Consulting a medical practitioner sat at the very top of Kyro's to-do list, which made crossing it off as soon as possible all the more urgent. The sooner he was medically cleared, the sooner he could start untangling the bigger, uglier questions circling his mind.
With that in mind, he arrived at his second stop of the day: a squat, two-storey building with a plain white exterior. A crooked sign hung above the doorway, its faded ink barely legible.
Oden Remedies, it said.
Mika Oden—sole proprietor and Kyro's default choice for treatment, largely because she was the only competent option within reasonable distance—was a fair, dark-skinned woman in her late thirties. Long black locks streaked with premature grey were pulled back in a loose ponytail. White scrubs that had clearly seen better days hung from her taller-than-average frame, emphasising function over flattery.
She had once worked at a Restoration Sanctuary downtown before quitting and relocating to the District a few years back. That was about all Kyro knew about her.
At present, they sat inside one of her workstations: a small, borderline claustrophobic room lined with shelves of dried herbs, murky glass bottles, and tools he couldn't identify. The sharp scent of mint mingled with something metallic and stung his nose.
"Let's see the wound," Mika said without preamble, already reaching for a pair of scissors and a fresh roll of bandages.
Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Kyro hadn't waited long for his turn. Sickness and disease were rampant throughout the Ashen District, but few residents could afford treatment. A grim reality, though one that worked in his favour today.
He nodded and carefully removed his jacket, then his shirt. Only then did the thought hit him.
This was the first time he'd ever undressed in front of a girl.
Well. A woman, technically. But still.
Not exactly how I pictured this milestone, Kyro thought as Mika knelt beside him and began unwrapping the crude bandages. The room fell quiet, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional metallic clink of her tools.
When the wound was fully exposed, Mika didn't flinch. No sharp intake of breath. No comment. Just a tightening of her lips before she reached for a nearby pouch.
Kyro cleared his throat. "Uhm… is it bad?"
"It's healing," she said flatly. "No stitches required."
Kyro let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He'd suspected his life was no longer in any immediate danger, but hearing it confirmed by a licensed professional was considerably more reassuring. The no-stitches part was an unexpected bonus. He wasn't exactly afraid of needles, but given the choice, he'd always pick the alternative.
Meanwhile, Mika rummaged through her supplies. She retrieved a small jar of green salve and began adding ingredients: powdered herbs, a few drops from an unlabelled vial, and something that looked suspiciously like crushed stone. Her movements were brisk, efficient, the motions of someone who had done this hundreds of times.
"What is that stuff?" Kyro asked, grasping for conversation.
"Fleshknit paste. It'll accelerate recovery," Mika replied shortly.
Okay. Not a talker. Kyro could respect tha—
Before he could finish the thought, Mika pressed the paste directly onto the wound.
He hissed as cold pain flared, then dulled into a spreading numbness. Her fingers were firm but precise as she worked the mixture in, ensuring every inch of the injury was coated.
"How long until it heals?" Kyro asked through gritted teeth.
"A week, at most," Mika replied. "Come back if you see no improvement, or if it worsens."
"Okay. Thanks." Kyro paused. "Wait, worsens?"
"Of course," Mika replied matter-of-factly. "I'm a medic, not a healer. People around here confuse the two constantly, but they're not even remotely the same."
Heat crept into Kyro's cheeks. "I—is that so?"
He was definitely one of those people. Not that anyone in the slums got much formal education on the nuances of Ascendant abilities.
"A healer is a full-fledged Ascendant who uses Ascension Arts to mend, treat, and cure," Mika explained as she rewrapped the wound. "A medic relies on medical knowledge alone. No Cosmic Energy involved whatsoever."
"Oh. So does that mean anyone can be a medic?"
"Pretty much."
"Wait, so you're not—"
"An Ascendant?" Mika finished, a faint smile finally touching her lips. "I am. Just not in the way you think. Honestly? You and I aren't that different. At least not in the ways that really matter."
She tied off the bandage with a neat flick.
"My point is, my treatments usually work. But there's always a margin for error. Allergic reactions. Undiagnosed conditions. Bad luck. Medic-treated patients have a higher mortality rate than those treated by healers, that's just fact."
Kyro swallowed, no longer sure how to feel about the treatment he'd just received.
"You can scrape the paste off if you've had a change of heart," Mika said, as though she'd read his mind. "The side effects, if any, won't be fatal. Probably. Just don't expect a refund."
He opened his mouth to protest, but the medic—not a healer—cut him off smoothly.
"Of course," she added, lifting her almond-shaped silver eyes to his, "I could offer better treatment. Assuming you feel like explaining how you got that wound. And what you did to make it look like that."
Her gaze held his. Calm. Clinical. Expectant.
A beat passed.
"On second thought," Kyro said, forcing a sheepish grin, "I think I'll be fine."
"I thought so." Mika smirked, already packing away her tools. "Take care, Kyro Malarc. Try not to overexert yourself."
Wait. How did she know his name?
"And for what it's worth..." Her eyes lingered on the fresh bandage, professional concern edged with unmistakable warning. "I wouldn't go anywhere near whoever, or whatever, did that to you again. A few inches deeper, and no medic or healer within a thousand miles could've saved you."
Well.
That definitely put things into perspective.