CHAPTER 1 - The Young Doctor

Morning light spilled gently over the quiet village, brushing the wooden rooftops with a soft golden glow. Thin streams of smoke curled lazily into the sky, carrying the scent of breakfast fires and damp earth.

To anyone passing through, the village would seem peaceful.

Ordinary.

Safe.

But that illusion shattered—

A small boy ran through the streets, his uneven footsteps echoing against the packed dirt road. His clothes were stained with dust, his knees scraped raw, and tears streamed down his dirt-covered face.

His breathing was ragged. Desperate.

"Please! Someone help!" he cried, his voice cracking as he stumbled forward. "My father is dying!"

Villagers turned their heads.

Some frowned.

Some whispered.

Some simply looked away.

Not because they didn't care—

But because they already knew.

Crimson Fever.

A sickness that devoured the body... and emptied the pockets of anyone who tried to fight it.

The boy ran from door to door, knocking, begging, pleading—

Until his strength finally gave out.

His legs collapsed beneath him.

He hit the ground hard, choking back sobs as his small hands dug into the dirt.

"No one... please... someone..."

Silence answered him.

Then—

A calm voice broke through the weight of despair.

"Kid... why are you crying?"

The boy froze.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

Standing before him was a tall man, his presence strangely steady amidst the chaos. His orange hair caught the sunlight, and his bright blue eyes held a calm that felt almost out of place in this desperate moment.

Beside him stood a young woman.

Pale. Elegant. Quiet.

Her long black hair framed her face like a curtain of night, and her deep violet eyes observed everything with silent intensity.

The boy's lips trembled again, fresh tears forming.

But before he could break down, the man knelt in front of him, his voice soft—gentle in a way the boy hadn't heard all day.

"You can tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help."

The boy sniffed, wiping his face with trembling hands.

"My father... he's sick. Crimson Fever. I can't afford a doctor. I looked everywhere, but no one would help..."

For a brief moment, silence lingered.

Then the man placed a reassuring hand on the boy's head and smiled.

A simple smile.

But to the boy—it felt like hope.

"Don't worry. I'm a doctor. Take me to your house."

The boy's eyes widened.

Hope flickered—small, fragile, but real.

He nodded quickly and jumped to his feet.

"Th-this way!"

He ran again—this time not in despair, but with urgency.

With hope.

• Inside the House

The door burst open.

"Father! Mother! I brought a doctor!"

Inside, the air was thick—heavy with heat and fear.

A woman rushed forward, her face pale and exhausted.

"Please... help my husband!"

The man stepped inside calmly, his sharp eyes already analyzing the situation.

The patient lay on a simple bed, his body trembling, his skin unnaturally red, his breaths shallow and uneven.

Crimson Fever.

Advanced stage.

The man moved without hesitation.

He checked the pulse.

The temperature.

The breathing.

Then he turned slightly.

"Elen, prepare the medicines I told you about. Quickly."

Elen nodded immediately, already moving.

Her hands were precise, practiced. She gathered herbs, crushed them, mixed liquids—her movements quiet but efficient.

The man administered the medicine carefully, watching every reaction.

Seconds passed.

Then minutes.

The room held its breath.

The boy clutched his mother's hand tightly.

"Father..."

Slowly—

The man's breathing steadied.

The unnatural redness faded.

His trembling eased.

And then—

His eyelids fluttered open.

The boy gasped, rushing forward.

"Are you okay, Father?"

The man exhaled weakly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The pain... it's gone."

Relief broke across the room like sunlight after a storm.

The mother covered her mouth, tears spilling freely.

The father turned his head toward the young doctor, his eyes filled with gratitude.

"Thank you. You saved my life."

The man gave a small, modest smile.

"Crimson Fever. Without medicine, it would've been fatal. Finish the treatment, and you'll recover fully."

But the father's expression darkened.

Reality returned.

"But... I can't afford this medicine."

The room fell silent again.

The boy looked down.

The mother's hands trembled.

But the doctor simply shook his head.

"It's fine. I can't stand by and watch people die. Your recovery is enough payment."

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then the mother wiped her tears.

"Thank you... truly."

The boy stepped forward, bowing deeply, his small body shaking with emotion.

"I'll never forget your kindness."

The doctor stood, satisfied, and turned toward the door.

His work here was done.

But as he stepped outside, the boy ran after him.

"Sir! What's your name?"

The man paused.

Then, with a faint smile—

"Ivan."

He walked away, Elen silently at his side.

Behind them, a house once filled with despair now held something rare.

Hope.