One week later. The 13th District seemed a little brighter than usual.

  Business at the "Grant All Requests Clinic" was booming beyond imagination. Every morning, a long line snaked through the muddy, waterlogged alley.

  Grandma Evelyn’s leg swelling had subsided, allowing her to finally go grocery shopping on her own. Veteran Harry’s lungs stopped wheezing; he claimed it was the first week in ten years he could breathe freely. Even the junkies, their minds fried by cheap stimulants, saw the red rage fade from their eyes after downing Hua Tuo’s special "Calming Soup."

  John sat at the clinic entrance, staring at the Merit Points displayed on his tablet: 3,000.

  The number gave him a sense of security he’d never felt before. He had even splurged on a genuine fluorescent light for the clinic, replacing the cheap, flickering strobe-light tube. He also bought a new, softer memory foam mattress for his mother so she could finally get a good night's sleep.

  Everything seemed to be trending up.

  Until that gloomy afternoon.

  A low-frequency hum suddenly descended from the sky. That wasn't a standard hover-car; that was a high-end gravity engine.

  A pitch-black luxury stretch limousine, hovering a full head higher than civilian vehicles, glided silently into the filthy alley. Its matte coating devoured all surrounding light. Only the massive, golden insignia of the Necromancers' Guild stood out against the grey sky—like a golden eye, coldly scrutinizing the poverty below.

  The vehicle halted in front of the clinic, casting a massive shadow over the line of patients.

  The bustling crowd fell instantly silent. It was a fear carved into the bones of the underclass—the fear of absolute power.

  The door opened, but no patient stepped out. First came a pair of polished, handmade leather shoes, hovering disdainfully five centimeters above the ground. Micro-jets in the soles blasted away the sewage beneath them.

  Next, three men in matching grey suits and sunglasses stepped down.

  The leader was Charles.

  He carried a black briefcase, his hair combed with geometric precision, and wore a standard-issue, rigorously trained professional smirk. He scanned the environment like he was inspecting a bacteria-filled petri dish, even pulling out a white handkerchief to cover his nose.

  "Mr. John Doe?"

  Charles adjusted his glasses. His gaze bypassed Bone, who was maintaining order, and locked directly onto John, who was handing out medicine packets.

  John’s hand paused. A few dried herbs spilled from the packet onto the ground.

  He recognized that badge. He also recognized that look—it was the same look he’d seen a thousand times at the Academy. The look of the "Highborn" viewing the "Lowborn." It was the look a hunter gave prey, the look a farmer gave livestock.

  "I am." John stood up, signaling for the patients to step back. "Can I help you?"

  "I am Charles, from the Necromancy Guild's Community Management Division. I am here on a dual mandate from the Medical Oversight Committee and the Bureau of Market Order to address a case of... illegal business operations."

  Charles pulled a document stamped with a bright red seal from his briefcase. He didn't hand it to John—that might involve touching him. Instead, he walked straight to the clinic's rusty iron door and—SLAP—pasted the document right over John's crude, handwritten sign.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  [NOTICE OF CLOSURE AND RECTIFICATION]

  That splash of red looked shocking against the dingy grey wall.

  "Upon investigation, this facility lacks the New Babylon Medical Operation Permit. The practitioner's qualifications are fraudulent. Furthermore, you are suspected of using unapproved contraband biological agents..."—he meant the Chinese herbs—"...illegally propagating superstition..."—the talismans—"...and severely disrupting the market pricing system."

  Charles’s voice wasn’t loud. It was steady, articulate, and dripping with unquestionable arrogance. Every word landed like a judge's gavel, pronouncing the death sentence for this little shop.

  "Pursuant to Article 108 of the Guild Code and its supplementary clauses, you are ordered to cease operations immediately. All illegal proceeds and tools of the trade are to be confiscated. Additionally, the responsible party, John Doe, is fined 50,000 New Credits."

  Fifty thousand.

  Fifty thousand, again.

  Staring at the notice, John felt a surge of absurd, white-hot rage rush to his head, making his temples throb.

  "Disrupting the market?" John laughed coldly, pointing at the terrified patients clutching their medicine packets behind him. "I saved people you refused to save. I cured diseases you couldn't cure. I charge a fraction of your registration fee. And you call that disrupting the market?"

  "We don't sell fake drugs. We don't commit insurance fraud. Everyone here came voluntarily. What right do you have to shut me down?"

  Charles shook his head. That fake smile didn't twitch an inch. He looked like an adult watching a child throw a tantrum.

  "Mr. Doe, you are still too young. Or perhaps, too naive."

  He took a step closer, the micro-hover units in his shoes keeping him physically looking down on John by half a head. He lowered his voice, speaking in a tone that only the two of them could hear—a tone like a snake hissing:

  "Do you think this is about practicing medicine? No. You are committing a crime."

  "In this city, healthcare is not charity. It is an industry. It is a massive, precision-engineered machine worth trillions. From pharmaceutical R&D to hospital equipment, from insurance claims to the Mortuary Guild’s recycling—every link in the chain has its rules, and every link has its profit targets."

  Charles extended a slender finger, pointing at the poor people huddled in the corners, shivering.

  "These people? In the Guild’s ledger, their lives are consumables. When they get sick, they are supposed to buy our painkillers, even if they have to take out loans. Or mortgage their organs to us. Or donate their corpses as batteries after they die. That is their only contribution to this city’s GDP. That is the only value of their existence."

  "But you?"

  Charles’s eyes suddenly turned bone-chillingly cold, like a demon removing its mask.

  "You cured them with a handful of rotten roots. You stopped them from buying drugs, stopped them from taking loans. You even gave them hope to live. Do you have any idea how much potential profit the Guild lost because of this? Do you know how ugly this makes the quarterly reports look?"

  "You cut off the Guild’s revenue stream. In the capitalist world, that is a worse crime than murder. You are shaking our very foundation."

  John clenched his fists. His nails dug deep into his flesh, stinging his palms.

  This was the truth.

  Not for safety. Not for the law. Not even for so-called "science." Just for money. To protect a cannibalistic monopoly. To keep the poor struggling on the line between life and death, just to squeeze out their very last drop of blood.

  "So, shut it down." Charles straightened up, adjusted his lapels, and reverted to his refined, scumbag persona. "Before we decide to smelt you into a zombie. This is your final warning."

  "And if I don't?" John looked up, staring straight into Charles's sunglasses. There was no fear in his eyes, only rage.

  Charles sighed, seemingly full of regret.

  "Then there is no other way. We are civilized people; we didn't want to use force. But for stubborn... 'cancer cells,' we have a duty to cleanse."

  He snapped his fingers.

  The two silent bodyguards behind him immediately stepped forward. They removed their sunglasses to reveal glowing red electronic eyes—military-grade combat support systems. Their arms suddenly split open with a mechanical whir, extending two telescopic batons crackling with blue electrical arcs.

  "Clear the area."

  Charles ordered indifferently, as if telling someone to take out the trash.

  "Smash this place. Dump the contraband drugs. And if anyone resists..."

  He glanced at Bone standing by the door, his eyes filled with contempt, as if looking at a pile of scrap metal.

  "...dismantle them into spare parts."

  The atmosphere instantly solidified.

  Grandma Evelyn covered her mouth in terror. Veteran Harry gripped his cane.

  John stood at the very front, shielding the patients behind him.

  He didn't back down.

  Because he knew: if he backed down now, he would truly lose everything.

  [Message from Singularity]

  VIP Suite for you over on the Patreon Server. We are opening New Rooms (Chapters) for FREE daily. Even better? Select Chapters feature HD Illustrations for the full immersive experience.

  ?? [Enter the VIP Suite]

  [System Notification]: Enjoying the simulation so far? Please drop a Rating or leave a Comment. It helps the algorithm summon more updates (and keeps John alive).