Chris's medical skills were far from exceptional. He could not cure the ailments of Inyama's poor; at best, he could ease them a little and give his patients another six months or a year to live.
That remained true even with access to the twenty-first-century Online Shopping Platform, where he could buy unlimited quantities of industrial-age medicine.
And that ailment was called poverty.
"Ah..."
At the thought, Chris let out a sigh.
Pulling himself together, Chris remained seated in the clinic, took out his phone, and began scrolling through the mind-numbing short videos of the twenty-first century, watching people trim cattle hooves and replace horseshoes on the tiny screen.
The suffering in this world kept Chris awake at night. He needed an anesthetic to numb himself, just as a drunkard drank to escape the pain of reality.
Even so, Chris only managed a few minutes on his phone before he had to put it away, because someone had come to him for treatment.
Winter was peak season for illness, so there were quite a few patients that night. Most had similar symptoms: either a cold or a fever. Only a handful had injuries such as pulled muscles or broken bones.
For the former, Chris generally prescribed herbs. Only when a patient's condition was more serious would he take out tablets and grind them into powder.
But whether he used herbs or tablets, Chris charged just five copper coins.
The latter were easy enough to treat, too. Medicine for bruises and sprains, along with wooden splints, did the job. Chris charged these patients a little more, around ten to twenty copper coins.
That was mainly because the patients with injuries came from different backgrounds. They were not simply poor people; they were usually gang enforcers or low-ranking patrol officers. They did not have much money, but they were better off than the poor who never knew where their next meal would come from.
So Chris set his fees for them at a somewhat more reasonable level.
Late that night, Chris's Black Clinic finally quieted down. He found time to visit the little room at the back, emerged a few minutes later, then slumped into an armchair and started scrolling through short videos.
"Knock... knock-knock... knock..."
Just then, someone outside the clinic knocked rhythmically on the wooden door, alternating short and long beats.
The moment Chris heard it, he knew who had arrived. He put down his phone and picked up the medical book that sat on the desk as decoration.
"Come in."
The door opened, and a man stepped in wearing a gray cloak, looking little different from the other patients. He had a thick, full beard, a large red nose, and prominent brow ridges.
One look at his face was enough to tell that he was no gentle soul.
"Isaac, you're here. Nobody's watching me outside, are they?"
"I was outside before you got here. There were indeed two black-uniformed dogs keeping watch in the house opposite yours, but before long, they fell asleep inside because of the cold."
At that point, Isaac hesitated, but finally asked.
"Who are those people going in and out of your place?"
"You mean them?"
Once Chris realized whom Isaac meant, he chuckled quietly.
"A bunch of idiots from out of town. They trust strangers far too easily, but they're good fighters, aren't afraid of dying, and are incredibly curious. You'd be better off keeping your distance. They're dangerous."
"But my daughter has already been in contact with them. Was that your doing?"
"No, that was an accident. I didn't expect those idiots to go to the slum tavern, and I certainly didn't expect your daughter to be working there as a barmaid... come to think of it, what's she doing there?"
"She's investigating a gang of human traffickers. That tavern is one of their haunts.
What do we do now?"
"Nothing. Let them do whatever they want. You can't control your daughter, and I can't control these outsiders, so leave them alone.
Anyway, send your people around the back. The goods you wanted are there: a vat of coarse salt, two hundred bolts of homespun cloth, two hundred kilos of broken tea leaves, flour... and iron pots..."
Chris rattled off a long list of miscellaneous goods, all of them daily necessities. After listening, Isaac took a cloth bag from inside his clothes and set it on the desk with a clunk.
"Five small gold bars. Your share of the proceeds from last time."
"Mm. Thanks for your hard work."
Yes, by this point, everyone had surely worked it out. Chris and Isaac did not merely know each other; they were practically partners in crime, two scoundrels working hand in glove.
Chris was the supplier, responsible for providing the goods, while Isaac transported them to the various slums of Inyama to sell. He then exchanged the proceeds for small gold bars and brought them to Chris.
Chris sold the gold bars on the twenty-first-century Online Shopping Platform for yuan, then used that money to buy goods for Isaac.
And so the whole operation formed a closed loop.
Chris made a modest profit from this arrangement-that was how he had acquired his apartment building-but Isaac earned very little.
He had to support a loyal smuggling crew, and the goods he sold exclusively to the poor were priced extremely low. Often, when impoverished families could not afford to pay, he charged them nothing at all.
This made many people in Inyama hostile toward Isaac. It was bad enough that the bastard smuggled goods, but he also sold them so cheaply that they could no longer fetch high prices for their own wares.
Besides the various slum gangs, Isaac's enemies included the patrol officers on the streets. They hated the smuggler even more than the gangs did.
That bastard Isaac smuggles goods into Inyama and has never paid the police station a single protection fee. He has no respect for the rules! We have to catch him, torture him good and hard, and force him to tell us who's supplying him behind the scenes!
The gangs and the police had always believed Isaac was stealing money that rightfully belonged to them. They slandered him as the Great Thief of Inyama, but when that name reached the mouths of Inyama's poor, it became "the noble thief."
In short, Isaac made little money from his work, while gang members and police across the city watched for a chance to catch him. If he was caught, his fate would be unthinkable.
Changing that situation would have been simple enough. All he needed to do was relax his moral standards a little, cooperate with a few gangs or police leaders, give them a share of the profits, and stop being such a saint.
Then Isaac's circumstances would improve considerably.
But if he did that, Inyama's poor would no longer have access to cheap smuggled goods.
At that thought, Chris hesitated for a moment. He opened the bag, looked inside, took out two of the smaller gold bars, and pushed them toward Isaac.
Chris estimated the weight of the three gold bars left in the bag.
Though those three bars were not as pure as modern gold bars, their purity was still fairly high. If he had them made into jewelry and sold the pieces at retail, he could make a substantial profit even from undocumented black-market gold.
But Isaac did not reach for the two gold bars. Instead, he shook his head.
Chris thought Isaac was a good man. In fact, Isaac believed Chris was the truly good man: he charged so little, yet supplied enough goods to fill an entire house.
Isaac believed Chris must be operating at a loss to help the poor.
I absolutely cannot take these two gold bars.
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