Chapter : 787
He spent the next two days in a state of intense, focused preparation. He did not sleep. He did not eat. He meditated, his mind a quiet, still pool, gathering his strength, hoarding his spiritual energy. He studied the anatomical atlases, memorizing every nerve, every artery, every delicate structure in a child’s body, preparing for the intricate work to come. He used the smaller Lilith Stones to practice, imprinting them with simple commands, learning the feel of the Will Engraving process, the subtle art of projecting his intent into the crystalline matrix.
He was a soldier preparing for his most dangerous battle, a surgeon preparing for his most impossible operation.
On the morning of the third day, as the first, pale rays of dawn began to creep through his window, he was ready. He gathered his tools—the now-imprinted Lilith Stone, a set of fine, silver surgical instruments he had bought from a guild artisan, and the precious, life-giving herbs from the Dahaka Jungle.
He walked out of his clinic and into the waking city. Sumaiya was already there, waiting for him with the carriage, her face a mask of nervous, hopeful anticipation.
“Are you ready, Doctor?” she asked, her voice a soft whisper.
Lloyd looked at her, his face calm, his eyes clear and steady. The fear, the desperation, the frantic, last-minute re-engineering of his own miracle—none of it showed. He was the perfect picture of a confident, master healer, a man in complete control of his art.
“I am,” he said. And for the first time, he wasn't entirely lying.
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The Qadir estate was a fortress holding its breath. The usual, oppressive aura of grief had been replaced by a new, even more unbearable atmosphere of tense, fragile hope. Servants moved through the grand halls on tiptoe, their faces pale and drawn, speaking only in hushed whispers. The entire household, from the lowest kitchen maid to the Lord of the Armories himself, was a single, collective nerve, stretched taut to the point of breaking.
Lloyd, in his guise as the humble Doctor Zayn, was the epicenter of this storm of silent anticipation. He was escorted back to the heir’s sickroom, not by the contemptuous steward of his first visit, but by Lord Qadir himself. The great lord was a walking shadow of his former self, his face a haggard mask of sleeplessness and raw, desperate prayer. He had shed his armor and his titles; he was just a father, leading a man he hoped was a savior to his dying son’s bedside.
The sickroom had been transformed. On Lloyd’s instructions, it had been stripped of its opulent, heavy draperies and thick rugs. The furniture had been moved against the walls, creating a wide, open space in the center of the room. The windows had been thrown open, allowing the clean, bright morning sunlight to flood the chamber, chasing away the shadows of sickness and despair. In the center of the room, a simple, sturdy wooden table had been placed, covered with a clean, white linen sheet. It was not a bed of luxury; it was an operating table.
The boy, Tariq, had been moved to the table, his small, frail form looking even more fragile in the stark, unforgiving light. He was unconscious, having been given a mild sedative elixir that Lloyd had prepared. Lady Zira stood beside him, her hand clutching her son’s, her face a beautiful, tragic sculpture of a mother’s love and terror. Sumaiya stood on the other side of the room, her back pressed against the wall, a silent, steadfast guardian, her presence a source of quiet, unshakeable support.
The two Royal Physicians and the master alchemist were also present, relegated to a corner of the room like chastened schoolboys. Their skepticism had been replaced by a grim, professional curiosity. They were here to witness either a miracle or a massacre, and they were not sure which was more likely.
Lloyd ignored them all. His focus was absolute, a narrow, intense beam of concentration that encompassed only himself, his patient, and the impossible task before him. He moved to a small side table where he had arranged his tools. They were a strange, anachronistic collection. On one side lay a set of fine, gleaming silver scalpels, forceps, and clamps, the tools of a modern surgeon. On the other side lay the fruits of his jungle quest: a small bowl containing a thick, green, fibrous paste made from the crushed leaves of the Sun-Kissed Fern and the Moonpetal Orchid. And in the center, on a small velvet cushion, lay the Lilith Stone, its milky-white surface seeming to pulse with a faint, internal light. It was a bizarre fusion of science, alchemy, and arcane technology.
Chapter : 788
He took a deep, steadying breath. The performance was over. The time for lies and manipulation was past. All that remained was the brutal, terrifying truth of the procedure itself.
“I will begin now,” he announced, his voice calm and clear, cutting through the thick, tense silence of the room. “From this moment on, I require absolute quiet. The slightest distraction could be fatal. Do not speak. Do not move. Do not breathe too loudly, if you can help it.”
He turned to his patient. He placed a hand on the boy’s chest, a final, reassuring gesture for the benefit of the parents. But under his palm, he was doing so much more. The [All-Seeing Eye] activated, his mind once again flooded with the luminous, three-dimensional schematic of the boy’s internal anatomy. He located the tumor, the dark, spidery mass clinging to the heart and lung, a sleeping monster in the cavern of the boy’s chest.
His left hand remained on the boy, his diagnostic vision a constant, live feed of information. With his right hand, he picked up the Lilith Stone. It was cool and smooth in his palm, the faint, humming resonance of its imprinted protocol a quiet vibration against his skin.
He held the stone over the boy’s sternum, the focal point directly above the hidden growth. ‘Activate,’ he commanded silently.
The stone came to life. The faint, internal light bloomed, a soft, warm, golden glow that filled the room. A gentle, almost imperceptible hum emanated from it, a pure, harmonic tone that seemed to resonate with the very air.
Now came the hardest part. The part that the Administrator had calculated had a 78.9% chance of catastrophic failure.
He closed his eyes. His mind, his will, his very soul became a lens, focusing all of his spiritual energy into a single, coherent beam. He bypassed the raw, chaotic power of Iffrit and Fang Fairy. He needed something purer, more fundamental. He reached deep into his own Spirit Core, the integrated reservoir of power that the System 2.0 update had forged, and began to draw upon it.
He then began the impossible task of ‘tuning’ that energy. Guided by the precise, real-time data from his [All-Seeing Eye], he modulated the frequency of his own spirit, shaping it, refining it, until it matched the faint, flickering, unique spiritual resonance of the boy. It was like trying to tune a guitar string in the middle of a hurricane, a feat of unimaginable mental and spiritual control.
The strain was immense. A sweat broke out on his brow. The muscles in his jaw clenched. He could feel the raw power resisting him, wanting to surge, to rage. He held it in check with an iron will, his mind a fortress against the storm of his own power.
Finally, he had it. A steady, gentle, perfectly tuned stream of pure, golden healing energy. He projected it from his own core, through his will, and into the Lilith Stone.
The stone did its work. It received the energy, amplified it, and projected it downward in a soft, focused beam of golden light that enveloped the boy’s chest. In his diagnostic vision, he saw the effect immediately. The boy’s fluttering, chaotic Spirit Core, which had been a guttering flame, stabilized. It began to pulse in a steady, strong, harmonic rhythm, anchored and supported by the external feed of perfectly tuned energy.
The first, most dangerous phase was a success. He had built the splint for the boy’s soul. Now, it was time for the butcher’s work.
Keeping one part of his mind absolutely focused on maintaining the healing frequency, he opened his eyes. He picked up a gleaming silver scalpel. His hand, the hand of a lord who had never known a day of manual labor, was as steady and precise as a 22nd-century surgical laser.
He looked at Lord and Lady Qadir, their faces pale with a terror that was close to fainting. “Courage,” he said softly, echoing Sumaiya’s own words back to the world.
And then, with a single, smooth, impossibly fine motion, he made the first incision.
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The sight of the gleaming silver scalpel parting the pale skin of their son’s chest was a physical blow to Lord and Lady Qadir. Lady Elara let out a small, strangled cry and would have collapsed if her husband hadn't wrapped a powerful arm around her, holding her steady. He himself was as white as a sheet, his jaw clenched so tight that the muscles stood out like iron bands. He was a man watching his own heart being cut from his body.