The Paralel World Doctor

Two Jars Behind the Old Cupboard

Morning came without mercy.

Gray light slipped through the window of Apartment 307, falling over moldy plates, empty bottles, bills, and a floor that had not been cleaned. Peter woke with a body that felt dragged over stone. His side ached from Hector’s strike, his left arm carried the mark of Skull’s chain, and his chest still felt hollow after forcing his thin Qi to work last night.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and counted money from his jacket, drawer, and old trousers. The amount was pitiful, enough for cheap food and transport, not enough to pay the ten million he owed Mr. Wong, let alone the one hundred and fifty million owed to Goro. On the table, Margaret Davis’s hospital notice remained open. Beside it lay the Central Market receipt taken from the thug’s pocket.

In Zicari, one low grade pill could buy a courtyard house. Here, without license, reputation, or a clean name, even a miracle could be called fraud. Peter understood that as he washed with slow running cold water, put on the cleanest shirt he could find, and left the apartment.

Central Market was already waking.

Vegetable sellers pulled open wet tarps. Motorcycle taxi drivers lined up near the bend with plastic cups of coffee. A porridge stall released thin steam, drawing factory workers with tired faces. Between secondhand phone shops, prepaid card kiosks, and cheap beauty clinic signs, an old herbal store stood like an object left from another era.

Healthy Prosperity Traditional Medicine Shop.

The wooden sign was faded, but the glass window was clean. Inside, shelves were filled with jars of dried roots, bark, medicinal seeds, and paper packets labeled by hand. The smell of herbs greeted Peter as soon as he entered, bitter, warm, and far more honest than the perfume of a karaoke room.

Behind the counter, an old short man was counting receipts. His hair had gone white at the sides, his glasses rested low on his nose, and his waist tilted slightly to the right despite his effort to stand straight. When he looked up and recognized Peter, his face changed at once.

“If you came to borrow again, the door is still where it was,” Mr. Wong said flatly. “Use it from the outside.”

A young clerk arranging medicine boxes turned around. Two customers near the herbal shelf also looked over. A woman held a shopping bag, while an old man in a patterned shirt leaned on a cane and examined Peter from head to toe.

Peter was not offended. This body’s name was bad, and debt did not vanish just because his soul had returned.

“I need Red Ginseng and Snow Lotus,” he said.

The air in the shop changed.

Mr. Wong slammed the receipt down. “Two years ago, you also claimed to know a rare formula. I lost ten million and three customers because of your nonsense. That debt is still unpaid, and now you ask for more expensive herbs. Do you think my shop is a charity house?”

The young clerk stepped forward, eager to defend his employer. “Mr. Wong, call security. If you give this kind of man a chair, he’ll ask for the cupboard next.”

The old customer snorted. “Young people now call debt an opportunity. If he is a doctor, then I am an imperial physician.”

The woman glanced at Peter’s face and whispered loudly enough to be heard, “Not a bad face, too bad the mouth belongs to a fraud.”

Peter let them talk. In a small shop, three mouths were enough to strip someone naked in public. The clerk smiled crookedly, the old customer lifted his chin like justice itself, and the woman hugged her shopping bag closer, afraid her reputation would get dirty if she stood too near.

Mr. Wong pointed toward the door. “Leave before I get truly angry.”

“Every dawn, your right waist feels stabbed,” Peter said. “If you bend too long, the pain runs down to your left calf.”

The old customer’s cane stopped tapping.

Mr. Wong stared at him. “What?”

Peter had seen the old man’s left hand pressing the counter, his short breath each time he leaned forward, the heavy smell of warming ointment under the herbs, and the outer side of his right shoe worn down from uneven weight.

“You’ve been leaning since I entered,” Peter continued. “Your left hand presses the counter, not because you’re tired. You use ointment too often because external medicine no longer works. When you picked up that receipt, your breath broke halfway. This morning’s pain was worse than usual.”

The clerk laughed stiffly. “Everyone old has back pain.”

“Not every back pain numbs the left leg when going downstairs,” Peter said.

Mr. Wong did not laugh. The old customer looked toward his feet, and the woman lowered her head as if the symptom could be seen on the floor.

Mr. Wong’s face hardened. “Did you peek at my medical notes?”

“I looked at how you stand.”

“Enough.” Mr. Wong grabbed a small cane near the counter. “Don’t use empty talk to cheat a medicine shop.”

He moved to drive Peter away, but the first step changed his face. His hand gripped the counter. His back bent, his breath caught, and sweat appeared at his temple.

“Mr. Wong!” the young clerk panicked, but only circled uselessly.

The woman covered her mouth. “It really flared up.”

The old customer hurried to sound wise. “Mr. Wong, don’t let him treat you. People like this will claim to be doctors after seeing you in pain.”

Peter did not force his way closer. An old man’s pride could be harder than aching bones.

“If I’m wrong, I leave and never step into this shop again,” Peter said. “If I’m right, you listen to one request.”

“Don’t believe him,” the clerk said.

The old customer became interested. “Let him try. If he fails, we’ll all be witnesses.”

Mr. Wong gritted his teeth. His face was pale from pain, but his eyes remained hard. “You have one minute.”

“I don’t need that long.”

Peter stepped closer, took a needle from his sleeve, and paused so Mr. Wong could see his hand. He did not use a major technique. His Qi was too thin, and Mr. Wong’s illness had been there too long. Fully healing it now would only make him collapse and make fools call it magic.

He only needed relief.

The first needle entered near the waist. The second touched the side of the knee. Peter’s finger pressed a point on the left calf, slow and exact. Mr. Wong inhaled sharply, then the curse in his throat stopped as the pain biting his waist seemed to be drawn out of the nerve.

His shoulders dropped. His breath returned, and the shop went silent because everyone had seen it happen.

Peter withdrew the last needle and stepped back. “Stand straight.”

Mr. Wong tried with hesitation. His back rose, not perfectly, but far better than before. He lifted his left foot, lowered it, then looked at Peter with an expression that was no longer entirely anger.

The clerk opened his mouth. “Maybe it’s a coincidence.”

The old customer cleared his throat. “Sometimes talent hides beneath disorder.”

The woman said softly, “Maybe this young man isn’t all nonsense.”

The clerk quickly smiled. “Mr. Davis seems to understand a little.”

Mr. Wong turned sharply. “You were the loudest one telling me to throw him out.”

The clerk lowered his head, his ears reddening. The old customer pretended to read a jar label. The woman shifted her bag against her chest as if it could cover her earlier words.

Peter ignored them. Fast turning tongues were not worth following.

Mr. Wong sat down slowly. His suspicion remained, now mixed with calculation. Merchants did not trust easily, especially debtors, and those who had been deceived counted twice before opening any drawer.

“My waist is better,” Mr. Wong said stiffly. “Your debt is not.”

Peter nodded. “Your waist improved. My debt didn’t. I know the difference.”

“What do you want?”

“Not free. A chance. Red Ginseng and Snow Lotus. I use them first, then pay after the first result.”

Mr. Wong laughed coldly. “Every fraud has a first result in his mouth.”

Peter looked at his left foot. “The formula you took these past three months went the wrong way. It warmed the pain, but trapped dampness below. That is why your waist felt better briefly, while your left leg became heavier each morning.”

Mr. Wong’s face shifted slightly.

“If you continue,” Peter said, “in three months, you won’t stand crooked. You’ll sit.”

The shop became silent again. This time, no customer dared interrupt.

Mr. Wong stared at Peter for a long while. Then he rose carefully and walked to the locked cupboard behind the cashier. He moved stiffly, but easier than before, and everyone saw it. He took a key from the small chain at his waist and stopped before the cloudy glass.

Behind it, two small jars caught the morning light. One held dark red roots. The other held dry white petals like snow.

Mr. Wong held the key but did not turn it.

“Davis,” he said without looking back, “if you trick me again, I won’t collect money. I’ll hand your name to Goro.”

Peter looked at the jars. For the first time since returning to Earth, the way out did not come from needles that paralyzed men, but from two small medicines waiting behind an old cupboard.