Local Doctor-Patient Communication

Having temporarily shaken off that strange feeling, Kraft began looking for a place that sold paper and pens. He wanted a finely crafted dip pen.

Ink cartridges had not yet appeared in this world, and ballpoint pens were even further beyond reach. People still used a rather simple yet inefficient method: dipping the nib directly into an ink bottle, like dipping sauce, writing a few words, then dipping it again.

Those skilled at it looked rather elegant, while those unaccustomed to it looked like they were dipping soy sauce, especially when using an ink dish. Yet this came with an advantage: the soft, thin metal nib of a dip pen could produce strokes with smooth, natural variations in thickness when held at the proper angle. The structure of the pen also meant that the cursive writing styles of the two worlds were basically identical.

Such writing quality required a relatively high level of craftsmanship here to produce a proper nib. If he wanted one that worked well, he would have to buy it from a specialized shop.

Kraft followed the street all the way to its end before finding what he was looking for beside Saint Simon Church Square in the city center. The shop owner was a follower of The Church, and the shop mostly supplied clergy with what they needed. The paper it sold was of excellent quality, but most of the pens were broad-nibbed pens used for copying the Holy Scripture.

"Your faith leaves a deep impression," Kraft complimented as he looked at the abundant religious elements in the cramped shop. A carved wooden Winged Ring symbol occupied half the wall behind the counter, while an old man wearing a Winged Ring amulet read the Holy Scripture beside a three-pronged candlestick with two tall candles and one short one.

The candles were unlit. Noon sunlight streamed through the window, dust floating through the somewhat stifling air and outlining the shafts of light. He browsed the shop by himself before finally striking up a conversation.

"Thank you. What would you like to buy?" The old man, interrupted in his reading, looked up. Seeing that Kraft was neither from The Church nor a student of the Theology School, his attitude was rather cool.

"I'd like an ordinary dip pen. Just the nib would do." Kraft glanced at the Holy Scripture in his hands. It was a high-quality handwritten copy. "I'd also like some paper like that."

"I'll take a look." The shopkeeper pushed himself up from the table and walked toward the shelves, picking up a box. "Are you an Academy student?"

"No, but my teacher is from the Academy."

"Then I can give you a discount." The old man turned around and set the opened box on the counter. Inside lay a dip pen with a brass nib, its pine handle polished smooth. "And paper. This kind writes even more smoothly than parchment."

"Ah?" Kraft was somewhat surprised. He had never imagined that Teacher Anderson's identity could bring him such treatment.

The old man had no intention of explaining further. He merely counted out the sheets and handed them over. "People from the Academy are all good people."

After thanking the shopkeeper, Kraft came out carrying the paper and the box holding the pen. He did not know why, but the discount was truly appealing.

He stuffed the items into a bag fastened to his horse, then led the horse through the square and enjoyed the lovely afternoon sunshine. This was the warmest time of day, when winter's chill had been driven from the ground. At long last, he could take a leisurely walk—starting from Saint Simon Square, then heading north along the main road running north to south, finding something to eat along the way, and arriving at Wenden Port Academy in Wenden Port North District around dusk.

The Academy and the Church were Wenden Port's two most important buildings. One stood on the outskirts of the city's northern side, while the other stood in the city center near the port. The former looked noticeably lesser, and in truth, it was.

The Church had been built back when Saint Simon came to Wenden Port to preach, when Wenden Port was not yet so large. The Academy was founded twenty or thirty years later, with a great deal of its funding coming from The Church. This directly resulted in the Theology School dominating the entire Academy, while the other schools had to stand aside.

Even the Academy's iconic Clock Tower had been fully funded by the well-financed Church, with both its interior and exterior designed by the Church's own architects. Every day, whenever they heard the bells and looked up, they saw a Clock Tower built just like a church tower. Calling it a church school would not have been much of a stretch.

Saint Simon Square was fairly clean in winter. Both bird droppings and snow had been completely cleared away. Seeing that people even sat directly on the ground ahead, everyone clearly had great faith in The Church's cleaning work.

As he drew closer, he saw that they were the two scholars in brown robes he had met earlier. One sat beneath the Statue of Saint Simon, cradling his left arm and leaning against the pedestal with a pained expression. The other stood nearby speaking with three people dressed in black, occasionally turning to look at his companion.

As he approached further, Kraft heard their conversation.

"No, there's really no need. Just help us find a clinic. There's no need to trouble you so much."

"Really? I think he may have injured a bone. We should take him back to the Academy and have a look. Our teachers should all be there." One of them rolled up the sleeve of his black clothes, looking extremely enthusiastic. He completely failed to notice his companion's twisted expression or the hand tugging him aside.

However, upon hearing this, the scholar in brown robes refused even more firmly. "Although we're very grateful, there's truly no need. It's really just a minor injury."

The scholar sitting on the ground was already sweating profusely from the pain, but to go along with his companion's words, he still forced out a smile. "Yes, I already feel much better. I'm terribly sorry to waste your time."

It could not have been clearer, yet that enthusiastic person still refused to give up and reached out to help him up with a concerned expression. Another person in black grabbed his shoulder and desperately pulled him back.

The brown-robed scholar negotiating with him stepped forward, placing himself between his companion and the strangers. He looked around for help, but the square on this winter afternoon was empty. Kraft was the only person nearby.

Seeing the sword sheath at Kraft's waist, his fine-looking clothes, and the cloak draped over him, he figured Kraft was some young noble out on an errand—at least not a plant. He waved in Kraft's direction and called out, "Sir over there, could you lend us a hand?"

Kraft seemed to understand what was happening. The people in black were Academy students, yet members of the other schools seemed somewhat afraid of them. It had even turned into something resembling a daytime kidnapping. Combined with what they had been saying, the answer seemed obvious.

Oh, you're from the Medical School, aren't you? I just heard some terrifying rumors about you.

The enthusiastic Medical School student had not yet figured out why his classmates did not need him and instead wanted help from a passerby, but he still took the initiative to explain first.

"We're students of the Medical School. Our teacher sent us out to buy some experimental materials, and we happened to run into students from the Law School." As he explained, his face beneath his dark brown curls was remarkably sunny, and the concern on it was familiar to Kraft. "He seems to have fractured a bone. Could you help us take him back? I'm not very comfortable with the clinics outside."

Yes, I can see that. Aren't you negotiating with your experimental material right now? It's just that he doesn't seem very willing.

The "experimental material," having been spoken over, hurriedly explained himself. "No, I'm really fine. Could you take me to a nearby clinic? Perhaps some ointment will make me better." At the current temperature, the sweat covering his forehead was not very convincing.

His companion wanted to add something, but Kraft interrupted him.

"May I take a look?" Seeing how nervous he was, Kraft added, "My name is Kraft Wood. The Wood Family earned its honor on the battlefield, so I'm fairly familiar with external injuries."

The part of him from the other world was no stranger to such situations, while the local part knew how to quickly earn people's trust.

If possible, could any readers who are still reading show up in the comments? :)

That way, the author will know he isn't writing this book all alone.

>(￣▽￣)