Salat's Pharmacy
Salat's eyes widened in astonishment.
After entering Harma Territory, she had given Loki a basic lesson in herbalism. She called it basic, but elven pharmacology was incredibly complex and difficult for humans. Yet Loki not only grasped it effortlessly but memorized the recipes in a single go.
Loki jotted down everything Salat taught him in an empty notebook. Once he finished writing, he read it through just once, and the pages glowed before dissolving into his body.
Stunned by the bizarre sight, Salat froze as Loki's hand reached toward the herbs she was holding. The herbs floated into the air, shredding and grinding themselves before mixing with the others.
"……!"
It was truly an otherworldly scene. Medicine being made without a single tool!
"Excellent. You've been a great help, Salat."
Salat nodded happily, thrilled that he had called her by name for the first time.
Harma Territory was a sanctuary of sorts for the refugees. It was one of the few places least affected by the war's aftermath.
The territory had tried controlling the influx with forced conscription and doubled taxes to fund the military. Yet the numbers only swelled.
As more refugees poured in, Harma crumbled further. They came endlessly, and war-weary, exhausted people grew irritable, snapping at each other and causing constant disturbances. Crime rates soared, streets littered with corpses, and plagues claimed countless lives.
In such a territory…
"……."
A young man stared blankly at his right arm. Blood trickled from his hand, mingled with yellow pus that asserted its foul presence. His hand trembled, but he felt no sensation.
He wasn't a pharmacist, herbalist, or healer, but he knew leaving it like this would ruin his arm. And without it, mere survival would be impossible.
So he sought out a pharmacist. The man in the beak mask grimaced at his arm and shoved him away.
"I told you, we're out!"
The shove made him drop his money pouch—his entire fortune.
He clung desperately to the pharmacist.
"Please! Somehow, give me medicine…!"
"…I've sold everything I have. Besides, a wound that rotten needs amputation. If I had potent stuff, maybe, but…."
The pharmacist shook his head with a groan.
"My remedies can't handle it. Try another pharmacist or herbalist. Though they'll probably say the same—cut it off."
He caught his breath and continued.
"That money won't buy rare ingredients. Best I could prescribe is a disinfectant. Even then, survival odds after amputation and disinfection are slim…."
"……."
It was a death sentence.
Amputate his arm? In this world, with no one hiring him as is, how could he live without it?
The pharmacist pointed accusingly.
"Mark my words. Don't cut that arm off now, and you're dead."
With that, he walked away. Overwhelmed, the man burst into tears.
"…Damn it! Cut off my arm? How can you say that so casually?"
He resented the world.
"What did I do wrong to deserve this? Huh?! What did I do? How can the world treat me like this? Constellation Azelan, creator of this world! I beg you—please heal my wound!"
He wept bitterly. Then a man approached. His face was covered entirely except mouth and nose by a raven mask. He bent down and picked up the dropped pouch.
The young man panicked.
"Th-that's my money! Mine!"
A thief come to rob him?! He reached instinctively, but his arm wouldn't rise.
"……!"
The raven-masked man—Loki—glanced at him, then spoke to the girl hiding behind him: Salat.
"I know herbalism now, but not how to examine patients. Would you check him instead, Salat?"
Salat examined the arm and murmured softly.
"…The wound's severe. But not enough for amputation."
"There you have it. Care to buy some medicine?"
"……?!"
No need to amputate?! Hope flickered in the man's eyes. But he shook his head. The pharmacist had said it required rare, expensive herbs. His entire wealth was just those few coins in the pouch.
"I-I can't afford it. No money…."
"What do you think?" Loki asked Salat.
"…It's bad, but not contagious. Infected wounds like this can be treated with simple herbs."
"Really?"
"Yes. El…." Salat caught herself before saying "elf" and shook her head. "…Anyway, medicine made with techniques from my homeland will suffice."
"I see."
The man frowned suspiciously. They looked shady. The mask resembled a beak one used by healers, but it was a raven. And a girl—not even a man—was diagnosing him. Obvious scammers.
"Cheap price. Buy?"
Loki's words made the man clutch his dying arm.
"…Planning to scam me?"
"Scam? Ah, right. Some con artists were just here, weren't they? Then how about this."
Loki pointed to Salat's medicine bag.
"Medicine first. Try it."
"Tr-try it first?"
"Yes. Pay after."
"…Even good medicine doesn't work instantly…."
Salat spoke up.
"…It's fine. Mine won't heal instantly, but it'll reduce swelling and drain the pus on a wound like that."
"You heard her."
The man hesitated. But his arm was rotting, and delay might doom it. No choice.
Groaning, he eyed his life savings—the pouch Loki held—and forced out the words.
"It… it really works, right?"
"Believe it or not, your call."
"…I'll take the treatment."
If it failed, he'd die anyway. Better grasp at straws.
"I'll buy! How much?"
Loki held up the coins before his eyes.
"These coins… and."
He pointed at the man.
"I'll hire you."
"Wh-what?"
Loki smiled.
"Spread the word about our miracle cures."
Ash stared at Loki and Salat in disbelief.
They had pitched the tent used for camping and set out herbs in front, hawking medicine.
Salat stood examining customers, while Loki handed over herbs as she directed and collected payment.
'Herbalists… for real?'
Word had spread somehow, and a long line formed before Loki—all refugees eager for medicine.
"This place really works?"
"Cheap prices, too."
"One per person. Limited stock—hurry or it's gone."
Ash overheard the refugees and was dumbfounded. Elven medicine truly was miraculous.
"…Mister."
A sudden voice drew his gaze down. A snot-nosed kid held out coins with both hands.
"Medicine… please."
"……."
Ash was incredulous—not at selling herbs, but that he, a prince, was reduced to peddling for herbalists.
'How did I end up like this…?'
A royal playing errand boy? Rebel nobles would mock him mercilessly.
Ash crushed the herb in his grip, but Loki's words silenced him.
"Gotta earn our keep, right?"
"……."
"Don't like it? Leave."
"…Fine. I'm not that heartless."
Ash sighed and looked at the kid.
"…Buying?"
"Yeah! For Mama!"
Ash handed over the herb; the kid snatched it and grabbed his hand, beaming innocently.
"Thanks, mister!"
"……."
The kid ran off with the herb. Ash stared at his hand, then asked Loki.
"This stuff could sell for more. Why pennies?"
"No need for riches. Enough for a night's stay, no?"
"……."
Just earning inn money, then.
Ash glanced where the kid went.
"Poor thing. So pitiful. But…."
He whispered to his hand, voice tiny.
"───…."
Ash's murmur was for himself alone, too faint for anyone to hear.
"……?"
Salat startled at the mumble and glanced at Ash.
"……."
Loki narrowed his eyes at Ash.
'What was that…?'
Misheard, probably. As Salat doubted her ears and stared at Ash, she noticed her bag felt light.
"Um…."
Loki looked aside. Salat fidgeted and opened the medicine bag.
"We're out."
"…I see."
Loki eyed the front. Refugees still queued patiently.
"Time to pack up."
He addressed Salat and Ash.
"To the inn."
"…What about the others?"
Salat shot the refugees a sympathetic look but Loki replied indifferently.
"No more medicine, and we're not idle enough to play savior."
Salat drooped, deflated, then glanced worriedly at the crowd.
"Pitiful?"
"…P-pitiful?" Me? For humans?
Salat shook her head vigorously.
"No, not at all!" As if I'd care about humans!
Loki, oblivious, nodded.
"Good."
Watching them, Ash felt oddly excluded. He stared blankly at Salat trotting after Loki. Something about it irked him.
As Loki packed to leave—
"…Huh? Traveler!"
A familiar voice made Loki turn toward the alley.
A familiar face stood there.