Chapter 31

In the morning mist of Wenden Port, Kraft completed his usual morning exercise, ate breakfast, and carried his books and lesson plans toward the academy.

“Good morning, Professor Kraft.”

As his course grew wildly popular, students in black robes frequently greeted him on the way—mostly those who had become familiar with him, but also some he had never even seen in class.

"Good morning, Charlie, and Green." Kraft nodded in reply.

Thanks to his strong memory, he had memorized the names of every student who had approached him with questions; these two had once asked him about cranial structure and another had inquired three days prior about anatomical explanations for various types of abdominal pain.

Upon hearing their names called, they looked astonished. Though they had heard this new lecturer had an excellent memory, remembering and recognizing them among so many questioners seemed impossible.

Responding to students’ greetings along the way, Kraft hummed a tune in his mind, walking with a pleasant mood.

The feeling of being recognized in his work brought him great joy—even waking up early for work no longer felt like torture.

Teaching eager students was indeed far more satisfying than teaching drowsy ones.

No need to doubt: the “drowsy students” referred to himself—he had spent university nights awake and mornings asleep, facing a classroom full of listless classmates while reading PowerPoint slides; those slumped over desks were hard to tell whether they were naturally tired or hypnotized.

Today, however, he had students of such high quality—truly a cause for celebration. Of course, this was also due to the high cost of learning here: whether in time or money, students could not afford to waste it.

Kraft’s good mood ended abruptly at the academy gate.

As is well known, there is a crucial law for those on duty—especially night shift workers: never say you have nothing to do.

Even if you’re bored out of your mind and your phone is dead, never utter words like “bored” or “nothing to do.”

Those who break this iron rule usually face punishment—life, calm one moment, turns chaotic the next, with absurd events crashing directly into your face.

This perfectly matched Kraft’s current experience: one moment he was sighing over peaceful days, the next he was jolted awake by noise at the academy gate.

From afar, he saw a crowd gathered tightly, their loud arguing audible halfway down the street.

Worse still, most of the crowd wore black robes of the Medical Academy; a smaller portion wore brown robes of the Law Academy, white robes of the Theology Academy, and a few onlookers in blue robes of the Literature Academy.

This large group blocked half the academy entrance; to enter, one had to squeeze past them.

As he drew closer, Kraft heard what they were arguing about.

“We can’t pray for her—we need to go to the church for that.”

“Then what do we do?”

“Does the Medical Academy not even have a bed?”

“We can’t just take her back like this!”

“What’s the harm in trying?”

“That’s not reasonable! Is this how you, God’s representatives, behave?”

"You don't have the qualification before graduation!"

“Is this something I’m even allowed to try?”

The crowd was too dense for Kraft to see inside—he could only make out colors clashing fiercely, unable to tell who was speaking to whom, while bystanders stood helplessly by.

Keywords extracted: “Medical Academy,” “bed,” “prayer.”

This scene immediately triggered Kraft’s PTSD from medical disputes. Could this really be another medical riot? Did this industry have such a long history? Why was the gatekeeper just standing there? Why didn’t he call Security?

Several thoughts flashed through his mind—he realized he wasn’t in a hospital or his old university; there was likely no dedicated department to handle such trouble.

The academy’s gate attendant had no security duties—just opened and closed the gate. Resolution could only come when someone with real authority arrived. He didn’t know who that was, nor how to resolve it.

Kraft frowned, deciding to emulate a certain Mr. Han: "When things look bad, retreat behind the crowd"—he’d slip past the crowd and head straight to his classroom to prepare.

But he vastly underestimated his own fame in the Medical Academy; before he’d taken three steps, someone called his name from behind.

“Professor Kraft? Good morning!” A sharp-eyed black-robed student on the periphery easily recognized the popular new lecturer, his mouth moving faster than his brain, “Could I borrow a moment of your time?”

That shout drew every student’s attention—including those in the center, locked in heated argument—all turned their heads toward him at once.

“Professor Kraft?”

“Ah, Kraft, you’ve arrived just in time.”

Among the turned heads was one he recognized instantly—brown hair, unmistakably Lu Xiusi. He stood at the center, beside a white-robed Theology student whose pale face had flushed red from the intensity.

He pushed through the crowd to clear a path for Kraft. “Make way—this is our Medical Academy lecturer.”

No need for explanation; most Medical Academy students knew Kraft. The crowd parted swiftly, opening a corridor straight to the heart of the trouble.

This was ridiculous, Kraft thought. The fool was himself. It made sense—he was now a Medical Academy lecturer, the only non-student present, so at least for now, it fell to him.

And with everyone watching, his plan to slip away was ruined. Kraft could only trudge forward reluctantly under their stares.

“What can I help with?” Kraft stepped into the center—the scene matched his expectations.

A middle-aged man clutched a child, face streaked with tears, helpless. A Theology student stood nearby holding a book. Lu Xiusi stared at the child, wanting to help but unsure how. A Law Academy student stood beside them, doing nothing.

Well, this was the classic medical dispute spilling onto the doorstep. Based on past experience, the scenario would evolve unpredictably—but today’s lecture was clearly out of the question.

Seeing Kraft arrive, the man dropped to his knees with the child. Lu Xiusi rushed to stop him, fearing he’d hurt the child. The Theology student stumbled backward from the collision—chaos erupted.

Kraft moved swiftly, lunging forward to grab the man’s shoulder with one hand and cradle the child with the other. The child was older than he looked; his weight made Kraft’s shoulders sag—he barely caught him.

“Griss? Is that you?” He looked up, irritated, recognizing the owner of the pub beside the school—now disheveled, sweaty, and unrecognizable at first glance.

“Please, help my daughter—I have no other choice,” Griss’s voice was hoarse and broken, his voice box trembling with exhaustion and despair.

He must have run far—sweat drenched his face, his hair was wild, his throat dry and raspy from lack of water.

Kraft didn’t understand. Though the academy had a Medical Academy, it rarely provided treatment.

Only on rare occasions, for demonstrations, would they seek out impoverished patients temporarily—essentially, it was still a school.

When students or staff fell ill, they went to clinics outside or prayed at churches; sometimes, priests offered holy water or blessings.

Saint Simon’s Church had developed this service well—these days, there were no licensing requirements, and small clinics had poor hygiene and low standards; perhaps the church was cleaner.

And then… there was nothing else. These were your only two options. No one would seriously consider seeking help from the Medical Academy, surrounded by rumors of strangeness—other students wouldn’t even enter its building.

Confused, Kraft turned to Lu Xiusi, hoping he’d explain how things had reached this point.

“We’ve been to the church and several clinics. Nothing worked,” Lu Xiusi summed it up succinctly—he clearly was anxious. As an outgoing, kind person, he couldn’t be unfamiliar with the pub owner, “Mr. Griss is known to us—we came here hoping for any solution, even prayer.”

"I'm not unwilling to help, but we don't yet have the qualification to perform a priest's duties, and the church said it's up to God's will," the Theology student sighed, patting his white robe.

Only after graduation would he earn the right to wear the official clergy robe bearing the winged halo emblem. Here, practicing medicine without a license might go unnoticed—but performing priestly duties without authorization was a serious offense.

“Just try it—praying for the patient won’t hurt. You know Mr. Griss, don’t you?”

“That’s not allowed,” interjected the Law Academy student, lowering his voice, “It might be okay privately, but this is meaningless—the Theology Academy enforces this strictly.”

Kraft understood: the church’s placebo had failed, the clinics were useless—it was desperation-driven trial-and-error.

“Sigh.” Kraft exhaled. The patient had come to him with nowhere else to turn, no higher hospital to refer to. “So, Lu Xiusi, what are you waiting for?”

“Severe illness like this requires a lecturer’s approval,” Lu Xiusi stared at Kraft expectantly, making him uneasy. “Unlike last time with that Law Academy student.”

The rule made sense—treating critical cases required someone with enough weight to take blame if something went wrong; it couldn’t be a student.

Kraft understood this perfectly—but it didn’t change his choice, or rather, he’d never seen it as a choice at all.

“Let’s go inside.” Kraft handed his books and lesson plans to Lu Xiusi, took the child from Griss’s trembling arms. “Give her to me. Go drink some water—I’ll have many questions for you later.”