Morning in District 13. The smog lifted a bit earlier than usual, but the air still hung heavy with that lingering scent of sulfur.

  Today, however, that stench was overpowered by something far more aggressive.

  It was a dense, herbal aroma, heavy with the scent of earth and scorched bitterness. It lacked the cloying sweetness of expensive synthetic perfumes and the stinging rot of the sewers. It smelled... bitter. Bitter enough to numb the back of your tongue, yet inhaling it brought a strange, clarifying sensation to the lungs.

  The source was the entrance of John’s "Black Clinic," right beneath that glowing green signboard.

  A massive iron cauldron—standing waist-high and actually retrofitted from an industrial reactor salvaged from the scrap yard—sat by the door. Blue spiritual fire licked the bottom (courtesy of Bone fanning the flames). Inside, a pitch-black medicinal soup roiled, occasionally birthing a massive bubble that burst with a puff of white steam.

  Hua Tuo stood by the cauldron.

  Though his summon time was limited, the Divine Doctor seemed to have a particular fondness for this "soup kitchen" style of medicine. Wielding a giant wooden ladle (whittled from a mutated tree branch), he stirred the brew while barking orders at John like a grumpy cafeteria chef.

  "The fire's too weak! You, bag of bones, fan harder! 'Simmer' means a slow burn, not knitting a sweater!"

  Bone, feeling aggrieved, increased the intensity of his fanning, nearly blowing the fire out completely.

  "And you, kid!" Hua Tuo pointed at John. "Stop hoarding those Radiated Reishi Mushrooms! Dump them all in! This brew is to scrub the lung toxins out of these poor wretches—how will it work if you skimp on the dosage?!"

  John stood there, clutching a pile of toad-like mutated mushrooms he’d just dug out of the landfill, looking physically pained by the waste.

  "Sir, I went through hell to get these..."

  "Dump it!" Hua Tuo glared.

  John squeezed his eyes shut and dumped the whole lot into the bubbling cauldron.

  Bloop.

  The soup turned an even darker shade of black, now faintly glowing with an ominous purple hue.

  "Is... is this actually drinkable?" John looked at the concoction, which resembled a witch’s brew, his heart pounding.

  "Good medicine tastes bitter!" Hua Tuo scoffed. "These people breathe exhaust and drink sludge every day. Their bodies are saturated with toxins. If we don't hit them with something heavy, how are we supposed to purge the poison?"

  By now, the neighbors had caught the scent and started to gather.

  They were mostly ragged scavengers, disabled veterans, or solitary seniors like Grandma Evelyn. They huddled around the clinic entrance, eyeing the massive cauldron with a mix of curiosity and dread.

  "What... what's goin' on here?" Harry, a one-legged veteran, asked. "Soup kitchen?"

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  "It's medicine!" John stepped forward to explain. "Specially brewed for the common ailments of the Lower Sector. Lung rot, rheumatism, festering sores—it treats it all!"

  "How much?" Harry clutched his pocket, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  In this place, nobody believed in free lunches.

  John glanced at Hua Tuo.

  Hua Tuo didn't speak. He simply ladled out a bowl of the black sludge and thrust it in front of Harry.

  "Free." Hua Tuo's voice was hard as stone, but his eyes held the mercy of a healer. "Drink it. If you aren't dead when you finish, give me a kowtow. That’ll be the fee."

  Harry froze. Free?

  He looked at the medicine, then at Hua Tuo's stern but righteous face.

  "Screw it!" Harry gritted his teeth, raised the bowl, and chugged it down.

  "Cough! Hack! Cough!"

  The moment he finished, Harry burst into a violent coughing fit, his face turning beet red. The crowd recoiled in terror, thinking the old man was a goner.

  "HURGH—!"

  Harry suddenly bent double and hacked up a massive glob of black phlegm. It hit the ground, actually sizzling and emitting wisps of black smoke.

  "This..."

  Harry wiped his mouth, then suddenly stood up straight and took a deep breath.

  "It's clear! It's clear!" Harry slapped his chest in excitement. "My lungs have been clogged for ten years... and now they're clear! I can breathe!"

  The crowd erupted.

  "It's a miracle!" Harry dropped to his knees with a thud. "Thank you, Divine Doctor! Thank you!"

  With that kneel, the tablet in John's pocket vibrated.

  [Merit Points Gained: 10.]

  It wasn't much, but it was real income.

  "It really works? Give me a bowl!"

  "I've got rheumatism, can I drink it?"

  "Auntie Mona, go get your grandson, he's been running a fever for days..."

  The crowd went wild. Those who had been watching from the sidelines surged forward like a tide, jamming the clinic entrance.

  "Line up! Single file!" Bone slammed his battle axe onto the ground, acting as the bouncer.

  For the next two hours, John and Hua Tuo were run off their feet.

  Hua Tuo handled the diagnoses, prescriptions, and ladling. He moved with blinding speed, identifying symptoms with a single glance and pinpointing the root cause in a few words. Although he kept grumbling ("Another idiot taking random pills," "You dare enter the radiation zone with a body like this?"), his hands never stopped moving.

  John was responsible for assisting, explaining, and... collecting money.

  Yes, although the big cauldron of soup was free (to farm Merit), for patients who needed individual prescriptions or special treatments (like exorcisms), John charged a nominal fee.

  Not much—fifty, a hundred credits. For these people, that was the limit of what they could afford.

  But it added up.

  When the last bowl of soup was served, Hua Tuo’s figure began to fade.

  "Kid."

  Hua Tuo wiped his hands, looking at the long line of people still waiting, disappointment on their faces because the medicine was gone.

  "We continue tomorrow."

  "If you're short on herbs, go dig for more. If all else fails..." He pointed to the dregs at the bottom of the pot. "Dry these dregs, grind them into powder, and make a poultice. Stick it on the affected area; it still works. Waste nothing."

  With that, he vanished.

  John looked at the empty cauldron, then at the handful of crumpled bills, and finally at the tablet display: [Today's New Merit: 800 Points].

  He smiled.

  Although his back felt like it was breaking, and the money earned today wasn't even enough for half a vial of Inhibitor...

  He saw hope.

  It was something more precious than money. Trust. Reputation. The light reignited in the eyes of people abandoned by the world.

  "Boss," Bone walked over, watching the crowd that refused to disperse even though the medicine was gone. "I think... we're famous."

  "Yeah." John nodded. "Famous."

  But what he didn't know was that this fame, while bringing business, also brought danger.

  At the street corner.

  A man in a grey suit and gold-rimmed glasses—looking refined and scholarly—was holding a micro-camera, recording everything from a distance.

  Pinned to his chest was a badge—the emblem of the Necromancers' Guild Community Management Department.

  The man adjusted his glasses and dialed a number.

  "Hello, Director. It's me, Charles."

  "I've discovered an illegal medical practice in District 13. The scale is significant, and... the curative effects are remarkably potent."

  "Correct. Not only are they stealing business from our community clinics, but they are also spreading dangerous rhetoric about 'free healthcare.'"

  "Understood. I will handle it."

  Charles hung up the phone. He watched John packing up the stall, a cold sneer curling the corner of his mouth.

  "Good medicine tastes bitter?"

  "Hmph. I'd say it tastes like a death sentence."

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