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

The next morning, the wooden door of the treatment center creaked open.

Sunlight streamed in obliquely through the half-open door, illuminating the wind chimes hanging on the porch. A gentle breeze blew, producing a series of crisp, melodious sounds.

"Welcome—ah, it's you."

Fufu was sweeping the floor when she heard the doorbell ring. She looked up and saw that familiar, cold face, and even her ears twitched involuntarily.

Standing outside the door was Annabelle.

She changed into casual clothes, but her demeanor remained cold and hard, like a sharp blade wrapped in silk.

"You've arrived," Sherlock's voice came from behind.

He was wearing a simple dark gray shirt with the cuffs rolled up, revealing his muscular forearms, and he was holding a hand towel in his right hand.

“Didn’t I say I would come again?” Annabelle replied casually.

"Is your headache still bothering you this time?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"No." She paused, her gaze shifting somewhat awkwardly. "I want to see what your usual work is like."

"You mean... you want to just watch me treat the patient?"

"Ah."

Are you sure you're not spying on me?

“…You could say that.” Annabelle did not deny it.

Sherlock sighed. "Suit yourself, but this isn't a military camp. Don't frighten the patient."

He turned and walked into the treatment room, his voice carrying from afar: "Fufu, prepare the medicine. We have quite a few appointments today."

Fufu stuck out her tongue and muttered under her breath, "How come there's another troublesome woman coming in..."

G-chan in the live stream chat exploded:
[Fufu's inner monologue is at its peak!]

The deputy division commander has come for an on-site inspection!

Sherlock: I heal the sick and save lives, yet you try to seduce me.

If this treatment center doesn't explode every day, I'll start to doubt if it's even part of the plot.

The daily work of the treatment center unfolds under Annabelle's watchful eye.

A human blacksmith's arm was burned, and Sherlock used ice healing magic to cool it down before applying his homemade healing ointment.

A werewolf child had a nosebleed from fighting. He stopped crying after being comforted by Fou. Sherlock gently pressed the bridge of his nose, and the wound healed instantly.

An elderly half-orc woman had been suffering from back pain for many years. Sherlock massaged her with his magic while teaching her how to correct her posture.

"How can you treat patients so professionally?" Annabelle finally couldn't help but ask.

"I am not a nobleman, nor was I trained at the Royal Medical Center," Sherlock said casually as he processed the medicinal herbs. "I learned these things on the front lines."

"front?"

"During the Third Northern Campaign, I was a field medic."

Annabelle was slightly moved.

She knew about that battle, of course. It was also the turning point that led to her first military achievement and her promotion to deputy division commander.

"You are... a survivor?"

"More or less," Sherlock said calmly, as if he were telling someone else's story. "Many people died in that war; there's nothing to brag about."

"But you survived and even learned how to treat it."

"And then I was kicked out of the army," he sneered, "because I insisted on rescuing the demi-human prisoners."

Annabelle remained silent.

She suddenly understood why a person from an ordinary background could have such influence in a slum.

He didn't rely on force or money, but on—choosing a different path.

During lunch break, in the courtyard.

Sherlock and Annabelle sat on a bench, Fou was making tea nearby, Dova and Léa were arguing about lunch, and Fina was sunbathing on the roof.

"Aren't you really afraid?" Annabelle suddenly asked.

"What are you afraid of?"

“You have changed the landscape among demi-humans, and perhaps soon the king will regard you as a threat.”

“I’m scared,” Sherlock shrugged, “but I’m even more scared of watching these people continue to kill each other.”

"The hatred between them is not something you can resolve."

“But at least I can give them a place where they don’t fight.” Sherlock looked at the children chasing each other in the yard and said softly, “Even if it’s just temporary peace, it’s worth trying.”

Annabelle looked at him and suddenly felt that this man was more like a hero than any knight she had ever seen.

Not the kind of glorious knight riding a horse and wielding a sword, but the kind of human being who pulls people out of the abyss with their bare hands.

evening.

"That's enough for today." Sherlock stretched. "Are you planning to 'observe' for a few more days?"

“Tomorrow.” Annabelle nodded.

"...Truly stubborn."

"I have a mission."

"Then come early, don't be late."

Annabelle was slightly taken aback; that sentence sounded like an invitation to "work".

She couldn't help but chuckle.

"it is good."

She turned and left, the setting sun casting a long shadow behind her.

Inside the treatment center, Ophelia floated down the stairs and, seeing Sherlock staring blankly out the door, gave a meaningful smile.

"Clatter, clatter, clatter... Should I remind you of something?"

"Not again? Can't you say something nice?"

“You’ve already planted a seed in the heart of the ‘Iron Lady’.”

"Seeds? What seeds?"

"The seed of longing."

"...Please don't use such strange metaphors!"

G-chan's hilarious rebroadcast:
[Ophelia: The Death King's Little Love Lesson Begins!]

Sherlock: I heal the illness, you heal me.

The deputy division commander is also straying further and further off the planned route today.

Nighttime, the royal palace.

Julius stood on the high platform of the Senate, holding the investigation report handed over by Annabelle.

His brows were furrowed and his eyes were gloomy.

"So, she changed her stance?"

“She’s more like… attracted than an enemy,” a follower whispered.

"That means that person does indeed have 'influence'."

He slowly placed the report back on the table, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Begin the second phase."

"The deputy division commander may not cooperate."

"Then we'll go around her."

"Yes."

The night returned to tranquility at the treatment center.

Sherlock sat by the window, gazing at the starry night sky.

Unbeknownst to him, the shadow of the capital was already creeping in.

Little did he know that this "investigation" would change not just one person's fate, but the future of the entire capital.

All he wanted was to be a therapist in peace and quiet.

But fate never lets go of those who try to change the world.

And he was already standing at the center of the vortex.

On the morning of the third day, the sky over the capital was shrouded in a thin layer of morning mist, and the stone slabs on the streets still bore the marks of the night's rain.

In the ruins of the slums, the treatment center has resumed normal operations.

Sherlock was drying herbs in the yard as usual, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his forearms covered in tiny scars. His movements were practiced and calm, his face devoid of any superfluous expression.

But deep down, things were far from calm. The words Ophelia had whispered in his ear last night still echoed in his mind:
"You have already planted the seed of love in her heart."

Sherlock certainly wouldn't take the "Necromancer's joke" to heart, but he couldn't deny that the icy woman—Annabelle—had indeed left a subtle impression on him.

No, it's "alertness".

She is too calm, too rational, and too dangerous.

More importantly, she came from the place he least wanted to deal with: the center of royal power.

"Doctor, please give me a stronger medicine today too."

Fina's voice came through the bag, which was filled with rare medicinal herbs she had obtained from the black market.

"Did you go stealing... 'collecting' materials again?"

"Of course, otherwise where would your clinic get its medicinal herbs? Do you think I come here every day just to see your handsome face?" She laughed as she put the bag on the table. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not interested in you at all."

"How many people have said that now?" Sherlock sighed. "Could you please not steal from the pharmacy in the Royal Capital Special District next time? I don't want to catch bullets for you anymore."

"I didn't get hit again." She wagged her tail triumphantly.

"Last time you were burned by a fireball, this time it was a poison attack, and next time I'll have to give you a mental stabilizer."

"You can't bear to part with it." She blinked.

Sherlock didn't say anything more, turned around and went inside to organize the medicinal herbs. Just then, the wind chimes at the door rang again.

"Good morning." It was Annabelle.

She was dressed very simply today, in a gray robe, with no sword or gun at her waist, and her hair was casually draped over her shoulders. She looked less cold and aloof, but more...human.

"You're late," Sherlock said without looking up.

“I went to check on the border patrol situation in the capital.” She walked in and sat in the same spot she had sat in yesterday. “Didn’t you say yesterday that you didn’t want the number of patients to increase?”

"You mean you're not a patient?"

"I am the supervisor."

"So how's your supervision going?"

Annabelle looked up, her gaze falling on his face. She didn't answer immediately, but remained silent for a few seconds before slowly speaking:
"I am not sure."

"Oh?"

“You don’t seem like an enemy,” she said in a low voice, “nor do you seem like someone who wants to destroy the existing order.”

"Because I am not."

"But you did change the slums."

“It’s just to stop them from hurting each other.” Sherlock walked up to her and placed a cup of hot tea on the table. “This shouldn’t be considered a crime.”

Annabelle glanced down at her teacup, her fingers gently stroking the rim.

“You know what?” she suddenly whispered, “before I became the deputy division commander, I also lived in the slums.”

Sherlock's expression shifted.

“I was born here,” she continued. “My mother was a washerwoman, and my father died in battle when I was young. When I was six, our house was burned to the ground by the orc gang. I almost died in that fire.”

"and after?"

“Later, I was selected by the Royal Guard Division, received training, and left this place.” She raised her head, a hint of complexity in her blue eyes. “It took me ten years to forget the smells, the tastes, the sounds of this place… but now, I’m back.”

Sherlock looked at her and slowly sat down.

"You hate this place too, right?"

“I used to hate it.” She nodded slightly. “But now… I’m not so sure.”

"You're not sure because you've discovered that this isn't the burning, hateful, and desperate place you remember."

"It's because of you," she said frankly.

Sherlock was taken aback.

“That’s why I said I wasn’t sure you were an enemy,” Annabelle continued. “I even feel… that you’re more like someone who’s protecting something than those of us who maintain order.”

This statement brought a brief silence to the room.

Fufu was quietly chopping vegetables in the kitchen, Dova was practicing throwing in the backyard, and Leia was punching a wooden stake. Everything was the same as yesterday, yet it was no longer the same.

"Do you know that saying these things will upset your boss?" Sherlock finally spoke.

“Julius has already begun planning the second phase,” she said calmly. “They intend to bypass me and act directly against you.”

"how long?"

"Within three days."

"...Then tell me, are you reminding me to run away?"

“No,” she shook her head, “I wanted to know your choice.”

Sherlock looked at her, his eyes as deep as the night.

"I won't run away."

"You know what they'll do."

"I know."

“They will smear you, saying you collude with demi-humans, incite riots, and even label you a rebel.”

"I know."

“You could die.”

"I know."

Annabelle spoke slowly and deliberately, her voice growing softer, but she didn't interrupt or get agitated.

Sherlock simply answered quietly.

Finally, she asked:
"Then why don't you run away?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then slowly began to speak:
“Because I escaped, they will burn this treatment center down, arrest them one by one, torture them, interrogate them, and enslave them… You know the procedures in the capital, and I know them too.”

“I ran away, which means I handed them all over.”

“I won’t do that.”

Annabelle looked at him, and her expression changed.

She finally understood why these demi-humans were willing to listen to him, and why those once domineering racial leaders would bow down before him.

It wasn't because of his power, nor because of his methods.

It's because he, with his own strength, is truly protecting a part of this world.

Even if this part is a ruin abandoned by the capital.

That night, Annabelle left the treatment center and returned to the Guardian Division's headquarters.

Julius was already waiting for her in the conference room, with a map of the capital spread out on the table.

"You went to his place again today?"

"Yes."

Where is your investigation report?

"in my heart."

Julius sneered.

"You've already sided with him."

“I’m on his side,” Annabelle said calmly. “He’s not the enemy. You’re wrong.”

"you are too naive."

"You're too afraid of change."

The two looked at each other, remaining silent as mountains.

After a long silence, Julius put away the map, his tone icy:

"Then we will carry out the second phase."

"If you dare touch him, I will stand against you."

"Would you betray the capital for a lowly healer from the slums?"

“If this ‘little healer’ is more human than the capital, then I will.”

After he finished speaking, the conference room fell into dead silence.

The wind blew in from the window, scattering the papers on the table.

Power and justice, loyalty and emotion—at this moment, a rift emerged.

The storm has ended. (End of Chapter)