Yan Huan muttered as he walked. After turning several corners and passing through an archway carved with soothing runes and filled with a calming fragrance, the sign for the Dim Light Courtyard branch came into view.
Yan Huan stood at the entrance without going in right away, instead poking his head inside for a look.
The sight in the not-so-spacious reception hall was nothing short of spectacular.
No fewer than twenty or thirty people sat or lay crammed together, nearly filling the limited space.
Some grimaced as they clutched visibly swollen arms. Others leaned against the walls with injured legs in bizarre postures. Still others had brightly colored lumps bulging from their foreheads, and cries of pain rose and fell without pause.
The air was thick with the bitter herbal scent of medicinal paste and the faintly pungent smell of disinfectant.
Several physicians and caregivers in plain white robes moved busily through the crowd like butterflies among flowers, their faces weary but their movements still gentle.
They crouched or knelt to examine wounds, washed injuries with warm water, applied ointments with all manner of scents, and skillfully secured splints with wooden boards and cloth strips... The scene was chaotic, yet it possessed a strange sense of bustling order.
"???"
Yan Huan stood in the doorway, somewhat stunned.
How long had it even been since the Black Tide was destroyed and the Iron Tomb fell?
At most, only a handful of days had passed.
Amphoreus was still rebuilding from ruin. By all rights, everyone should have been busy reconstructing their homes and restoring production. Kryudera had already dealt with the disobedient ones beforehand, so there should not have been any large-scale conflict.
Which coffin had these performance artists climbed out of? Their injuries looked purely physical, wildly varied, and remarkably creative.