The alleyways of the slums were so narrow that only two people could walk abreast. The walls on both sides were covered in greyish-white mold, and the air smelled utterly foul.
Vera followed the nurse, arriving at the entrance of the alley.
The further they walked, the clearer the voices became. It sounded somewhat like the groaning and weeping of patients in the clinic, but unlike those, these tears did not seem to stem from pain.
At the end of the alley was a small clearing.
It was packed with people.
Most of them were sick, some from the slums themselves and others from elsewhere in the territory. They sat or stood in a semi-circle, every gaze fixed on the center of the clearing.
In the center stood an old wooden table, behind which sat a young girl.
She wore a white holy robe, and her face was somewhat pale, as if she had not slept in a long time. Yet her eyes were bright, seeming to emit a soft glow in the darkness.
A thin man with a severed leg sat on a low stool before her. His pant leg was rolled up to his knee, exposing his stump. The girl reached out and placed her palm over his knee.
Golden light welled from between her fingers, seeping into the man's leg. Before long, the flesh and blood at the stump began to squirm and grow, and soon, a brand-new leg emerged.
The man's eyes widened. He stood up and took a couple of steps. Then, his lips trembling, tears and snot ran down his face in a messy blur. The surrounding patients let out low gasps, and many folded their hands in prayer.
It was like a miracle.
Vera froze on the spot, her mouth hanging open without her even realizing it.
How... how was this possible?!
Severed limbs... could severed limbs really regenerate?!
The girl withdrew her hand, her face turning a shade paler as her body swayed slightly.
“Lady Saintess!” An old woman nearby quickly supported her, her heart aching for her. “Please rest. You have already treated over a dozen people. If you keep this up, your body won't be able to take it!”
“Yes, Lady Saintess, we are in no rush. Please have a sip of water first,” the others quickly chimed in.
The girl gave a weak smile.
“It is fine. I can still go on. Next, please.”
At her gentle call, another patient stepped forward.
Meanwhile, the man with the previously severed leg whispered something in the girl's ear before joyfully squeezing out of the crowd and leaving the alley.
Vera stood outside the crowd, completely still.
Her eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses were filled with a tempest of complex emotions: shock, indignation, anger, and something she was loath to admit—jealousy.
Didn't the people of the Church only know how to pray?
When did they acquire such Holy Light magic that could cure anything?
An indescribable sense of defeat welled up from the depths of her heart.
Seeing those poor people she had once turned away now surrounding the girl—their eyes filled not with humble begging, but with genuine gratitude and concern—Vera's face grew increasingly grim.
She turned around, pushed through the crowd behind her, and walked away quickly.
The nurse trotted after her, not daring to speak.
As she stepped out of the slums, Vera paused and looked back. In the darkness of the night, that golden light was still flickering, faint yet resolute, like a brilliant star.
She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.
...
The clinic had closed for the day due to a lack of patients.
Inside the tavern, dim candlelight flickered within brass-shaded lamps. The savory aroma of roasted meat was overpowered by the sour scent of fermenting ale and the stench of sweat, creating an indescribably unpleasant odor in the room.
But no one cared.
Vera sat by the window, three empty cups and one half-full cup set before her.
Resting her chin in one hand, she listlessly tapped her fingers on the tabletop with the other. A few stray locks of hair had slipped from her bun, draping by her ears and making her pale face look even more haggard.
“What's wrong? Drowning your sorrows alone in a tavern?”
A woman wearing a long grey dress walked over with a cup in hand. Making herself right at home, she sat directly beside Vera.
She was a maid from the lord's manor and had essentially grown up with Vera.
Vera lifted her eyelids slightly before casting her gaze back down at her cup, her finger idly tracing the rim. “Nothing... just... questioning my life, I suppose.”
“Questioning your life?”
The maid was astonished.
“You are a physician, a profession so many dream of. The pay is high, the work is stable, and you can even make those wealthy folks owe you favors...”
In the coastal Oswell territory, physician was the single most coveted profession.
Breaking into the field was incredibly difficult. The apprenticeship alone took seven or eight years of grueling work. One had to memorize medical theories thicker than bricks, practice under candlelight until their fingers no longer trembled, and endure the pain of patients dying under their care.
Out of ten apprentices, only two or three would actually graduate. But because of this, once one earned the title of "physician," their future was as sweet as honey.
A physician's pay was outrageously high; their monthly income could easily match the monthly earnings of an ordinary family of four. Not to mention, renowned physicians could even treat lords and nobles.
They also had plenty of time off. When a wooden sign reading "Closed Today" was hung on the clinic door, no one dared to utter a single word of complaint. Of course, the most important thing to them was not any of this, but rather their network of connections.
No one could guarantee they would never fall ill, and the same applied to wealthy merchants and nobles. The more patients a physician treated, the more favors they accumulated, naturally building a web of relationships.
Should the physician ever need help, a single word would be enough for those powerful figures to resolve the issue.
It could be said that in the Oswell territory, anyone who became a physician had essentially stepped into high society, enjoying immense prestige.
Thus, the maid found it completely baffling that Vera, a physician, would actually be questioning her life.
Vera merely gave a bitter laugh.
“It is precisely because I am a physician that I am questioning my life.”
The maid frowned as she studied Vera, noticing that this female physician, who was usually confident to the point of arrogance, actually had faint dark circles under her eyes.
Vera, seemingly lost in thought, murmured to herself,
“Tell me... can medicine really make a severed limb regenerate?”
The maid stared blankly for a moment, then gave an awkward chuckle.
“Why are you asking me? I'm not a physician.”
“But I am.”
Vera turned her head to look out the window, her gaze seemingly piercing through the night to fall upon that hand emitting a warm glow as it rested on a patient's leg.
“I know that medicine cannot regenerate severed limbs. Many of those patients have illnesses that medicine simply cannot cure. They were supposed to carry those ailments and live out the rest of their lives in agony.”
“But do you know what I saw? That damned Church of the Morning Light actually possesses magic that can cure illnesses. And that magic can even regenerate severed limbs!”
She suddenly looked up, her greyish-blue eyes flashing with a light bordering on madness.
“Compared to such magic, my medical skills... are utterly worthless...”
The final words seemed squeezed from between her teeth, laced with indignation, anger, and a deep, profound sense of helplessness.
Rate on N.U.
