Chapter 7

“Thud!”

As Ryan’s expression shifted from confusion to shock, Kraft’s forehead slammed hard against the windowsill. The thin layer of snow accumulated overnight offered no cushioning; a vivid red mark immediately appeared on his head.

His limbs refused to obey, and his position sensors temporarily shut down, leaving him unable to react—he simply slid down the wall and collapsed onto the floor.

Still in a dazed, panicked state, Ryan hurried forward, lifted Kraft up, and awkwardly carried him in a princess hold to the bed.

As he brushed back Kraft’s golden bangs, he realized the feverish heat on his forehead was far more serious than the superficial red mark.

As the older cousin, Ryan had cared for Kraft during childhood fevers. Though those memories were hazy, he could still tell this temperature was absurdly high—far beyond normal fever, bordering on scalding.

Moreover, Kraft had uttered not a single word, not even a weak cry of pain, from the moment he hit his head until he was moved to bed—he was completely delirious from fever.

“Kraft! Kraft!” Ryan employed an old Wood family battlefield first-aid technique, slapping Kraft’s cheeks hard in an attempt to snap him back to consciousness.

When two slaps failed to wake him, Ryan decisively grabbed a handful of snow from the windowsill, packed it tightly, and pressed it onto Kraft’s forehead—a simple yet effective physical cooling method. He repositioned Kraft’s head and found him still staring blankly ahead, showing no reaction whatsoever to his actions.

“I’ll go ask next door if there’s a doctor here—stay put and don’t move!” Ryan gave a token warning, then rose and sprinted for the door. He hadn’t taken three steps before turning back, shutting the window that had been open all night, pulling half the blanket from under Kraft to cover him, and finally bolting out the door.

……….

After what felt like an eternity, as Kraft slowly clawed his way out of confusion and regained partial control over his face, Ryan burst through the door, dragging in a middle-aged man who looked no different from the other villagers, followed by the village chief, gasping for breath.

After pulling the chief along, Ryan and he had searched the village for the only person who knew any folk remedies, found no one, and finally located their target by the stone pillar. Ryan then learned one of the men they’d hired to dig the pit was the village’s so-called “doctor.”

This part-time “doctor,” along with the others, had received a decent payment but failed to fully excavate the object, feeling guilty. With winter idle and the weather unusually clear, they’d agreed to dig a few more shovelfuls and chat to pass the time.

The trio rushed back to the doctor’s house to collect his tools and herbs—it was already well past mid-morning.

By the time Ryan returned with them, Kraft was already managing a barely discernible expression toward him, mumbling incoherent sounds. With a red stripe across his forehead and swollen cheeks, he looked comical. Lying in bed, he listened as his relieved cousin described his condition to the half-doctor.

Without personal history, past medical records, family history, marital or reproductive history, or any specialized examination, this man—far more unqualified in Kraft’s eyes than the doctor who’d once amputated a fire-hand—diagnosed him solely from family testimony and a partial account of the current illness: “Your illness, I reckon, is our village’s specialty disease!”

Through the doctor’s hard-to-understand accent, Kraft and Ryan learned he came from a lineage of healers.

From ancestors long forgotten to this generation, his family had, for three generations, served as part-time village doctors, providing basic healthcare using medical standards typical of the era.

Their main treatments were bloodletting and local herbal remedies—triumphant in lineage continuity, but lacking advanced techniques like amputation or enemas.

This medical model, surviving only in historical records to the soul from another world, could hardly be called humble—it was more like efficient slaughter.

Yet objectively speaking, after the doctor predictably recommended bloodletting and the village’s special herbal tonic, Kraft’s ability to speak returned sooner than expected.

With lips still numb, he mustered every ounce of strength and forced out a few words under the doctor’s astonished gaze: “No need. I’m feeling much better.”

After the series of shocks, Kraft’s body remained immobile, but his mind had returned to normal. As Ryan applied ointment to the bruise on his forehead, he clearly felt the fever had broken—this at least ruled out infectious disease.

Of the events of last night, Kraft remembered only fragmented, unconnected words—snakes, scales—nothing coherent. He could summarize it as a nightmare in which a giant serpent slithered past him by the window.

To those present, this was nothing unusual. In an era where neurology hadn’t yet claimed the top rung of the medical hierarchy, complex diseases were still commonly explained by supernatural causes.

Whether it was stroke-induced aphasia and paralysis, hypokalemia-induced weakness, or convulsions and delirium from high fever, all could be blamed on some evil force.

Interpreting this snake-themed nightmare as an evil spirit’s work was perfectly reasonable. Given Kraft’s rapid recovery, the somewhat devout chief believed it was divine protection—naturally cured without medicine.

Ryan stood by, hesitating. He didn’t know whether the Church’s god even protected the relatives of a heretic collector, nor could he be sure his own morning shoulder-pat hadn’t worsened the illness by triggering the head injury.

Meanwhile, Kraft, driven by his otherworldly soul’s professional instincts, had quickly caught one word in their conversation. He struggled to move his hand, trying to push himself up. Ryan noticed and helped him sit, propping a small bundle of blankets behind his back, then offered him a sip of water to make speaking easier.

“What did you mean by ‘specialty disease’?” Kraft asked in a hoarse voice. Ryan leaned the water jug closer, offering another sip, but Kraft turned his head away. “What do you mean, ‘your village’s specialty disease’? Is sudden high fever common here?”

He sensed something was off, but last night’s memories were shattered fragments, buried too deep to retrieve—he needed clues.

Perhaps because the symptom was so distinctive, the amateur doctor displayed excellent recall: “According to my father—though he heard it from my grandfather—I don’t know anything further. This strange illness has existed here since long ago, mostly striking young people, recurring every eight or nine years. They all suddenly develop a fever, burning hot as if roasted over fire, babbling nonsense about snakes, and finally…” He suddenly fell silent, observing Ryan and Kraft’s expressions, deciding they wouldn’t blame him now. “They never lived past two days. My father’s case was the same.”

Seeing Ryan and Kraft’s skepticism, the doctor pulled out his bloodletting tools: “Before my grandfather came here, he was a proper doctor from outside. These tools were his. He said he’d never seen this illness anywhere else—even among fevers with delirium, none were always about snakes.” His voice dropped further. “Of course, that’s what my father told me—he guessed there’s a snake spirit here that devours fresh, strong souls, then returns, only coming out again when hungry.”

Kraft automatically filtered the doctor’s words: acute onset, predominantly affecting young adults, characterized by fever and delirium, with clear geographic clustering. Extremely high fatality rate. Local medical practices may have worsened outcomes.

And then there was the “snake.” That inexplicable element still lingered in his mind, refusing to fade. His current state felt like waking from a dream—pulled back from a distant vision. Beyond the most vivid impression, everything else was lost. The only difference was a persistent, hazy sensation—he felt something had been irrevocably altered somewhere beyond his awareness.

This hazy feeling reminded him of a past rafting trip, when he’d gazed down at murky, algae-choked water and suddenly glimpsed a dark shadow darting from his peripheral vision—only to see nothing upon closer inspection. In self-doubt, he’d dismissed it as ripples, or the dappled shadows of gnarled rocks and ancient trees—never daring to imagine a living thing moving in the bottomless depths.

If he had uncovered a horrifying truth in the dark, it now lay hidden beneath the calm surface of his reason, temporarily concealed by the body’s self-protection mechanism. His instinct warned him not to reach down and test the depth.

Kraft avoided the parts he disliked and focused on the familiar: he asked whether the victims were related, whether they’d suffered other illnesses before onset, whether they’d been bitten by snakes or insects, or had a history of childhood fever or cough.

Considering the world’s characteristics, he pressed especially on the village’s dietary habits and the small stream serving as its main water source—were there any problems upstream? Ryan watched in surprise as his cousin revealed an unexpected level of meticulousness, then poured him more water and urged him to speak slower.

The doctor and the chief answered patiently, their replies consisting mostly of “I don’t know,” “I’m not sure,” and “No.”

The elderly chief, however, recalled a few names in memory and sighed: “They were all good boys—sharp, clever. That evil spirit really knew how to pick.”

“Alright, I’m done asking. Thank you.” Unsurprisingly, even family members might not know these details, let alone two people who’d never even considered such things. “By the way, since this strange illness only happens here, have you ever thought of leaving?”

As soon as he spoke, Kraft realized he’d said something foolish. A disease that struck once every several years here was negligible compared to common causes of death. Besides, the village’s location was decent—right on the border of unclaimed, untaxed land, not far from the trading port of Wenden, even visited occasionally by traveling merchants.

Though this also meant lacking protection, for a tightly-knit village, driving off wild beasts wasn’t difficult, and tax exemption allowed them to support more people—given time, it might even grow into a small town.

Compared to that, the “specialty disease” was merely a nuisance—like scabies.

Embarrassed by his foolish question, Kraft ended the topic, claiming he and Ryan had private matters to discuss, and saw the chief and doctor off. As they left, their faces clearly betrayed the thought: “Definitely a rich young master—maybe even a noble.”

Regarding this illness, since he himself was half-transmigrated, some other supernatural event was understandable—he could explain it that way. Oh, no—here it should be called an anomalous phenomenon.

But from a rigorous standpoint, it’s more reasonable to interpret this as a unique acute central nervous system disorder—perhaps caused by a specific pathogen or parasite, with infection occurring only under particular conditions due to individual immune variations, resulting in low incidence.

The recurring mention of snakes in delirium likely stemmed from generations of village rumors, subconsciously linking the illness to snakes, thus naturally interpreting it as being haunted by a snake spirit.

As for himself—he’d just seen a patch of snake-like patterns on the ground, and his mind conjured a dream? But the disease progression… forgive my limited knowledge, but the world is full of bizarre cases—this one isn’t unique.

Kraft tried moving his arm again. This time, without Ryan’s help, he shifted himself into a more comfortable position.

“Alright, sorry for scaring you. Though it looked serious before, I feel I’m getting better—could you put away that bloodletting gear?” He looked at Ryan beside the bed, stretched his legs forcefully to show he was fine. Energy was returning to his young body; his control over his limbs was nearly restored—he was starting to feel hungry.

Kraft refused Ryan’s help, climbed off the bed on unsteady legs, walked to his luggage, pulled out a strip of dried meat, twisted it in half, and handed one end to Ryan.

For a man who had been half-dead moments ago, his condition was unbelievable. His strong jaw muscles gave his teeth the power to tear into the well-seasoned meat: “See? I’m fine.”

“I’m starting to think you were faking earlier,” Ryan said cautiously, taking the meat, still shaken. “Shouldn’t we rest a few days before leaving?”

“No. I feel ready to leave by tomorrow. And that damn pillar—tell them to fill the pit back in, pack the dirt tight. I never want to come back to this cursed place again. No souvenir, lost a few silver coins, nearly lost my life—this was a firestarter-level disaster.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. We leave tomorrow. And remind them to fill the pit properly.” Kraft was eager to put all of this behind him—he could feel his entire being resisting any deeper inquiry into the matter, and he’d already wanted to leave.