When I entered the consultation office that had belonged to the former Eastern-medicine doctor, I immediately noticed the crowd. A long line of patients stretched down the hallway. No wonder Hezze and the others had rushed to spread the news that a replacement doctor had arrived of course it would draw people in. They trusted the hospital, and they were curious. The old doctor had been excellent; naturally, they wanted to see if the newcomer could match him. After all, this hospital ranked among the top in Alchimie City.
When they saw Hezze leading me down the corridor, they probably assumed we were just two young girls coming in for treatment. Their expressions shifted drastically when we walked straight into the office, put on white coats, and pulled surgical masks over our faces. The mask covered half my face, leaving only my eyes exposed, dark, bright, and framed by the tiny teardrop mole under my eye. Several patients drew sharp breaths.
I wasn't here as a visitor.
I was the doctor.
And in their eyes, an Eastern-medicine doctor.
I could practically hear their thoughts.
Is this a joke?
A kid?
She looks like she just entered college.
How can she diagnose anyone, let alone cure them?
Some patients left immediately, afraid they'd end up with more problems than they came in with. Others hovered uncertainly, hesitant but curious.
I tapped my pen lightly on the desk, my expression flat. None of this surprised me. My face was far too young, barely over eighteen, lacking the kind of gravitas people expected from a doctor. Their distrust was understandable.
But they didn't know that at four years old, I already followed Grandpa through clinics and villages; that I'd observed more illnesses strange, severe, and complicated than many doctors twice my age. Grandpa believed the best training was hands-on. My credentials were young, but my experience wasn't.
If my face couldn't convince them, then my skills would.
"Rosy, they don't trust you because you're too young," Hezze grumbled beside me, equal parts angry and offended for my sake.
I twirled my pen between my fingers and smiled.
"Don't be mad. Look some people stayed. As long as I prove myself, I'm not worried."
My confidence made her blink, cheeks flushing red.
Hezze leaned forward excitedly. "Rosy, need me to help with anything?"
I blinked. "Help me prepare supplies."
Hezze practically squealed. "Okay!"
The office was large. Behind me was a wall of drawers that had once contained herbs; now they were filled with Western medicines, diagnostic tools, and physical-therapy equipment: digital neurological hammers, portable Doppler scanner, muscular-tension sensors, cold-light otoscope, and a handheld nerve-pathway stimulator a device Grandpa had modified for me years ago. Few people in modern hospitals knew how to use it the way he'd taught me.
I sat at the desk, toying with my pen as a few patients hovered at the doorway, unsure whether to enter. I ignored them. Patients always decide on their own, you can't drag them into trust.
But Hezze had no patience. She marched straight to the door and declared loudly:
"Everyone! Don't underestimate Dr. Bailey just because she looks young. Her medical skills are amazing! Not long ago, I had severe stomach pain, and she treated me completely!"
The corridor quieted instantly.
A young girl… who could treat acute stomach pain? That wasn't something just any doctor could do not well, at least. Curiosity tugged the hesitant patients back toward the door.
Just then, an elderly man with graying hair, sunken eyes, and rough clothes stepped in. He rubbed his temples with both hands classic migraine posture. His face was pale, eyelids drooping, shoulders tense.
The moment he walked in, I straightened.
"Sir, you're having a headache, right?"
His eyes widened. I hadn't asked a single question, yet I already knew.
"Please give me your hand," I said.
He extended a weathered hand covered in age spots. Instead of taking his pulse like Grandpa used to, I checked the following in one smooth sequence:
hydration and microcirculation in his fingertips
tremors and muscular twitch patterns
subtle temperature differences in his wrist and palm
radial artery rhythm irregularities
ocular micro-nystagmus
tension along the sternocleidomastoid
restricted movement in the C2–C3 vertebrae
and the pain-trigger response when I pressed lightly behind his ear
These techniques looked simple, but Grandpa had drilled them into me for years. They allowed me to map nerve inflammation and vascular stress without needing machines.
After a moment, I said softly:
"Your pain hits one side at a time, doesn't it? Either left or right. You get dizziness and nausea with it."
He gasped.
"Yes! Exactly! It's an old condition. Medicine helped before, but lately it doesn't work. I can't sleep, my whole body feels worn out. I came here hoping this place could help."
"It's a vascular migraine with nerve compression," I said. "You've developed tolerance to your medication."
He paled.
"So… it can't be cured?"
I smiled.
"It can. I'll relieve the inflammation and compression first. Then I'll prescribe a long-term treatment plan."
His eyes reddened instantly.
"Lie down on the treatment bed, please," I said.
He obeyed without hesitation.
The other patients craned their necks, trying to watch. I pulled the curtain closed, blocking their view. A chorus of disappointed sighs followed.
Behind the curtain, Hezze hovered excitedly.
I sanitized my hands, then picked up my modified handheld nerve stimulator. It looked simple, but Grandpa had built it to target micro-channels of nerve conduction, his modern reinterpretation of "meridians." With it, I could release tension far more precisely than ordinary physiotherapy.
I examined the man's neck, gently palpated the knots beneath the skin, then applied the device.
A soft electrical pulse traveled along the inflamed nerve.
He inhaled sharply.
Then exhaled… like the tension was melting out of him.
I continued working shoulders, upper spine, the pressure point behind his ear each touch calculated.
Within minutes, his breathing changed.
His face relaxed.
His fingers unclenched.
Then he sat up abruptly, stunned.
"Doctor Bailey… the pain is gone."
His voice trembled. "It's… completely gone."
He stared at me like I'd just performed a miracle.
For decades he'd been tormented by migraines medication dulled it at best. But now, a lightness washed over him that he hadn't felt in years.
I reassured him gently:
"That only relieved the nerve compression. I'll give you an anti-inflammatory prescription and a vascular stabilizer. With proper treatment, it can be cured completely."
Still trembling, he bowed his head repeatedly in gratitude.
I walked back to the desk, picked up my pen, and began writing his prescription.