You said you were going to make games, how did you become the richest man without doing anything?

Sherlock, who came from a poor background, had naturally heard of her name.

"You want a million Wen dollars just to cut off an arm?" Fina's tone turned somber. "Give me at least a reasonable explanation. Otherwise, I won't pay so easily."

A hint of murderous intent flickered in her eyes, and the air in the entire treatment center seemed to drop a degree.

Sherlock remained calm: "Wait, who said I was 'just' going to cut off my arm?"

“…What?” Fina was slightly taken aback.

"If it were just amputation, it wouldn't be worth the price. The point is—I will make your arm regenerate."

The air seemed to be still at this moment.

"What...did you say?" Fina's eyes widened, and for the first time, genuine shock appeared in her gaze.

"Regenerate an arm? I've never heard of a therapist being able to do that."

"Huh? Other healers can't do it?" Sherlock tilted his head, looking innocent. "Are you kidding me?"

G-chan went completely mad: "Holy crap! Regeneration?! Isn't that a forbidden technique of the Holy Order?!"

What exactly is Sherlock's talent...?

Forget about not having a license, he should be in the royal hospital.

[Is Regeneration a legendary spell?!]

I declare, this man is no ordinary man!

"Who...who exactly are you?" Fina's voice became somewhat dry.

“I’m just an unlicensed healer,” Sherlock said calmly, “but I don’t work for free. Whoever you are—a hero of the slums or a king—I will take what is equivalent to my labor.”

Fina remained silent for a long time before finally letting out a slow breath.

Then she laughed.

That was a long-lost, willing laugh.

“Interesting.” She stood up, her gaze towards Sherlock becoming more serious and respectful than ever before. “You are the first human to dare to negotiate with me.”

"So, will you still accept treatment?" Sherlock asked.

Fina nodded: "One million Wenzhou dollars, no problem. I will pay you for this 'regeneration'."

……

Sherlock had no formal medical education. He was practically clueless about the "common sense" a therapist should possess.

But precisely because of this, he had no constraints.

During his time in Louis's team, he was mostly used as a utility player. His task was always to stay in the rear, casting protective magic to shield his teammates from harm.

No one ever truly needed his "treatment".

until today.

"Then I'll begin the treatment."

Sherlock said in a low voice, his face showing no hesitation.

He walked to the treatment bed and gestured for Fina to lie down.

The fearsome leader of the thief gang, "Swift Fina," was now quietly leaning against the bed, her eyes filled with disbelief.

She watched Sherlock's movements and saw him chanting softly with his right palm facing the sky.

"Holding the Knife".

In an instant, the magic in the air began to surge, and a pale white light condensed in his palm, gradually lengthening and extending until it finally formed a slender and sharp blade of light.

Like a transparent scalpel, it gleamed with a faint, cold light under the sun.

"What...what is that?" Fina asked instinctively, her brows furrowed.

“Hmm? This is a blade I created with magic.” Sherlock explained casually as he examined her arm. “This kind of knife is very clean and can be retracted and extended at will. It’s much easier to use than an iron scalpel.”

"I've never heard of therapists using that kind of thing."

"Really? How do the other therapists perform the surgery?" Sherlock asked in return, his tone devoid of sarcasm, only pure curiosity.

Fina was speechless for a moment.

She felt like she had asked some strange question.

Sherlock gently placed his left hand on her shoulder, a faint golden light shining from his palm—an automatically cast pain-relieving spell.

"Ready."

With that, he gently sliced ​​the light blade in his right hand across Fina's already necrotic right arm—starting from below the shoulder, cleanly and efficiently cutting away the decaying tissue.

No blood gushed out.

He had quietly applied a hemostatic protective technique before even making the incision.

Childe stood to the side, nervously swallowing. The sound was exceptionally clear in the silent treatment room.

"Come on, the main event is about to begin."

Sherlock whispered, then his hands twirled, and a dozen complex healing spells appeared at his fingertips.

"Tissue regeneration, neural connectivity, periosteal remodeling, muscle fiber weaving, epidermal regeneration..."

With each incantation he uttered, a beam of light flew from his palm and landed precisely on the severed arm.

Within seconds, bones grew from the cut, like branches that had been prematurely matured, rapidly extending into a complete skeleton. Then, nerves and blood vessels climbed up like vines, followed by muscles and skin, layer upon layer covering, repairing, wrapping, and stitching together.

It's like building a work of art.

Each healing spell has a different strength and precision, and Sherlock must constantly fine-tune the output in order to perfectly reshape the body structure without causing side effects.

He looked like he was sculpting, not treating.

The radiance of magic danced around him, like countless fireflies weaving together in the air to form a turbine, illuminating the entire treatment room.

G-chan fell completely silent at that moment.

“I…I’m speechless,” she said softly, her voice filled with rare awe. “This isn’t a healer…this is a real-life magical craftsman.”

Wow, this is real "treatment"!

This is like a combination of a healer, sculptor, and magic engineer from a game.

[It's incredibly detailed; it even simulates organizational restructuring...]

Sherlock is a healer who writes code using magic.

I hereby declare that I will feel unwell if I don't see him for treatment from now on.

Five minutes later, the light disappeared.

Fina sat up in bed and looked down at her right arm.

It was an intact arm with beautifully defined muscles, as if it had never been injured.

She slowly clenched her fist, her knuckles moving freely without the slightest awkwardness.

“…I was really scared.” She murmured to herself, her eyes filled with shock. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen a therapist like this.”

“That’s amazing…” Childe stared at his sister’s hand, his face filled with disbelief.

But then, he suddenly looked up.

"...Hey, what's that?"

His voice trembled as he pointed to the ceiling.

Following his gaze, everyone saw a pretty woman peeking out from the ceiling, her bright eyes fixed on the room.

That's Ophelia, the Queen of the Dead. "You mean that one? She's the... undead I live with," Sherlock replied expressionlessly.

"A necromancer?!" Child's voice cracked. "You're actually living with a necromancer?!"

Ophelia stuck out her tongue, clicked her tongue in annoyance, and then sullenly retreated back into the ceiling: "Tsk, too bad I didn't kill him... Sigh, I really wanted to absorb his life force..."

"Hey! What did that guy just say?" Child's temple throbbed with anger.

"Don't take it to heart," Sherlock waved his hand. "Actually, she's a good person."

"You're definitely lying to me, right?!"

The scene was so absurd that it even made Fina laugh out loud.

"Hahaha...you're really something else." She lightly flicked her newly regenerated right hand. "Amazing, and quite amusing too. I admire you."

She stood up, stopped at the door, and glanced back.

"We'll be relying on you to take care of the people in our organization from now on. Of course, we'll definitely pay for their medical treatment."

After saying that, she left the treatment room with light steps, as if she had just walked on the brink of death and regained the joy of life.

Fou brought over a chair, and Sherlock plopped down, letting out a huge sigh.

"Phew... I'm exhausted."

His forehead was covered in sweat, and his face was somewhat pale.

This wasn't just a casual stitching and patching; it was a complete reconstruction of an arm. The magic, mental effort, and precision required far exceeded the scope of ordinary healing spells.

He wasn't treating; he was "creating."

And it was in this dilapidated ruin that the name of an unlicensed therapist quietly began to spread.

It wasn't an honor bestowed by royalty, nor a ranking within an adventurer's guild, but rather something found in the slums, in the black market, among exiles and the forgotten—

A person who can truly "save lives".

His name is Sherlock.

……

"Sherlock, I've made you some black tea."

In the stillness of the night, moonlight streamed in through the window, casting soft, silvery shadows on the mottled floor. Far removed from the hustle and bustle of the capital, the ruined street was devoid of the shouts of patrolling soldiers or merchants; only the occasional barking of wild dogs in the distance added to the desolate silence.

The clinic had long since closed, with a handwritten wooden sign hanging outside that read "Closed." Although the handwriting was messy, it conveyed a unique kind of earnestness.

Wearing a white apron, Fufu carefully placed the steaming teacup on the wooden table. Her long golden hair swayed gently in the light, and her pointed ears trembled slightly with her movements.

"Thank you, Fufu. You're so thoughtful."

Sherlock walked over, sat down, took the black tea, and had a faint smile on his lips.

"Hehe, thank you for the compliment." Fufu blinked, her voice soft and coquettish at the end.

“Fou is the best.” Sherlock raised his hand and gently ruffled her hair.

The elf girl's ears popped up, and her cheeks instantly flushed a faint blush.

"By the way, why are there three teacups?" Sherlock looked around the table and noticed that in addition to the two teacups he and Fou had, there was another one placed opposite him.

Fufu replied with a smile, "Because it's not just the two of us, Miss Ophelia also wants to have tea."

"Does that guy drink?"

"Of course I'll drink it."

A cold yet elegant voice suddenly rang out in front of Sherlock.

He looked in the direction of the sound and saw that the Lich King Ophelia had appeared on the chair opposite him at some point. Her translucent body shimmered with a bluish-green light under the lamplight, like a phantom appearing in the mist. With graceful movements, she extended her slender fingers, picked up the teacup, and slowly brought the black tea to her lips.

"You really want to drink it..." Sherlock looked at her helplessly.

“You’re right, this cup of hot tea does need to be drunk carefully. Cough cough cough…” Ophelia gently blew on the teacup a few times, as if she could really feel the heat.

Fufu reminded her earnestly, "Be careful not to burn yourself."

G-chan was laughing hysterically in the live stream: "I...I'm really impressed. Necromancers can burn their mouths drinking black tea? This game setting is so cool, hahaha!"

[Necromancer: Though I am dead, the black tea must be hot.]

[Does Fufu really consider her her roommate?]

I could watch ten episodes of the scene where the Undead King is drinking tea.

Sherlock's daily life is increasingly resembling an interspecies apartment rental reality show.

“By the way, Sherlock.” Ophelia took a sip of her black tea and looked at him with a wistful gaze. “You seem to have been quite busy lately.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Sherlock nodded.

Ever since "Swift Fina" underwent arm regeneration surgery, she introduced him to the other members of the lizardman thief gang. These demi-humans came one after another seeking medical help, with various injuries: some were cut by sharp blades, some were still suffering from poisoning, and some were even burned by magic, their skin torn open.

“They pay very readily,” Fufu added, “and they’re always very polite.”

"Hmph." Ophelia snorted in complaint, "It's all because you didn't heal even a single person that I'm so bored."

She stood up, holding the empty teacup, and floated back upstairs with a "crackling" sound as she did so. Her voice drifted back softly: "Next time, I'll have some high-calorie blood tea, clack..."

"Sherlock," Fou asked curiously, "Can I ask you a question, Fou? Why are those lizardmen always getting injured?"

"I guess it's because they got into a conflict with other forces."

Sherlock stood up and walked to the window, gazing at the ruins of the street in the distance at night. There were no stars there, only the sound of the wind rustling through tattered cloth.

"Although the slums are the lowest rung of the capital, the people living there are diverse, including not only humans but also various demi-humans. Even though they all live on the margins of society, conflicts between races still arise over territory and interests."

"As far as I know, there are three major subhuman gangs in the slums."

"The first one is the lizardmen gang led by Fina."

"The second is a military group composed of orcs."

"And one more is..."

Just then, the treatment center's main door was suddenly blown away with a loud "bang," and fragments of the wooden door flew everywhere, crashing heavily against the wall.

"Sherlock, someone's coming!" Fou exclaimed and rushed towards the entrance.

A group of burly men with wolf fur on their faces burst into the room from outside, wielding axes. Their eyes were fierce, their movements were alert, and they exuded a bloody and savage aura.

Sherlock squinted, his gaze sweeping over their ears and tails.

"It seems like another gang has come knocking."

These guys are werewolves.

One of the three major subhuman gangs in the slums, standing alongside the lizardmen and orcs.

"Boss, this is it," a werewolf whispered, his tone wary.

"Thank you for your hard work."

A woman slowly walked out from the crowd.

She was tall and slender, dressed in a close-fitting black leather outfit, and walked with a steady and powerful gait. Although her face was more human-like than other werewolves, with regular features, and could even be described as quite beautiful, her sharp wolf ears and tail still revealed her bloodline.

Whenever she gently flicked her tail, her werewolf subordinates would instinctively hold their breath, as if they felt some kind of innate pressure.

"I can't believe a medical clinic has opened in a place like this." She looked around the room, her eyes sharp. "You're Sherlock, the unlicensed healer?"

Sherlock nodded, his tone calm: "I am. And who are you?"

The woman curled her lips into a smile, revealing sharp fangs, her voice deep and magnetic:
"I am Dova, the leader of the werewolf gang in the slums." (End of Chapter)