The three-day mark arrived like a guillotine.
The Thorne mansion, usually a place of cold, calculated refinement, was now a scene of frantic, high-stakes chaos. Arthur Thorne lay sprawled across his silk sheets, his skin the color of wet ash. His chest didn't heave; it stuttered. Every breath was a jagged, rattling struggle that sounded like dry leaves being crushed under a boot.
"Where are they?" Arthur gasped, his eyes bulging as he looked at the expensive medical team surrounding him. "I pay you... millions... fix this!"
Dr. Julian, the head of the medical team, wiped sweat from his brow. His hands, usually steady enough to perform micro-surgery, were trembling. The monitors displayed a jagged, erratic rhythm that defied every textbook he had ever memorized.
"Mr. Thorne, your vitals are... they're impossible," Julian stammered. "There's no blockage, no clot, no failure we can see on the scans. It's as if your heart simply forgot how to beat."
Isabella Thorne, Arthur's daughter, stood at the foot of the bed, her face pale. She remembered the man in the dusty cloak—the way his silver eyes hadn't blinked when her father insulted him. Three days. He had said it with the casual certainty of a man predicting the sunset.
"It's that brat," Arthur wheezed, his fingers clawing at the sheets. "The mountain boy. He did... something... to me."
"Don't be ridiculous, Father," Isabella snapped, though her voice lacked conviction. "He didn't even touch you. He just stood there and talked."
"Call him," Arthur choked out, a thin trail of foam appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Find him! Bring him here... I'll give him whatever he wants!"
At that moment, Kaelen was standing in the middle of a dusty, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Oakhaven's industrial district. Beside him, Elara Valerius looked around the dilapidated space with a skeptical frown, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor.
"You asked my grandfather for a pharmacy, and this is what you chose?" Elara asked, gesturing to the rusted beams and broken crates. "The Valerius Group owns prime real estate in the city center. We could have given you a state-of-the-art laboratory."
Kaelen didn't answer immediately. He walked to the center of the room, kneeling to touch the floor. He could feel it—the subtle pull of a ley line running deep beneath the foundation. The air here was stagnant, but the earth was alive.
"I don't need glass walls and white coats, Elara," Kaelen said, standing up. "I need a place where the air isn't choked by the city's greed. Medicine isn't just about chemicals; it's about balance. This place has the right 'veins' for what I need to brew."
"Brew?" Elara crossed her arms. "The board of directors is already breathing down my neck. They think my grandfather has lost his mind, handing over resources to a 'mystic' who treats people with needles and herbs."
"Then let them breathe," Kaelen said calmly. He turned to her, his silver eyes locking onto hers. "In about ten minutes, your phone is going to ring. It will be the Thorne family. They're going to be desperate, and they're going to offer you anything to get to me."
Elara opened her mouth to argue, but the device in her pocket vibrated. She pulled it out, her eyes widening as she saw the caller ID.
"Isabella Thorne," she whispered.
Kaelen turned away, heading toward a heavy iron cauldron he had hauled in earlier. "Tell them I'm busy. Tell them the price of a consultation has gone up. I don't want their money anymore."
Elara answered the phone, her face going through a series of rapid changes—shock, realization, and finally, a cold, business-like mask. She listened for a minute, then covered the receiver.
"Arthur is dying," she told Kaelen. "Isabella is hysterical. She says they'll return the Azure Phoenix Needle and pay a fifty-million-credit 'donation' to the Valerius Foundation if you come right now."
Kaelen paused, a faint, cold smile playing on his lips. "The needle. That's a start. But tell her I'm not a delivery service. If Arthur wants to live, he has to come here. He has to crawl across this dusty floor and beg for the life he threw away."
"Kaelen, he's in the ICU," Elara hissed. "Moving him could kill him!"
"He's already dead," Kaelen countered, his voice like ice. "He just hasn't stopped moving yet. Tell them they have one hour. If the sun hits the horizon before he's in this warehouse, don't bother calling again."
Forty minutes later, a fleet of black SUVs screeched to a halt outside the warehouse. Paramedics rushed a mobile gurney through the rusted doors, followed by a frantic Isabella and a group of stone-faced bodyguards.
Arthur Thorne was barely conscious, his breathing a wet, shallow gurgle. When they reached the center of the room, Kaelen didn't move. He continued grinding a dark root in a stone mortar.
"Save him!" Isabella demanded, stepping forward. Her expensive silk dress was stained with sweat. "We brought the needle. Here!"
She held out a small, ornate wooden box. Kaelen glanced at it, sensing the familiar, warm hum of the artifact inside. It was indeed his master's stolen treasure.
"Put it on the crate," Kaelen said.
"Fix him first!" Isabella shrieked.
Kaelen stood up, the atmosphere in the warehouse suddenly turning heavy. The bodyguards instinctively reached for their holsters, but their hands froze halfway. A crushing pressure filled the room, making it hard for them to even twitch a finger.
"You aren't in a position to negotiate, Isabella," Kaelen said, walking toward the gurney.
He looked down at Arthur, who was staring up at him with the terrifying clarity of a man facing the abyss. Kaelen reached out, his thumb pressing hard into the center of Arthur's forehead.
"Your heart stopped because you have no honor," Kaelen whispered, loud enough only for the dying man to hear. "I will restart it today, but remember this: I am the one holding the rhythm now. If you ever cross me or the Valerius family again, I won't need three days. I'll end you with a thought."
Thwack.
Kaelen's hand moved like lightning. He didn't use a needle from the box; he used a simple, jagged splinter of wood from a broken crate. He drove it into a point just above Arthur's sternum.
"Gasp!"
Arthur's body arched off the gurney. His eyes flew wide, and a massive, shuddering breath tore into his lungs. The flatline on the portable monitor suddenly jumped into a steady, powerful beat.
The medical team gasped. It was impossible. A wooden splinter had done what millions of dollars in equipment could not.
Kaelen stepped back, wiping his hands on a rag. "Get him out of here. He'll live. But he'll be weak for a month. Consider it a tax on his arrogance."
As the Thornes scrambled to retreat, Elara stood by the door, watching Kaelen. He picked up the wooden box, his expression softening as he touched the lid.
"You just started a war, you know," Elara said, her voice quiet. "The Thornes will hate you for this. And the Malakor Syndicate won't be happy that you took their trophy."
Kaelen tucked the box into his cloak and looked at the setting sun. "Let them come. I've spent my whole life healing the sick. I think I'm going to enjoy cutting out a few tumors."