TO LATE TO BEG, SISTER

CHAPTER 8: THE ONLY DIRECT DISCIPLE

In the grand living room of the Vance estate, that night had only two sounds: Tristan's stifled sobbing, and the soft clink of metal from the silver case Karen opened.

"Lie down," Karen said softly. "This will be a little uncomfortable."

Tristan lay on the leather sofa, letting his dead right arm hang limp. In the corner of his eye, he counted how many sisters were watching him tonight. All of them. Good.

Karen laid two fingers on Tristan's wrist, then moved to his neck, then his shoulder. She did it slowly, like someone reading a letter from a patient who had already died.

"The pain has spread through the whole body," she said at last. "But the source isn't the injury. Something is disturbing his pain receptors—like someone pressed certain points and locked them there. Whoever did this, he understands anatomy very well."

Then she smiled, and it was the smile that made patients' families trust her. "But don't worry. This is easy to cure."

Tristan's face lit up at once. "Sister Karen is the best," he said, voice made hoarse. "I know I won't die as long as you're here."

Victoria nodded, satisfied. "You're the only one I can rely on, Karen."

By the stairs, Siska's jaw, which had been set hard all evening, slowly loosened. Her anger turned into a thin smile. "Cure him first," she said. "The moment he's well, I'll take my unit and shut that orphanage down myself. I'll make sure Julian learns what a cell feels like."

Tristan reached for the edge of Siska's sleeve, weakly. "Sister Siska... don't blame Julian. I'm the one who made him angry. If I hadn't come, he wouldn't have—"

"You hear that?" Siska cut in, and this time her anger was real. "He ate at this house for years and never knew his place. Now he's still not satisfied. Does he truly think the Vance family will be inherited by a fake son like him? Delusion!"

Karen didn't lift her head. "Quiet, Siska. I'm starting."

The first needle went into Tristan's wrist, then his shoulder, then the nape of his neck. Warmth spread; the pain that had been gnawing his bones all night loosened, like knots untied one by one. Tristan almost laughed with relief.

"Thank you, Sister Karen," he said, and this time it was half sincere.

"See?" Karen said softly. "I studied under the Divine Doctor. I am his only direct disciple. In this world, there are few hands better than mine."

Victoria smiled thinly. Siska folded her arms, proud as if she were the one being praised.

But then Karen's brow creased.

She had never seen this pattern. The needles did open the locked points—but behind them was something else. Something quiet and deep, like water under ice.

"I can only suppress the symptoms," she said at last. "Three days. I can't give a complete cure. Not alone."

The room went quiet. Tristan's brief joy cracked at the edges. "T-three days?"

Karen patted the back of his hand. "Three days is enough. I'll ask my Master for help. He has never refused me."

Tristan nodded, forced a smile, and thanked her again.

Then, without a sound, the first needle at his wrist jumped out.

Not fell. Jumped, as if pushed from inside the skin. Then the second, the third—one by one they flew out and rang against the marble floor. And the pain came back tenfold.

Tristan's scream didn't sound human. He curled up, both hands clawing at his own arms, like a man whose fingernails were being pulled out one by one; the pain pierced to the core of him. Sweat broke out at once.

"Tristan!" Siska lunged forward.

Karen was faster. She caught Tristan's wrist and pressed two fingers to his pulse, wary. Her face, which had been as calm as a lake all night, slowly darkened. She let out a breath.

"He played a dirty trick," she said, almost in a whisper. And that whisper was more frightening than any shout in the room. "When I tried to suppress the symptoms, I didn't notice there was a hidden internal strength in his meridians. My acupuncture wasn't just useless—it helped that strength spread through his whole body. His condition is worse now."

Siska rose so fast her chair fell over. "Julian is despicable!" she spat. "Tristan only wanted to take back what belonged to his own family, and he's so evil—he wants to kill him! Father should never have adopted him. We should have finished him years ago!"

"Siska." Victoria's voice wasn't loud, but it cut clean. "Mind your status. He is no more than a worm. A worm is not worth your anger." She looked at Tristan, curled and soaked with sweat, and for a moment her face softened. Then it hardened again. "Help suppress his condition. Now. And contact the Divine Doctor at once."

Siska clenched her fists, swallowed her fury, and knelt beside the sofa. She rolled up Tristan's sleeve and pressed both palms onto the points around his shoulder and neck—a technique she had learned from an old police medic, for holding down shock victims. She pressed with all her strength. Sweat dripped from her chin.

"This only keeps it from getting worse," she said between breaths. "Three days. Beyond that, I can't."

"Three days is enough," Karen said. Her hand was already holding her phone.

While her fingers hovered over the screen, she was pulled fifteen years back. She was fifteen, sitting in the hospital library, holding a patient's file upside down. She wanted so badly to be a doctor; her grades were good, but her hands were clumsy, and her diagnoses were often wrong. 

And that night, a message arrived on the social media medical forum she followed. The account had no photo, only a name the world would later call Divine Doctor 1. The man corrected her mistakes one by one, patiently, like a teacher with unlimited time. Whenever she met a difficult case, she begged for his help. Over time they grew close. And one day, he wrote: ‘You will be my only direct disciple.’

Since then the world has admired her. And she had never once asked why a man that big would choose a clumsy girl.

Now she typed: ‘Master. I need you. There is a case I cannot solve.’ She attached three photos: the pattern of the paralyzed hand, the points where the needles jumped out, and a short video of Tristan's pulse.

Tristan, between waves of pain, asked in a small voice, "Will... will the Divine Doctor refuse to treat me?"

"He won't," Siska said, still pressing his shoulder. "You're the patient of his only disciple. There's no way he'd refuse her request."

The phone buzzed. A notification.

"See?" Siska almost smiled. "Check. He must have replied at once."

Karen's eyes shone with pride she didn't bother to hide. She was his only disciple. Her Master always granted her every request. A difficult case like this would surely be solved in minutes.

She opened the message.

Her face filled with shock.

"No—" she cried. "Impossible!”