Chapter 253: The Second Attack

After an afternoon of waiting, the two cultivators on the rooftop surveillance at the tavern received the reinforcements assigned by Greene, and the order to notify the professor—but no sign of the professor or his assistant returning.

Lights flickered on in the clinic, the scent of food rose and faded, and the carriage that daily shuttled between the academy and the clinic never came back.

"I think there's nothing happening tonight."

His companion switched places with Robin, who now sat on the edge of the bed, tearing apart a loaf of bread with slightly charred crust, eating it with a slice of cheese.

"Can you not do that?" Robin swallowed the dry, crumbly food, gulped down water to suppress the splinter-like stickiness in his throat, and finally understood why the clinic needed its own kitchen—"Focus. You could've said that tomorrow morning."

"Fine." The man on watch fell silent, keeping his gaze fixed, while the one resting continued his struggle with the hard dinner, producing creaks like unstable wooden furniture.

The noise was negligible at night—the tavern downstairs was still open, and men who had finished their day's labor spent part of their earnings on one of only two daily entertainments.

Alcohol numbed the mind, temporarily blocking fatigue, and generated more emotion and clamor.

In contrast, the clinic across the street seemed another world—quiet, brightly lit windows revealing steady shadows carrying trays and jars past the glass.

Based on observations over this period, they were clearly working overtime. The less time the professor spent at the clinic, the longer the lights stayed on at night.

A window on the second floor facing the street lit up on schedule—unlike the ward below, it did so every night, blinking at its own rhythm. Behind it stood a desk belonging to the girl who frequently appeared near the professor.

Robin had some memory of her; women in the academy were as rare as in the church—fewer than the hair on some bishops' and professors' heads, effectively zero when rounded.

While girls her age learned household chores from their mothers, and noble daughters dreamed vaguely of romance, a girl devouring books was especially conspicuous.

In an imperfect analogy, Robin felt she was being trained more like a man—as someone entrusted with a duty.

It was contradictory. Though he didn't know whether the doctors would permit a woman into their exclusive domain, by analogy, bishops would never allow a female bishop to exist.

"Perhaps this is a useless endeavor," his companion remarked. It reminded him of the dizzying cultivation lessons, stirring both admiration and pity—these efforts might never find a place to be realized.

"Who knows?" Robin walked over, glanced at the small figure seated calmly by the half-open window, untouched by the noise, then sat back on the bed. "Stop staring out the window. Watch the surroundings. I'll take the second half of the night. If anything happens, just..."

Others were watching the clinic from different angles—but that was no reason to lower their guard.

"I know. If anything happens, blow the whistle—they'll come charging out, a half-dozen angry young men with no sleep, ready to give some fool a warm welcome." His companion raised a small object shaped like a half-short flute—the agreed-upon alarm signal.

"No matter who it is or why they're here, they'll probably wake up tomorrow with a few new colors on their face."

The newly arrived reinforcements always brought some relief. Robin half-lay on the bed, his head resting on the coarse straw mat, sinking into deep sleep.

His spirit didn't fully sink into stillness but remained in a minimal state of awareness, swaying gently amid the noise and vibrations from below, like a supple reed drifting with the current.

Memories accumulated during the day rose like silt from the riverbed, churned up by the subconscious.

The occasional suspicious figure—wearing unprofessional disguise, unnaturally long arms dangling at his sides, face blurred by harsh sunlight, glare and deep shadows obscuring features.

Like flies, they drifted around, appearing at the edge of vision, vanishing into blind spots.

In truth, he didn't know if his report was even necessary—there was no clear, describable point of suspicion. Instead, a faint sense of dissonance kept surfacing in hindsight.

This feeling lingered through his half-dreaming, half-awake sleep, until a low, piercing tone cut through the background noise—like a finely honed blade slicing through paper, effortlessly parting the dream.

Robin snapped awake, seeing his companion's face.

"I was just about to wake you." The man's mouth held no whistle—but that piercing, low tone still echoed through the night.

"The whistle—not ours. Where's it coming from?" Robin rushed to the window, strained his eyes for seconds, could only tell it originated from the other side of the clinic, beyond the clustered alleyways.

"Quick, let's go!"

Unlike his sluggish colleague, Robin's mind screamed alarms. After a half-second hesitation at the door, he chose to leap straight out the window, using the wooden frame of the second floor as a cushion, landing on the street and sprinting toward the whistle's source.

"Careful... no, wait for me!" In the time it took him to hesitate, Robin had already crossed the street, clutching his aching knee, vanishing into the dark alley.

The whistle's guidance vanished once inside the alley. His thoughts lagged a few beats before he realized he had no light source. He groped forward under moonlight, until a lantern's glow ahead guided him to the alarm's source.

A man with pale lips leaned against the wall, teeth clenched around the whistle, his short sword and lantern lying on the ground.

Robin recognized him—the cultivator Greene had assigned here that day. One arm bent at an unnatural angle, his chest heaving, sweat soaking his collar.

"What happened?!"

The wounded cultivator drew a deep breath—the motion aggravated his injuries, twisting his face in pain—"At least three of them. Don't know where they came from. They thought I was dead."

The gap between them was enormous, and the attackers had another goal. The injured man pointed with his still-functional hand, shook his head slightly to indicate he wouldn't die yet, then clamped the whistle between his teeth and blew again.

【Clinic】

Robin picked up the fallen lantern. Spilled oil burned along half the holder, its exhausted light illuminating the narrow alley.

Multiple irregular wet trails emerged from beneath a lifted stone slab, dripping water toward the clinic, reeking of stale, fermented decay.

"Keep blowing! Help's coming!"

The situation was urgent. Robin grabbed the scorching lantern and followed the wet trail. The marks vanished entirely midway along the alley beside the clinic—as if the maker had evaporated.

He scanned nervously around—this movement pulled his gaze from the ground, catching a glint on the brick wall.

A trail of water, climbing upward.

"Damn it. Second floor!"