Eni sat in her kitchen, ravenously devouring a bowl of hot stew prepared by Mina. Every journey through the Obelisk drained the life out of her, and the encounter with the Plague Doctor in that silent, vine-choked city had left a bitter, metallic tang of anxiety in her mouth. She had barely swallowed the last spoonful when a blow struck the front door—not a knock, but a violent slam, as if someone intended to take the frame down with it.
Captain Joe stood on the threshold. His face was flushed crimson, his tricorne had slipped to the back of his head, and it looked as though steam might start whistling from his nostrils at any moment. "HOW DARE A WOMAN BRING OUTSIDERS HERE WITHOUT CLEARANCE FROM THE FLEET?!" he roared, flailing his arms. "DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND THE CONCEPT OF SUBORDINATION, YOU MENACE TO DUNG HEAPS?!"
The Plague Doctor, standing behind the captain’s shoulder, gave a performative and very loud cough. The sound was dry and mechanical, as if gears had shifted deep within his mask. "Captain," the Doctor’s voice was ice-cold, "do you know this woman?"
"YES!" Joe spun toward him, seeking an ally. "She is the literal embodiment of HELL! She drove off the investors, she... you should conduct a full search immediately and—"
The Doctor cut him off again. This time, his tone carried a note of profound, almost philosophical irritation. "Captain, I realize that for a man whose brain functions exclusively in the mode of primitive slogans and barracks-room profanity, any structured argumentation feels like redundant noise. However, your total inability to process what I stated earlier is not a methodological problem of mine, but a catastrophic deficit in your basic education. I shall repeat the question for you: DO. YOU. KNOW. THIS. GIRL?"
Joe opened his mouth, closed it, and blinked several times, trying to digest the verbal assault. The Doctor's sophisticated vocabulary hit him like a bucket of cold water. His bravado vanished instantly, replaced by a sullen mumble. "Yes... I... I know her. Curse my ship to the depths, I know her!" He cast a sidelong glance at Eni, who continued to chew calmly, ignoring his outburst. "And... Doc won't hurt you, you salted, pickled head of a mackerel forgotten in a hold for five years!"
Having delivered this dubious tirade to salvage his shattered ego, Joe stepped aside. Eni gave a detached nod. She had long since realized the Captain was merely a loud piece of scenery.
Without waiting for an invitation, the Doctor stepped unceremoniously into the house. His figure, shrouded in black, felt like a foreign object in Mina’s cozy interior. He approached the woman, who was frozen by the stove. "Forgive us," the Doctor said, tilting his head. "But we must proceed with the necessary vaccinations. This procedure is to eliminate potential pathogens from the Silent City and to stimulate regeneration in Eni. In your species... it is lamentably weak."
Without a word, Mina cleared the table, swept away the crumbs, and vanished into the corridor, ushering the children away. She sensed that arguing with the creature in the mask was not only futile but life-threatening.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The Doctor pulled a spherical metal object—resembling a mechanical apple—from his bottomless bag, placed it in the center of the table, and flicked a small lever. A second later, a dull thump echoed through the room—BOOM!—and the kitchen was engulfed in a thick, pungent grey fog. Eni and Joe began to cough violently, waving their hands in front of their faces.
"Be calm," the Doctor said flatly, his black-gloved hands skillfully laying out syringes, flasks of shimmering liquids, strange tablets, and copper instruments. "This is alchemy. Pure science."
Eni, wiping tears from the smoke, looked at him with pure distrust. "What’s with the explosions? Are you out of your mind?"
"Disinfection and catalysis," the Doctor replied, prepping a syringe. "Regrettably, magic in this world is extremely temperamental. So much so that even most gods cannot utilize it to its full potential... with rare exceptions. Unlike common magic, which adepts draw from the ether, Alchemy depends on the internal conductivity of the host."
He paused, checking the needle's tip. "No one knows exactly why, in a world where the concentration of magic is higher than the carbon dioxide levels, no one can cast a spell with a simple snap of the fingers. But Mr. Nickincki has a theory."
"Magic is like matter, Eni. If there is critically little of it, it behaves like a Gas—it penetrates everywhere but barely interacts with substance. If there is a moderate amount, it is like Water—fluid, yielding, yet firm enough. The perfect balance. Но when magic is too abundant, it becomes like a Solid, a monolithic metal. And just as metal cannot simply flow through our bodies, we, in trying to cast a spell, cannot force this iron blockade of reality to change its shape. We are trapped in a world that is too dense for miracles."
Joe, unable to endure the intellectual lecture, silently left the house, slamming the door. Eni listened with a racing heart. Nickincki’s theory explained everything: why her artifacts worked on their own, and why there were almost no mages in this world.
"However..." the Doctor held the syringe to the light; the liquid inside was as clear as a mountain spring. "There are exceptions. Stark—the Star God and a fellow Archon—is one who can wield immense magic. As a representative of a giant race, his internal magical density is so great that it is like a desperate beast in a cage. It bursts through the 'metal' of the outer world, deforming reality to his will."
With those words, the Doctor calmly and confidently pierced Eni’s skin. She didn't even flinch—the Doctor’s hand was steady and precise, and the liquid caused no discomfort.
A minute of silence stretched on, broken only by the cawing of passing crows. Eni stared at the plague mask, trying to see the eyes behind the glass lenses. "Um... excuse me, but..." she hesitated, her voice trembling with uncharacteristic honesty. "After... all this... will you teach me how to fight? For real? I’m still only surviving on tricks, traps, and lucky breaks. I don't think I’ll last long against serious enemies. So I was thinking..."
The Doctor froze. He slowly set aside the empty syringe and fell silent, as if calculating the perfect formula for an answer. "Very well," he finally said, and a hint of something like approval touched his voice. "Cunning is a sign of intellect. Technique is a guarantee of survival."
The following hour turned into an exhaustive medical ordeal. Ten more injections, blood draws, reflex checks, and bone density measurements. Eni sat in the kitchen, sipping tea brought by Mina, nervously awaiting the verdict. When the Doctor returned after reviewing the results, he looked... perplexed.
"Eni, your vitals... they are perfect," he said with a note of disbelief. "Remarkably rare for a creature living in conditions of constant peril. However..." he glanced at his notebook, "my sensors recorded a history of 1,576 fractures over the recent months, which is... anomalous. According to the trace in your DNA, your bones have broken and knitted thousands of times. Otherwise, your labs are within normal limits, aside from an abnormally high level of Endorphins in your system."
Eni gave a bitter smirk. She knew where those fractures came from—her survival in this hellish world had been anything but humane.
The Doctor gestured for her to follow him outside. They stood on the sun-drenched courtyard of the island, facing one another. The Plague Doctor adjusted his gloves and slid his heavy bag off his shoulder.
"Since I have a small window of time before my next experiment, I shall grant you... thirty minutes," his voice became dry and instructional. "I believe that will be sufficient for a start. Combat is not a dance, nor is it a trick. It is the anatomically precise elimination of biological obstacles. Attack me, Eni. Use your cunning. I, for my part, shall not move an inch."
