Medical System Rising: Rise Of Joseph Briggs

CHAPTER 7. Master’s Verdict

The incense smoke curled like ghosts around the edges of Bill Gates’s private study. 

Shelves of ancient scrolls towered to the ceiling; relics of forgotten healers glimmered faintly in the lamplight. 

On the table lay his ceremonial robe, gold-threaded, heavy with authority, staring back at him like judgment itself.

Bill sat motionless, eyes fixed on the holo-screen looping Joseph’s tribunal footage.The moment played again.

The elderly patient convulsing, the golden glow flashing from Joseph’s hands, the monitors spiking before death.

He pressed pause. The screen froze on Joseph’s face, wide-eyed, horrified, still believing the world would listen.

“Medicine,” Bill whispered, quoting himself from decades ago, “is the art of humility before mystery.”

He smiled bitterly. “And you touched that mystery too soon, my son.”

He closed his eyes. Memory flickered, Joseph as a boy, scrawny, bright-eyed, scribbling meridian diagrams in a notebook too big for his hands. “Master, why does healing hurt?”

“Because truth never arrives gently,” he had told him.

A knock broke the silence. Elder Liang entered, robes rustling, his expression carved from stone. “You haven’t slept.”

“Sleep feels dishonest,” Bill said quietly.

Liang ignored the remark. “Tomorrow’s verdict will decide more than one man’s fate. If you defend the boy, the Council will strip you of your seat. The academy itself may dissolve.”

Bill turned to the window, the skyline trembling with lightning far beyond the glass. “And if he’s innocent?”

Liang’s voice was cold, absolute. “Innocence is irrelevant. Order must be preserved.”

Bill stared at him for a long moment. “You call this order?”

Liang inclined his head slightly. “History will remember stability, not conscience.” He left without another word. Silence again. The thunder outside rolled closer.

Bill reached for a hidden drawer in his desk. Inside lay a weathered scroll, its edges scorched, the golden rune etched in its center identical to the mark now burned into Joseph’s wrist.

He traced the lines gently, whispering, “You found what I spent a lifetime hiding.”

Then he held the scroll over the candle flame. The parchment caught instantly, burning bright, curling like a dying soul.

Ash fell across the desk as tears welled in his eyes. “Forgive me, Joseph. I cannot protect you in the light.” Outside, thunder answered softly, like grief given a voice.

…

Morning light flooded the grand tribunal chamber. Marble floors reflected the golden sigil of the Syndicate carved into the ceiling above. Hundreds filled the seats: physicians, apprentices, politicians, reporters.

Joseph Briggs was led in, shackled, flanked by guards. His head was high, but the exhaustion behind his eyes spoke louder than defiance.

At the dais, Dr. Lysandra Quinn, the Council Head, raised her staff. “This assembly convenes to pass judgment on Dr. Joseph Briggs for heretical practice of the Forbidden Meridian Arts.”

The crowd murmured. Joseph’s gaze found Bill’s, his master stood at the tribunal’s center, cloaked in gold, every inch the image of authority. 

Joseph’s lips parted, searching for a sign, a flicker of compassion, an anchor. Bill looked away.

The first witness approached. Marcus Caracas took the stand, face pale, voice trembling. “I saw Dr. Briggs employ golden-energized needles during treatment,” he said, reading from a prepared script. “He claimed to stabilize the patient, but the energy corrupted the body.”

Murmurs. Gasps. Another witness, the young nurse, repeated the accusation.

Lysandra nodded to the attendants. Screens flickered to life, projecting falsified data: corrupted medical logs, footage showing Joseph’s hands glowing brighter than they ever had.

The whispers grew louder. “Forbidden pulse… divine infection.”

Joseph clenched his fists. “That’s not real. You altered everything.”

“Silence,” Lysandra said coldly.

The chamber fell still again. She turned toward Bill. “As his master, you hold the deciding voice. The Syndicate awaits your verdict.”

Every eye turned to him. Bill stepped forward. The sound of his footsteps echoed like thunder through the hall.

He looked down at his trembling hands, hidden inside his sleeves. They still carried the scent of burned parchment.

His vision blurred, flashes of memory invading the moment: Joseph, years younger, holding a wounded bird in his small palms. “Can we save it?”

“Yes,” Bill had said, guiding his hands, “if we listen to its pulse before our own.”

Another memory, the wedding night toast. Franca laughing, Joseph beaming, Bill raising his glass, saying, “To courage disguised as compassion.”

Now, that same courage stood before him, bound in chains. “Master,” Joseph said softly, “I learned everything from you.”

Bill’s throat tightened. “And that is why your fall is my greatest failure.”

He raised the ceremonial staff, heavy, ancient, symbolic, and struck the marble three times. Each echo sounded like a heart breaking.

“By the laws of the Syndicate,” he declared, voice trembling, “I denounce Joseph Briggs as unfit to practice the sacred arts.”

Gasps erupted. A few shouted in disbelief. The rest simply watched, silent, reverent, cruel. Joseph swayed, his knees nearly buckling. “Master… why?”

Bill met his eyes. Silent tears glinted under the council lights. His lips barely moved, but Joseph saw the word form: “Live.”

The council’s head raised her staff. “The unbound pulse must be stilled.”

The crowd took up the chant, ancient and mechanical. “The unbound pulse must be stilled.”

“The unbound pulse must be stilled.”

Joseph’s heart cracked open with every word. The golden rune on his wrist flared, burning like liquid fire. He bit back a scream.

The System whispered in his skull, calm amid the chaos: “Pain acknowledged. Faith fragment collapsing.”

He whispered hoarsely, “Don’t you dare take my faith from me.”

Guards moved in, reaching for him. “Don’t touch me!”

Golden light burst from Joseph’s hands, knocking them backward. His eyes glowed bright as molten metal.

“You call me a heretic because I healed beyond your reach!” he shouted. “You fear what you don’t understand!”

Monitors flickered. Instruments sparked. The Syndicate’s sigil above them pulsed wildly, reacting to his energy. Lysandra shouted, “Restrain him!”

The System’s voice overlapped her cry: “Emotional surge detected. Pulse synchronization increasing.”

A council member collapsed amid the commotion, clutching her chest. Joseph turned instinctively, kneeling beside her. “Hold still!”

He placed his hands over her heart, golden light rippled through her body. A deep gasp tore from her lungs as she came back to life.

The room froze. A miracle, undeniable. Joseph rose slowly, eyes still shining. “You see? Healing isn’t blasphemy!”

Lysandra’s expression was ice. “Proof enough. His powers defy regulation.”

Bill stepped forward, shouting, “Stop this!”

“Restrain him!” Lysandra barked.

A guard slammed a shock baton into Joseph’s side. Electricity surged. He convulsed, dropping to his knees.

The light dimmed. The hall fell silent except for the hum of the sedation field. Bill caught him as he fell. Joseph’s half-conscious whisper barely carried: “Master… forgive you?”

Bill leaned down, voice breaking. “No. Forgive me.”

As darkness claimed him, Joseph glimpsed the faint glimmer of gold flickering on Bill’s wrist, the same forbidden rune, then everything went black.

The tribunal hall lay empty now. The real judgment took place elsewhere. Lysandra Quinn stood at a round table with Elder Liang and Victor Harrington. 

The city’s neon skyline glowed behind them. Liang spoke first. “Containment failed. His synchronization rate exceeded prediction.”

Lysandra folded her hands. “Then we proceed to purification.”

Victor’s tone was clinical. “The boy’s power is unstable. If word spreads that divinity can be reawakened through bloodline resonance, the Syndicate loses control. His death preserves order.”

Bill stood by the door, still in his robes, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. “You speak of killing a healer for curing death.”

Lysandra didn’t flinch. “No, for disobeying law.”

Bill’s voice trembled with fury. “You’re sanctifying murder.”

Victor turned toward him, calm as ever. “You knew this was inevitable the moment you trained him.”

Lysandra’s gaze hardened. “Prepare the ritual. Midnight. Let the public believe it’s mercy.”

Bill’s breath came ragged. “Ritual of Purification… you mean execution dressed in prayer.”

Liang said simply, “Every age requires its sacrifice.”

Bill’s composure cracked. He turned sharply and stormed out. Behind him, the council’s holographic screens shifted.

Joseph’s image appeared, labeled in crimson letters: STATUS: CONDEMNED.

The underground holding cell was silent except for the steady hum of the pulse suppressors embedded in the walls.

Joseph stirred, consciousness returning. His wrists were bound in silver restraints, faintly humming with anti-resonance fields that muted the golden mark beneath his skin.

Footsteps echoed softly. Bill appeared in the doorway, no robes, no staff, just a man carrying too much regret. 

Joseph’s voice was hoarse. “Have you come to finish your verdict?”

Bill knelt beside him, eyes red. “I came to give you what little mercy I can.”

He pressed a small glass vial into Joseph’s hands, liquid gold swirling within. “This will dull the pain during purification. I couldn’t save your name… but maybe you can save something greater.”

Joseph stared at the vial. “Then it was all for nothing.”

Bill shook his head. “No. For the first time in centuries, the Pulse spoke again. That means hope still breathes.”

He leaned close, whispering words only Joseph could hear: “When the heavens abandon the healer, the earth shall teach him anew.”

Footsteps sounded down the corridor, guards approaching. Bill stood. “They’re coming. Drink it when the pain begins.”

Joseph’s voice broke. “Will I ever see you again?”

Bill paused at the door. Rain thundered faintly above ground. “If you live,” he said softly, “you’ll see me in the storm.”

He turned away. Joseph looked down at the vial, glowing softly like a captured sunrise. He drank it. The warmth spread through his veins, mingling with the dormant light inside him.

The System stirred within. “Master’s essence detected. Access to Core Protocol granted.”

Joseph exhaled, closing his eyes. Somewhere far above, the city’s lights flickered, like a heartbeat holding its breath before the storm to come.