Chapter : 767
He was a virus in the bloodstream of the house, unseen, undetected, and moving inexorably towards its heart. His search for the fabled mine, the secret source of House Qadir’s power, had begun in earnest. And the family, their attention completely consumed by the drama unfolding in their son’s sickroom, was utterly, blissfully unaware of the true danger that was now walking their halls.
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The sickroom was a cage of gilded sorrow. It was a vast, opulent chamber, larger than Lloyd’s entire clinic, furnished with a level of luxury that was almost obscene. A magnificent four-poster bed, carved from some dark, exotic wood and hung with heavy velvet curtains, dominated the room. Priceless silk rugs covered the floor, their vibrant colors muted in the dim, filtered light that struggled to pierce the heavy draperies drawn across the tall windows. A fire crackled in a massive marble fireplace, even though the day was warm, a desperate attempt to ward off the unnatural chill that seemed to emanate from the room’s center.
But the wealth was a hollow mockery. It was a beautiful, expensive frame around a picture of absolute, soul-crushing despair.
Standing near the fireplace were Lord Timur Qadir and his wife, Lady Zira. Lord Qadir was as Lloyd remembered him from the solarium, a mountain of a man slowly being eroded by grief. But Lady Qadir was a sight that made even the Major General’s hardened soul ache. She was a ghost, a fragile, wraith-like figure in a simple white gown, her face so pale and translucent that it seemed the light would pass right through her. Her eyes, red-rimmed and hollow from a thousand sleepless nights and a million shed tears, were fixed on the bed, on the small, still form lying within it.
This was the arena. This was the stage upon which he had to perform his miracle.
Lord Qadir turned as they entered, his stormy eyes locking onto Lloyd. The look he gave him was one of pure, unadulterated contempt. It was the look of a king being forced to parley with a rat-catcher.
“So,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You are the ‘miracle worker.’”
Lloyd bowed his head, a gesture of humble, almost fearful respect. He did not speak. His role was not to be confident; it was to be cowed, to be the terrified peasant in the presence of his lord. It was Sumaiya who stepped forward, her own posture a perfect blend of respect and unwavering confidence.
“My Lord, my Lady,” she said, her voice clear and steady. “I present Doctor Zayn, as requested. I thank you for the honor of this audience.”
Lady Zira did not seem to hear her. She did not even turn. Her entire universe had shrunk to the small, frail child in the bed.
Lord Qadir’s gaze shifted to Sumaiya, and the contempt in his eyes softened almost imperceptibly. He saw not a slum-dweller, but a representative from the palace, a woman who carried the favor of royalty. “Your advocacy on his behalf has been… passionate,” he said, the word dripping with skepticism. “Lady Anissa’s letter spoke of your absolute conviction. I pray for your sake, and his, that it is not misplaced.” The threat was unspoken but hung in the air, thick and heavy as smoke.
He then gestured towards the bed with a weary, defeated hand. “There he is. My son. Tariq. The Royal Physicians say it is a creeping ague of the spirit. The alchemists say it is an imbalance of his humors. The priests say a demon has latched onto his soul. They are all learned, powerful men. And they are all fools.” He finally looked at Lloyd again, his eyes a vortex of pain and fury. “What do you say, slum doctor? What new and fanciful name will you give to my son’s death sentence?”
The challenge was a gauntlet thrown down, a brutal test of his nerve. Lloyd knew that his every word, his every action from this point forward, would be scrutinized, judged, and weighed.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself. He raised his head and met the great lord’s gaze, his own expression a carefully crafted mixture of humility, compassion, and a deep, scholarly seriousness.
“With your permission, my Lord,” he said, his voice quiet but steady, “I would prefer to let the sickness speak for itself. I am a healer, not a soothsayer. I must see the boy.”
The simple, direct answer seemed to catch Lord Qadir off guard. He had expected blustering claims or mystical pronouncements. He had not expected this quiet, professional calm. After a long, tense moment, he gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod of assent.
Chapter : 768
Lloyd walked towards the great bed, his footsteps silent on the thick rugs. He felt Sumaiya’s presence behind him, a warm, steady anchor of support. As he approached, the scent of sickness grew stronger, the same cloying, sweetish odor he had smelled in the weaver’s hovel, but here it was mixed with the clashing, acrid smells of a dozen failed alchemical potions and herbal remedies.
He pushed back the heavy velvet curtains and looked down at the Qadir heir. The boy was small for his ten years, his body frail and wasted under the fine linen sheets. His face was pale as alabaster, his dark hair a stark contrast against the white pillow. His eyes were closed, his breathing a shallow, almost imperceptible whisper. He was a perfect, tragic doll, slowly being drained of all life.
For a moment, the masks—the doctor, the lord, the general—slipped away. And Lloyd felt a genuine, piercing pang of compassion. This was not a strategic objective. This was not a key to a mine. This was a child. A child who was being stolen from his family, slowly and cruelly. And he, Lloyd Ferrum, KM Evan, was the only person in this entire world who had the power to stop it. The mission, for a fleeting, dangerous moment, became personal.
He ruthlessly shoved the feeling down. Sentiment was a poison. The mission was paramount.
He turned to the room at large. Several other figures had been standing in the shadows, their presence muted by the overwhelming grief of the parents. He now saw them clearly: two elderly, bearded men in the formal robes of the Royal Physicians, and a younger, more severe-looking man with the sigils of a master alchemist on his collar. They were the failed experts, the guardians of conventional wisdom, and their expressions were a mixture of professional curiosity and profound, undisguised hostility. They were vultures, waiting to pick apart the corpse of his reputation when he inevitably failed.
“I will need to examine him,” Lloyd announced, his voice taking on a quiet, professional authority. “And I will need to do so alone. Your presence,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the physicians and the alchemist, “will be a distraction. I require absolute quiet to make my assessment.”
The two physicians bristled, their beards seeming to puff out with indignation. The alchemist sneered openly. “Unorthodox. The patient’s humors are delicate. A proper examination requires multiple observers to corroborate the findings.”
Lloyd did not deign to argue with them. He looked directly at Lord Qadir. “My methods are my own, my Lord. They require a… focus… that is not possible with an audience. If you wish for me to proceed, then I must ask for the room.”
It was an incredible, audacious display of confidence. The slum doctor was giving orders to the experts and, by extension, to the lord of the house himself. Sumaiya, standing behind him, held her breath.
Lord Qadir stared at him, his stormy eyes searching for any hint of fraud, of weakness. He found none. He found only a strange, unshakeable calm. After a moment that stretched into an eternity, he gave a sharp nod.
“Leave us,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. The physicians and the alchemist looked as if they wanted to protest, but a single, withering glare from their master silenced them. They bowed stiffly and exited the room, their backs rigid with insulted pride.
Lord Qadir then looked at his wife. “Zira,” he said gently. “Come. Let the man work.” She looked as if she were about to refuse, her entire being rebelling at the thought of leaving her son’s side. But he placed a firm hand on her shoulder, and she allowed him to lead her towards the door. He paused and looked back at Lloyd one last time. “You have your quiet, Doctor. Do not disappoint me.”
The heavy doors closed with a soft, final thud, leaving Lloyd and Sumaiya alone with the dying child.
“I too will leave, if you wish,” Sumaiya whispered.
“No,” Lloyd said, not looking at her. “You will stay. I may need an assistant.” It was a lie. He needed a witness. He needed her to see the miracle, so she could be the one to tell the story.
He turned back to the bed. The stage was set. The audience was in place. It was time for the true examination to begin. He reached out and placed a hand on the boy’s forehead, a simple, classic gesture of a healer checking for a fever.
It was the perfect, unassuming cover for the incredible act of power he was about to unleash.
‘[All-Seeing Eye]: Activate. Full-spectrum, high-resolution diagnostic scan. Now.’