Chapter : 717

Zayn treated them all. He used his power to see what no one else could. A child’s chronic stomach pains weren’t a curse; they were caused by a parasite, easily dispatched with a bitter tonic. A young woman’s blinding headaches weren’t from demonic possession; they were from an abscessed tooth he could see festering in her jawbone. He drained it, the relief on her face a silent testament to his skill.

He became a legend in the slum. They called him the “Saint of the Coil.” They left offerings at his door—a loaf of bread, a handful of vegetables, a mended shirt. They saw a holy man, a vessel of divine grace who had chosen to walk among the forgotten.

Lloyd played the part to perfection. He was quiet, endlessly patient, and unfailingly compassionate. He listened to their stories of hardship, his expression never wavering from one of serene empathy. But inside, the Major General was a cold, calculating machine. Each patient was a data point, a new entry in his growing understanding of this world’s biology and pathology. The clinic was not a charity; it was an intelligence-gathering operation. The persona of the saint was the most effective camouflage he had ever devised.

Yet, something unexpected began to happen. In the quiet moments between patients, a strange feeling would settle over him. It was a sense of peace, a profound satisfaction that had nothing to do with strategy or survival. The genuine, overwhelming gratitude in the eyes of a healed child, the trembling hand of an old woman who could finally sleep without pain—these moments were… real. They were chipping away at the icy fortress he had built around his heart for two lifetimes. The soldier was a pragmatist, the lord was an industrialist, but the doctor… the doctor was beginning to feel a flicker of something dangerously close to humanity. He was becoming the mask, and he wasn't entirely sure how he felt about it.

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The legend of Doctor Zayn grew with each passing day, weaving itself into the very fabric of the Lower Coil. His name became a prayer on the lips of the desperate, a quiet promise of hope in a world that offered none. The line of patients outside his humble clinic now formed before dawn, a silent, shuffling testament to the faith he had inspired. Mothers with sick infants, laborers with broken bodies, the elderly with the slow, creeping rot of age—they all came, and none were turned away.

Lloyd’s life settled into a new, strange rhythm. His days were a blur of diagnoses and treatments, a relentless tide of human suffering that he met with a calm, almost detached efficiency. He became a master of his [All-Seeing Eye], his control growing more refined with every use. He could now diagnose a patient with a glance, his perception sifting through layers of biology as easily as a scholar flips through the pages of a book. He saw the subtle hairline fracture in a stonemason’s wrist, the tell-tale cloudiness in the lungs of a textile worker breathing in lint all day, the nutritional deficiencies that plagued nearly everyone.

His cures were simple, elegant, and devastatingly effective because they were based on a foundation of knowledge that was centuries ahead of this world. He introduced basic concepts of hygiene, teaching mothers to boil water for their children. He prescribed dietary changes, explaining how certain greens could cure the skin ailments that were dismissed as ‘swamp-curse.’ He was not just a healer; he was an educator, planting the seeds of a medical revolution in the city’s most fertile ground of need.

The persona of Zayn, the quiet saint, became a second skin. He learned to modulate his voice to a soothing baritone, to hold a patient’s hand with a touch that conveyed both strength and gentleness, to meet a gaze of utter despair with an expression of unshakeable hope. The people of the Coil, in turn, adopted him as their own. They protected him with a fierce, unspoken loyalty. The local toughs who extorted the other merchants gave his clinic a wide berth. The street urchins who would steal the teeth from a corpse’s mouth made sure no one bothered the good doctor. He had become an untouchable, sacred part of their grim ecosystem.

Lloyd, the Major General, observed all of this with a clinical fascination. The loyalty he was building was a strategic asset, a network of eyes and ears in the city’s underbelly that was more reliable than any paid informants. The clinic was his fortress, his saintly reputation its impenetrable walls.

Chapter : 718

But there was a cost. The constant exposure to raw, unfiltered human suffering was a slow-acting acid on the armor of his soul. In his past life, death and pain had been abstract concepts, casualties on a battlefield, statistics in a report. Here, it had a face. It was the face of Jahanara, the mother whose daughter he had saved, now wasting away from a lung sickness he couldn’t cure. It was the face of the old fisherman, whose hands were free of pain but whose body was failing. He could mend bones and fight infections, but he could not stop the relentless march of poverty and time.

Some nights, after the last patient had shuffled away, he would sit alone in the darkness of his small clinic, the scent of antiseptic herbs and human misery clinging to the air. The weight of his two lives would press down on him, a crushing burden. He was a lord playing a pauper, a warrior playing a healer, a god of technology playing a humble saint. The loneliness was a physical presence, a cold companion in the quiet hours. He had a family, a home, a powerful wife—all things he had strategically abandoned. And in their place, he had a city of strangers who loved a man who didn't exist.

It was during one of these quiet, contemplative evenings, a week after his arrival, that his world was disrupted. The clinic was empty, the last patient gone. Lloyd was cleaning a set of rudimentary surgical tools, the simple steel gleaming under the light of his single oil lamp. The scrape of metal on whetstone was the only sound.

Then, the door opened.

He didn't look up at first, assuming it was a late-night emergency. "We are closed for the evening," he said, his voice weary but kind. "But if it is urgent, I will see you."

"It is," a woman’s voice replied. The voice was low and melodic, but laced with a current of frantic energy that was tightly, almost painfully, controlled.

Lloyd looked up, and his practiced, serene composure almost faltered. Standing in the doorway was a woman of such breathtaking, unconventional beauty that she seemed to suck all the light in the room towards her. She was tall and slender, with a cascade of hair the color of polished obsidian. She wore the simple, practical clothes of a commoner, but they hung on her frame with an innate elegance that no duchess could buy. Her face was a study in sharp, intelligent angles, but it was her eyes that seized his attention. They were the color of midnight, deep and piercing, and right now, they were wide with a desperate, raw urgency.

He recognized her instantly. She was a face he had seen in the market, a presence that stood out even in the capital's chaos. But here, in his slum clinic, she was an anomaly, a priceless artifact in a junk shop.

"Please," she said, taking a step inside. Her usual enigmatic, almost predatory, grace was gone, replaced by the stiff, jerky movements of someone holding themselves together by sheer force of will. "They say you are a miracle worker. A saint. I… I don't believe in miracles. But I am out of options."

Lloyd put down his tools, the mask of Doctor Zayn slipping perfectly back into place. "All healing comes from a desire to live," he said, quoting a line from one of his fake medical texts. "How can I help you?"

The woman's composure finally cracked. Her shoulders slumped, and a wave of pure, undiluted desperation washed over her face. "There is a child," she began, her voice trembling. "A boy. Not mine. He belongs to a family… weavers. They are poor. He is dying. A wasting sickness. No one knows what it is. He just… fades. We have tried everything. The priests, the alchemists… everyone. They say his soul is being consumed." She took a ragged breath and looked at him, her piercing eyes now glistening with unshed tears. "They say you see things others cannot. Please. I am begging you. You are his last hope."

Lloyd felt a pull of intrigue so strong it was almost a physical force. This woman was no simple commoner. She carried herself with the authority of a leader, and her concern for this child was a fire that burned away her every defense. The Major General's mind cataloged her as a potential asset, a mystery to be solved.

But it was the doctor who answered. "Take me to him," he said, his voice calm and certain. The Saint of the Coil had a new patient.

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