A token of gratitude
After an unprecedentedly large brawl, about a third of the three hundred or so Wizards in attendance had fought each other to the death. Less than half survived—only around forty. It had been an absolute bloodbath.
Not a single one of the previously most arrogant Black Wizards could be seen now. Almost all of them had been left dead outside.
Perhaps one or two had slipped through the net, but they had probably already fled without a trace.
The little doctor who worked for Rashid at the estate was left completely dumbfounded by the sight of so many wounded people.
On an ordinary day, he dealt with headaches and fevers, or at most minor cuts and bruises. But faced with this scene of bloody internal and external injuries, torn muscles, and broken bones, he was utterly helpless. He hadn't even started treating anyone before fear turned his face yellow and made him tremble.
If he had been that good a doctor, he would have gone to work at one of the big hospitals foreigners had opened in Mogadishu long ago. Why work for foreigners and earn more money from rich people? Wouldn't that be better?
Ultimately, the main reason he managed to make a living at the estate wasn't his medical skill. The steward was his brother-in-law. It was better to keep the money in the family: he fobbed people off when they had minor ailments and sent them straight to a big hospital for anything serious. He'd muddled through that way for quite a while.
The moment the injured Wizards saw the shoddy bandages and bottle of rubbing alcohol in this quack doctor's hands—maybe some Chinese-made safflower oil at best, without so much as a suture needle and thread—their hearts turned cold. No matter what,