Chapter Forty-Three: The Neighbors and the Plague Doctor

After leaving the “Hairy Bear” tavern, Victor walked home with several long baguettes wrapped in cloth and two portions of cleaned raw chicken. Most likely, Angoulême was already waiting at home to cook together.

The tavern wasn’t busy that morning. The boy, claiming to be a newcomer mercenary who wanted to avoid trouble, sat down, had two drinks, and for an extra five orens, enjoyed a pleasant conversation with the owner, Gryphirin.

It was said that the gang leader of this area was called Lansmith, who’d recently had a number of run-ins with the newly risen Fire Salamander gang.

The street girls in the Temple District, meanwhile, were all under the protection of Madam Carmen from the "Longing Thighs" Technical Academy. She had gathered together the vulnerable women who were often bullied when scattered, and struck a deal with Lansmith, who sent his men to protect the girls’ safety.

In addition, the boy had also seen a uniformed man—clearly skipping work—Jessoro, a city guard under Captain Vincent who had issued the travel permit to the troupe. He was in the corner of an inn buying “grass powder” from a supplier. He seemed desperate for it, buying in haste and leaving anxiously, never noticing Victor. This was something worth noting.

Some information may seem trivial at first glance, but at the right moment, it could prove invaluable—like a piece of paper that, in a pinch, could serve as toilet paper!

On his way, Victor dodged several lunges from beggars and the temptations of streetwalkers. Unknowingly, he again passed by the Saint Rebiolda Hospital when a low and bizarre voice called out, “Victor? Is that you?”

Turning, he was greeted by the sight of a true medieval plague doctor. No matter how you looked at it, this outfit didn’t inspire trust. He’d found earlier descriptions fascinatingly strange, but seeing it in person was a shock.

The person who called to Victor wore a broad-brimmed black leather hat, completely covering the hair and shielding against any infectious droplets. Over the face was a beaked mask, stuffed with fragrant herbs and special spices to filter out miasma and dull the stench of corpses, the eyes covered by red glass lenses.

A long black coat stretched to the ground, smeared with tallow, wax, and camphor oil to minimize skin exposure, with leather breeches beneath to protect the legs and groin from infection. The ensemble was finished with brown waxed leather gloves and a long, slender staff of thornwood.

In that instant, Victor realized why villagers at the tavern on the city outskirts felt more than simple respect for doctors; anyone who’d seen this getup would lose their appetite if seated nearby, no matter how pretty the wearer might be.

“Hi, Shani,” Victor answered confidently. He didn’t know anyone else who would wear such attire.

The length of the staff kept a safe distance between them. “Yes, it’s me. I’m glad you made it into the city safely, Victor. Sorry—I only realized afterward that you might need my help…”

Victor smiled brightly. “It’s fine, I got a permit quickly. Is everything alright at the hospital?”

“We managed to quarantine in time, so the number of infected didn’t grow, but those already sick…”

Watching the strange beaked mask bob back and forth, Victor couldn’t help but find it amusing, even though he knew it was inappropriate. Get too close and he’d get poked for sure.

Seemingly unwilling to dwell on the plague, Shani switched topics. “Are you heading somewhere to eat with all that?” she asked, nodding at the bread sticking out of Victor’s bundle.

“I just bought a house, right here in the Temple District—very close by,” Victor replied, lifting his bundle. “I’m making herb-roast chicken for lunch. Would you like to join me at my place?”

At the invitation, Shani pointed at herself with her left hand, the beak of her mask jutting forward. “You’re inviting a plague doctor to your home for a meal? Are you sure?” Though her voice was muffled and distorted by the mask, her teasing tone came through clearly.

“Heh, I’m not joking. I really am inviting you. I trust you’ll be thorough with disinfection,” Victor added with a smile. “Of course, so will I.”

A strange laugh echoed from behind the mask. “That’s truly rare. Thank you for the invitation, Victor. But I have to get back to work now. Let’s arrange it another time.”

Unbothered by her subtle refusal, Victor took out a slip of paper, wrote down his address, and placed it on the ground. “No problem. This is where I live. Just drop by whenever you’re free!

“Someone’s always home in the morning and evening. Only in the afternoon is the place empty. If I’m not in, the one who answers might be a girl named Angoulême—I’ve mentioned you to her.”

With that, Victor waved, bidding farewell to Doctor Shani.

…

Herb-roasted chicken, sliced baguette, and a pot of borscht with vegetables.

After a cheerful lunch gathering, the leader of the Phantom Troupe mercilessly announced a new life plan: the days of carefree freedom for the young female member had come to an end. It was time to enter the world where “study makes me happy.”

From now on, every morning would begin with a joint run and live sword practice. Afterward, she would study at home, with “Common Herbs and Practical Salves” as her assigned reading, while the leader was out in the city on intelligence gathering and errands.

In the afternoon, the two of them would explore outside the city together, collecting materials or hunting monsters as needed, with occasional swimming training.

In short, while fulfilling Kalkstein’s collection quest, Victor was also determined to cultivate a well-rounded, highly capable right-hand.

With the decree delivered, Victor left Angoulême to enjoy her last day of leisure—albeit with a mournful face—and descended to the underground alchemy lab alone, beginning work on the advance payment Kalkstein had provided: “An Analysis of the Effects of Purifiers, Dissolvers, and Binders.”

Judging by the down payment alone, it was clear the alchemist’s expertise was worth learning from. Spending so much time and effort to come all this way for his task was not a loss.

…

That night, with his legs crossed, Victor began pouring bottle after bottle of cheap, inferior liquor into a large cauldron. It was time to do what every transmigrator does—make alcohol.

His lunch conversation with Doctor Shani had reminded him: it was time to prepare disinfectants. With his special abilities, he could strike the perfect balance between effectiveness and ease of production: seventy-five percent alcohol stood out as the ideal.

People in the monster-hunting world knew that strong spirits could kill germs, but they couldn’t produce the optimal concentration. For Victor, this was no problem. He only needed to distill nearly pure alcohol and then dilute it to the right strength.

In no time, the disinfectant was ready. For products where the process could be precisely defined mentally, the strain on his focus was minimal.

Feeling he still had energy, Victor decided to try out an earlier idea. He hesitated—reason told him it was almost certain to fail, but for reasons of compassion, he had to attempt it.

He donned gloves and covered his mouth and nose, then took a vial of blood from his herbal kit and poured it into the cauldron.

This was the blood of a survivor cured of the Catriona plague. In theory, it should contain antibody serum; perhaps it could be purified…

Grasping the long stirring rod, he began to mix. Instantly—his mental energy was drained, and the boy collapsed unconscious.