He straightened involuntarily, voice cautious. "What would that be, sir?"
Choi's smile widened—not with warmth, but with calculation. It was the kind of smile that belonged not to a gentle elder, but to someone who had once moved pawns across a battlefield, whether political or otherwise.
His voice dropped, quiet and smooth like oil on water. "A perfect plan… to ensure they can't lift a single finger while they're in this village."
The silence that followed was thick, pulsing with unspoken intentions. Outside, a single petal floated past the windowpane. It brushed against the wood and disappeared.
Genie rushed ahead, her hand trembling slightly as she pushed open the wooden door with a loud creak. The hinges groaned in protest.
"Is anyone here? Is this the clinic?" she called out, her voice echoing into the darkness.
The interior of the small house was cloaked in shadows. No lanterns burned, no footsteps answered. Only stillness greeted her cry.
Behind her, Jade stepped in, the child still slumped against his back, his breathing faint and uneven. The air inside was cool, carrying the scent of old wood, dried herbs, and something faintly metallic—like forgotten tools.
Creeeeak.
The door swung closed behind them, shutting out the gray light of the overcast afternoon. The soft thud of its latch made the silence all the more suffocating.
Jade's voice joined hers, quieter, more cautious. "Is anyone here?"
Still, no response.
Genie turned to him, her brow furrowed with worry.
"What do we do? It looks like no one's here…"
But before Jade could answer, a faint sound broke the silence.
Rustle.
It came from deeper inside the house—soft but unmistakable. Like the brushing of cloth against wood.
Genie's eyes snapped toward the direction of the sound. Her voice was sharper now, desperate.
"Is someone there?! Please, we have a child who's hurt!"
For a few heartbeats, the house was still again.
Then—click—a soft glow began to spread across the ceiling, pushing back the shadows. A lantern flame flickered to life above, casting golden circles of light across the beams.
"Huh?" Genie whispered, blinking up toward the glow.
From the attic stairway above, footsteps descended—measured, steady. A figure slowly emerged, cloaked in a dark shawl, holding a lantern high. The warm light illuminated a lined face—an elderly woman with sharp, discerning eyes that studied the pair below as if already guessing what had happened before a word was spoken.
Jade also turned his gaze toward the light above.
"Are you the doctor, perhaps?" Genie called up toward the dim stairwell, her voice tight with urgency.
A hoarse, gravelly voice responded from above.
"Who's there…?"
Moments later, the lanternlight revealed an old man descending the creaking stairs. He wore a long, rough coat and had a coarse white beard that spilled down to his chest like tangled thread. In one hand, he clutched an oil lantern that swung gently with each step; in the other, he steadied himself on the worn banister. Thick, round glasses sat low on his nose, giving him a slightly owlish look.
As soon as Genie saw him, her eyes widened with relief.
"There's a child—he's unconscious! Please, help him!"
She rushed toward the doctor as Jade stepped forward, turning slightly to reveal the limp boy still draped across his back.
The old man adjusted his glasses and peered at the child. With a sharp sniff and a clearing of his throat, he lifted the spectacles briefly, squinting as he studied the boy's pale face and motionless form.
Finally, he let out a rough cough and looked back at them with a strange calmness in his weathered features.
"The child's unconscious…" he muttered. Then, after a pause, added in a grim tone, "This sort of thing happens often in this village."
Genie stared at him, stunned.
"What…? What do you mean by that?"
Her fingers gripped his sleeve instinctively.
"Wait—no, before anything else—please, help the child!"
The doctor gave a small grunt and pointed a gnarled finger toward a wooden bed nestled in the far corner of the room, covered in a simple quilt and surrounded by small wooden shelves of aged medicine bottles and dried herbs.
"Lay the child down over there," he said.
Without hesitation, Jade crossed the room, moving with quiet swiftness. He knelt beside the bed and gently lowered the boy onto the mattress, adjusting his limbs and pulling the blanket up over his chest. The child's head lolled to one side, his breathing shallow and unsteady.
The doctor let out another raspy cough, the sound rough like gravel shifting in his chest. Without a word, he reached toward a wooden panel on the wall and pulled a small, nearly invisible latch. A faint click echoed through the quiet room, and a narrow drawer slid out from the wall.
From within, he retrieved a bundle of dried herbs—brittle, dark, and curled at the edges. Whatever it was, Genie couldn't recognize it. The strange scent, bitter and smoky, hit her nose as he unwrapped it.
He shuffled over to the small table beside the bed and placed the herb on a stone mortar. With slow, practiced movements, he began grinding it with a heavy pestle, the cracking sound of crushed leaves filling the stillness of the room.
Genie and Jade stood behind him, silent, unmoving. The dim lanternlight cast their shadows long across the wooden walls. Outside, the wind pressed faintly against the house, as if the whole village were holding its breath.
The herb slowly turned to fine, dusky powder. The doctor wiped his hands on a cloth, then lifted a small wooden basin filled with water from the nearby shelf. He knelt beside the child, who still lay unconscious, his brow pale and damp with cold sweat.
Carefully, the doctor poured the powder into the boy's slightly parted lips, then tilted the basin under the child's chin, letting a trickle of water follow. A few drops spilled over, wetting the boy's collar.
Once finished, the doctor sat back on his heels and turned to face them.
"The worst is over," he said, his voice quieter now. "He should wake soon."
With that, he picked up the lantern from the stool and began walking slowly back toward the stairs, the light bobbing with each step.
But Genie couldn't let him leave—not yet.
"Sir!" she called out, stepping forward. "Do you know why the child collapsed?!"
The doctor stopped mid-step.
Slowly, he turned to face her. The lantern's glow flickered across his face, catching the lines etched deep in his skin and the sorrow flickering in his aged eyes.
Genie held her breath, her fists clenched at her sides. She could feel Jade tense beside her.
For a long moment, the doctor said nothing.
Then, in a voice heavy with things long kept buried, he murmured, "You… you truly don't know the secret of this village…"
An eerie stillness crept into Genie's chest, wrapping around her heart like a cold mist. It wasn't just the wind rattling the shutters, or the dying light filtering through the cracked glass of the apothecary windows—it was something deeper. A presence. A warning.
The old physician, hunched beneath the weight of years and secrets, turned from the shelf of tinctures and fixed her with eyes dulled by more than just age. His voice, barely more than a rasp, trembled with something unspoken.
"What do you mean…?" Genie asked, her words hushed, brittle in the thick silence.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, his withered hand, blotched and shaking, slowly lifted and pointed out the window—toward the village.
"That place," he said, his tone hollow, distant, as though speaking of a memory too painful to touch. "It's not the kind of peaceful countryside village you think it is."
Outside, the sun sagged low, casting long shadows across the cobblestone lanes. The air felt too quiet—too perfectly still. Genie followed his gaze, but the view offered no answers. Just cottages with neatly thatched roofs, gardens untended, doors closed, and people… if they could still be called that… moving with slow, mechanical rhythm.
A knot tightened in her stomach.
The physician's eyes flicked to her, then to Jade. His lips pressed together in a grim line, and when he spoke again, it was with a sorrow that seemed carved into every wrinkle of his face.
"You're not wrong to feel it. There's something… wrong here. Deeply wrong. Not just superstition. Not just coincidence. The things I've seen…" His voice trailed off into a whisper, as if he feared being heard.
Genie could feel Jade stiffen beside her. They had spoken of this—those moments when the villagers' eyes glazed over, as if watching something no one else could see. The way laughter never reached their mouths. The way time felt elastic, stretched thin, here.
The physician drew in a ragged breath.
"There's only one thing I can tell you," he said, with a finality that sent a shiver down Genie's spine. "Leave this village. Quickly."
His words fell like stones into the room, heavy, unmoving.
Silence followed, deep and contemplative.
Genie's brow furrowed. She met the old man's gaze and saw it there—fear, yes, but guilt too. He was keeping something back. Something he was too afraid to name.
"You must have your reasons," she said finally, voice low, steady.