The Reincarnation Of The Divine Physician

Chapter 003

Thin morning sunlight pierced the shop's window cracks, illuminating dust dancing in the stagnant air. Arkhan woke up sitting against the floor right where he had collapsed the night before. His body felt stiff, as if rusty wire had replaced his muscles.

He wiped the dried blood from the corner of his mouth. Despite his wrecked physical state, a flicker of satisfaction lit his eyes. After the thugs left last night, he had managed a brief meditation to lock his leaking energy points.

"At least I didn't die in my sleep," he muttered softly.

Arkhan used the wooden desk to haul himself up. His stomach growled again—a sharp hunger far more immediate than the ache in his heart. He checked the cash box beneath the table. Empty, save for a few loose coins not even worth a cup of rice.

He sighed and began tidying his messy clinic. As he swept up shattered plastic chair pieces left from last night's mess, a shadow fell across the crooked doorway.

"Um... excuse me? Is Doctor Arkhan inside?"

Arkhan stopped sweeping. A middle-aged woman stood hesitantly at the entrance. Her clothes were threadbare, her face worn with exhaustion, and her red-rimmed eyes looked as if she had cried all night. In her arms, a five-year-old boy lay limp, his skin covered in terrifying black blotches.

Arkhan narrowed his eyes slightly at the child.

"Come in," Arkhan said flatly.

The woman, Bu Lastri, hurried inside. "Doctor, please help my son! I took him to the clinic, to the big hospital, but they said it was just a regular allergy. But look, Doctor! These black spots keep spreading, and his body is cold as a corpse!"

Arkhan set his broom aside and gestured for her to lay the boy on the examination bed, its vinyl cover torn open. The moment his hand touched the child's skin, a eerily familiar cold sensation crept into his fingertips.

Not a natural illness.

It was a faint trace of "Death Qi"—a subtle mark left by forbidden blood-refining arts once used by the Blood Sect. In this modern world, it was likely waste from a modern alchemy experiment or a leaked synthetic virus.

"Doctor? Can he be cured?" Bu Lastri's voice trembled. "I don't have much money, but I have this..." She pulled out a cloth bundle filled with coins and a few crumpled bills.

Arkhan looked at the money, then at the mother's earnest face. In his past life, Arkhan was an arrogant master who healed only emperors or grand heroes. Yet in this body, watching common folk crushed by a cold system, something inside him stirred.

"Keep your money," Arkhan said quietly. "I need a few ingredients. If you can fetch them from the market now, your son will live."

Arkhan jotted down a few herbs on a scrap of paper: Red Ginger, Aged Papaya Leaves, and Lalang Grass Roots. Cheap items found in any wet market, yet in expert hands, a potent energy catalyst.

An hour later, Bu Lastri returned out of breath with the ingredients. Arkhan set to work immediately. Lacking an alchemy cauldron, he used a small gas stove and an old pot.

As the brew simmered, Arkhan secretly channeled a drop of his purest remaining soul essence into the rising steam. The shop's musty smell gave way to a fresh, calming mountain scent.

"Feed him this," Arkhan said, handing over a glass of warm, deep-green liquid.

The moment it went down his throat, the reaction was instant. The boy gagged, heaving a thick, foul-smelling black liquid onto the floor. Bu Lastri shrieked in panic, but Arkhan silenced her with a sharp look.

"Look at the blotches," Arkhan pointed out.

Miraculously, the black marks faded, replaced by a healthy flush. The boy's raspy breathing smoothed out into a steady rhythm. Moments later, he opened his eyes and called out weakly.

"Mom... I'm hungry," the boy whispered.

Bu Lastri dropped to her knees, sobbing as she pulled her son into a tight hug. "Thank you, Doctor! Thank you! You truly are an angel!"

Arkhan stood silently, a wave of dizziness washing over him as his drained energy took its toll. "Take him home. Keep him away from factories or dark rivers. That's where this sickness came from."

Bu Lastri tried forcing her money on him, but Arkhan refused. She left promising to spread the word about his skill across the entire market.

Word traveled fast. Within hours, news of the "Miracle Doctor in Crescent Alley" spread like wildfire. One after another, low-income folk who couldn't afford hospitals began flooding his clinic.

An old man with chronic rheumatism walked out pain-free after a single press. A man with a severe ulcer watched his wound dry instantly. Arkhan treated them all, charging no fixed f*e. Some paid with a packed meal, others brought a sack of rice, and a few offered farm-fresh eggs.

That night, Arkhan didn't go hungry. His table was piled with enough food for days.

As he ate his meal, his eyes drifted to a grainy picture on an old television flickering in the corner.

"...The health of prominent business tycoon, Mr. Wijaya, continues to deteriorate. The Wijaya family has announced a one billion rupiah reward for any doctor or specialist who can cure his mysterious illness..."

On screen, a striking young woman with long black hair appeared—her cold demeanor failing to hide her deep anxiety. Luna Wijaya.

Arkhan stopped chewing. He studied the subtle aura surrounding Mr. Wijaya's photograph on screen. It was identical to the black spots on the boy from this morning, only a thousand times more concentrated.

"One billion?" Arkhan let out a faint smile. "Looks like the ingredients I need for the Bronze Vessel Stage just found their way to me."

He glanced at the silver needle he had just sanitized. Today he healed commoners, but tomorrow, he would shake the world of the rich.