Chapter : 757

With that, she turned and strode out of the clinic, a woman on a mission, leaving Lloyd alone in the sudden quiet. He stood there for a long moment, a slow, cold, triumphant smile spreading across his face.

The seed had been planted. The advocate had been armed. And the great, impenetrable fortress of House Qadir was about to receive a visitor.

---

Lloyd watched Sumaiya walk out of the clinic, her determined stride a declaration of war against the established order. He felt a complex cocktail of emotions churning within him. There was the cold, clinical satisfaction of a general watching his perfectly crafted plan unfold exactly as he had designed it. Every move, every word, every feigned moment of despair had been a calculated step to lead her to this exact conclusion. He was the master puppeteer, and she was dancing beautifully on his strings.

But there was another, more unsettling feeling coiling in his gut. It was a sliver of something that felt dangerously like guilt. He had taken this woman’s genuine compassion, her fierce sense of justice, her absolute faith in the good man she believed him to be, and he had weaponized it. He was using her purest, most noble qualities as a tool to achieve his own clandestine objectives. She was fighting for a child’s life; he was fighting for a power source for his war machine. The moral dissonance was a bitter, metallic taste in the back of his throat.

He ruthlessly suppressed it. ‘Sentiment is a liability,’ the Major General’s voice echoed in his mind, cold and unforgiving. ‘The mission is the only thing that matters. The objective justifies the means.’

He repeated the old, familiar mantra, a piece of the psychological armor he had worn for a lifetime. He was a soldier in a war of survival. The lives of his enemies, the pawns on the board, even the trust of his allies—they were all acceptable casualties if they led to victory. He had to believe that. If he didn't, the entire edifice of his new life, built on a foundation of deception, would crumble into dust.

He forced his mind back to the mission. Sumaiya had just declared her intention to use her connection to the royal family. This was an incredible boon, an escalation of his plan that he hadn't anticipated. It would bypass the lower levels of bureaucracy and place his name directly into the highest echelons of power. But it also dramatically increased the risk. Royal attention was a double-edged sword. It could open any door, but it also placed him under a microscope of unimaginable scrutiny. His cover as Zayn, the humble slum doctor, would have to be absolutely flawless.

He spent the rest of the evening preparing. He reviewed his medical texts, not the advanced ones from his mother, but the crude, primitive ones he had bought in the city. He needed to be able to speak the language of this world’s healing arts, to frame his advanced knowledge in their superstitious, allegorical terms. He rehearsed his own backstory, adding layers of fabricated detail, creating a life for Zayn that was both tragic and believable.

He was no longer just an actor playing a role; he was a method actor, immersing himself completely in the character. He had to become Zayn, not just in action, but in thought. When he finally stood before Lord Qadir, there could not be a single chink in his armor, not a single moment of hesitation that might betray the Lord of Ferrum hiding beneath the healer’s robes.

As he worked, a new thought, a new potential complication, surfaced in his mind. Sumaiya. She was intelligent, observant, and she would be by his side. If he were to succeed in healing the Qadir heir, the methods he would have to employ would be far beyond the simple herbal remedies he used in the clinic. He would have to use his power—his [All-Seeing Eye], perhaps even a subtle application of his spiritual energy. How would he explain that?

He needed a new layer to his deception, a way to explain his miraculous abilities that would satisfy her without revealing the truth. He began to craft a new fiction, a story of a lost, esoteric healing art, a secret passed down through his “mother’s line” of healers, a power that was more intuition than science. It was flimsy, but it was the best he could do. He was building a house of cards, and he could only pray that a strong gust of wind didn't bring the whole thing crashing down.

Chapter : 758

The night wore on. The city outside the clinic walls fell into a restless, snoring sleep. But inside, Lloyd worked, his mind a feverish engine of strategy and deception. He was preparing for the most important performance of his life, a role that would determine not just the fate of a dying child, but the future of his own war. The advocate had made her vow. Now, the actor had to prepare for his grand debut on the kingdom’s most dangerous stage.

---

The Royal Palace of Zakaria was a city within a city, a breathtaking confection of white marble towers, gilded domes, and hanging gardens that seemed to defy gravity. It was the undisputed heart of the kingdom, a place of immense power, staggering wealth, and treacherous, labyrinthine politics. For a commoner to gain entrance was a near impossibility. To gain an audience with one of its most powerful lords was a fantasy.

Sumaiya, however, was not a commoner. And she was not asking for an audience. She was demanding one.

She moved through the palace’s bustling, outer courtyards with a quiet, purposeful grace that parted the crowds before her. The guards at the gates, men trained to spot the slightest hint of impropriety, saw a familiar, and very important, figure. They did not see a servant. They saw the woman known to the entire palace as Lady Anissa’s cherished ward, a person who moved with a quiet authority that belied her simple clothes. Their backs straightened, and their hands moved to give a subtle, respectful salute as she passed. She was a ghost of a different sort—not invisible, but untouchable.

Today, however, she had no intention of remaining a whisper.

She did not go to the Qadir estate directly. That would be a foolish, direct approach, easily rebuffed by a stubborn steward or a wall of protocol. Instead, she went to the heart of the palace’s social web, the elegant, sun-drenched chambers of Lady Anissa.

Lady Anissa was a woman of radiant warmth and keen intelligence, the Sultan's younger sister and a formidable political player in her own right. Her chambers were a nexus of information, a place where the kingdom’s most important secrets were often exchanged over cups of spiced tea. More importantly, her affection for Sumaiya was legendary throughout the court; she treated the young woman less like a ward and more like the daughter she never had.

Sumaiya found her aunt arranging a bouquet of exotic, sky-blue roses, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Sumaiya, my dear!” Lady Anissa exclaimed, her face lighting up with a genuine, brilliant smile. She set down her flowers and swept forward, enveloping Sumaiya in a warm, motherly embrace. “There you are. I was beginning to think you had been devoured by those dreadful slums you insist on visiting. Honestly, child, your charitable excursions will be the death of my nerves.”

“A story of suffering, Aunt,” Sumaiya replied, her voice low and serious as she returned the embrace. “But not my own. And I have not come for tea. I have come to ask a great favor.”

The gravity in her tone immediately captured the noblewoman’s full attention. Lady Anissa led her to a pair of plush cushions, her expression now one of deep concern. “A favor? My dearest girl, you never ask for anything. Of course. Anything. What is it? Are you in some trouble?”

“Not I, Aunt Anissa,” Sumaiya said. “A child. The son of Lord Timur Qadir.”

Lady Anissa’s face fell, the cheerful light in her eyes extinguished. “Ah,” she said softly. “Little Tariq. It is a terrible, heartbreaking tragedy. They say there is no hope.”

“That is what they say,” Sumaiya agreed. “But I have come to believe they are wrong.”

And then, she began to tell the story. She spoke with a passion and a conviction that held Lady Anissa utterly captivated. She did not speak of demons of fire or magical beasts in the jungle. She spoke of a simple doctor. A quiet, humble man named Zayn who had appeared in the city’s most hopeless district and had begun to perform miracles.

She told the story of the weaver’s son, snatched from the very brink of death by a glowing, alchemical cure made from herbs that were thought to be myths. She described his quiet, daily work, his uncanny ability to diagnose sicknesses with a single glance, his gentle compassion for the city’s most wretched souls. She painted a portrait of a man who was part saint, part genius, a healer whose knowledge was unlike anything the world had ever seen.