The Cost of Being Uncultured

Night deepened, and the God of Medicine's clinic welcomed a new visitor.

"Mm, with the infusion of faith power, the recovery is going well."

By the light of the Fluorite Lamp, the God of Medicine examined Samael's chest.

The curse, like crimson-black fungal threads, had faded considerably, but its roots still crawled across his blood vessels and meridians. After observing it for a long while, the God of Medicine helplessly shook his head.

"However, the resentment within this curse is powerful, and it has taken root too deeply. It will be difficult to remove in a short time. Unless necessary, it would be best not to fight anyone for the time being."

"What if there were something capable of absorbing Angra Mainyu's lingering malice?"

"In that case, perhaps we can try it."

"Good. Help me handle something later."

Samael nodded slightly, put on his clothes, and rose to his feet. Looking at the God of Medicine busy among bottles and jars, he casually made conversation.

"Come to think of it, you seemed to treat the wounded much faster than usual today."

"That was thanks to the little girl's help. Having her as an assistant really saved me a great deal of effort."

"A little girl? Who?"

"I forgot her name. She seemed to be the prisoner of war Lord Horo captured to warm your bed. Mm, her hands are steady, and she has good stamina. She's fine material for a doctor."

After thinking for a moment, the God of Medicine gave a very practical description.

"Martha? She was willing to treat our people?"

Samael paused slightly and asked instinctively.

"Your thinking is far too narrow-minded. Since they have already laid down their weapons, saving lives is our duty. In the eyes of us healers, there are only patients—no distinction between