Chapter 39: Chapter Thirty-Seven: An Unexpected Visitor

Kraft saw the visitor—alone, and seemingly unwell.

He must be the sort of person Lishton meant when he spoke of “living in places like Salt Tide District.” His coarse linen clothes showed visible mending and loose threads from a few steps away; as he drew closer, the stench of fish clung to him.

The student who brought him didn’t lead him to any empty room but left him standing in the center of the Medical Academy’s hall, where passing figures in black robes occasionally cast him strange glances—environment itself subtly rejecting this odd intruder.

A dock laborer, Kraft concluded.

The student who delivered him to the hall whispered, “I didn’t want to disturb you, but he insisted on seeing only you, and wouldn’t say why. I thought maybe there’s something unusual going on?”

“Thank you, Matt. Next time, please do exactly this.” Kraft called his name correctly, nodded in thanks, and the student left, stunned and flattered.

After seeing the student off, Kraft approached the visitor, observing him closely. His eyes stayed fixed on the ground; his pant legs and shoes were damp, as if he’d just come from somewhere wet—likely seawater, leaving behind a fine crust of salt where he’d stepped.

No wonder the student hadn’t led him further inside.

“Hello, I’m Kraft. How can I help you?” Kraft stopped before him and offered a practiced greeting.

“Ah, hello, sir. Yes, it’s me.” He flinched, startled, his gaze shifting to Kraft’s black robe. “I heard you can cure illnesses others can’t…”

He paused, voice uncertain. “And you only charge five silver coins?”

Right. Another visitor drawn by some distorted rumor. Clearly, the rumors had already evolved into claims of specializing in incurable ailments.

These past days, he’d indeed encountered several such patients. Due to absurd rumors, they arrived at the Medical Academy with ailments unrelated to stomach pain, making all sorts of demands—genuinely exhausting for Kraft.

Yet professional discipline forced him to focus, to follow the standard procedure.

“There are some distinctions, but if you’re unwell, we can sit somewhere quieter to talk.” Kraft wasn’t being polite—he was uncomfortable with this kind of exchange. Perhaps he should apply for a dedicated reception room someday.

“No, no need. Here is fine. Is it really just five silver coins?” The visitor extended his hand, and only then did Kraft notice he’d been clutching five black silver coins all along.

Frankly, the coins were too black—not due to excessive adulteration, but because of terrible storage; their value had dropped a full tier.

“Please come with me. Let’s find a quieter place to talk. Consider it a chat—my time isn’t charged.”

As the saying goes: since he came, you can’t turn him away. Kraft picked a nearby empty room, brought two chairs, and motioned for him to sit.

After changing locations, the visitor seemed to relax slightly, speaking in fragments about his condition: “I don’t know when it started, but I’ve been sleeping longer and longer. I know it sounds strange, but my case is different.”

“I work at the docks. Every day I have to go find work, so I usually wake up early. At first I didn’t notice, but one day I woke up only when the sun was shining on my face.”

“After that, I realized I was waking up later and later. I asked my wife to wake me each morning—and found she was the same.”

“Have you been overworked lately?” Kraft rubbed his eyes. Talking about this made him drowsy too. Lately, his sleep had been poor, his nap time cut short, his work hours increasingly inhuman.

“No, no, absolutely not. After that, I woke up later each day, grew more tired at night, and now I can’t wake up until halfway through the morning.”

“I went to several clinics. They all said I wasn’t sick at all. The medicine did nothing.”

His voice brimmed with panic and confusion at being misunderstood; his eyes fixed on Kraft, seeking even a shred of validation.

“Any other odd symptoms? Coughing, fever, anything like that?” Kraft adjusted his posture, leaning forward as if listening intently. In truth, he thought it was nothing serious—this posture was just to relieve his lower back ache from sitting too long.

It sounded like a disruption in daily circadian rhythms, affecting both him and his wife. Everyone had experienced such shifts, but Kraft had little expertise in this area and no solid advice to offer.

If he knew how to naturally wake up early, would he still be late for morning university lectures?

Seeing that Kraft showed no impatience like others, the visitor continued: “I tried having neighbors wake me, but they were the same. Finally, I asked a close friend to come by the docks in the morning and wake me.”

“Your neighbors too?”

“Yes. They also noticed they were sleeping longer. My friend said waking me was nearly impossible—he shouted my name right next to my ear, slapped my face, and still I barely stirred.” His face grew more confused as he described the strangest part.

“But… but I have no memory of it. Shouldn’t I feel something when half-awake?”

“Like only two states: fully asleep or fully awake? You said your wife is the same. Have you tested her?” Kraft pushed himself up by gripping the armrests.

“Yes. My wife is the same—hard to wake, and remembers nothing. That’s why I believe him.” His arms, wrapped in coarse linen, trembled slightly. “I truly feel I’m ill. If I sleep too long, I can only work half a day. I can’t live like this.”

“What about your neighbors? Are they hard to wake too?”

“I didn’t ask them. I only know what I’ve seen.” He fell silent, watching Kraft expectantly, hoping for a different answer.

If he wasn’t lying or hiding anything, Kraft truly couldn’t match his symptoms to anything known. What should he call it? “Progressive Sleep Elongation”?

Such baffling complaints weren’t unheard of. Every strange patient complaint had some hidden logic behind it—either the patient misunderstood something, or a key detail was omitted.

Like the man who woke with bloody urine, underwent full kidney tests, found nothing—only to realize he’d eaten half a box of red dragon fruit the night before.

Like the famous ad slogan: “If your child won’t get better, he’s probably faking it—give him a beating…”

In short: patients are never wrong. The fault lies with the doctor who didn’t ask clearly. Even if they’re faking, you must diagnose them properly.

“Understood. I’ll ask you some detailed questions now. They may seem unrelated to your illness, but they’re all necessary.” Kraft dipped his brush in ink, spread out the paper. “First, what’s your name and address?”

“I’m Gary. I live in Salt Tide District.”

“Exact location?” Kraft wrote his name, then divided the address field beside it.

“I… I can’t say exactly. Does it matter? It’s near the church in Salt Tide District, next to a place that makes salted fish, with a tree by the door.”

Kraft pressed his palm to his forehead, finally understanding Lishton’s torment. He knew where Salt Tide District was—but had never entered, never wanted to.

It was equivalent to the slums of Wenden Port: buildings with no order, a relic of early urban development without planning.

It was named so because the land was low-lying; tides sometimes flooded in, leaving behind muddy, wet earth and pools of brine. When dried, they left behind fine salt crystals and the stench of dead small creatures.

Those without money to settle elsewhere in Wenden Port were pushed into this wasteland, building haphazard shacks that grew alongside the city’s expansion, becoming a gray zone the city refused to acknowledge.

There were no proper streets—only narrow, crooked alleys twisting chaotically between shoddy houses, growing ever more tangled as more people arrived each year. Waste piled up, unmanaged, until it became impossible to clear, worsening the deeper you went.

In his youth, Kraft, as a noble boy come to Wenden Port for amusement, would never enter. At most, he’d pass its edges, catch a strange odor, and hurry away.

City administrators were too lazy to send anyone inside, allowing Yan Chao District to become a lawless zone where chaos and disorder thrived.

The city’s reviled seawater prison—its dumping ground for everything too unsavory for clean districts—was located on Salt Tide District’s seaside edge.

A home visit was impossible.

“Sigh.” Kraft sighed, wrote “Salt Tide District, Northwest” in the address field, and noted the landmarks beside it.

“Never mind. Doesn’t matter much. Do you and your neighbors keep windows closed for warmth?”

“No. Firewood gets damp and molds.”

…

…

Kraft gained nothing.

Gary’s life was riddled with problems: monotonous diet, vitamin deficiency, prolonged exposure to dampness, heavy physical labor.

Nothing he could isolate explained Gary’s family’s symptoms. Given that neighbors shared the same issue, it was likely environmental—but without visiting the site, he’d find no answers.

Even if he went, he might find nothing.

“I’m sorry. I have no leads yet. This is my first encounter with such a case.” Kraft shook his head. “If you can, come back in two days. I’ll try to find time to go with you and look for the cause.”

“No, no need.” Gary lowered his head, said nothing more. Perhaps he took it as a polite refusal.

He rose from the chair, opened the door himself, left without pain or anger—only silence. A gray mood clung to him, visible without words, thickly smeared across his entire being, radiating palpable, wordless oppression.

Before stepping out, he turned back to Kraft and spoke his final words: “Thank you. You’re the only one who listened to me until the end. May the Lord bless you with health.”