The night in District 13 always carried the stench of despair-infused mold, cut with the acidic bite of distant chemical plant exhaust. It hung over the abandoned shipping container apartment like a suffocating, wet wool blanket.

  John sat cross-legged on the dusty floor. In front of him sat the tablet, glowing with an eerie blue light, surrounded by a pile of unwashed glass bottles and rusty metal cans scavenged from the junkyard.

  The screen displayed page 3 of The Compendium of Materia Medica: Magic Potion Edition.

  It was an incredibly complex recipe diagram. Ancient Chinese characters were densely packed together, interspersed with meridian charts that looked like ghost scribbles.

  "Take three mace of 'Earth Dragon,' combine with a pinch of 'Ghost Mortar,' simmer on a low flame, and supplement with one 'Spirit-Guiding Talisman'..."

  John stared at the text, his brows knitted into a deadlock, his finger swiping listlessly across the screen.

  "'Earth Dragon'... that’s basically an earthworm, right?" he muttered to himself, his voice thick with self-doubt. "But the worms in this block have mutated into monstrosities—some even spit acid. Can you really use these things for medicine? And where the hell am I supposed to find 'Ghost Mortar'? Even Blindman at the black market hasn't heard of it."

  He attempted to toss a few wriggling, mutated worms he’d just dug up from the downstairs flowerbed into a cleaned bio-culture jar. The worms let out a sizzling sound, as if protesting this brutality.

  Then, he picked up a brush dipped in cinnabar—the only stationery item from Singularity’s "Newbie Gift Pack"—and tried to draw the so-called "Spirit-Guiding Talisman" on a sheet of yellow paper, following the diagram in the book.

  Hand shaking. Heart pounding.

  The moment the brush tip touched the paper, the ink blobbed and spread, turning into an ugly stain.

  "Dammit!"

  John threw the brush on the floor in frustration.

  "By the order of the heavens! Burn!"

  Unwilling to give up, he picked up the ruined talisman paper and tried to activate it with a tiny bit of spiritual energy.

  Poof.

  The paper emitted a puff of black smoke and instantly burned to ash, releasing the stench of singed feathers. The fire under the jar naturally failed to ignite; instead, the smoke choked the worms, causing them to scramble frantically. One even leaped onto the arch of Bone's foot.

  "Boss," Bone flicked the worm away with disdain. Although his empty eye sockets held no eyeballs, John could distinctly feel the judgment. "This is your medical technique? To me, it looks more like a Voodoo curse. If you feed that to an old lady, she might mutate on the spot."

  John slumped against the wall, tossing the tablet aside. He buried his head in his knees, hugging them tight.

  A wave of powerlessness washed over him, more suffocating than a hemophobic attack.

  He had overestimated himself.

  Even with this database claiming to be a "Peerless Medical Canon," Traditional Chinese Medicine and Taoist arts were empirical sciences requiring decades of precipitation, intuition, and lineage. He was a dropout who stumbled through basic necromancy and couldn't even hold a scalpel steady. Thinking he could learn to save lives just by reading a few pages?

  It was a fantasy.

  "I was too naive," John’s voice was muffled against his knees, laced with a choke of emotion. "Even if I have the heart to save people, I don't have the skill. What if I treat someone randomly and kill them? That’s a human life."

  The money was gone.

  The medicine was running out.

  The only way out seemed to be blocked.

  He lifted his head and looked at the closed bedroom door. His mother, Margaret, was lying inside, clinging to life on the last two doses of inhibitors.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  What happens when those two doses run out?

  What if he couldn't earn enough to buy the next course of treatment?

  Fear, like a cold hand, tightly gripped his heart.

  Bone walked over to him, his tall skeletal frame casting a shadow.

  "Aren't you a mage?"

  "I'm a trash mage," John mocked himself, his eyes dim. "I'm too scared to kill a chicken, and now I can't even brew soup."

  "No." Bone extended a finger—just bone—and pointed at the discarded tablet. "You're a mage who can... 'call a guy'."

  John paused.

  "Call a guy?"

  "Since you can't cure them yourself," Bone’s logic remained simple, brutal, yet hit the bullseye, "why don't you find someone who can? Just like you called that bearded guy to eat ghosts, and that detective to find the cat."

  One sentence woke the dreamer.

  John grabbed the tablet, his fingers trembling with excitement.

  Right!

  His core ability wasn't medical skill at all; it was the [Hellcom] app!

  If he could summon a Viking to solve violence problems, and Sherlock Holmes to solve intelligence problems, and even Schr?dinger to solve physics problems...

  Then why couldn't he summon a Divine Doctor to sit in the clinic?!

  He didn't need to be Hippocrates. He didn't need to understand meridians.

  He only needed to provide the venue, the equipment, and the "medium" to bring the doctor down.

  "Bone! You're a genius!"

  John jumped up, the gloom in his eyes swept away, replaced by the fervor of a gambler.

  But immediately, that fervor cooled rapidly, turning into deep anxiety.

  Summoning wasn't free.

  He looked at the top right corner of the tablet. Merit Points: 0.

  If he wanted to summon a legendary doctor capable of curing his mother's terminal illness, the Merit cost would be astronomical. Even if he could "buy on credit" like last time, what if the cure didn't work? What if the doctor had a bad temper? What if no patients showed up, and he couldn't pay the appearance fee?

  This wasn't just gambling with money; it was gambling with lives.

  "But... I'm out of money," John looked at Bone. "If I screw this up, I'll never recover."

  Bone didn't speak. He simply walked over, picked up his battered battle axe, and stood by the door.

  "Then we bet."

  Bone's voice echoed in John's mind. "We have nothing to lose anyway. If we lose, I'll go rob that tycoon's house. If we win, we have food to eat."

  John looked at his partner, who didn't even have flesh.

  If a skeleton had that kind of courage, what did he, a living breathing man, have to fear?

  "Alright. Let's bet."

  John took a deep breath, his gaze hardening.

  "Hurry! Get to work! Clear out the living room! We're turning this place into a proper clinic!"

  "It's not for me to use. It's for... the 'Big Shot' who's about to arrive."

  For the next few hours, John’s motivation was entirely different.

  He stopped obsessing over how to mix potions and focused on "Environmental Renovation."

  The living room was cleared, filled with a few plastic chairs scavenged from the trash.

  John's bedroom became the consultation room. The single bed was covered with a clean white sheet, next to a table laid out with brush, ink, paper, and inkstone (swiped from Singularity), and he even lit a coil of sandalwood incense.

  He was creating an "Atmosphere." A vibe that would make an Eastern Divine Doctor feel comfortable and willing to descend.

  Finally, he found a piece of cardboard and, using a green highlighter, painstakingly wrote a few lines:

  [Wish Granted · Community Medical Service Point]

  [Specialties: Intractable Diseases, Spirit Possession (Includes Psychological Counseling)]

  [Features: Special Guest Expert from the East, Ancient Traditional Treatment]

  [Note: Don't ask for a license. If you ask, it's an ancestral family secret.]

  Bone hung the sign on the iron gate, looked at the words, and clicked his jaw.

  "Boss, are you sure you can summon the right one? What if you get a vet?"

  "That would be fate."

  John wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, looking at the [Summon] button on the tablet he hadn't pressed yet. His heart was still pounding violently.

  He was scared.

  But he had to do it.

  He didn't summon immediately. Because summoning had a time limit and cost Merit.

  He was waiting.

  Waiting for the first patient to walk through the door.

  That patient would be the first touchstone to test this crazy idea, and his only chance to turn things around.

  Outside, the wind blew the crude sign, making a clack, clack sound.

  John sat in the dark consultation room, clutching the tablet, his palms slick with sweat.

  He clicked open the backend manual of [Hellcom] and double-checked the rule regarding "Currency."

  [System Notice: Merit Points Explanation]

  [Definition: Merit is not merely a good deed, but an effective response to the "needs of sentient beings."]

  [Acquisition: Saving a life, resolving an obsession, eliminating pain, or even just giving hope to the desperate.]

  [Core Logic: The more "Heart" you put in, the higher the "Value" returned.]

  John looked at these lines, lost in thought.

  He used to think earning money and earning Merit were two different things. Making money was to survive; earning Merit was to summon help.

  But looking at it now, in this system, they were actually the same thing.

  As long as he could truly cure the patient—even if he charged money—as long as the patient was genuinely grateful and the suffering was eliminated, the Merit would arrive.

  This meant that this Black Clinic wasn't just his ATM; it was his "Ammo Depot."

  As long as patients came, and as long as he could cure one, he would gain the capital to summon the Divine Doctor. Then use the Doctor to cure more people, earn more money and Merit, and finally...

  Cure his mother.

  It was a perfect closed loop. The premise was that the first shot had to hit the mark.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Just then, there was a gentle rap on the iron door with the sign.

  The sound was faint, hesitant, like someone probing in despair.

  John jerked his head up and locked eyes with Bone.

  It’s here.

  The knock of destiny.

  "P-Please... come in," John's voice trembled slightly, but he tried his best to sound like a doctor.

  The door was pushed open a crack.

  The first patient stood at the threshold.

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