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 grown familiar with Kraft, but also some he had never even seen in class.

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

Thanks to his excellent 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 the other 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 the new professor had an exceptional memory, remembering and recognizing them among so many questioners seemed impossible.

Responding to students' greetings along the way, Kraft hummed a tune in his heart, 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 enthusiastic students was indeed far better than teaching those who nodded off.

No doubt, the "nodding-off students" referred to himself—he had stayed up late and slept in during university, facing a classroom full of listless classmates while reading PPT 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 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 has died, never utter words like "bored" or "nothing to do."

Those who break this iron law usually face retribution—life, calm one moment, suddenly turns chaotic the next, with absurd events slamming 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 the commotion 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 from the humanities academy.

This large crowd blocked half the academy's entrance—anyone entering 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 qualifications before graduation!"

"Is this something I'm even allowed to try?"

The crowd was too dense for Kraft to see inside—only the colors of robes clashed violently; he couldn't tell who was speaking to whom, and bystanders could do nothing.

Keyword extraction: "medical academy," "bed," "prayer."

This scene immediately triggered Kraft's PTSD from medical disputes—could this be a medical riot? Did this profession 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 person in charge of the gate had no security duties—just opened and closed the door. 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 man named Han: "When things look bad, retreat behind the crowd"—he'd slip past the crowd and head straight to class.

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 professor; his mouth moved faster than his brain, blurting out a greeting, "Could I borrow a moment of your time?"

That shout drew every student's attention—including those in the center still shouting. All heads turned toward him at once.

"Professor Kraft?"

"Ah, Kraft, you're just in time."

Among the turned heads was one he recognized instantly—brown hair, Lu Xiusi. He stood at the center, beside a white-robed theology student whose pale face had flushed red—clearly, the argument had been intense.

He pushed through the crowd, trying to clear a path for Kraft. "Make way—this is our medical academy's professor."

No need for explanation—most medical academy students knew Kraft. The crowd parted swiftly, opening a path straight to the heart of the trouble.

This was unbelievable, Kraft thought. The fool was himself. It did make sense—he was now a medical academy professor, 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 walk reluctantly toward the center under their stares.

"What can I help with?" Kraft reached the center—the scene matched his imagination exactly.

A middle-aged man, frantic, held a child covered in tears. A theology student stood nearby clutching 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 textbook medical dispute spilling to the gate. Based on past experience, the next scenes would vary depending on circumstances, unfolding in complex ways—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 at least older than he looked—his weight made Kraft's shoulder sink; he barely caught him.

"Griss? Is that you?" He looked up, irritated, recognizing the man—the owner of the pub beside the school. His appearance was disheveled; Kraft hadn't recognized him at first.

"Please, help my daughter—I have no other choice," Griss's voice was muffled, his hoarse, trembling vocal cords vibrating with exhaustion and helplessness.

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 normally didn't provide treatment.

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

When students or others fell ill, they went to clinics outside, or more often, prayed at churches—sometimes lucky enough to receive holy water or blessings from priests.

Saint Simon's Church had developed this business well; in this age, there were no licensing systems, and small clinics had poor environments and low standards—perhaps the church was even cleaner.

And then… there was no "and then." These two were your only options. No one would seriously seek help from the medical academy, surrounded by so many eerie rumors—other students wouldn't even enter their building.

Confused, Kraft turned to Lu Xiusi, hoping he'd explain how things had come to this.

"We've been to the church and several clinics—nothing worked," Lu Xiusi summed it up succinctly; he clearly was anxious. As an outgoing, helpful person, he couldn't be unfamiliar with the pub owner, "Mr. Griss is somewhat familiar with us—we came here hoping for any solution, even prayer."

"I'm not unwilling to help, but we don't yet have the qualifications to assume 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 he graduates will this robe have the chance to be exchanged for a formal priest's robe bearing the double-winged circular holy symbol. Practicing medicine without a license here might mean no one catches you, but taking on the work of a priest without permission is a very serious matter.

"Trying is fine, isn't it? It's just a prayer for the patient. You know Boss Gris, don't you?"

"That really won't work." A law school student interjected, lowering his voice. "Privately, it might be one thing, but this truly makes no sense; the Theology School side also keeps a tight rein."

Lu Xiusi understood clearly: the church's placebo was ineffective, the clinic had no way, and this was a desperate attempt by the sick.

"Sigh." Lu Xiusi sighed. The patient had come to the door with nowhere else to turn, and there was no higher hospital to transfer him to. "So, Lu Xiusi, what are you waiting for?"

"Such a critical illness requires a lecturer's approval." Lu Xiusi looked at Lu Xiusi expectantly, staring until he felt a bit unnerved. "Unlike that law school student last time."

This rule was not unexpected. When admitting patients with critical and severe illnesses, one must consider the bad influence if something goes wrong, so there must always be someone with enough weight to take the blame; in any case, it cannot be a student.

Lu Xiusi was very clear on this point, but it did not affect his choice, or rather, he had never considered this a multiple-choice question.

"Let's go in." Lu Xiusi handed the books and lesson plans in his hands to Lu Xiusi, took the child from Gris's trembling arms, and said, "Leave him to me for now. Go drink some water; I will have many questions to ask later."