Chapter Text
Date: 3rd Month, 11th Day, Year of the Ox
"Today, my latest test subject dies.
The greatest problem of this potion is that a normal human can barely tolerate its energy, and its impact kills them. It is tragic that the only subjects available are those already weakened by some disease or already near the threshold of death. Their fragile bodies cannot withstand the strain.
However… This drug undeniably holds enough potential to awaken the zenith of human strength, leading to immortality. No longer will there be the need for doctors and no longer will there be diseases.
I wonder what went wrong with it."
He pauses, the brush hovering above the parchment as a faint crackling sound fills the chamber behind him.
In the dimly lit internal chamber, the latest corpse convulses. Flesh shrivels, veins blacken, bones warp as if trying to rebuild themselves—and then, like brittle porcelain struck by a hammer, the body fragments. A gustless disintegration. The remains dissolve into fine gray dust that drifts to the floor, leaving nothing but silence and the faint scent of burning flesh.
The doctor exhales sharply through his nose and whispers to himself, “Another failure.”
He dips his brush again, writing with controlled irritation:
“The effect of this potion is overwhelming. Its essence floods the organs faster than blood can circulate. I need a subject with stronger vitality—someone whose body refuses death.”
Just then, hurried footsteps echo in the outer hall.
A servant slides open the door, breathless.
“Master! A messenger has arrived!”
Before the doctor could respond, a young court messenger kneels before him, bowing deeply. The man announces,“A directive from the Lady of the Kibutsuji household. Prince Muzan is gravely ill. The family requests—no, demands—your presence to treat him.”
The doctor’s expression hardens.
Leave now? When he is on the verge of the breakthrough he had sought for years?
His hand clenches around the ink brush.
“I told the court I would not abandon my research,” he mutters.
But then he stops.
A sickly prince… nearing death, yet of noble bloodline. A body perhaps young, resilient, desperate to survive. A perfect subject.
Slowly, a thin, unreadable smile curves his lips.
He closes the journal.
“Prepare my traveling case,” he says, voice calm but edged with anticipation.
“As the Lady wishes… I will treat Prince Muzan.”
With an air of quiet suspense, the doctor extinguishes the chamber lamps, leaving the blue petals glowing faintly in the darkness, like eyes watching fate unfold.