Chương 67: CHAPTER 65: FLEECED CLEAN

The heavy iron door frame groaned as the cool morning air rushed into the small brick apothecary, pushing out the thick, metallic stench of rotted flesh and scorched skin. The monsoon storm had completely passed, leaving behind a clear, slate-blue sky and the soft, steady dripping of rainwater off the thatched eaves. Inside the clinic, the silence was absolute. Baron Oric sat frozen on the edge of his velvet-draped litter, his fat, sweating hands clutching his knees.

He stared down at his bare left foot with wide, bloodshot eyes. The skin, which only an hour ago had been pitch-black, swollen, and leaking foul fluid, was now a soft, healthy pink. The dark, twisted veins that had threatened to burst were smooth and calm. Slowly, deliberately, Oric flexed his toes. They moved instantly, bending and straightening without a single trace of pain. He rotated his ankle, expecting the terrible, bone-deep burning that had kept him screaming for three days. Nothing happened.

The joint turned smoothly, completely restored by the delicate glass tubes and green plant-fiber sutures hidden beneath his skin.

"I... I can feel it," Oric whispered, his voice cracking with a mixture of disbelief and lingering terror. He pressed his thumb hard against his heel. The sensation was immediate and sharp.

"The neural block... it's completely gone." Standing beside the granite workbench, Rudra did not look up from his work. He was using a clean linen cloth to wipe down his silver scalpel, his dark metal fingers moving with rhythmic, practiced ease.

"The localized block was removed because you signed the final asset release documents without further resistance," Rudra said, his tone flat, even, and entirely clinical.

"Your vascular system is operating at ninety-six percent efficiency. The micro-cellular pathogen has been extracted from your bloodstream. You are officially discharged from this facility." Oric swallowed hard, his throat dry. He carefully set his bare feet onto the cool, damp floorboards of the clinic. He put his weight onto his left leg, his muscles tense as he waited for his knee to buckle. The leg held his heavy frame effortlessly. He stood up straight, taking his first unassisted steps in days.

For a single second, a flash of his old, arrogant pride returned to his pale face. He was a high nobleman again, standing on two working legs inside the territory of a common country healer. He turned his head toward his six armored enforcers, his eyes narrowing.

"Guards—" Before the baron could finish his sentence, Rudra set the silver scalpel onto the stone table with a sharp, metallic SNAP. The sound was not loud, but the six guards flinched as if a lightning bolt had struck the room. The bronze-bearded enforcer immediately took a full step backward, his hand flying away from the pommel of his broadsword. The memory of Rudra's dark-iron fingers moving like striking vipers, and the terrifying threat of having their wrist tendons severed, was far too fresh in their minds.

Not a single soldier raised a weapon. Oric's mouth snapped shut. The brief spark of arrogance in his eyes vanished, replaced instantly by the cold realization that he was still standing inside the surgeon's theater.

"Your medical bill remains outstanding," Rudra stated calmly, turning his body to face the nobleman.

"Outstanding?!" Oric squeaked, his hands flying to his chest.

"I gave you my gold koban coins! I handed over my imperial signet ring! I signed away my entire private share in the eastern iron mines! You have taken over five hundred gold bars worth of my personal fortune!"

"Those assets covered the emergency surgical intervention, the micro-vascular bypass, and the extraction of the high-tier necrotic pathogen," Rudra corrected him, stepping around the granite desk.

"They do not cover the facility disruption fee, the environmental contamination tax, or the physical damage inflicted upon my entry frame." Rudra reached out with his dark-iron prosthetic hand, grabbed the thick velvet pouch still hanging from the baron's leather belt, and pulled it free with a sharp, effortless jerk. The silk cord snapped. Oric gasped, reaching out a hand, but Rudra was already turning away. Rudra walked over to the heavy iron lockbox resting beneath his main supply shelf.

He flipped the heavy lid open, exposing rows of neatly stacked silver bars and copper coins gathered from his previous transactions. With an unhurried, sweeping motion, he inverted the baron's velvet pouch directly over the iron chest. A heavy cascade of bright silver rupas and polished copper mons tumbled out of the bag, clinking loudly as they filled the bottom of the lockbox.

Every single coin the baron had brought for emergency traveling expenses rained down into the dark metal chest until the velvet pouch was completely empty, limp, and hollow. CLACK. Rudra slammed the heavy iron lid shut and turned the brass key, locking the box tight.

"Hey! That was my personal pocket money!" Oric howled, his fat face turning a blotchy red as he watched his very last coins disappear.

"How am I supposed to pay for my carriage back to the capital?! How am I supposed to buy food on the road?!"

"That is an administrative problem for your logistics department," Rudra replied, dropping the empty velvet pouch onto the baron's chest. Oric caught it woodenly, staring at the useless piece of cloth in absolute shock. Rudra pointed his dark-iron index finger toward the broken doorway.

"Your presence is elevating the biological dust levels in this room," Rudra said coldly.

"Vacate the premises immediately." The six enforcers did not wait for their master to reply. Eager to escape the terrifying atmosphere of the apothecary, two of the guards grabbed Oric by his fat arms, while the other four grabbed the handles of the empty velvet litter. They practically dragged the sputtering, furious nobleman out through the ruined doorframe, stepping quickly over the shattered wood and glass littering the threshold.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"You will regret this, ditch-doctor!" Oric screamed from the alleyway, his voice cracking with hysterical rage as his men shoved him into the back of his heavy black transport carriage.

"The regional trade guild will hear about this! The capital council will freeze your accounts! I will have you thrown into the deepest dungeon in the empire!" Rudra did not bother to answer. He stepped over to the broken entrance, grabbed the heavy oak door panel that had been kicked off its hinges earlier, and slammed it shut against the frame, blocking out the nobleman's screaming. Outside, the heavy iron-shod boots of the guards clattered frantically against the wet cobblestones.

The driver whipped the two massive draft horses, and with a loud creak of wooden wheels and a splash of muddy water, the baron's luxurious carriage speeded away down the narrow alley, vanishing into the morning mist. The apothecary was silent at last. The heavy, suffocating atmosphere that had filled the room during the confrontation slowly dissipated, replaced by the clean, cool draft filtering through the cracks in the walls. Rudra stood in the center of the room, taking a slow, deep breath to clear his lungs.

His dark eyes swept across the workspace. The floor was stained with dark mud, clear foul liquid, and spots of dried blood. The air still carried a faint, lingering trace of the putrid, rotted stench that had filled the room during the operation. To a man who had spent his previous life managing the sterile, hyper-regulated operating rooms of AIIMS Delhi, remaining in an environment with lingering biological foulness was completely unacceptable.

He walked over to a small wooden side cupboard, opened the door, and pulled out a small, glazed earthenware jar. He popped the cork stopper with a quiet POP. Inside the jar were several thick, crisp slices of fresh cucumber, harvested from the local coastal gardens the day before and pickled in clear, sharp rice vinegar mixed with sea salt and crushed mustard seeds. Rudra picked up a wooden pair of chopsticks, lifted a bright green cucumber slice from the brine, and placed it into his mouth. He bit down. CRUNCH.

The sharp, incredibly crisp texture broke cleanly between his teeth, releasing a burst of cold, sour, and salty juice across his tongue. The sharp bite of the rice vinegar cut through the lingering, greasy taste of the air, while the cool, clean moisture of the cucumber completely washed away the foul, iron-heavy scent of the rotted flesh that had clung to the back of his throat. He chewed slowly, enjoying the simple, unadulterated sensation. CRUNCH.

He took a second slice, letting the sour brine clear his palate entirely. In his past life, after a grueling twelve-hour trauma surgery dealing with burst arteries and necrotic bowel infections, the senior consultants would always step out to the breakroom to wash their mouths with cold water or bitter green tea before seeing their next patient. Here, under the quiet morning light of the Champa-Heian Republic, a simple piece of salt-cured cucumber served the exact same clinical purpose.

It was a clear, physical boundary line marking the end of one procedure and the start of recovery. He swallowed the cucumber, feeling the cool moisture settle into his stomach, completely resetting his senses. He set the glazed jar back onto the cupboard shelf, wiped his chopsticks with a clean cloth, and turned his attention toward the rear of the room. The small slum boy was still sitting on the edge of the granite slab, his hands holding the empty wooden cup Rudra had given him earlier.

His small face was clean, the pale, sickly look in his skin replaced by a soft, healthy color as the neutralizer patch on his neck did its work. His dark eyes were wide as he looked at Rudra, filled with a mixture of quiet awe and absolute trust.

"Your internal mana flow has stabilized," Rudra said, his voice returning to its normal, calm baseline as he walked over to the boy's table.

"The micro-cellular inflammation in your lungs has reduced by eighty percent. You will no longer experience sharp chest pains when you breathe." The boy nodded quickly, a small, genuine smile breaking across his face.

"Thank you, doctor... I feel much better. The burning is completely gone."

"Good," Rudra said, pulling a small paper packet filled with dried green leaves from his coat pocket and placing it into the child's hands.

"Take this home to your mother. Steep two leaves in hot water every evening before sleep. It will prevent the damp air of the lower slums from irritating your bronchial tubes." The child clutched the paper packet tightly to his chest, carefully sliding his feet off the granite table. He stood up, bowed deeply toward Rudra, and began to walk toward the back door that led toward the residential alleys of the lower delta.

"Wait," Rudra called out softly. The boy stopped and turned around. Rudra reached into his pocket, pulled out two clean copper mons from the pile he had taken from the baron, and tossed them to the child. The boy caught them cleanly in his small hands, his eyes widening as he looked at the bright, heavy coins.

"Buy some fresh rice and clean fish on your way home," Rudra said, turning his back to prepare his cleaning tools.

"A healing body requires proper protein intake to rebuild cellular walls." The boy looked at the gold-like copper coins, then at the quiet, straw-hatted youth standing over the granite desk.

"I... I will! Thank you, Doctor Shin!" With a joyful leap, the child ran out through the rear door, his small wooden sandals clicking happily against the wet stones as he disappeared into the morning light. Rudra was left entirely alone in the clinic. He pulled a heavy wooden bucket filled with clean spring water from under the sink, mixed in a generous cup of high-purity distilled alcohol he had brewed himself, and grabbed a thick linen mop. He began to clean the room with rhythmic, mathematically precise strokes.

He swept away the dried mud brought in by the guards' heavy boots, wiped down the granite slabs until they gleamed like glass under the sun, and scrubbed the floorboards until every trace of the baron's foul infection was completely erased. For nearly an hour, he worked in absolute silence, enjoying the simple, physical labor. The quiet hum of the city outside slowly returned to normal, the sound of distant market vendors and passing trade boats drifting through the cracks in the wooden walls.

The chaotic, violent storm of the previous night had completely cleared, leaving behind a peaceful, lazy morning. He finished mopping the last corner of the room, set the bucket aside, and walked over to the front window to open the heavy wooden shutters, letting the warm, golden sunlight flood the room. He leaned his hands against the wide sill, looking out over the narrow alley. The rain-slicked cobblestones were quiet.

A few local commoners were walking past, carrying wicker baskets filled with fresh vegetables and ocean fish from the morning harbor. Everything felt peaceful, isolated, and wonderfully distant from the violent wars and corrupt guilds of the northern kingdoms. Rudra adjusted the wide brim of his straw hat, letting out a long, quiet breath.

"Finally," he murmured to himself, his deadpan eyes taking in the tranquil morning view.

"Clean workspace. Stable capital reserves. Zero active patients." He turned back toward his desk, intending to sit down in his wicker chair to enjoy another slice of pickled cucumber and begin organizing his newly acquired silver bars. CRASH! The quiet tranquility of the morning was shattered into a thousand pieces. A sudden, violent explosion of wood, iron, and glass echoed from the rear of the clinic.

The thick, reinforced back window—constructed from heavy teakwood frames and leaded glass panels—shattered inward with a deafening roar, sending sharp splinters and jagged glass flying across the clean stone floor. Rudra didn't even flinch. His body reacted with the instantaneous, mechanical speed of a trained combatant. He spun on his heel, his dark-iron prosthetic hand dropping instantly into his sleeve, his fingers closing around the cold grip of a silver scalpel as his eyes locked onto the rear wall.

Through the shower of broken glass and splintered wood, a heavy physical body tumbled headfirst into the room, slamming hard onto the newly scrubbed floorboards. THUD. The body skidded across the clean stone, coming to a halt right beside Rudra's leather boots. It was a man, dressed in the tight, dark leather armor of a high-tier underground scout. His clothes were shredded, covered in deep, jagged cuts that looked as if they had been inflicted by massive, razor-sharp claws.

His left arm hung at an unnatural angle, completely broken at the elbow, and his face was pale as death, covered in a thick layer of cold sweat and black mud.

"Doctor..." the scout gasped, his voice a wet, rattling choke as a pool of thick, dark blood began to spread rapidly across Rudra's freshly cleaned floorboards.

"Help... they're... they're right behind me..." Rudra's deadpan expression did not flicker, but his eyes narrowed sharply as his diagnostic perception automatically scanned the falling man. The blood pooling onto the floor wasn't normal red human blood. It was a thick, viscous, and pitch-black fluid that steamed faintly as it touched the cool stone, releasing an intense, foul stench of advanced cellular decay—the exact same black necrotic blood Rudra had discovered on the beach the previous night.

And deep inside the scout's torn chest cavity, his heart was fluttering erratically, its internal rhythms failing as a dark, corrupted energy actively devoured his biological life signals. Before Rudra could even step forward to inspect the dying scout, a heavy, unnatural shadow fell across the shattered rear window. A cold, wet wind blew into the room, carrying the terrifying, iron-heavy scent of raw blood and ancient rot from the forbidden mangrove swamp.

Outside the broken window, two glowing crimson eyes materialized in the deep darkness of the alleyway, locking directly onto the surgeon standing inside.