Chapter 13: Chapter Twelve: Local Specialties in Doctor-Patient Communication

Having temporarily shaken off the strange feeling, Kraft began searching for a shop selling paper and pens; he wanted a finely crafted dip pen.

Ink reservoirs had not yet appeared in this world, and ballpoint pens were still far in the future. Everyone still used a simple but inefficient method: dipping the pen tip directly into an ink bottle, like scooping soy sauce, writing a few words, then dipping again.

Those skilled at it appeared elegant; those unaccustomed looked like they were dipping soy sauce—especially when using an inkstone. But this method had one advantage: the soft, thin metal nib of a dip pen could produce smooth, naturally varying stroke widths when held at the correct angle. Due to the pen’s structure, the cursive writing styles of both worlds were essentially identical.

Such writing quality required a higher level of craftsmanship than was common here to produce suitable nibs; if you wanted a good one, buy it from a specialized shop.

Kraft walked the length of the street until he found what he sought beside Saint Simon’s Church Square in the city center. The shopkeeper was a church believer who ran the store largely to supply clergy; the paper was of excellent quality, but most pens were flat-tipped quills used for copying sacred texts.

“Your faith leaves a deep impression,” Kraft complimented, observing the shop’s rich religious elements—the carved wooden winged-circle symbol occupied half the wall behind the counter, and an elderly man with a winged-circle amulet read scripture beside a tall triple candlestick.

The candlestick was unlit; midday sunlight streamed through the window, dust motes floating in the stale air, tracing the shape of light beams. He browsed the shop briefly before speaking.

“Thank you. Are you looking to buy something?” The elderly man looked up, interrupted from his reading. He recognized neither a church member nor a Shenxue Academy student, and his tone grew cool.

“I’d like a regular dip pen, or just the nib if that’s all you have,” Kraft said, glancing at the scripture in the man’s hands—a high-quality handwritten copy. “And I’d like some of this paper too.”

“Let me see.” The shopkeeper rose from his stool and walked to the shelves, picking up a box. “Are you a student from the academy?”

“No, but my teacher comes from the academy.”

“Then I can give you a discount.” The old man turned, placing the open box on the counter. Inside lay a dip pen with a brass nib and a smooth, polished pine shaft. “And this paper—writes smoother than parchment.”

“Huh?” Kraft was surprised. He had never imagined Anderson’s affiliation would grant him such treatment.

The old man offered no further explanation, merely counting out the paper and handing it over. “All academy people are good folks.”

…

…

Kraft thanked the shopkeeper and stepped out, clutching the paper and the pen box. He didn’t know why, but the discount was truly welcome.

He stowed the items in the pack strapped to his horse’s back, then led the animal through the square, enjoying the afternoon sunlight. It was the warmest part of the day; winter’s chill had been driven from the earth, and he could finally take a long walk—starting from Saint Simon Square, then heading north along the main road, stopping for food along the way, and arriving at the Wendeng Harbor Academy’s northern district by evening.

The academy and the church, Wendeng Harbor’s two most important buildings, stood at opposite ends—one on the city’s northern outskirts, the other near the harbor in the center—and the academy clearly looked inferior, and indeed was.

The church had been built when Saint Simon first came to Wendeng Harbor to preach, when the town was still small. The academy came twenty or thirty years later, with much of its funding provided by the church—leading directly to the Shenxue Academy’s overwhelming dominance within the entire institution, leaving all other academies sidelined.

Even the academy’s iconic bell tower had been fully funded and built by the church, its interior and exterior designed by the church’s own architects. Every time the bell rang and one looked up, there stood a tower indistinguishable from the church’s own spire—calling it a church school wouldn’t be inaccurate.

Saint Simon Square was still relatively clean in winter; bird droppings and snow had both been cleared away. The fact that people sat directly on the ground suggested strong trust in the church’s cleaning efforts.

Closer inspection revealed the two scholars in brown robes he had seen earlier. One sat beneath the Saint Simon statue, clutching his left arm, leaning against the pedestal in obvious pain. The other stood nearby, speaking with three men in black robes, frequently glancing back at his companion.

As he drew nearer, Kraft overheard their conversation.

“No, really, no need. Just help us find a clinic—we don’t want to trouble you.”

“Really? I think he’s broken a bone. Let’s take him back to the academy—our teachers are all there.” One of the black-robed men rolled up his sleeve, beaming with enthusiasm, completely oblivious to his companion’s pained expression and the desperate tugging at his arm.

But the brown-robed scholar refused even more firmly: “We’re truly grateful, but it’s truly unnecessary—he’s only a minor injury.”

The man on the ground was drenched in sweat from pain, yet forced a weak smile to support his companion’s words: “Yes, I already feel much better. I’m sorry to waste your time.”

This was as clear as it could be, yet the enthusiastic man still refused to give up, reaching out with a concerned hand to help. Another black-robed man grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back hard.

The brown-robed scholar stepped forward, placing himself between his companion and the strangers, scanning the square for help. The winter afternoon square was empty—only Kraft remained nearby.

He noticed Kraft’s sword scabbard, his well-made clothing, and his cloak, judging him a minor noble—certainly not an accomplice—and waved him over: “Sir over there, could you lend us a hand?”

Kraft thought he understood. Black robes—academy students. The others feared them, as if this were a public abduction. Combined with their words, the answer seemed clear.

Oh, you’re from the Faxue Academy? I’ve just heard your terrifying rumors.

The enthusiastic Faxue student still didn’t grasp why his classmate needed help from a stranger instead of him, but he rushed to explain anyway.

“We’re students from the Faxue Academy. Our teacher sent us out to buy lab materials, and we happened upon this student from the Wenxue Academy.” He explained, his sunlit face visible beneath dark brown curls, his expression one Kraft recognized well. “He seems to have a fracture—could you help us take him back? I don’t trust outside clinics.”

Hmm, I see—you’re negotiating with your lab material, except he doesn’t seem willing.

The “lab material” interrupted, hastily defending himself: “No, I’m fine! Just take me to a nearby clinic—I’ll probably heal with some ointment.” Given the current temperature, his drenched forehead wasn’t convincing.

His companion tried to add something, but Kraft cut him off.

“May I take a look?” Kraft said, noting the man’s nervousness. “I’m Kraft Wood. The Wood family earned its honor on the battlefield—I’m familiar with wounds.”

The part of him from the other world was no stranger to this situation, and the part from this world knew exactly how to gain trust quickly.