I Was Mistaken for a Saint in a Dark Fantasy

Day 34 of the Vaccine Research.

I turned 13 years old.

Eri was learning magic from Captain Shen as usual, and I spent my days accumulating numerous cases at the clinic.

Ugh, I stretched.

I stretched my arms out, alone in the clinic.

It was already the third year since I started my practice in the Limbus Pit.

At some point, my patient base had expanded.

Beyond the prostitutes of D-Sector, patients from other sectors began to come all the way here.

Thanks to that, I’ve been busy lately.’Ah, I’m craving a 3-minute consultation.’

My thoughts naturally drifted to my previous life.

In the 21st century Republic of Korea, there was a beautiful culture called the 3-minute consultation.

It’s possible here, too.

I could organize the previous day’s test results and quickly push through the follow-up patients.

Meanwhile, I’d have the new patients fill out a questionnaire in the waiting room,

And voilà.

The factory-style 3-minute consultation would be complete.

”...But no matter how I think about it, that’s not right.”

But no matter how I thought about it, that didn’t seem right.

It wasn’t a clinic I started to make money in the first place.

It’s a clinic I started to regain the prowess of my previous life and to do some fame farming.

Besides, I am indebted to the residents of the Limbus Pit.

All sorts of experimental treatments that I wasn’t familiar with yet, or that hadn’t been properly proven in this world.

I am overusing those treatments, which are akin to a gamble, on the residents here.

For me to see them for only three minutes for my own convenience, wouldn’t that be too shameless?

“Teacher! Thank you, truly, thank you! I thought I’d have to live the rest of my life as a one-armed cripple...!”

My idle thoughts were shattered by the deep sobs of a man that echoed as if to bring the consultation room down.

Across from me, a scrawny young man was shedding tears.

He was the patient whose wrist had been severed by a cutter at the paper mill.

Come to think of it, today was the day for his final dressing and bandage removal.

His right wrist, which he used to grip my hand tightly, was trembling faintly.

“Just like you said, Teacher, my fingers can move now...!”

His right wrist was encircled by a line of stitches.

Every time I saw that hideous scar, I felt a sense of pride.

As expected, a surgeon must be skilled with thread, not the scalpel.

“Teacher. I can go back to work now, right?”

“It’s not completely attached yet. Do not lift anything heavy for the time being, and please rehabilitate by clenching and unclenching your hand in warm water every day to ensure good blood flow to your fingers.”

In replantation surgery, the most important thing after hygiene is blood flow.

In the end, how many microvessels survive determines the prognosis.

Of course, in this patient’s case, it would be harder for the prognosis to be bad.

After dousing it with so many potions, does it make sense for it not to reattach?

If it doesn’t, that’s not my problem, it’s the Alchemy Guild’s problem.

“Yes! Yes! I’ll keep that in mind!”

“And if the tips of your fingers turn black, you must come back.”

“Yes! I will never forget your grace for the rest of my life, Teacher Healer!”

I’m a doctor, not a Healer, I’ve said it before.

Afterward, the man repeatedly performed a grand bow as if to smash his head on the floor, then left the consultation room.

As soon as the patient left, I glanced at the bill lying next to the chart.

Normally Erika would handle the payment, but since Erika was in the middle of magic training, I had to sort out the ledger.

’Let’s see.’

The money the patient just paid was 30 silver coins.

And the cost of the potions used to reattach that wrist was 3 gold coins.

Hmm.

In deficit again today.

But I wasn’t concerned, as this level of deficit could be covered just by me breathing for about 10 minutes.

’I feel like my money sense is breaking more and more.’

Well, it’s not like I’ll ever be short of money in my life, so it should be fine, right?

I shook off the thought and picked up the next chart.

The next patient was a new patient.

“Next patient.”

Screech.

The door opened, and an old man slowly came in.

He was an old man with white hair and a slightly bent back.

Wearing a worn-out overcoat and a shabby hat, a common old man one might see in the Limbus Pit.

“Please sit, Elder. Isn’t the consultation room cold?”

“Phew. It’s been warm since the waiting room. The Healer must be rich, eh?”

“I can’t help it if it’s for the mothers in childbirth.”

“Hehe. That’s true. Ah, if what I just said sounded offensive, I apologize.”

“Not at all, Elder. What seems to be the problem?”

”Hehe, my hands have been weak lately.”

The old man held out his hand.

“I roll cigars for a living, but I can’t work because my hands won’t obey me.”

“Ah, you must be from E-Sector.”

E-Sector is an area that mainly processes tobacco and medicinal herbs.

Add drugs to that, and E-Sector’s livelihood is complete.

The old man before me seemed to be a cigar artisan from that area.

“E-Sector? Ah, yes. I’m from E-Sector.”

“Then when did this start?”

“About a month ago?”

“Do you usually smoke cigars?”

“I smoke a little. Wouldn’t I have to check for myself what the things I make taste like?”

“Then have you been unable to smoke cigars recently?”

“No, I haven’t.”

That means the hand tremors aren’t from withdrawal symptoms.

Then the next likely candidate is carpal tunnel syndrome.

It’s a condition that often develops in artisans who pull and roll tobacco leaves all day.

“Then may I take a look at your hands?”

I asked for the old man’s permission and examined his fingertips.

The skin was dry, but there were few calluses.

I examined his fingers one by one.

It was to check for any nicotine stains.

If an excessive amount of nicotine was absorbed through the skin, it could cause hand tremors like this.

But there were no traces of nicotine on his fingers.

Instead, there were several faint horizontal lines on his fingernails.

’Why is this here?’

Mees’ Lines.

A medical finding that appears with chronic exposure to heavy metal.

It’s a symptom that’s difficult to see in a typical tobacco artisan.

“...Could you raise your wrist?”

The old man tilted his head but lifted his wrist.

But he couldn’t hold it for long, and his wrist drooped.

A classic Wrist Drop.

It was a symptom where nerve paralysis prevented him from lifting his wrist upward.

There was one primary heavy metal that causes such symptoms.

Lead.

A material a cigar artisan would never come into contact with.

And certainly not a material a poor old man in the Limbus Pit could handle.

I stared at the old man’s hand for a while.

After some thought, I asked the old man.

“By any chance, is ’cigar’ a codeword for wizards that I’m unaware of, Elder?”

Silence filled the clinic.

I lifted my head and met the old man’s eyes.

Those eyes, which had looked hazy and tired, had regained their sharpness and were looking at me.

Soon, the old man broke the silence.

“Hahaha.”

His bent back straightened.

“How did you know?”

“Because the only professions that handle lead to this extent are alchemists or wizards.”

“Dear me. Should I have introduced myself as an alchemist instead of a cigar artisan?”

As I thought.

The old man before me was a wizard.

Lead is by no means a cheap ingredient.

Because of its symbolism for trapping souls, it is widely used as a catalyst for various kinds of magic.

Not just black magicians, but other mages use it a lot too.

Especially when employing a familiar, or making contracts with fairies or spirits, lead is an essential catalyst.

Because of this, lead is a material that an old man who rolls tobacco in E-Sector would have difficulty obtaining.

That’s why I could deduce that this old man was hiding his profession.

The old man stroked his beard and said.

“Did I say I handled lead?”

“It left a trace on your hand.”

“Hand?”

The old man tilted his head and looked at his own hand.

“This is the first I’ve heard of lead leaving a trace on one’s hand. How did you figure that out?”

“When you meet countless people in the underbelly, you naturally come to learn these things.”

The Limbus Pit excuse is quite convenient.

If I say I learned it while seeing patients, everyone just accepts it.

The old man in front of me was the same.

Perhaps thanks to the power of the misunderstanding genre, he was convinced immediately without any boring, pedantic explanation.

“Indeed. From below, one can sometimes see things that are invisible from above.”

The old man nodded.

“We’ve only met twice. Your ideas give me a lot of inspiration, Junior.”

“Is that so?”

“Hmm? You’re not surprised?”

“Because the only wizards who would come looking for me are either a black magician or you, Elder.”

Additionally, I knew this person was the old mage I had met before.

Mages are originally a busy bunch.

It’s impossible that they, who break down their time into seconds for research, would suddenly visit me for no reason.

So, the only wizard who would visit me is either Belgian or that old mage.

Of course, Belgian isn’t the kind of persona to visit me in such a bothersome way, so by process of elimination, only the Elder remains.

And even putting deduction aside, according to the genre trope, it was about time for the Elder to show up.

“So, what can I do for you?”

I took out some tea and snacks and placed them in front of the old man.

They were things I had prepared a month ago, not knowing when he would visit.

At the combination of tea and snacks, a rare sight in the Limbus Pit, the old mage’s eyes widened slightly.

“Did you prepare this in advance too?”

“Yes. They say that opportunity only comes to those who are prepared.”

The line appealing to my competence is a bonus.

The mage stared intently at my mask.

His gaze was unusual.

I’d never seen that look before, so I didn’t know for sure, but judging by the feeling, it was the look of a predator who had found its prey.

“Prepared...”

The old man’s face, who was muttering to himself, blurred.

The blurred face scattered like mist, and the face of the old mage I had met before was revealed.

“If the junior is prepared, then it is the senior’s duty to provide an opportunity.”

The left eye, not covered by the eyepatch, looked at me.

“Before that, let me ask one more thing. For what reason are you researching black magic right now?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Yulian Schnabel. They say lying is a virtue when dealing with wizards, but do not make the mistake of applying the virtues of ordinary wizards to me.”

Tsk.

It seems feigning ignorance will be useless.

Come to think of it, it’s ridiculous to feign ignorance to someone who knows my name when I haven’t even told him.

I didn’t even ask how he knew what research I was conducting.

He probably used clairvoyance or some other magic.

I could only vaguely guess.

Instead, I partially corrected the old man’s misunderstanding.

“I’m not researching black magic.”

“Hmm? Weren’t you using black magic?”

“Because what I’m trying to do is, in effect, alchemy.”

In this world, alchemy is not magic.

At first, when I heard there was alchemy, I thought I could directly change the elemental arrangement with magical power, like in a certain famous manga.

That’s why I thought developing Quinine would be easy.

But when I actually called over the alchemists, what they showed me was just the manual labor of putting things in a cauldron and stewing it.

The only difference was whether the fire was lit with magic or a magic tool.

Essentially, alchemists were no different from chemists.

Just with a dash of this world’s unique laws of chemistry and new materials.

’No wonder there are no magic towers for alchemy.’

Anyway.

Alchemy is a term that encompasses all types of techniques that change the properties of matter.

This is also why I told this old mage my research was alchemy.

“To me, black magic is a means. What I intend to create is neither a magic tool nor a magical phenomenon.”

“So you’re saying it was alchemy?”

“Yes.”

The way to distinguish between magic research and alchemy is simple.

You can distinguish it by whether the created object or phenomenon requires magical power.

If it doesn’t need magical power after being created, it’s alchemy.

If it needs magical power after being created, it’s a magic tool or magic.

That’s why I said I would pursue alchemy, not become a mage.

Because alchemy requires no talent as a mage.

“Hehe... I thought you were a junior... so you were an alchemist.”

The old mage’s eyes sharpened.

Seeing this, I recalled the fact that mages despise alchemists.

A chill ran down my spine. It was like déjà vu.

’Don’t tell me it’s like with Belgian again?’

Is he going to get angry, saying I deceived him again?

Then that’s just wrong.

Belgian was only a 2nd rank(?) mortal, steeped in an inferiority complex, so I could somehow overcome him.

But the old man before me exuded an aura that, even at a glance, seemed to far surpass the 2nd rank.

If I became hostile, there was a chance I wouldn’t even be able to find my bones.

’Even for a misunderstanding genre, isn’t this too much of an unfair nerf?’

I was inwardly breaking out in a cold sweat, and opened my mouth to correct the old man’s misunderstanding.

“Elder... I didn’t mean to deceive you...”

The old man cut me off and asked in a chilly voice.

“Then what are you going to use that curse for? Surely you’re not planning to spread the curse?”

“No. It’s the opposite.”

“The opposite?”

“While fighting a black magician recently, I happened to discover that if you overcome a curse, you don’t get afflicted by the same curse easily afterward.”

“Hmm. That is true.”

This was a fact that was somewhat known among wizards.

Once you overcome a curse, you gain a certain degree of resistance to the same curse.

Because of this property, curse casters don’t use curses unless they are certain they can kill their target.

If they use one, they cast it with the intent to kill for sure.

This old mage also seemed to recall that fact, and nodded.

“But what about it?”

“It’s something I learned while seeing patients here, but patients who survived curses often get through plague outbreaks without any trouble.”

“Hmm? Is that true?”

I nodded.

If I say that’s what I’ve observed, who could prove me wrong?

“Yes. So I thought if I could distribute a weakened curse to people beforehand, perhaps I could save them from the plagues that come periodically.”

“...”

The old mage’s mouth closed.

He toyed with the teacup on the desk and fell into deep thought.

His one eye sized me up over and over again.

How much time had passed? Just as the steam rising from the teacup began to fade, the old man finally spoke.

“For the past month, you have stimulated my curiosity quite thoroughly.”

“...Yes?”

“After I handed you the grimoire, I did a little background check on you personally.”

The old man rested his chin on his hand and continued leisurely.

“At first, I just thought a young noble master was playing healer in the slums. But the more I dug, the more surprising facts came out.”

My past deeds began to flow from the old man’s mouth one by one.

“You created a medicine from the bark of a tree that grows wild in the Demonic Realm to save soldiers, and sold it at half price.”

“...”

“You squeezed an elixir from the intestines of a beast and saved those dying from a wasting disease.”

“...”

“It was all a miracle of alchemy.”

The old man gave a bitter smile and touched his eyepatch.

“My apologies, Junior. When one is in a high position, there are many things to verify. Living so long, I seem to have become a demon of suspicion.”

The old mage scratched his chin.

“First, I pay my respects to your boldness in serving me tea without even asking my name. As an apology, and as a token of that, I feel I can reveal my real name to you.”

The old man stood up from his chair.

“My name is Louis Edelhardt.”

At that moment, the contents of the history book I had read to understand the world setting flashed through my mind.

Louis Edelhardt.

The Father of Magic.

The Great Teacher of the Empire’s 13 Magic Towers, and the only living 8th Rank Mage.

And the one who has been with the history of the Empire.

While I was scrambling to choose my lines at the appearance of this unexpected figure, Louis smiled brightly at me and held out his hand.

“Yulian Schnabel. Won’t you become my disciple?”

As I looked at the Father of Magic holding out his hand to me, only one thought dominated my mind.

’What is this. This is scary...’

Just where did this snowball effect start rolling from?

I felt like I could vaguely understand the feelings of protagonists from the misunderstanding genre who want to desert.