Chapter 16

When Kraft entered, his hands were empty; when he emerged, he held a brand-new medical academy uniform, tucked three books under his arm, and wore a badge on his collar, accompanied out by Professor Karlmann and Lu Xiusi.

Ryan, aided by the professor’s lantern light, saw the badge: an open book, its left page bearing the winged circle emblem of Church involvement, its right page framed by spruce branches around a bell tower—the emblem of Wendeng Harbor Academy.

In his memory, he’d only ever seen such badges on faculty members within the academy—Teacher Anderson had one. This was deeply confusing; he knew Kraft’s level well—barely able to read books fluently—so how had he earned an academy badge in just one afternoon?

“This must be Mr. Kraft’s cousin, yes? The Wood family’s profound mastery in medicine makes me feel ashamed of my own professorial title,” Professor Karlmann stepped forward, flashing Ryan the eager, wheedling smile of a street vendor trying to pry coins from his hand, “so I boldly requested Mr. Kraft to serve as our medical academy’s lecturer. Should you ever have free time, please do visit the academy—whether you teach or not is irrelevant.”

“?”

Ryan understood not a single thread of logic in that statement; his face remained blank with confusion. The word “medicine,” he frankly admitted, could hardly be paired with the Wood family. To combine “lecturer,” “medical mastery,” and “Wood family” in one sentence without a negation seemed linguistically impossible.

“Sorry I’m late, Cousin Ryan,” Kraft swiftly admitted fault, then mounted Ma Pi and gestured for Ryan to climb up. “Thank you for your hospitality, Professor Karlmann.” After a brief farewell, Kraft swiftly led the bewildered Ryan into the night, preventing him from asking questions that would leave them all unable to explain.

…

…

“So when exactly did we acquire this family medical mastery?”

The two found a still-open inn. Finding an inn at this hour wasn’t hard—Wendeng Harbor’s nighttime illuminated buildings were few: bars, certain establishments, or places combining both; the remaining eighty percent were likely inns.

Before retiring to their rooms, Ryan finally asked the question. It wasn’t that he was overly curious—it was just too bizarre, equivalent to the class bottom-feeder suddenly acing the college entrance exam and getting into a top-tier national university’s gold-standard major.

A parent’s first reaction wouldn’t be joy—it would be suspicion: Where did this kid find a shill to trick me?

Ryan was technically Kraft’s peer, but being a few years older, he matured earlier. Raised since Kraft’s childhood as a kind of “insurance” in case Kraft died, he’d spent long years under Old Wood’s care, nearly like a second son, often tasked with looking after Kraft—he knew the family and Kraft better than anyone.

Now he felt like a parent who woke up to find a Tsinghua or Peking University acceptance letter sitting where the milk usually was.

As Kraft’s de facto guardian, Ryan was naturally pleased—but as a core member of the Wood family, didn’t he know better what the family was truly made of? To praise the Wood family’s scholarly lineage was like praising a blind man for sharp eyesight or asking a deaf man to discuss music—it was outright provocation.

If Kraft had earned praise from some noble for his martial prowess, that would’ve been within Ryan’s understanding. But to claim the Wood family possessed academic merit? That insulted Ryan’s own intelligence, yes—but more importantly, it insulted the entire Wood family. Yet this professor seemed genuine—he’d actually given Kraft a badge.

“Hmm… you might not believe this, but I came across an old book in my grandfather’s collection and, out of interest, read a bit more.” Kraft knew he couldn’t explain properly, so he used his grandfather’s hoard of old books as a shield—Ryan’s reading ability was too poor to ever borrow and check them.

“Really?” Ryan felt his intelligence insulted a second time. “You actually have the interest to read those books?” He didn’t disbelieve Kraft—he just remembered how, in the past, getting Kraft to study required Old Wood to resort to physical coercion.

“True. As one grows older, one’s tastes naturally change.”

Ryan didn’t believe a single word of that—but it wasn’t a bad thing. Kraft wasn’t a child anymore. He respected Kraft’s privacy and had neither reason nor need to dig deeper.

“Alright,” Ryan sighed, glanced at Kraft, then turned toward his room—like a father watching his child grow independent, satisfied yet tinged with loss.

Now it was Kraft’s turn to be confused. He’d expected to spend a long time convincing Ryan—but Ryan’s sudden paternal demeanor left him stunned.

“Alright, sleep well, Ryan.”

Watching Ryan retire, Kraft returned to his room, pulled out a candle from his pack, lit it, and prepared to examine the three books he’d received, to understand the current state of medical knowledge.

Honestly, as someone with mediocre academic ability, he’d never imagined he’d one day become a lecturer. To the original Kraft, this was a great honor for the family; to the part of him from another world, it meant reviving a career he’d barely begun before it ended—giving him a sense of purpose here.

…

…

Filled with the excitement of a new appointee eager to make an impact, and a touch of curiosity toward medicine’s embryonic stage, Kraft opened the first book.

Like other fine-bound volumes, this manuscript used a wooden cover coated with lacquer; its title was written in a rigid, early Gothic-style script—broad, straight strokes, typically formed with a broad-nib pen, used by the Church for copying sacred texts and in formal documents requiring solemnity.

To those untrained, it looked like a mass of uneven vertical lines, ending in squares and slanted rectangles; to those who knew it, recognition was clear. To reduce wear, the characters were carved into the wooden cover, filled with metal foil that had dulled over time from oxidation.

It was a volume of “Humoral Theory.”

As a hefty tome, it wasn’t user-friendly—the maker hadn’t numbered pages or added a table of contents, nor even a preface. To understand its content, the reader had to read the entire book. Those with poor memories might need notes.

So Kraft pulled out the paper and pen he’d bought that afternoon, uncapped the ink bottle, and prepared to read and take notes simultaneously.

Opening the first page, the author declared his view of the human body: bodily functions depend on different fluids within. He believed these fluids were interconnected and transformable, forming a balance. All diseases, he argued, stemmed from internal or external factors disrupting this critical equilibrium, manifesting as symptoms.

In other words, by observing symptoms, one could deduce which fluid was out of balance and treat accordingly.

But what were these fluids? Four types…

There it was—the familiar sensation surged forward, steeped in history. Kraft now understood what this was: the Four Humors theory.

Clearly, historical development followed similar paths. Though this world lacked Hippocrates and thus never developed his practical reduction technique, its theoretical direction still pointed to nearly identical skill trees.

Of course, he couldn’t rule out that earlier transmigrants had come before and plagiarized this.

Further on, the four fluids were named by color: red fluid, white fluid, yellow fluid, and black fluid. Their differences went far beyond hue—they each performed distinct bodily functions.

Take red fluid: easily understood—it was blood. The most widespread fluid in the body, flowing ceaselessly through vessels of all sizes, the author deemed it active and dynamic, responsible for connecting fluids and driving transformation.

Kraft nodded. Yes—this was it. The exact same feeling. Like returning to class, to that first lecture of every semester, where medical history was briefly mentioned and forgotten.