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Behind the Second of the Eleven Fatui Habinger’s vast base of operations, a hidden entrance was located at the end of the East wing. There was a small road run nearby, intended for special vehicles or carriages to park, but it was usually unused. People mostly entered and exited through the front or side doors.
Only Dottore, Pantalone and his few close assistants knew of its existence.
Because it was reserved for a specific type of ‘emergency’.
***
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP WOOO—!!!
The piercing alarm that echoed through the hallway made ‘45’, busy recording the performance of the Kuuhenki simulator, looked up abruptly. This wasn’t a fire alarm, an earthquake alarm, or the Tsaritsa’s arrival, but a special signal used only when the Ninth Harbinger was dispatched in a medical emergency.
He dropped everything and rushed straight to the emergency room located at the end of the East wing.
After a while, a familiar voice, just like his own, came through the loudspeakers installed around the corners.
“Announcement from ‘25’: A 359-year-old male patient has been admitted. He has been suspected poisoning within the past twelve hours. The patient is experiencing nausea, frothing at the mouth, has suffered seizures and lost consciousness en route. His blood pressure has dropped to 80/50. Initial intubation is underway... It’s only me and ‘8’ here! Where the hell is everyone else?! Hurry up and get here!!”
The last sentence made ‘18’, who was running a short distance ahead of him, sweared and grumbled, “Is our base so small that we expect someone from one side to just teleport to the other?”
They didn’t slow down even for a moment. Every Segment knew how tense his mind was.
Again...
This is happening again.
It wasn’t the first time, and wouldn’t be the last, as long as the Ninth Harbinger continued to ignore the constant reminders to maintain his health and to reduce fieldwork.
Dottore never wanted to define himself as a doctor in a medical sense. He never enthusiastically wanted to save lives. His research into treating Eleazar was more about overcoming the curse from the higher above than for patients’ sake.
But the only time he would willingly call himself that... was when trying to save the life of one person, an exception—a person whose survival he valued more than his own.
Yes, that’s based on the personal experience.
‘45’ and ‘18’ were the last two Segments to change into scrubs, put on their masks, and complete their sterilization before entering the emergency room. At that time, the other Segments were busy dividing tasks and moving around. Whenever something happened to Pantalone, no other subordinates were allowed to participate in the treatment; Dottore handled everything himself.
‘45’ looked at the black-haired man lying unconscious on the hospital bed. The seizures seemed to have subsided. ‘25’ appeared to have just finished intubating him, and was placing the disc-shaped end of his stethoscope over the man’s lungs and epigastrium while ‘35’ periodically pumped the manual resuscitator bag. After a moment of silent listening, ‘25’ nodded and pulled away, indicating that the air was entering the lungs correctly, not the abdomen. He then turned to look at the vital signs monitor.
“Blood pressure is up to 90/60.”
Still not satisfactory, but much better than the previous numbers.
‘8’, who was preparing solutions on the other side of the room, sighed loudly. His shoulders remained tense and stiff. ‘65’, who was analyzing blood samples nearby, cautioned him to stay calm and composed.
“...My toy must not break.”
“We won’t let that happen.”
The conversation between the youngest and the oldest Segments ended there.
All the Segments of Zandik were well aware of their own arrogance and the inefficiency of working together. Therefore, they had a collective agreement: if an emergency occurred with Pantalone, whoever found him first would automatically assume the position of attending physician and head of the operations team (of course, unless it was ‘8’).
‘45’ turned to ask ‘25’, the person in charge this time,
“How’s the situation?”
“When he arrived, I administered ten milliliters of sedative VI-II to reduce seizures. His heart stopped suddenly once, but we used a defibrillator and CPR to restore his pulse. We just finished intubating him and are about to prepare for nasogastric lavage and activated charcoal to absorb toxins in his stomach and intestines,” the other person replied rapidly, barely pausing to breathe. “We need to insert a nasal tube soon. You hold his head still for a while. It was difficult because there weren’t enough people around earlier. As for ‘18’, you and ‘8’ switch places and have him prepare the activated charcoal. Calculate the dosage based on body weight.”
“If twelve hours have passed, the poison must have entered the bloodstream by now,” he strode past ‘35’ towards the head of the patient’s bed, then carefully supported Pantalone’s jawbone.
...So fragile and weak in his palms, as if just a little more force would break it.
And the dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep made his already pale face look even more like a corpse.
“Poisoned, huh?” He considered for a moment and asked calmly.
“That’s right. According to his subordinate’s report, the culprit secretly put poison in the teapot that was served twelve hours ago. But the problem is, we haven’t identified the type of poison yet, and also can’t pinpoint exactly when he drank it.” At this point, ‘25’ rolled his red eyes behind his glasses in annoyance. “It’s not surprising though. Sometimes I go into his office at noon and see food on his desk, but when I go back in the evening, everything is still there. He’s the type who eats whenever he remembers. And if he’s too busy to remember, he’ll just forget about it.”
‘35’, having finished connecting the endotracheal tube to the ventilator, shook his head and grumbled in the same exasperated tone, “See? This is the downside of irregular eating. So stubborn. I’ve warned him countless times but he never listens. How many exact hours has he been poisoned? When did the subordinates find him in this condition?”
‘25’ shared what he knew, “About an hour ago.”
‘45’ observed, holding Pantalone’s head, “Jaundice, likely liver dysfunction. What about the blood test results?”
‘65’s voice responded from the other side of the room, clearly listening, “Our technology isn’t that advanced to get blood test results in just three minutes. I’ll let you know when the analysis is complete.”
“Understood. Prepare the nasogastric lavage,” ‘25’ ordered decisively as ‘18’ wheeled a cart filled with various medical instruments closer to ‘35’, who was in charge of handing them over.
The process was quick and efficient after that, with no more unnecessary conversation.
‘45’, standing at the head of the bed, observed all the movements in the emergency room. ‘25’, receiving the nasal tube from ‘35’, estimated the length from the tip of the nose to the ear and from the ear to the epigastrium of Pantalone, marked the points, and then lubricated the tip before inserting it into the patient’s left nostril. ‘45’ held the banker's head slightly up and kept it still.
Once the tube was deeply inserted to the marked spot, ‘35’ secured it temporarily to Pantalone’s cheek and grabbed an empty syringe from the cart that ‘18’ had prepared. After signaling to ‘25’, who was already wearing a stethoscope, he pushed air from the syringe into the tube, instructing the other to check sounds at the epigastrium. When ‘25’ confirmed that the air had entered correctly, he signaled to ‘35’ to secure the tube firmly to the patient's nasal bridge, then turned to begin preparing to administer the nasogastric lavage solution through the tube.
At this point, ‘45’ shifted from his previous position to assisting in that task without needing further instructions or orders. They moved and coordinated seamlessly, a rare instance where their movements were so interconnected they truly seemed like a single person.
It made him ponder. Normally, the Segments didn't like each other at all. They argued almost every day. Of course, who knew better than themselves how unlikable they were? But... throughout all this time, there were only a few occasions where they truly agreed.
One was dissecting the original Zandik to gather information for developing the elixir of immortality, and the other was finding a way to prolong Pantalone's life.
In truth, the first and second were interconnected...
Whenever these two matters arose, they all surprisingly worked together seamlessly, hardly letting conflict linger. Even '8' and '18', who constantly argued, put aside their disputes and focused on their respective tasks.
This was certainly not development. The Segments, whose perspectives were limited to some certain points of time, could not change.
The reason was even simpler.
There's one thing that remained the same, no matter his age.
For a person who banished by the whole world and labeled an outcast since childhood, all he needed was someone to offer a gentle smile for his research project, not judge him based on the annoying ethical standards people often pointed at and condemned him for, to offer a few extra compliments with eloquent words, and to remain by his side without ever showing a trace of disgust or contempt, even after seeing his ugliest side.
When such a relationship continued consistently... Zandik, all Zandiks, ultimately lost.
Even knowing it might just be feigned admiration and a ploy to reap benefits, to make him try every way to save his life, the deepest part of Zandik’s soul that yearned for acceptance silently surrendered. Even if it really were a trap, he was still willing to step into it.
There was no need to be concerned about whether it was sincere or not.
Wasn’t this kind of mutually beneficial relationship not so bad after all?
“Inject medication number II-XI intravenously, followed by IV-I and VII-V immediately!”
While they were almost finished with nasogastric lavage and activated charcoal to absorb toxins in the digestive system, ‘65’ shouted from the other side of the room. Part of the analysis results were probably ready.
‘8’, who was standing beside him waiting for orders, quickly grabbed the vials with those numbers from the shelf and handed them to ‘18’, who injected Pantalone without hesitation.
“II-XI, huh? Don’t tell me…” ‘25’ glanced at ‘65’, who was busy checking additional information on the glowing blue screen, before turning to them who were standing around the bed. “It seems to be a complicated type of poison. A precise analysis will take time. Damn... prepare for a liver biopsy!”
‘8’ and ‘18’ hurried to prepare the instruments.
‘65’s voice floated over, bringing no good news. “Extremely low platelet count, slow blood clotting, abnormally high liver enzyme levels. Combined with other information, the diagnosis is acute liver failure.”
“Not far from what I expected,” ‘25’ frowned, unconsciously chewing on his lip under his mask, muttering to himself, a sign of wavering concentration. “Shit. But even so, acute liver failure, weakened immune system, a risk of other damage. If it’s that severe...”
‘35’ interrupted, “If it’s that severe, just prepare for a liver transplant. It’s not that complicated.”
‘25’ paused.
‘45’ nodded in agreement. “That’s right. No need to be panic. We’ve replaced his nicotine-infested lungs countless times already. A liver transplant is nothing.”
At that moment, a faint scoff suddenly echoed.
It was so faint, almost vanished away amidst the chaotic atmosphere, yet it resonated incredibly loudly for all Dottores in the emergency room. They all turned sharply, their gazes fixed on a single point.
“...Well, so you’re conscious now,” ‘45’ leaned towards the patient, who had tubes inserted into both his nasal and mouth. Seeing the man’s eyes flutter open, a wave of relief spread through his body incredibly quickly, but he chose not to show it. “Just so you know, I’m not taking back what I said. You’ve had pneumonia from smoking countless times, and you still haven’t quit.”
Pantalone let out a second scoff, his voice trembling slightly with a hint of pain.
Without his glasses and so exhausted, he probably only saw blurry bluish-haired figures, unable to distinguish between the Segments. However, at least he seemed to be regaining some consciousness, though not in a state to speak and too weak to keep his eyes open for long.
‘25’ stared for a moment, seemingly calmer now, then slowly pulled the man’s hand onto his own arm, explaining the situation. “You’ve been poisoned. It’s suspected that your condition may require a liver transplant. So, let me ask... if that’s the case, do you consent to me proceeding? If you agree, squeeze my arm once. If you disagree, squeeze twice.”
This time, a third scoff escaped Pantalone’s lips. The weary hand tightened its grip on ‘25’s arm once without hesitation.
But that wasn’t all.
The weak, trembling fingertips of the person unable to speak did something unexpected: slowly, sweeping strokes formed letters across the skin.
For a moment, it was as if even time in this emergency room seemed to slow down.
It wasn’t even a necessary message, yet he tried to communicate.
‘Trust you.’
But suddenly, that hand twitched before falling limply. The muted purple eyes, half-vacant, returned to rest behind the eyelids once more.
“Pantalone?”
“Feofan?”
They called out, then a long, drawn-out ‘beep—’ from the vital signs monitor sounded more deafening than an Inazuma lightning strike.
‘25’ cursed and rushed onto the bed to perform CPR immediately, while ‘35’ grabbed the defibrillator and began charging it. However, the device, which relied on energy from the elemental charge bottles, was still taking a long time. After several seconds, when it was ready, ‘35’ signaled for ‘25’ to get off.
“Stand clear! ...Shock! Continue CPR!”
The emergency room was in complete chaos today.
***
After initial treatment brought the patient’s condition relatively stable and further lab and tissue analyses were completed, Dottores had held a planning meeting for the major surgery. They then had divided into two groups.
The first group, consisting of ‘18’, ‘25’, and ‘35’, had gone to examine the available experimental subjects to find the most suitable organ for transplantation.
The second group, with ‘8’, ‘45’, and ‘65’, had closely monitored the patient’s condition.
Amidst the air filled only with the rhythmic sound of the vital signs monitor, ‘8’ on the extra-high chair that had been pulled up beside the hospital bed blurted out.
“When will he wake up again?”
‘45’, leaning against a table nearby, turned to look at the young Segment, then at ‘65’, who was recording the dosage of medication recently given. The oldest one, seeing the honest, uneasy expression on the youngest’s face, seemed to sigh.
“It’s better for him not to wake up before all the surgery is completed,” ‘65’ shook his head. “The poison has serious effects on his nervous system. If we don’t keep giving him antidote to treat the symptoms, he’ll probably be ready for burial. Besides, even if he wakes up now, he’ll likely be groggy from the strong painkillers and won’t be able to communicate properly.”
Normally, ‘8’ wouldn’t care if anyone suffered or was in pain; all he cared about was getting what he wanted. If he wanted someone to wake up, that person had to wake up. But this time, the boy just sulked, sitting quietly by the bedside, not throwing a tantrum.
He wanted the man to wake up, but at the same time, he didn't want him to suffer.
How strange. Seeing this made ‘45’ reconsider.
Or perhaps the compassion he thought he’d lost since the age of eight... was actually still there, just a tiny fragment, waiting for someone to be an exception.
“Worried?” This time, ‘65’ walked over and placed the chart on the table beside him before asking.
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” ‘45’ replied indifferently.
“You’ve been shaking that elixir nonstop since earlier.”
He fell silent just like ‘8’, lowering his gaze to the vial containing a light blue substance that he held between his fingers.
The age of forty-five was a time when Zandik was particularly obsessed with inventing the elixir of immortality. He habitually held it, swinging aimlessly when lost in thought. Just having it in his hand brought him peace of mind.
That’s the influence of developing a relationship with certainly someone and seeking possibilities for different purposes. The younger Segments might not realize, might not have begun to weave some deep connection, but both he and ‘65’ knew it very well.
He knew who had made him content with their peaceful solitude, and who he had devoted his energy and effort to more than to his own benefit.
Although it was proven that even though other Segments only got to know Pantalone closely later, they too were still drawn to something about him.
“Ah...” Just then, ‘8’s exclamation reached their ears. “Feofan?”
‘45’ and ‘65’ rushed to the bedside.
The patient’s eyelids twitched slightly, as if in a semi-conscious state. He still looked exhausted, blinking unusually slowly each time, as if ready to fall back asleep at any moment. His gaze was vacant, likely due to the effects of the medication.
Tubes had been still inserted into the other person’s nose and mouth. In this condition, he could barely speak, yet he struggled to utter broken, fragmented sounds, mostly just breath, tinged with an almost unbearable longing.
But the three standing around him understood the word immediately.
“Zandik”
The dazed man on the hospital bed was calling out Zandik’s name.
The three of them exchanged glances for a moment before ‘8’ tried saying again, “...Feofan.”
The muted purple eyes shifted to fix on the small face, seemingly trying to focus for a while, but then averting as if still not finding the person he was looking for. He murmured to the air, repeating the same name over and over, ignoring the boy completely.
‘8’ was shocked by that reaction, his eyes reddening. He raised his voice in anger, “I’m right here!”
‘45’ whispered sharply, “Keep your voice down. He needs to rest.”
“I’m Zandik too! Doesn’t he want me anymore?!” the 8-year-old Segment retorted, though it seemed more like he was venting his emotions than genuinely wanting an answer. “Am I not the Zandik he wants?!”
After yelling that, he jumped off the chair, covered his face with his arm and ran off.
‘45’ watched his back, knowing the younger was feeling intensely disoriented and insecure, but he didn’t pursue him. He simply exhaled, shook his head, and muttered, “Absolutely not... None of us are the Zandik he needs right now.”
“That’s not a pleasant thing to say, but I agree,” ‘65’ nodded.
“So, what do we do next?” he asked another self. “Just let him keep rambling like this?”
The voice calling out the name from the person on the bed grew more trembling, before being mingled with sobs of overwhelming loneliness and pain.
His muted purple eyes swept past them. Puddles of tears reflected the overhead lamp, making them glisten and flicker.
“Hurts... Zandik... It hurts...”
“I think we should give him more sedative,” ‘45’ strode towards the medicine cabinet.
But ‘65’ paused for a moment, then said, “Wait.”
‘45’ stopped, turning around in bewilderment.
And saw the oldest Segment slowly removing his pitch-black plague mask.
This was quite unexpected. ‘45’ stood still, watching a strand of long bluish-hair cascade beside the face marked with wrinkles on the forehead, around the eyes, and across the cheeks... evidence of aging that ‘65’ had always detested and hidden away.
It was then that ‘45’ realized,
The elixir of immortality hadn’t extended the original Zandik’s lifespan, but it still had somewhat slowed the aging process. In his later years, as Zandik had approached eighty-five... his appearance was only slightly different from when he was sixty-five.
He saw the red eyes of ‘65’ lowered towards the person on the hospital bed, placing the mask to the side and leaned closer to the man.
“Feofan, I’m here.”
And he saw the muted purple eyes fixed on that face. Even though the man had poor eyesight that he could only see blurry things, the overwhelming longing was so clear. Feofan’s lips trembled, trying to speak in a muffled voice, though speaking was incredibly difficult.
“Stay... with me...”
“Alright. I won’t go anywhere.”
His weak hand was firmly held. His tears were gently wiped away.
There were no more sobs. How truly pleasant.
He actually wanted to be pleasant.
‘45’ stared at the scene for a moment, then finally decided to leave the room as well. After all, he, who had been selfish his whole life, wasn’t generous enough to look at something like that for long.
“Be glad that I’m the one who witnessed this,” he said emotionlessly to ‘65’ before stepping out the door, “...Because if it were my most extreme and radical self at age thirty-five, I would have planned to get rid of you immediately.”
***
After assessing the situation and ensuring everything was ready, Dottores proceeded with the liver transplant surgery for the Ninth of the Fatui Harbinger. They divided into two groups once again.
The first group, led by the primary surgeon ‘25’, along with the assistant surgeon ‘45’, the anesthesiologist ‘65’, and the scrub nurse ‘8’, performed the abdominal incision and removed the severely damaged liver.
The second group, led by ‘35’ with ‘18’ as an assistant, was tasked with extracting a healthy liver from the selected test subject. This liver would then be delivered to the main operating room for transplantation.
Liver transplantation could be done as partial or whole transplant. In the first case, half of the liver from the donor was removed and transplanted. Both the donor and recipient could continue their lives, as even half of the liver can regenerate and grow to its normal size. But of course... all Dottores unanimously rejected that option. They always chose the surest and best path for their Pantalone. A test subject' life was never important to them anyway, so they opted for the second method without hesitation.
The entire surgery took six hours and was completed smoothly.
***
“I feel like the little one has been trying to avoid me lately. Do you know the reason?”
The person on the white hospital bed asked amidst the silence, causing ‘45’, who was scribbling on the sofa designing a new version of the Kuuhenki simulator, to stop what he was doing and look up.
Pantalone slowly closed the book in his hand and turned to face him.
There were only the two of them in the room.
Two weeks had passed since the successful liver transplant surgery, and Pantalone was currently recovering. He had said he felt much better and was ready to return to work, but of course, All Dottores had strongly opposed it, refusing to let him out of their sight until the eight-week observation period was complete. They took turns watching over him, except for ‘25’, who had been busy with the important project related to Fatui’s work, and ‘35’, who had been asked to copy the poison so he had been holed up in the lab. And then... there’s ‘8’, who hadn’t even given an excuse, simply said curtly that he wouldn’t be coming.
‘45’ gazed at the man’s delicate face. Now it looked bright and healthy, a stark contrast to the day he had been brought in as an emergency. He seemed refreshed, unlike the day he had been dazed and confused, sobbing uncontrollably—a weakness he would never normally show.
Every time ‘45’ thought about that day, he disliked it.
But what he disliked even more was leaving the banker with an unanswered question, a question the man had chosen to ask him.
“It’s just a childish possessiveness,” ‘45’ replied.
“Huh?” Pantalone tilted his head, raising his eyebrows.
“He realized that what he held in his hands was never truly his. Of course, such a self-centered child would find that unacceptable.”
“I don’t understand...”
He seemed genuinely unable to remember.
The 45-year-old Segment stared silently for a moment before finally recounting the day’s event, but of course, he omitted the ending involving ‘65’ entirely. The oldest already had the biggest advantage among them, as he possessed the most memories of Pantalone. So, there was no need to add to his surplus.
The person on the hospital bed lowered his eyes, listening to the story of how he had called out Zandik’s name, ignoring all the Segments, which had caused ‘8’ to become furious and run out. The banker remained lost in thought and silence for a long time before speaking again.
“Could I ask you a favor?”
“What is it?” he asked in a flat tone. Actually, it was easy to guess.
“Could you bring that child to see me?” the other stated his request directly.
“If I do, what do you plan to say to him?” he asked again.
“That’s a good question...” The smile that played on those beautiful lips was tinged with a sadness that he couldn’t bear to look at for long. “Right now, I’m afraid there’s nothing else to offer but a sincere apology.”
‘45’ averted his gaze, rising from the sofa.
“As you wish. I’ll bring that brat here within ten seconds.”
“Ten seconds...?”
He took two seconds to walk out of the room, three seconds to grab ‘8’ by the collar as he laid curled up on the bench outside the room, and then another five seconds to drag the boy back into the room and deliver him to Pantalone.
“Done. Ten seconds, no more, no less,” ‘45’ nodded at the man sitting stunned on the bed.
“What the hell are you doing!?” ‘8’ yelled, angrily trying to stomp on his foot, but missed.
“I’ve seen you spending the whole week sitting on that bench outside the room, so I thought you had something you wanted to discuss with someone in here,” ‘45’ said nonchalantly.
“There’s nothing to discuss! I... I just... I’ve been tired of drafting research projects lately, so I needed a place to rest, and that bench was so comfortable!”
“Wow, was my young self such a terrible liar? How embarrassing.”
“...”
Seeing ‘8’ stammer, his face flushed with anger but unable to argue further, ‘45’ turned to the one making the request and said in a calm voice, “I’d better go.”
Pantalone suddenly reached out and grabbed his coat. However, he had already taken a step forward, so the other, whose strength hadn’t fully recovered, lost his balance.
He spun around in surprise to help him up. Fortunately, ‘8’ had reacted quickly, jumping to catch the man just in time, preventing Pantalone from falling headfirst off the bed.
“Be careful!” ‘8’s eyes were still wide open, his lips quivered. “Don’t get hurt again! Don’t!!”
“...My apologies.” Pantalone awkwardly adjusted his sitting position before using one arm to pull the boy into his embrace. “I’m truly sorry for everything, I really am. And sorry for making you worry, Zandik.”
This time, ‘8’ buried his face in the man’s patient gown, his small shoulders trembling silently.
Meanwhile, ‘45’ looked down at the hand that still clutched the hem of his coat.
“Same to you,” Now, Feofan turned his face towards him, smiling and pulling him gently, almost without force. Even so, he allowed himself into the embrace without resistance, letting the soft words caress his ears. “I sincerely apologize. I never meant to hurt you, all of you. And I really appreciate your existence... Zandik.”
Feofan’s lips lingered against his cheek for a long time, as if truly wanting to convey his feelings to him.
This graceful touch caused ‘45’ to let out a long sigh... and he too silently hugged back.
Well, at least for now,
Having the chance to be Feofan’s ‘Zandik’, even if only for a short time, wasn’t so bad after all.