At that moment, the term "alternative therapy" crashed into Stephen Strange's mind again. Especially when the Sorcerer Supreme brought out a book that smelled of decay, displaying human acupoints, acupuncture diagrams, chakras, and MRI images, he became more convinced than ever that coming to Kathmandu in search of the so-called Kamar-Taj had been the stupidest decision of his life. Perhaps Jonathan Pemberton and that rehabilitation therapist had both been frauds. Throughout his years of medical practice, he had repeatedly encountered patients unable to afford further treatment who came to discuss so-called alternative therapies. Under normal circumstances, he would bluntly tell them and their families that if they could not afford treatment, they could get a bank loan or speed up the insurance claim process, rather than pursue pseudoscience like natural therapies or homeopathy—let alone believe in supernatural energy, herbal medicine, or faith healing.
To be precise, in every case, he mercilessly rebuked patients who asked about alternative therapies. Whenever that happened, Christine would stand beside him and tell the patients that perhaps some traditional medicine could offer a little help, but only scientific treatment plans could truly cure them. Then she would introduce them to aid organizations, support groups—several people sitting together and sharing through conversation—media reporters, public donation channels, bank loan programs, or treatment costs the hospital was willing to negotiate down, helping them through the hard times. She was a gentle woman, kind-hearted; nothing beautiful in this world could compare to her. The happy memories made Stephen Strange's lips curl upward, but regret, sorrow, and anger clung to him like gangrene. Stephen Strange might once have been successful and famous, but now he was a cripple. He hated his own helplessness, hated his past stupidity and arrogance.
"The person who drew these diagrams saw only the tip of