The Paralel World Doctor

Two Jars

Mr. Wong was still standing in front of the glass cupboard when the small shop fell silent again.

The old key hung between his fingers, but he had not turned it yet. Morning light from the shop window fell across the back of his wrinkled hand, showing the tension in his knuckles. His waist had indeed improved after Peter’s treatment, but his face remained hard, like an old merchant who had heard too many sweet promises from bankrupt men.

“My waist is better, Davis,” he said without turning around. “But your debt record did not heal with it.”

The young clerk beside the medicine rack immediately understood the direction of the wind. A moment ago, he had been embarrassed because Mr. Wong had scolded him, but a flatterer’s tongue never stayed homeless for long. He looked at Peter from behind a box of herbs and said, “Mr. Wong is right. If he runs away again, who do we collect from? The plastic chair in his apartment?”

The old customer in the patterned shirt stroked his chin, his voice slow but clear enough for everyone to hear. “Young people these days are good at talking about medicine, but they forget to pay their debts. If everyone acted like that, medicine shops would turn into charity halls.”

The woman buying herbal medicine pulled her shopping bag closer to her chest. The movement was small, but insulting enough. As if Peter was not merely a debtor, but a thief who might snatch her bag if she blinked too long.

Peter did not answer them. This body’s name was already rotten, and defending himself in front of people who enjoyed smelling decay would only make them feel more entitled to cover their noses. He only looked at Mr. Wong’s back and said, “Write everything down as debt.”

Mr. Wong finally turned. “You can still be this calm?”

“Panic will not lower the price of the herbs.”

The old customer snorted, but this time no laughter followed. Mr. Wong stared at Peter for a while, as if searching for fear on his face. What he found was only fatigue, blood that had not fully recovered, and a pair of eyes too calm for a young man with debt around his neck.

The key finally entered the lock.

The small click sounded more expensive than money. Mr. Wong opened the glass door slowly, and the herbal fragrance stored inside drifted out. It smelled of old roots, dry earth, bitter sap, and a faint coldness like mountain mist. On the middle shelf, two jars stood apart from the other ingredients.

The Red Ginseng in the first jar was golden red, its roots wrinkled like frozen veins of fire. The Snow Lotus in the second jar looked fragile, its pale white petals like dried snow still holding a trace of cold even in the heat of the market. Peter knew these ingredients were not the best compared with the medicine warehouses of Zicari, but on Earth, in the lower city, in the hands of a debtor, those two jars were more valuable than a bag of gold.

Mr. Wong took a small portion, weighed it twice, then wrapped it in oil paper. He did not give much. Even that amount made the young clerk behind him swallow.

“These herbs are expensive,” Mr. Wong said. “Rare too. If my waist had not truly improved, I would have ordered my clerk to drag you out.”

The young clerk hurriedly nodded. “I can call the market guards right now if needed, sir.”

Mr. Wong looked at him flatly. “You would help more by staying quiet.”

The clerk’s face turned red. The woman buying herbs lowered her head and pretended to check her bag, while the old customer turned his cane as though his earlier comments had never come out of his mouth.

Peter accepted the herbal package with both hands. It was light, but the pressure in his chest grew heavier. He was not holding free ingredients. He was holding borrowed time.

Mr. Wong lowered his voice. “The market is not peaceful. Goro’s people have started watching the cheap herbal suppliers. In Central Market, people do not say Goro’s name unless they are ready to lose something.”

The name made the shop even quieter. Even the woman with the shopping bag stopped moving. Peter tucked the package into his jacket.

“I know.”

“Not yet,” Mr. Wong said. “You only know his name.”

Peter did not answer. He left the shop with a body that was still weak, almost no money, a ruined reputation, a massive debt, and seven days that felt like a thin rope around his neck.

Across the street, two strangers stood near a cigarette cart. They did not approach. One of them simply raised his phone, took a photo of the herbal bag in Peter’s hand, then typed a message with a blank face.

Peter saw it in the reflection of the shop window, but his steps did not stop. If Goro wanted to count his breaths, let him start from here.