I sat on the rough wooden bed, my injured leg stretched out awkwardly in front of me. The wood was hard beneath my weight, uneven, splintered in places. It didn't feel like a clinic at all—more like a storage room someone reluctantly decided to use for healing.
Charlie stood beside me at first, then slowly lowered himself onto the edge of the bed as well.
He didn't say anything. Neither did I.
We waited.
The air smelled faintly of dried herbs, old wood, and something sour—fermented, maybe. From the other side of the room, I could hear soft movement. Fabric rustling. A wooden cup being set down.
After a few minutes, the old man finally returned.
He walked in holding a wooden cup filled with a deep purple liquid. The color was rich and thick, almost glowing under the dim light filtering through the gaps in the walls. The liquid sloshed gently as he moved.
His eyes never once flicked toward me or Charlie.
They were completely fixed on Vaela—
as if the rest of us didn't exist at all.
"Skra-drink, darling," he said warmly, holding the cup out to her.
"This special juice," he continued proudly, puffing his chest a little,
"Skra-grape brew. Make skin glow—more glow than now."
Vaela blinked.
She accepted the cup carefully, fingers wrapping around the wood. For a moment, she just held it there—clearly uncomfortable with how intensely the old man was staring at her.
He didn't look away at all.
She shifted slightly, then lifted the cup and took a cautious sip. Her eyes widened just a little.
"This…" she hesitated, then nodded, "…skra-really good."
The old man's face lit up instantly.
"Skra-good! Skra-good!" he said, grinning from ear to ear.
"Thanks, darling," he added happily. "Skra-more if want. No shy."
Vaela nodded politely and took another sip.
The old man didn't move at all.
He just stood there—leaning slightly forward, hands clasped behind his back like a proud craftsman admiring his finest work. His eyes followed the wooden cup with intense devotion, watching every tiny movement as if the drink itself were performing a sacred ritual.
He smiled.
Not a normal smile.
The kind of smile that said yes… drink it, appreciate my genius.
Meanwhile, Charlie and I sat there bleeding on wooden beds like forgotten furniture.
I glanced sideways at Charlie. He glanced back.
Neither of us said a word, but the unspoken thought was painfully clear: We could be dying and he'd still be watching her drink juice.
Vaela finished the drink after a moment, wiping her mouth lightly with the back of her hand.
The old man leaned in immediately.
"Skra-another?"
She smiled awkwardly.
"Yes, Elder—skra-please… treat first."
Only then did he finally glance in our direction.
His eyes flicked in our direction, sweeping over me and Charlie in a single, lazy pass, the way a merchant might assess sacks of grain piled in a corner—quick, indifferent, and clearly more out of obligation than interest. There was no concern in his gaze, no urgency, just a faint look that seemed to say yes, yes, you're still alive… good enough.
"Skra-fine," he muttered.
He walked over, stopped at the foot of my bed and looked down at me with mild interest, as if I were an object he'd just remembered existed.
"Skra-show wounds," he said flatly.
Before I could even open my mouth, Charlie spoke.
"Treat the young master first," he said calmly, his tone steady despite the dried blood on his clothes. "My injuries can wait."
The old man paused.
One eyebrow slowly arched upward as his gaze slid over Charlie—starting from his dirt-stained boots, moving up his torn sleeves, lingering briefly on the burns and cuts that hadn't yet been treated. His eyes held no concern, only a faint, unimpressed curiosity.
"Hm."
That single sound carried far more judgment than words.
Without responding, he turned away from Charlie entirely, and fixed his attention on me instead. His eyes sharpened slightly now, professional at last, and he gestured impatiently.
"Skra-you," he said. "Lie."
With Charlie's steady arm bracing my back, I lowered myself onto the wooden bed, biting down hard as pain flared through my injured leg like fire crawling up my nerves. My breath hitched despite my effort to stay silent.
The old man clicked his tongue impatiently and waved a hand.
"Skra-show."
I swallowed and obeyed. First, I rolled up my sleeve, exposing the cloth Charlie had wrapped tightly around my forearm. The fabric was darkened in places, stiff with dried blood. Then, with a wince, I shifted my leg to the side, revealing the second binding.
Before I could brace myself, the old man reached out. He tore the cloth away.
"—!"
A sharp gasp escaped me as fresh pain surged. The fabric peeled back, tugging at half-healed flesh. Blood had already soaked through in uneven patches, and where the cloth came away, the wound was left raw and exposed.
The old man leaned in close, squinting.
For the first time since we'd entered the clinic, his expression changed. Gone was the flippant grin. Gone was the wandering gaze.
His eyes sharpened with focus as he examined the injuries, fingers hovering just above the wounds—not touching, but close enough that I could feel his breath against my skin.
"Hmm…" he murmured, tracing the air near the puncture with a practiced eye. "skra-Deep. Clean thrust. Not beast."
His gaze flicked briefly—just briefly—toward Vaela.
Then back to me.
"Skra-lucky," he muttered. "Another finger-width, bone crack."
That was not comforting.
"How skra-happen?" He asked.
I froze. How was I supposed to answer that?
Your people tried to kill me didn't feel like the right response. I hesitated… then glanced, without meaning to, toward Vaela.
The old man noticed immediately. He followed my gaze. Then he burst out laughing.
A loud, wheezing laugh that echoed off the wooden walls.
"Ha! Ha! Skra-amuse!" he said, pointing vaguely between me and Vaela.
"You skra-do this," he said to Vaela, still laughing, "then skra-bring them here heal!"
Vaela looked away, clearly uncomfortable.
The old man chuckled for another moment before turning to the cluttered pile beside him. He rummaged through it, pulling out various tools and herbs.
He cleaned my wounds swiftly, his movements practiced and unhesitating. There was no gentleness in his touch—only efficiency. Cold liquid washed over the cuts, stinging sharply as dried blood and dirt were wiped away. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself not to react.
Then, without a word, he turned and disappeared into the other room.
For a brief moment, I allowed myself to breathe.
He returned holding a small wooden cup.
Inside it was a thick, murky green paste. It clung to the sides of the cup like wet moss, and the sharp, bitter smell hit my nose immediately—earthy, pungent, almost burning the back of my throat just from the scent alone.
I had just enough time to think That doesn't look safe—
Before he dipped two fingers into the paste and slapped it straight onto the wound in my leg.
"AAAGH—!"
Pain detonated instantly.
It wasn't a sharp pain—it was fire. Searing, consuming, as if molten metal had been poured directly into my flesh. My entire body jolted, muscles locking as the sensation tore through me, drowning out every thought. My vision went white, and my scream echoed off the wooden walls before I could stop it.
It felt like my skin was being burned and crushed at the same time, the pain crawling deep into the bone, refusing to let go.
I grabbed the edge of the bed with both hands, fingers digging into the wood as I gasped for air, chest heaving violently.
Tears spilled from my eyes despite my effort to hold them back.
I had never felt pain like this.Atleast not in a world where injuries were treated with clean medicine and gentle hands.
This was raw. Brutal. Unforgiving.
And the old man?
He just watched me calmly, unfazed—almost amused—as if screaming under his treatment was the most normal thing in the world.
"Skra-not pain-tolerant, eh?" the old man laughed.
Charlie grabbed my shoulder immediately, holding me steady.
"Endure it," he whispered firmly.
The old man kept applying the paste, pressing it in like he was kneading dough. Tears spilled from my eyes.
Then he moved to my arm.
There was no pause. No warning.
His fingers dug in, smearing the green paste straight into the torn flesh.
The pain was immediate— and far worse.
It wasn't a sharp sting like before. It was deep. Seeping. As if something was burrowing into my veins and setting them ablaze from the inside. A strangled sound tore from my throat before I could stop it.
Beside me, I felt Charlie's grip tighten on my shoulder, firm and grounding.
"Breathe, Young Master," he said quietly, his voice steady even as mine broke. "Just breathe."
I tried.
But the pain didn't lessen.
Once he finished, he checked smaller cuts and bruises quickly, then turned to Charlie.
"Skra-you," he said, eyeing him. "No skra-bad injury."
I stared at him in disbelief.
Not that bad? He looked worse than me!
Charlie lay back without a word, his expression calm—almost detached—as if pain were something he'd long since learned to ignore.
The old man worked on him far less dramatically than he had on me. He dabbed the green paste onto Charlie's wounds with brisk, practiced motions, pressing and smearing it wherever skin had split or blood had dried. Charlie didn't flinch.
Not once.
No sharp inhale.
No clenched fists.
Not even a twitch of his brows.
I watched from my bed, still shaking from my own treatment, and couldn't help but stare.
From where I lay, Charlie looked worse than I did—scratches crisscrossing his arms, burns darkening his skin, dried blood clinging to his clothes. Yet he endured it all in silence, eyes fixed on the ceiling, breathing steady and controlled.
The old man paused midway, glanced at Charlie's face, then clicked his tongue.
"Hmph," he muttered, almost disappointed. "Skra-no scream."
Charlie didn't respond.
The old man shrugged and continued, clearly losing interest without a reaction to entertain him.
I swallowed.
Seeing Charlie like that—unmoved, unreadable—made the pain in my own body feel heavier somehow.
Because it wasn't just strength that set him apart.
It was restraint.
After finishing, the old man stepped back.
"Skra-rest two hours," he said. "Then skra-wrap wounds. You go."
And just like that, he turned away.
"Vaela darling," he called cheerfully, already walking off.
"Skra-bring you another drink!"
I watched him shuffle away, still muttering to himself.
Then I glanced at Charlie—his expression stiff, unreadable. Then at Vaela, who sat there calmly as if this were all perfectly normal.
This old man… is really something, I thought.
And despite the burning pain screaming through my arm and leg—
A short, breathless laugh almost slipped out of me.