bite and stepped outside, where Cache was hustling, handing out large posters he'd printed: her own before-and-after freckle removal and Jeff's bald-to-full-head-of-hair transformation.
The dragon, now quite chummy with Cache, perched on her shoulder.
I really picked a winner with her. At this rate, those samples will sell out soon.
Cache had set up a street stall in front of the hospital, peddling various beauty care products—all labeled as "samples," "demos," or "not for sale." Only he knew that, of course.
They won't even understand the 'sample' label anyway, so no big deal.
Unlike Korea's freezing winters, this isekai world was the opposite—warm enough for sweat beads to glisten on Cache's forehead. Yet she beamed brightly, fully immersed in sales. It was a small comfort.
"Hey! Miner!"
"Director! You're here!"
He smirked and approached the pair, who had just noticed him.
"Business looks good."
"Yes! Morning sales: 6 gold, 5 silver, 9 copper!"
"Up a bit from yesterday. Take a lunch break while you're at it."
"Of course!"
Cache worked like an ox at the stall from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. Checking daily tallies over the past few days, she pulled in about 15 gold a day—barely convenience store level. She grinned brightly, but Minho couldn't muster a smile.
She takes 3% of daily sales. So I net around 14 gold...
Cache pocketed a measly 4 silver 5 copper daily, but he couldn't afford more—not when failing to pay meant doom for both of them.
Still, she seemed thrilled. Running her old sundries shop solo, 2 silver a day had been her max.
"Cacheee!"
"Oh, Emily? What brings you here! It's been forever."
"What do you mean? I heard you opened a shop!"
Just as Minho pondered his own woes over Cache, her friend approached the stall. Emily's words stemmed from the territory office registration—he'd classified the hospital as a magic tower, dubbing it the Beauty Tower, with the ground-floor stall as the Cash Shop. With Jeff and Ollie's help, he'd even set up signs reading as much.
"Haha, it's just called Cash Shop—I'm an employee here."
"Really? Wait, what the—? You, your face! What happened to your face?!"
Cache smiled slyly at Emily, who clapped a hand over her mouth in shock.
"Looks clean now, right? Our Director treated me."
"Treated? Freckles can be treated?!"
Cache wasn't just staff—she was his right hand. Following his skincare routine to the letter, her glowing skin left Emily staring, slack-jawed.
"What do you think, Emily? Notice any difference?"
"Insane! No way! You look like a whole different person—like I thought you were some noble lady at first!"
"Hehe, really?"
"You little...?"
As Cache smirked playfully, Emily hooked her fingers like claws.
"Still not spilling? Even after this?!"
"Kyahahaha! For real! The Director actually treated me!"
Emily mercilessly tickled Cache's sides, drawing peals of shrieking laughter.
"Sorry, Doctor. This is my friend Emily. Emily, this is the Cash Shop Director who fixed my freckles."
"H-Hi."
"Hello. I'm Miner, director of Cash Shop."
No need for microexpression analysis—Emily's pupils darted wildly at "hospital."
"Don't worry, Emily. Our Beauty Tower isn't like other magic towers. We remove freckles... or here."
Cache handed over a flyer, and Emily's jaw dropped again.
"N-No way! How can a bald guy grow hair?! Baldness is incurable! My dad! Grandpa! They were bald forever?!"
"It's possible. We do more than hair treatments. If you want a mole removed, ask the Director."
"Wha? You can remove moles... now?"
Cache winked over Emily's stunned form, nudging her toward him. Cache, you're a gem.
"As Cache said, we offer mole removal too. Why not come inside for a free consultation? Opening special."
Emily, who'd come for Cache but now trailed him dazedly—like she'd just woken up—into the first-floor cafe.
— Miner! —
"...?"
Glancing back at the sudden telepathy from the dragon, he spotted it flapping wings on Cache's shoulder, staring at him.
— Cache says: Emily, grocer's daughter, loaded. —
He'd promised Cache 1 silver per patient she brought in—and she'd nailed it. Nodding subtly to the dragon in acknowledgment, he led them inside.
"Whoa... looked like a magic tower from outside, but inside's totally different?"
Emily, mid-30s at a glance but hesitantly stepping in, shuffled forward. But age was tricky here—Cache had shocked him by listing 18 on her intake form, despite looking 30+.
So Emily's probably around Cache's age too.
"Cache is such a beauty, so her friend must be too."
"B-Beauty?"
Emily blushed furiously, head down, at the casual compliment.
What's this? Like she's never heard praise before?
Praising accompanying friends or family built rapport—a coordinator staple back home. Now it fell to him, sans his trusty Lee Manager.
"Th-Thank you..."
"Shall we consult? You want moles removed?"
"...Yeah, I have a lot on my face."
He listened silently. First rule of empathy: active listening.
She'd first noticed her moles at age 7—innocent then, but they multiplied over time, unlike anyone in her family.
"It was so weird. No one in my immediate or extended family has this many... then suddenly, like this... uhuhu! Family says I'm overreacting... huhuhu!"
"One moment, please."
"Th-Thank you..."
As she dabbed tears with his offered handkerchief, he dashed to the 10th floor for his tablet.
Lucky—still charged.
Back on the first floor, Emily had calmed.
"...S-Sorry, Doctor. First time sharing this."
"No problem. Thanks for being open."
Her eyes were puffy from crying, but she looked relieved.
'Doctor': one who heals illness. 'Illness': any distress from impaired normal function.
Everyone had acquired melanocytic nevi—moles—somewhere. Benign tumors, rarely problematic.
Most folks don't obsess over them.
But for Emily, moles were a disease—a massive one. They wounded her psyche, causing severe stress. No one should mock them; they shouldn't hurt her.
"Emily, check this. Swipe sideways."
"...Ah!"
The tablet displayed mole removal case photos. Emily fixated, ignoring the tech marvel, awe-struck.
"...No way! Real?!"
"Hard to believe, but all true."
He opened the drawing app and sketched as he explained.
"Skin has three layers: epidermis, dermis, subcutaneous. Moles are in the epidermis or dermis."
"Skin... has three layers? Inside skin, more skin... unbelievable."
She was stunned but followed the illustrations easily.
"Moles fall into three main types: junctional (epidermis), compound (epidermis-dermis), intradermal (deep dermis). More variety than you'd think."
"Yeah, thought all moles were the same..."
"Even more subtypes exist—some need excision, not just procedure—"
"Ex-Excision?!"
She flinched at "surgery," fearing amputation.
"Not amputation—don't worry."
"Ah... okay."
"Yours are basic types, so no issue. Assessed by depth, shape, location, color—all junctional nevi."
"...Junctional?"
"Easiest to treat."
"So... treatable? Removable?"
Her voice trembled; he replied firmly.
"Yes—all removable."
"Ah, aaa...!"
Tears flowed again at the news. Just moles to most—but to her, like curing an incurable plague. Her joy swelled his chest too.
With a gentle, reassuring smile, he shared the honest truth he'd been dying to say.
"Five gold each. How many would you like removed?"