The Physician's Visit
The world returned in fragments—scents, heat, distant murmurs. Then a knock. Sharp, deliberate.
Charles stirred beneath the layered covers of his chamber. His limbs ached in places he didn't know had nerves. Muscles screamed in protest from days of battle and creation. His body had fought, burned, drawn, written, bled, and collapsed. And now, it demanded vengeance in the form of unrelenting fatigue.
He blinked against the haze. It was still midday.
A gentle rap echoed again, followed by the soft creak of a door.
"Young Lord," came Anya's voice, hushed but urgent. "Your physician has arrived."
Charles sat up groggily, wiping sleep crust from the corners of his eyes. "Physician?"
"Yes. Master Harold Gayle."
The name snapped his senses into sharper focus.
Of course. The family physician. The original Charlemagne's long-time medical caretaker. He hadn't seen the man in this life yet, but the memories were there—soft hands, bitter brews, cold eyes behind kind words.
He rose, stretching, every joint crackling in protest, and gestured. "Send him in."
Moments later, the door opened and in stepped a tall, gaunt man clad in black alchemist robes, silver embroidery spiraling across the cuffs and collar. His hair was white, bound tightly at the nape of his neck, and upon his chest gleamed the sigil of House Gayle—a silver quill crossing a sword.
Charles stared for a beat longer than necessary. There was something too pristine about the man. Too still.
"Master Gayle," he said politely.
"Lord Charlemagne." Harold bowed with mechanical precision. "It is good to see you recovered from your… adventures. I understand you've had quite the awakening."
"You could say that," Charles replied, easing into his seat by the window. "Your visit is timely."
Harold's smile was clinical, almost sterile. "Your constitution was always fragile. With the recent… fluctuations in your qi, your father thought it wise to resume the usual treatment. I've prepared a reinforced tonic suited 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, placing each tool with careful reverence—jade diagnostic needles, pulse stones, and a temperature crystal. He motioned for Charles to sit near the light.
He began with the pulse—Harold's thin fingers pressing against the inner wrist, eyes closing, face unreadable. Then came the tongue inspection, where he noted coloration, texture, and heat balance. He sniffed the breath—subtle but revealing—before placing a palm over Charles's dantian region and back.
"Exhale slowly," Harold instructed.
As Charles complied, Harold's brows lifted almost imperceptibly.
"Your vitality seems improved," Harold murmured. "Your chi flow is more stable than 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. Chi cannot be tamed without discipline."
Satisfied—or feigning satisfaction—Harold withdrew the two shimmering vials once more.
"Your scheduled Elixir of Crimson Vitalis," he said smoothly. "Let's increase to two doses this week. With your current growth spurt, the enhanced dosage will help regulate your energy channels and nourish your blood. As before, I'll have more sent in six months. Best taken warm. It should soothe any lingering weakness."
He handed over the first vial. "Take one now," he said, "and the second tomorrow morning."
Charles took the vial with no outward hesitation. But inwardly, his instincts sharpened. He uncorked it and drank in one go.
The effect was almost immediate.
[SYSTEM WARNING: FOREIGN TOXIN DETECTED.]
Charles nearly flinched. The voice echoed inside his mind like a bell toll.
[Emergency Detox Protocol: ENGAGED.]
Isolating substance… analyzing molecular breakdown… Category: Alchemical Poison. Subtype: Progressive Neuro-Qi Inhibitor. Estimated Onset Time: 15 minutes. Fatality Potential: Moderate to High if untreated. Countermeasures: Engaging Auto-Purification System.
Charles suppressed the reflex to spit, instead leaning back in the chair, expression carefully neutral.
"Unpleasant as ever," he murmured, swirling the second vial. "Still tastes like overboiled grave bark."
Harold chuckled. "A necessary evil. Health rarely tastes sweet."
"Tell me," Charles said, tone conversational, "did the formula change?"
Harold blinked. "No. Minor enhancements. Slight increase in Bloodroot Vine and Chi-Saffron for absorption. Otherwise, identical."
"I see," Charles replied evenly, swirling the contents once more. "And both vials are the same batch?"
"Of course."
"Good to know." He slid the second vial into a drawer with casual ease.
Harold didn't comment, though his gaze lingered for half a second too long.
Charles smiled politely, despite the fire now simmering under his skin.
"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.
After Harold left, Charles remained seated for a long while, turning the vial between his fingers like a loaded weapon.
The sunlight angled low through the stained glass, casting crimson and gold shards across the desk. The elixir shimmered as if alive—rich garnet hues swirling beneath a thin veil of oily sheen. Its scent, once nostalgic, now felt… treacherous. Too clean. Too balanced. Too perfect.
For years, he had taken it on command.
A tonic, they said. A prescription for his weakness. A life-saving supplement tailored for the sickly heir of House Ziglar.
But now?
Something clawed at the edge of his instincts.
Not suspicion. Not even paranoia.
No—intuition. The kind forged in a life spent dodging boardroom betrayals and corporate knives hidden in champagne flutes. The instincts of Charles Alden Vale—the man who used to count lies like chess pieces, who bought truth with silence and sold power for blood.
He narrowed his eyes at the vial.
No sediment. No herbal variation. No heat layering. Identical to the last one. And the one before that. And the one before that.
His fingers twitched. And a whisper crawled up his spine.
[SYSTEM ALERT: FOREIGN TOXIN detoxification ongoing.]
[Emergency Protocol Activated.]
[Warning: Alchemical Poison Identified. Subtype – Progressive Neuro-Qi Inhibitor.]
Charles froze. A fine tremor began in his hand. Not from fear. From fury.
"SIGMA," he said softly. "Tell me what the hell I just drank."
[Analyzing compound…]
[Elixir of Crimson Vitalis: Composition tampered.]
Original Formulation:
– Bloodroot Vine
– Ironleaf
– Redthorn Berry
– Elven Ginseng
Foreign Agent Detected: WHISPERSHADE HERB
– Classification: BLACK-CLASS TOXIN
– Status: BANNED under the Royal Alchemical Ethics Accords, First Edict
"You've got to be kidding me," Charles hissed.
Whispershade Herb Profile:
Appearance: Slender black leaves laced with fine silver veins. A single bloom, translucent, opens only under starlight.
Habitat: Crypts. Cursed forests. Battlefields soaked in death and forgotten names.
Properties:
– Odorless. Tasteless.
– Bonds with neural-qi pathways.
– Suppresses dantian development, disables cultivation initiation.
– Disrupts elemental channeling.
– Progressive degeneration of meridians.
– Final phase: multi-organ failure and spiritual collapse.
Symptoms of Long-Term Exposure:
Qi stagnation
Numbness and voice weakening
Failure to form qi channels
Meridian erosion
Sudden cardiac arrest after 1–2 years of microdosing
Charles sat in silence as if the room itself had stopped breathing.
"How long…?" he asked, voice raw.
[Estimated exposure began at age three.]
[Current impact: 72% meridian damage reversed through system healing. Residual spiritual scarring: Minimal.]
"And what happens to a child if they keep drinking this?"
[For children under 12, prolonged exposure dissolves the dantian-neural link.]
[This prevents cultivation, affinity manifestation, and internal qi circulation.]
[The child grows weaker. The body collapses. The death appears natural.]
"So, it's the perfect assassination," Charles whispered. "No blade. No evidence. Just time… and trust."
His hand clenched around the vial.
"SIGMA," he murmured, voice ice and thunder, "store all data, and flag any future compound with even a whisper of this filth."
[Acknowledged.]
He carefully slipped the second vial into a qi-stasis pouch, fingers steady despite the wrath roaring in his veins.
This was no accident. This was sabotage by medicine.
This was death, gift-wrapped in care, administered over years with the same gentleness one might feed a pet.
House Gayle. Harold. Amelia.
They weren't merely complicit. They were architects of this slow extinction.
He wasn't even the heir. He had no authority. No claim. No power worth inheriting.
So why poison him?
Unless…
They feared what he would become.
Charles stood slowly. His shadow stretched across the room like a blade.
"They tried to kill me softly," he said, voice low and burning. "Should've tried fire. Or at least made it interesting."
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—a spiral of deduction sharpened by paranoia and precision.
The pieces fit too well.
His existence—quiet, sickly, ignored—had been a convenient liability. A diplomatic token. A sympathetic footnote in House Ziglar's bloodline that no one expected to survive long enough to inherit anything worth killing for.
Was he always meant to die? Or worse... remain a breathing disgrace?
Keep the cripple alive, a voice whispered in his head, mocking. He makes the other heirs look stronger.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers templed beneath his chin. The flickering orblight cast long shadows across his study—perfect for reflection… and revenge.
Harold.
The name burned in his mouth like acid. Soft-spoken, silver-haired, always smelling faintly of calming herbs and sterile linens. The man who'd helped him through night fevers, massaged tinctures into his skin, whispered reassurances that the "illness will pass."
A healer. A nurturer. A shadow wearing a mask.
"And under that mask," Charles muttered, "a smiling bastard with a dosing spoon full 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.
A perfect disguise—because who would doubt the sickly heir was… 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.
Too much was redacted. Too much in Harold's handwriting.
He needed more.
Inventory records. Apothecary procurement logs. Internal expenditures.
He would map it all—down to the herbs, the coin, the servants who stirred the pot. He would unravel Harold's network like pulling threads from a corpse's sleeve.
And when the truth was undeniable?
He would burn them.
But not now. Not yet.
He needed patience—the kind of patience that buried 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.