Chapter 282: New Medicine

In the homeland of souls from another world, bringing a new drug to market generally requires many steps.

Researchers must identify a specific drug target from a vast array of options, then seek compounds capable of acting on that target; the source might be long-term development or stem from an experiment originally entirely unrelated.

After completing arduous or lucky development, researchers prove at the cellular level and through animal trials that the drug indeed cures the disease without curing the patient, then, after a host of lengthy but necessary ethical approvals, it may enter clinical trials, moving from experimental animals to humans.

In the barbaric era of early development when safety awareness and conditions were not yet sufficient, developers occasionally substituted themselves as test subjects. Of course, that is not recommended.

After approval, the drug enters the well-known three-phase clinical stage. The first phase tests the drug's pharmacokinetics in humans and establishes a safe dosage; the second phase preliminarily evaluates the drug's efficacy and safety, providing a basis for subsequent trials.

By the third phase, the trial expands its scope, further verifying efficacy and safety through large-sample, double-blind, randomized controlled trials. These must be conducted by multiple medical centers under the strict supervision of doctors.

Only a few lucky ones can spend years completing these steps, finally gaining approval for production and market release, serving as a savior for patients and benefiting a region, or, as a fish that slipped through the net, bringing harm to a region.

Although over a longer timescale, fish that slip through the net in various senses will inevitably appear, this remains an important line of defense for safeguarding life.

And in current North, the situation is much simpler.

As long as a person claiming to be a doctor, through development paths including but not limited to personal whims, literature research, pharmacological deduction, "eat what you lack," or divine dream-bestowal, produces a new drug, he can announce this good news on that very day to industry colleagues, friends and family, and ignorant patients.

Subsequently, depending on his personal influence, this drug will enter markets of varying scales and be applied to different groups of people.

The effects and consequences caused by the drug, along with the resulting social problems, are left for doctors and patients to handle by whatever means they possess.

Digitalis is a drug where the toxic dosage is close to the effective dosage; it is a drug that must be used alongside diagnostic ability; and unlike ether, it is purely natural, requiring almost no threshold for extraction.

Currently, most physicians at a level similar to Dai Wei's mostly prescribe medicine only for edema, but aside from heart failure manifesting as edema, there are also renal edema, nutritional edema; allergies and inflammation can also cause edema.

In cases where one believes the drug should be effective but it is actually ineffective, taking Dai Wei as an example, his first reaction would certainly not be that the diagnosis was wrong, but rather to increase the dosage.

If they dare to reveal the ingredients today, they could create a batch of digitalis poisoning cases by tomorrow. At that time, rather than thinking about how to treat it, it would be better to go directly to the priest to study medieval end-of-life care; it offers higher cost-performance and fewer doctor-patient conflicts.

Considering both others and himself, Kraft felt a small-scale trial should be conducted first, and only after clarifying the details should it be launched alongside the diagnostic criteria for heart failure.

Therefore, only rumors among a few patients spread, claiming that a certain special clinic possessed a specific miracle drug for edema; compared to "curing tuberculosis," this was hardly worth mentioning and attracted little attention.

Green lifted his forehead, where sleeve wrinkles had pressed red marks, and found the candlelight on the candelabra already faint, the flame sliding down a snake-like twisted black line, about to sink into a clump of melted wax.

Spread on the table were several thick documents, just delivered today: this month's expenditure accounts, Xun Sect martyr pensions, daily reports, and a official letter from the Bishopric.

Before falling asleep, he seemed to have not finished processing them all.

The last one he had already read; it was personally handed to him by his direct superior, whose attitude had undergone a subtle shift from before, stating that the matter should end here and suggesting he rest for a while before engaging in other affairs.

Several days had passed, and the Bishopric, unexpectedly but reasonably, had not imposed any substantive punishment regarding the casualties, merely issuing a written reprimand, forbidding participants from discussing the relevant topic, restricting their movement range for two weeks, and requiring them to visit the small prayer hall daily to reflect under the gaze of the Heavenly Father.

Rather than punishment, it was more like appeasement.

Judging by this trend, the matter truly seemed prepared to pass just like this, stranded quietly in the tributaries of time, left far behind, just like those things that happened in the past.

From a personal perspective, one could not help but feel somewhat unwilling, but rationally speaking, Kraft's attitude was correct; letting those things remain buried deep underground and never contacting them again was the best way to handle it.

And he himself now needed to clean up the aftermath, arrange the pension work, and go explain to the deceased's families that they had dedicated themselves to the Heavenly Father, proceeding ahead to the Perfect Realm.

Every time he recited these words, it made him feel very awkward, with thoughts repeatedly surfacing of those who devoutly embarked on the path of "ending all suffering," and that smile cast upon their faces.

"A paranoid pursuit of metaphysical concepts, yet expecting a supreme external force to intervene to achieve it..." This experience generated a deeper feeling in his heart; he felt he should write it down: "There has never been one that did not end in tragedy."

On the table, besides the few documents, there was unexpectedly no spare paper at the moment, not even a bookmark to be found.

"Brother Wading, could you help me get some more paper?" Green called out the door, continuing to open the report sent by the monk. This had just been delivered by Brother Wading, who was still outside helping to organize the remaining documents.

Since that clinic attack incident, the heathens had not organized any activities noticeable enough to be noticed; their main members had probably, just as Kraft judged, entered another world and never returned, naturally heading toward self-destruction, requiring no further attention.

However, the sentries around the clinic had not all been withdrawn; part of this report was sent by them, containing no new discoveries, with the main content being just one thing.

【A certain professor recently began using a new drug, reportedly with significant effects】

Green pressed his cold hands against his face, trying to wake up his not-yet-fully-awake brain. How could such a coincidence happen, developing a new drug just a few days after taking the sample back?

No, he must go and see.

"Brother Wading, could you come over for a moment?" The priest read two more lines down, all anecdotes and useless information gathered from patients; someone needed to go and check specifically.

"Brother Wading...?"

Green pushed his chair back and looked at the half-open door; this was the second time he had called for Brother Wading. An odd sensation rose, like a stone thrown into a pool of water, failing to stir normal ripples, not even a splash sound.

Perhaps he did not wish to disturb and left early?

"..." A voice, a muffled voice.

Before he could distinguish the location, it vanished, evaporating like mist, as if it had never appeared. It was not Brother Wading; the timbre was very young, like a child before puberty.

"Who? Still outside so late?" There were indeed children in the church, but they were all in the choir, with fixed residences and strict discipline, rarely wandering to other places.

If he was lost, it would be best to send the person back early; otherwise, a scolding would be the least this little one would get.

Stepping one step toward the door, that oddness became more obvious and transformed into an undeniable sense of incongruity; Brother Wading should not have left without closing the door.

"..." A breath-like airflow seeped out from the cracks in the floor tiles, old, shriveled, whispering into the ear canal.

Fear tightened the chest, the spirit tensed, and he instinctively exerted force. However, the ground beneath his feet went empty, the floor shattered and pulled away, everything around him receding rapidly, rushing into boundless, thick darkness; the sensation of weightlessness made his body tremble instinctively.

The fall lasted only an instant, and a sense of support appeared beneath his crossed arms.

Green lifted his head, the stinging pressure of sleeve wrinkles still lingering on his forehead; the candle flame flickered before his drowsy eyes. The dripping sound of rain, driven by the night wind, blew into the room, wetting the manuscripts on the table and falling onto his face.

It was raining outside.