Chapter : 769
The world of velvet and silk, of grief and shadow, dissolved in an instant. His mind was flooded with a perfect, luminous, and terrifyingly clear X-ray-like image of the child’s entire body, a divine schematic revealing every cell, every organ, every secret the invisible sickness held.
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The diagnostic scan was not a simple image; it was a living, multi-layered torrent of information. Lloyd’s mind, augmented by the System and his own eighty years of experience as a genius engineer, processed the data with a speed and clarity that was beyond human. He was not just seeing the boy’s body; he was reading it, page by intricate page, line by devastating line.
His perception plunged through the layers. He saw the skeletal system first, a delicate, bird-like frame of pale, ivory light. He noted the subtle demineralization, a sign of the long-term nutritional deficiencies caused by the illness. He saw the muscular system, a network of faint, shimmering fibers, atrophied and weak from months of inactivity. He saw the circulatory system, the sluggish, almost stagnant flow of blood through the arteries and veins, the heart itself a tired, struggling muscle, beating with a fluttery, arrhythmic rhythm.
The data was a cascade of confirmations. The boy was in a state of systemic collapse. His body was shutting down, organ by organ, system by system. The Royal Physicians, with their crude, external methods of observation, had seen the symptoms—the fever, the lethargy, the paralysis—but they were like men trying to understand a storm by looking only at the fallen leaves. Lloyd was seeing the storm itself, the very engine of the boy’s destruction.
He focused his perception deeper, moving from the macro systems to the cellular level. He scanned the major organs—the liver, the kidneys, the spleen. All were inflamed, struggling under a massive toxic load. But they were not the source. They were victims, not perpetrators.
He moved his focus to the boy’s nervous system, the shimmering, silver river of life that controlled every function of his body. He traced the great trunk of the spinal cord, following its branches as they spread throughout the boy’s limbs. He saw the creeping paralysis here, a strange, dark static that was slowly, inexorably smothering the silver light of the nerves, cutting off communication between the brain and the body. Still, this was a symptom, an effect. He was hunting for the cause.
Finally, he directed his scan to the boy’s chest cavity, the very core of his being. He peeled back the layers of the ribcage, his perception phasing through bone as if it were glass. He looked at the lungs, expecting to see the tell-tale signs of the same pneumonia that had afflicted the weaver’s son. But they were clear. Inflamed, yes, but not filled with fluid. This was not an infection. This was something else. Something worse.
His gaze settled on the heart. It was a valiant little muscle, fighting a losing battle. And then, nestled deep within the chest cavity, just behind the heart and pressed against the delicate tissue of the left lung, he saw it.
And the breath caught in his own throat.
It was a darkness. A formless, asymmetrical cluster of cells that did not belong. They were not glowing with the healthy, soft light of the surrounding tissue. They were a patch of absolute, malevolent blackness, a void in the luminous map of the boy’s body. They were voracious, aggressive, and they were growing, sending out small, spidery tendrils that were wrapping themselves around the great vessels of the heart and invading the tissue of the lung.
The tumor.
The word formed in his mind, a cold, hard piece of knowledge from another world, another lifetime. He recognized it instantly. The chaotic, uncontrolled cellular division, the invasive, parasitic nature of the growth—it was a classic, malignant neoplasm. A cancer.
His [All-Seeing Eye] sharpened its focus, analyzing the very structure of the dark cells. He saw their corrupted, mutated nature. He saw how they were hijacking the boy’s own circulatory system, creating a network of blood vessels to feed their own insatiable hunger. He saw how the pressure of the growing mass was constricting the heart, causing its arrhythmic beat. He saw how it was pressing on the major nerves that ran down the spinal column, causing the creeping paralysis. He saw how the toxins it was releasing into the bloodstream were causing the systemic inflammation and the persistent, low-grade fever.
All the disparate, confusing symptoms, all the baffling signs that had stumped the kingdom’s greatest healers, they all snapped into a single, terrifying, unified diagnosis. The sickness was not invisible. It was just hiding. And he was the only person in the world who had the eyes to see it.
Chapter : 770
The scan had taken perhaps fifteen seconds of real time. He withdrew his perception, the luminous, terrifying world of the boy’s inner biology dissolving, replaced once again by the dim, grief-choked reality of the sickroom. He took his hand from the boy’s forehead, his face a mask of serene, scholarly contemplation. But inside, his mind was reeling.
This was a catastrophe.
His entire plan, his brilliant, intricate deception, had been predicated on the assumption that the boy’s illness was something he could actually cure. A rare infection, a spiritual imbalance, a complex but treatable ailment. He had come here prepared to be a miracle worker.
But this… this was a death sentence.
In his world, on Earth, with 22nd-century medical technology, this would have been a difficult, high-risk case. It would have required a team of surgeons, advanced imaging, chemotherapy, radiation—a whole arsenal of scientific weapons that did not exist here. Here, in this world of herbs and magic, a tumor of this size and aggression was not a disease. It was a god of death, an absolute, unbeatable foe.
A wave of genuine, cold despair washed over him. He had walked into this house with the arrogant confidence of a master strategist, so certain of his own superior knowledge, so sure he could control the outcome. And the universe, in its infinite, cruel irony, had just handed him an unwinnable hand.
He could lie. He could create a fanciful story, perform some mystical-looking ritual with his powers, and then declare that the boy was beyond even his help. He could retreat, leave the family to their grief, and his cover would remain intact. It was the logical, strategic move.
But as he looked down at the small, frail child, at the innocent, sleeping face, he found that he could not do it. The sliver of compassion that had been growing within him, the part of him that was becoming the doctor, rebelled. He could not just walk away. It was a tactical weakness, a sentimental folly that could destroy his entire mission. And in that moment, he didn't care.
He had promised Sumaiya that he would try. He had promised this desperate family that he would look. He had to do something.
He straightened up, his face a mask of calm, professional gravity. He turned to Sumaiya, who had been watching him with a breathless, hopeful intensity.
“I know what it is,” he said, his voice quiet, but filled with a new, heavy finality. “It is not a sickness of the spirit, as I had theorized. It is something far more tangible. And far more dangerous.”
He looked towards the great wooden doors, behind which a broken king and a grieving queen were waiting for his verdict. He was about to give them a diagnosis from a world they couldn't imagine, and then he was going to have to offer them a cure that was, by all rational measures, utterly and completely impossible.
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The heavy doors of the sickroom swung open with a soft, funereal groan. Lord Qadir and his wife, Zira, were standing in the corridor, their faces pale, expectant masks of hope and dread. The two Royal Physicians and the master alchemist stood behind them, their expressions a mixture of professional skepticism and a grim, almost eager anticipation of his failure. They looked like a panel of judges, ready to deliver a sentence.
Lloyd met their collective gazes, his own expression a carefully composed mask of somber gravity. He gave a slight, respectful bow of his head.
“My Lord, my Lady,” he began, his voice calm and measured, a stone of certainty in the turbulent sea of their emotions. “I have completed my examination.”
“And?” Lord Qadir’s voice was a low, rough growl, a sound of profound impatience. “What is your grand diagnosis, slum doctor? What curse have you invented for us? What new demon have you discovered?”
“It is not a curse, my Lord,” Lloyd said, his voice cutting through the lord’s bitter sarcasm with a quiet, unshakeable authority. “Nor is it a demon. It is not an imbalance of the humors, nor is it a simple ague of the spirit. What afflicts your son is something far more… mundane. And far more insidious.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle, deliberately building the tension. He was no longer just a healer; he was a storyteller, and he was about to introduce a new monster into their world.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Chapter : 771
“Deep within your son’s chest,” he continued, his gaze steady and direct, “there is a growth. A cluster of his own cells that have… forgotten their purpose. They have turned rogue. Instead of working to support his body, they are now at war with it. They are growing, uncontrollably, forming a dense, dark mass. A… a tumor.”
He spoke the word, a piece of alien terminology from another world, with a quiet, clinical precision. The word meant nothing to them, but the way he said it, the weight he gave it, made it sound like a death sentence.
The Royal Physicians exchanged a look of pure, condescending disbelief. The alchemist let out a short, derisive snort.
“A ‘tumor’?” the elder of the two physicians scoffed, his voice dripping with academic disdain. “What fanciful nonsense is this? The boy’s body is wasting away. He is shrinking, not growing. Your theory is a logical absurdity.”
“You are mistaken, Master Physician,” Lloyd countered, his tone still respectful but now with an edge of cold, hard certainty. “You see only the external effects. I see the cause. This growth is a parasite. It is stealing the nutrients from his food, hijacking his blood supply, and poisoning his system with its waste. His body is wasting away because this… this internal thief… is starving him from the inside. The growth is the only part of him that is thriving.”
He then turned his attention to the creeping paralysis, the symptom that had most baffled them. “This mass is pressing against the great nerves of his spine, slowly crushing them, cutting off the flow of life from his brain to his limbs. It is a slow, relentless siege.”
He had described the mechanics of cancer in the simple, metaphorical language of a medieval war. It was an explanation they could understand, and it was utterly, terrifyingly plausible. He saw the flicker of dawning horror in Lord Qadir’s eyes. He saw the first seeds of doubt being sown in the minds of the physicians.
“Preposterous,” the alchemist sneered, though his voice lacked its earlier conviction. “To even suggest such a thing without proof… it is the height of fraudulent arrogance. What proof do you have of this… this ‘growth’?”
“My proof,” Lloyd said, his voice dropping to an almost inaudible whisper, “is that I have seen it.”
The statement was so simple, so audacious, that it stunned the room into silence.
“You have seen it?” the younger physician repeated, his voice a squeak of incredulity. “How? Did you cut the boy open while we were gone?”
“There are methods of perception,” Lloyd said, deliberately being as vague and mystical as possible, “arts of healing that are not taught in your esteemed academies. They are passed down through certain bloodlines. An ability to see the inner life of the body, to perceive the sickness not just by its symptoms, but by its very shape and form. I have this… sight. And I have seen the shadow in your son’s chest.”
He was treading a dangerous line, hinting at a power that was beyond their comprehension, but framing it within the accepted reality of inherited, bloodline abilities. He was a freak, a prodigy, not a liar.
Lady Zira, who had been a silent, weeping ghost throughout the entire exchange, suddenly spoke. Her voice was a thin, fragile whisper, but it cut through the room with the force of a thunderclap.
“Where?” she asked, her haunted eyes fixed on Lloyd. “Show me where this… this shadow… is on my son.”
Lloyd walked back to the bed, the others following him as if pulled by an invisible string. He gently pulled back the linen sheet, exposing the boy’s frail, pale chest. He placed his hand on the boy’s sternum, his fingers spread wide.
“The growth is here,” he said, his voice soft and certain. “Deep inside. It is roughly the size of a clenched fist. It is anchored to the back of his heart and has begun to invade the lower lobe of his left lung. Its densest point is approximately… here.” He pressed a single finger down on a specific point on the boy’s chest, just to the left of his breastbone.
It was a moment of pure, unadulterated bluff. There was no way for them to verify his claim. He was relying entirely on the sheer, unshakeable force of his own conviction.
But then, something unexpected happened. As his finger pressed down on that specific point, the boy, who had been lying in a near-comatose state, let out a soft, pained whimper. His brow furrowed, and his head tossed weakly on the pillow.
It was a reflex, a subconscious response to the pressure on the inflamed, tumor-ridden tissue deep within his chest. It was a one-in-a-million chance.
Chapter : 772
And it was all the proof they needed.
Lady Zira let out a choked sob. The faces of the physicians went pale. Even the arrogant alchemist took an involuntary step back. He had not just described the location of the invisible sickness; he had made the boy react to it. He had touched the ghost.
In that single, breathtaking moment, all their skepticism, all their pride, all their academic certainty, was shattered into a million pieces. They were no longer looking at a slum doctor. They were looking at a seer, a prophet, a man who possessed a divine and terrifying power they could not begin to comprehend.
Lloyd removed his hand, his face a mask of somber, sorrowful confirmation. He had done it. He had not only diagnosed the undiagnosable, but he had provided irrefutable proof. He had their absolute, terrified attention. Now, it was time to set his trap.
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The atmosphere in the sickroom had undergone a seismic shift. The air, which had been thick with skepticism and condescension, was now heavy with a new, potent mixture of awe and terrified hope. The Royal Physicians and the master alchemist were silent, their faces a mixture of professional humiliation and a dawning, fearful respect. They were looking at Lloyd as if he were a creature from another world, a being who had just casually rewritten the fundamental laws of their reality.
Lord Qadir, the man of iron and war, was visibly shaken. His granite-like composure had been pulverized. He stared at his son, then back at Lloyd, his stormy eyes now filled with a desperate, pleading intensity. The proud lord was gone. All that remained was a father, clinging to the first glimmer of genuine hope he had seen in months.
“You have seen it,” he whispered, the words a statement of profound, disbelieving faith. “You have truly seen it.” He took a step closer, his massive frame trembling slightly. “If you can see it… can you fight it? Can you cure him? Is there a way?”
This was the moment Lloyd had been building towards, the nexus of his entire, intricate deception. The fish had not just taken the bait; it had swallowed the hook, the line, and the sinker.
Lloyd let the silence stretch, his expression a carefully crafted mask of deep, troubled contemplation. He looked from the grieving father to the dying child, his face etched with the weight of the terrible decision before him. He was not just a healer; he was now the sole arbiter of this family’s fate, and he played the part to perfection.
“There is a way,” he said at last, his voice a low, somber murmur. The collective hope in the room surged, a palpable, almost audible wave of relief. But Lloyd immediately crushed it. “But the path is… perilous. The procedure I would have to attempt is something that has never been done before. It is radical, it is violent, and its chances of success are… slim.”
He had to manage their expectations, to frame the cure not as a simple certainty, but as a desperate, high-risk gamble. This would not only make his eventual success seem all the more miraculous, but it would also provide him with the leverage he needed.
“What is it?” Lord Qadir pressed, his voice raw. “What must be done? I do not care about the risk. Any chance is better than no chance at all.”
“The growth, this tumor,” Lloyd explained, his gaze sweeping over the assembled experts, forcing them to be his students, “cannot be dissolved with potions. It cannot be purged with herbs. It is a part of your son’s own body, a fortress of corrupted flesh. It must be… physically removed.”
The concept was so alien, so brutally direct, that it stunned them into a fresh silence. The medicine of this world was a gentle art of balancing and persuading the body. The idea of cutting into a living person to remove a part of them was the work of a butcher, not a healer. It was a barbaric, terrifying thought.
“Surgery?” the elder physician finally managed to say, the word tasting like poison in his mouth. “You would cut open a child? A child in his weakened state? It is madness! The shock alone would kill him instantly!”
“You are correct, Master Physician,” Lloyd said, giving the old man a nod of grim, professional respect. “Under normal circumstances, it would be a guaranteed death sentence. The boy’s body is too weak. His life force, his spiritual energy, is a flickering candle flame. The shock of such an invasive procedure would extinguish it in a heartbeat.”
