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: directly dipping the pen tip into an ink bottle, like dipping sauce, to pick up a bit of ink, write a few words, then dip again.

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

Achieving this level of writing quality required a relatively high craftsmanship standard 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 Square in the city center—a shop owned by a church believer, run largely to supply clergy needs. The paper sold here was of excellent quality, but most pens were flat-tipped quills used for copying scriptures.

"Your faith leaves a deep impression," Kraft complimented, observing the rich religious elements in the cramped shop: a carved wooden winged-ring symbol occupied half the wall behind the counter, and an old man wearing a winged-ring amulet read scripture beside a three-pronged candlestick with two tall candles and one low one.

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

"Thank you. Are you looking to buy something?" The old man looked up, interrupted from his reading. He judged Kraft neither a church member nor a seminary student, and his tone grew cool.

"I'd like a regular dip pen, or just the nib alone," Kraft said, glancing at the scripture in the man's hands—a high-quality manuscript. "And I'd like some of this paper too."

"Let me find it." 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 identity could earn him such treatment.

The old man offered no further explanation, merely counting out the paper and handing it over: "Academy people are all good folks."

…

…

Kraft thanked the shopkeeper, then stepped outside clutching the paper and the pen box. He didn't know why, but the discount was truly excellent.

He stuffed the items into the pack strapped to his horse, 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's Square, then heading north along the main north-south road, stopping for food along the way, and arriving at the Venden Harbor Academy's northern district by evening.

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

The church had been built when Saint Simon first came to Venden Harbor to preach, when the town was still small. The academy was founded two or three decades later, with much of its funding coming from the church, which directly led to the Theological College dominating the entire academy, leaving all other colleges sidelined.

Even the academy's iconic bell tower had been fully funded and constructed 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 built to resemble the church's own spire—calling it a church school wouldn't be wrong.

Saint Simon's 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 they still had great trust in the church's cleaning efforts.

As he drew closer, he recognized the two scholars in brown robes he had seen before. One sat beneath the statue of Saint Simon, clutching his left arm, leaning against the base with a pained expression. The other stood nearby, speaking with three men in black clothing, occasionally glancing back at his companion.

As he neared further, Kraft heard their conversation.

"No, really, no need. Just help us find a clinic. Don't trouble yourselves."

"Really? I think he's broken a bone. Let's take him back to the academy—our teachers should all be there." One of the black-clad men rolled up his sleeve, beaming with enthusiasm, completely oblivious to his companion's twisted expression and the hand pulling him away.

But upon hearing this, 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-clad man grabbed his shoulder and yanked 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 at least—not a plant—and waved him over: "You there, sir—could you lend us a hand?"

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

Oh, you're from the Medical College? I just heard about your terrifying rumors.

The enthusiastic medical student still didn't grasp why his classmate didn't want him, and instead insisted on explaining first.

"We're students from the Medical College. Our teacher sent us out to buy experimental materials, and we happened to meet a classmate from the Law College." He explained, his sunlit face visible beneath dark brown curls, his expression of concern familiar to Kraft. "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 experimental material, except he doesn't seem willing.

The "experimental material" interrupted, hastily defending himself: "No, I'm fine! Could you just take me to a nearby clinic? Maybe some ointment will help." His sweat-soaked brow, under this temperature, was not convincing.

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

"May I see it?" Kraft said, noting the man's nervousness. "I'm Kraft Wood. The Wood family earned its honor on the battlefield—I'm familiar with external injuries."

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