"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 396: Magical Acupuncture
Aldo seemed to recall something. He fumbled through his ragged clothes for a long while before finally producing a blood-soaked, battered metal badge, which he handed to Douglas with great effort.
"This... I tore it from a knight... their badge... it's all blurred now..."
Douglas took the badge.
The moment it touched his palm, he frowned.
It was a crude iron cross, its surface pitted and scarred, with what looked like the faint outline of an animal carved into it. Years of wear and the crusted, dark blood had all but erased any clear details.
A pungent mix of rust and old blood clung to it.
But what truly caught Douglas's attention was the material—far too ancient. The Church couldn't possibly be this impoverished.
"They weren't here to wipe you out."
Douglas studied the badge, his tone resolute.
"If these had been real Templar Knights or agents of the Inquisition, you wouldn't have had the slightest chance to organize a retreat."
A chill crept up Lupin's spine.
"They were acting out an attack," Douglas said. The words seemed to freeze the very air in the mine.
Lupin stared at him in disbelief. "Acting? For whom?"
Douglas's gaze was as fathomless as the abyss. "For us. Or rather—for me."
He rolled the badge between his fingers.
"They wanted to make sure that when I arrived, I'd see a tribe supposedly destroyed by the 'Church,' and a 'miraculous' survivor."
Aldo looked at Douglas, his cloudy eye full of confusion. He couldn't grasp the meaning behind these words. The brutality of those knights and priests, the searing agony of holy light and fire—these were nightmares he'd lived through.
How could it all be a performance?
Yet, Douglas's analysis sent an inexplicable chill through his hatred for the attackers.
If it was all just an act...
Where were his companions now?
Douglas stood, pacing slowly through the mine, each step echoing in Lupin's heart.
"Aldo."
He stopped, his gaze sharp as a blade.
"Before the attack, did anything unusual happen? Any new faces in the tribe? Did Chief Marco meet with anyone in private?"
Aldo's confusion deepened. He searched his memory, uncertainty flickering in his lone eye.
"Now that you mention it..."
His voice trembled even more.
"The day before the attack, there really was a mysterious visitor."
Lupin tensed immediately. "What kind of visitor?"
"A human witch in a hooded cloak—completely covered. It must've been a woman," Aldo recalled. "The chief trusted her. He went out to talk with her alone, and when he came back, he brought news about you, sir."
Douglas narrowed his eyes. It had to be Isabella. But what exactly was her connection to Marco?
At that moment, Aldo turned to Douglas, a faint hope rekindling in his cloudy eye.
"Mr. Holmes, can you... really save us?"
Douglas nodded, his gaze falling to the old man's battered body.
"I'll do everything I can. But first, we need to treat your wounds."
Lupin looked at Aldo's injuries, his heart tightening. Golden spots still shimmered with unsettling energy, writhing beneath the skin like living things. The charred curse marks radiated a stagnant aura of death.
Aldo let out a bitter laugh, more heartbreaking than tears.
"These wounds... I'm afraid..."
His voice trembled, resigned to the worst.
Douglas cut him off. "Don't jump to conclusions."
He drew a small, ornate wooden box from his robes, its surface covered in intricate carvings unlike any European magical tradition.
When he opened it, a neat array of delicate tools was revealed—silver needles as fine as hair, knives thin as a cicada's wing, tiny porcelain bottles, and a handful of strange, unnameable implements. Each radiated a faint magical pulse and the subtle fragrance of exotic herbs.
Lupin felt a jolt of surprise—Douglas always seemed to have something unexpected up his sleeve.
Aldo's eyes were filled with despair, and just a flicker of hope. He had no idea if the man before him could truly work miracles.
The mine was silent except for the drip of water from above and Aldo's heavy breathing. The atmosphere was dense as lead.
Without hesitation, Douglas began treating Aldo's wounds.
He took a small wooden spoon and scooped out a bit of dark green ointment from a porcelain jar. Its scent was peculiar—like damp forest earth after rain, mixed with a sharp touch of mint.
With a slender wooden stick, he carefully spread the ointment over the blackened, curse-ridden patches of Aldo's skin.
Aldo's pain-tensed body trembled slightly, but then something miraculous happened.
As the ointment touched the wound, a faint "sizzle" could be heard.
The dead, blackened flesh dissolved rapidly, like snow under the sun, turning into wisps of black smoke that drifted away.
Next, Douglas selected the thinnest silver needle, holding it between his index and middle fingers. He began to chant in a low, rhythmic voice—strange syllables with an uncanny resonance.
With a deft flick of his wrist, the silver needle pierced the edge of a golden spot on Aldo's chest with perfect precision.
He didn't stop—one after another, silver needles found their mark: the back, shoulders, arms, even the forehead.
Soon, Aldo looked like a human pincushion.
"Qing Yuan Zheng Ben." ("Clear the source and restore the foundation.")
Douglas spoke softly. As the final syllable faded, he flicked the end of the longest needle.
Something extraordinary happened.
The golden spots, once radiant and corrosive, began to fade and dim under the silver needles' guidance. Wisps of black, polluted energy were drawn out, stripped from the wounds, and channeled along invisible pathways toward the needles.
The once-silver metal quickly turned black, as if saturated with toxins.
Aldo felt an indescribable coolness spreading from each needle, gradually chasing away the soul-searing pain that had haunted him. He could sense the wild, destructive energy inside him being soothed, guided, and gently expelled by a force both gentle and irresistible.
He stared at Douglas in utter shock, his single eye shining with disbelief.
He had never heard of—never even imagined—a treatment like this!
Lupin was equally astonished, standing by and hardly daring to breathe.
What Douglas was doing wasn't simply forcing out the holy light.
It was more like finding the river's source and, with masterful skill, redirecting the flow—resolving the problem at its root.
This was levels beyond any brute-force healing magic.
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