The Physician's Visit
He could smell things, feel the heat, and hear distant murmurs. Then there was a knock. Sharp and planned.
Charles stirred beneath the blankets. His arms and legs ached in new places. Muscles screamed after days spent fighting and making things. His body had fought, burned, drawn, written, bled, and fallen apart. Now it wanted revenge, making him tired all the time.
He blinked to clear his vision. It was still noon.
A soft knock echoed again, and then the door creaked open.
"Young Lord," Anya said in a quiet but urgent voice. "Your doctor is here."
Charles sat up and rubbed his eyes. "He's here?"
"Yes. Mr. Harold Gayle."
The name woke him up.
Of course. The family doctor. Charlemagne's longtime caretaker. Charles had never met him in this life, but the memories lingered: soft hands, bitter brews, cold eyes behind kind words.
He got up, stretched, and made a gesture, even though his joints were cracking in protest. "Let him in."
A tall, thin man in black alchemist robes entered. Silver embroidery spiraled around the collar and cuffs. His white hair was tied tightly at the back. A silver quill crossing a sword marked House Gayle's sigil on his chest.
Charles looked for a second longer than he needed to. The man seemed too perfect. Not moving.
Charles said, "Master Gayle," in a calm voice.
"Lord Charlemagne." Harold bowed with perfect precision. "It's nice to see that you've gotten over your... adventures. I see that you've had a big awakening."
"Perfect timing," Charles said, settling by the window.
Harold's smile was cold and clinical. "Your body has always been weak. Your father wants treatment to start again. Your qi has changed a lot. I've made a stronger tonic for your condition."
He reached into a leather satchel and produced two thin crystal vials. The liquid inside shimmered like molten garnet.
But before administering anything, Harold performed the routine assessment. Yet this time, it was far more meticulous.
"Let me examine you first," the old physician said calmly.
Charles nodded. "Of course."
Harold pulled out a folding mat of silver-threaded silk and unrolled it on the side table. He placed each tool with care—jade diagnostic needles, pulse stones, and a temperature crystal. He motioned for Charles to sit by the light.
Harold's thin fingers pressed the inner wrist. Eyes closed, face unreadable, he noted pulse, checked Charles's tongue, sniffed his breath, then placed a hand over the dantian region and back.
"Exhale," Harold said.
As Charles complied, Harold's brows lifted almost imperceptibly.
"Your vitality seems improved," Harold murmured. "Your qi flow is more stable than it was in the last few months. Have you begun a new regimen?"
Charles met his gaze evenly. "I've been meditating more."
"A wise practice," Harold replied after a moment, though something in his tone was unreadable. "Consistency is key. Qi cannot be tamed without discipline."
Satisfied, or at least pretending to be, Harold withdrew the two shimmering vials again.
"Your scheduled Elixir of Crimson Vitalis," he said. "Let's increase to two doses this week. With your growth spurt, the stronger dose will regulate your energy and nourish your blood. More will be sent in six months. Take it warm. It should soothe weakness."
He handed over the first vial. "Take one now," he said, "and the second tomorrow morning."
Charles took the vial without hesitation. But inside, his instincts got sharper. He opened it and drank it all at once.
The effect hit immediately.
[WARNING: A FOREIGN TOXIN HAS BEEN DETECTED.]
Charles almost flinched. The voice rang in his head like a bell ringing.
[Emergency Detox Protocol: ENGAGED.]
[Separating the substance. Watching molecules break down. Type: Alchemical Poison. Subtype: Progressive Neuro-Qi Inhibitor. Estimated onset: 15 minutes. Risk of death: Moderate to high if untreated. Countermeasures: Using the Auto-Purification System.]
Charles fought the urge to spit and instead leaned back in his chair, wearing a carefully blank look.
Charles grumbled as he twirled the vial.
Harold laughed. "An evil that has to happen. Health doesn't taste sweet very often."
"Tell me," Charles said in a casual tone, "did the formula change?"
Harold blinked. "No. Only small improvements. A little more Bloodroot Vine and Chi-Saffron for absorption. Otherwise, the formula is the same."
"Same batch for both?" Charles pressed, swirling the vial.
"Of course."
Charles tucked the second vial away, movements casual.
Harold didn't comment, though his gaze lingered for half a second too long.
Charles smiled politely, forcing calm while anger churned under his skin. He reminded himself to be careful, to show nothing, and to trust less.
"Thank you for the care, Master Gayle. As always."
"Your health is my duty," Harold replied, bowing once more. "Should you feel any symptoms—fatigue, dizziness, qi disruption—contact me immediately."
"I will," Charles said. "Rest assured."
As Harold departed, Charles sat motionless for a full minute.
Then his hand curled into a fist.
And the storm inside him began to gather.
Charles turned the vial in his fingers at his desk. Sunlight cast crimson shards. The elixir shimmered with garnet hues and an oily sheen. Its scent, once nostalgic, now felt too clean—almost treacherous.
For years, he had taken it on command, a tonic, they said. A prescription for his weakness. A supplement for the sickly heir of House Ziglar.
But now?
Something clawed at the edge of his instincts. What am I missing? Why now? Trust your gut, Charles, he thought, searching for answers.
It wasn't just suspicion or paranoia. It was intuition—the kind forged by surviving boardrooms, betrayals, and knives in champagne flutes. These were the instincts of Charles Alden Vale—a man who counted lies, bought truth with silence, and sold power for blood.
He squinted at the vial: no sediment, no change in herbs, no difference from the last two vials.
His fingers moved. And a whisper crept up his back.
[System Alert: Detoxification of foreign toxins is still going on.]
[Emergency Protocol Started.]
[Warning: Alchemical Poison Found. Type: Progressive Neuro-Qi Inhibitor]
Charles stopped moving. His hand started to shake a little. It wasn't fear; it was rage. How could they? This wasn't only medicine. Not anymore.
He said, "SIGMA," in a soft voice. "Tell me what the hell I just drank."
[Looking at the compound...]
[Elixir of Crimson Vitalis: Composition tampered.
Original Recipe: – Bloodroot Vine – Ironleaf – Redthorn Berry – Elven Ginseng
Agent from another country Found: WHISPERSHADE HERB – Type: BLACK-CLASS TOXIN – Status: BANNED under the Royal Alchemical Ethics Accords, First Edict]
Charles hissed, "You have to be kidding me."
[The leaves of the Whispershade herb are thin and black, with fine silver veins running through them. The one clear flower only blooms when the stars are out.
Crypts are where to find them. Forests that are cursed. Battlefields are full of dead bodies and forgotten names. No scent. Not good. Attaches to neural-qi pathways. Stops the growth of dantian and cultivation. Stops channeling elements. Leads to the breakdown of meridians. The last stage is when the organs fail and the spirit breaks down. Qi stagnation, numbness, a weak voice, stopped qi channel formation, and meridian erosion are all signs of long-term exposure.
Sudden heart failure after 1–2 years of microdosing]
Charles sat still, as if the room itself had stopped breathing.
He asked, his voice hoarse, "How long...?"
[Estimated exposure started at age three.]
[Current effect: 72% of meridian damage has been healed by the system. Residual spiritual scarring: Very minimal.]
"And what happens to a child if they keep drinking this?"
[For children under 12, prolonged exposure dissolves the dantian-neural link.]
[This stops growing, showing love, and moving qi around inside.]
The child grows weaker. The body falls apart. Death appears natural.
He whispered, as the realization hit, "So, it's the perfect assassination. No knife. No proof. Just time and trust."
He held the vial tightly in his hand. They've failed if they want me to be broken. I'm still here. Still thinking.
"SIGMA," he said in a voice that sounded like ice and thunder, "store all data and flag any future compound that even hints at this filth."
[Understood.]
He carefully put the second vial into a qi-stasis pouch, even though his fingers were shaking with rage.
This was not a mistake. It was sabotage disguised as medicine. For years, they gave him death disguised as care. The same gentleness used to feed a pet.
House Gayle. Harold. Amelia.
They weren't just involved. They planned this slow death.
He wasn't even the next in line. He didn't have any power. No claim. No power worth passing down.
So, why give him poison?
Unless...
They were afraid of what he would turn into.
Charles got up slowly. His shadow looked like a sword as it crossed the room.
"They tried to kill me softly," he muttered. "Should've tried fire. Or a real weapon."
He paused. Then chuckled darkly to himself.
"But poison?" He shook his head. "That's such a coward's move."
He looked at the crimson glow inside the vial one last time.
"You wanted a corpse. You're getting a monster."
The Mask Slips
A storm churned behind Charles's eyes. Each fact looped through his mind, not randomly, but with surgical rhythm. His thoughts spiraled in deduction, sharpened by paranoia and precision.
The pieces fit too well.
His existence—quiet, sickly, and ignored—had been a useful burden. A token of diplomacy. A sympathetic footnote in House Ziglar's bloodline that no one thought would live long enough to get anything worth killing for.
Was it always his fate to die? Or worse, stay a living disgrace?
A mocking voice in his head told him to keep the cripple alive. He makes the other heirs seem stronger.
He put his fingers on his chin and leaned back in his chair. The flickering or blight made long shadows in his study, which was a great place to think and plan revenge.
Harold.
The name tasted like acid in his mouth. He spoke softly, had silver hair, and always smelled like calming herbs and clean sheets. The man who had helped him through night fevers, rubbed tinctures into his skin, and whispered that the "illness will pass."
A person who heals. A person who cares for others. A shadow with a mask on.
Charles said, "And under that mask, a smiling bastard with a spoonful of poison."
The rage was cold. Clean. The kind that didn't scream—it simmered.
It was Whispershade, the alchemical neurotoxin that had tipped the scales. Not a fast-acting agent, no. Too theatrical. No, Harold had gone for the long con. Dosages small enough to avoid suspicion, subtle enough to mimic symptoms of a fragile constitution: fatigue, spiritual blockages, persistent dantian disruption. It was a perfect disguise, because who would doubt the sickly heir was actually sick?… sick?
It was almost elegant.
Almost.
You wince. You wheeze. You fail to cultivate. They pity you. They forget you.
They forget you're still watching.
Charles's jaw tightened. He'd been dosed for years. That much was clear now. His failure to awaken affinities, his weak qi flow, even his so-called "flare-ups" that required Harold's personal attention… all of it choreographed.
He wasn't just neglected.
He'd been maimed by medicine.
This wasn't incompetence.
It was treason by tincture.
[SIGMA SYSTEM: Mental Restraint Threshold Surpassed – Initiating Strategic Planning Protocol.]
"You're angry," SIGMA noted flatly. "Try not to kill anyone important. Yet."
"Emphasis on yet," Charles growled. "Let's play doctor."
He stood and crossed the room to the hidden panel behind his bookshelf. The seal glowed violet as he pressed his hand to it, revealing a ledger tucked inside. Medical logs, old dosage records, handwritten notes. He dragged it to the desk and began flipping through it.
Too much was redacted. Too much in Harold's handwriting.
He needed more.
He thought of inventory records, purchase logs for the apothecary, and internal costs.
He would jot down everything, from the herbs and coins to the servants who stirred the pot. He would pull Harold's network apart like pulling threads out of a dead person's sleeve.
And when the truth was clear?
He would set them on fire. But not right now. Not yet.
He needed a lot of patience, the kind that could bury emperors.
Charles rang the bell.
Anya arrived moments later, her expression sharp and alert, as always.
"I want every document tied to Harold's medical treatments for me," Charles said, his voice calm but coiled with venom. "From the first cold to the last supposed flare-up. I want the servant records, alchemy logs, herbal supply manifests, transport routes, delivery signatures, and procurement receipts."
Anya blinked, then nodded slowly. "Understood, young master. Do you wish for... discretion?"
"I want so much discretion that spies will forget they were spying," he said. "Start with the west wing archives. Pull anything tied to House Gayle's vendors and cross-check with our treasury allocations. If something doesn't match, flag it."
"And if Harold inquires?"
Charles smiled. It was not warm.
"Tell him the young master is feeling unwell... again."
He waited until she left before speaking aloud.
"SIGMA. Begin compiling a predictive flowchart. Timeline, suspects, substance decay rates, and plausible allies Harold could've worked with."
"Already ahead of you. Also added a 'Ways to Kill a Physician Without Leaving a Corpse' folder. For academic purposes."
"I like you more every day."
"You're welcome, Doctor Doom."
Charles leaned back, hands steepled under his chin.
The mask had slipped.
Now?
Now Charles would rip it off.
One thread at a time.