Since that incident, Pados has been working diligently.

Although his mother is still alive, he hasn't seen her in about a year. According to Pados, she’s probably died somewhere on the streets. It seems their bond as parent and child isn't very strong; he’s lived mostly alone since he was young.

In contrast, even after my mother passed away, I had Pal to rely on. Pados, however, had no such adults in his life. It made me realize once again how fortunate I’ve been.

Pados’s coarse manner of speaking and behavior have improved significantly.

Under the rigorous guidance of Pal and Solderik, Pados has been growing steadily. I admire his tenacity, enduring their strict training while striving to uphold the promises he made to me.

"Your posture is weak. Straighten your back more," Pal instructed.

"Y-yes!" Pados replied, trying to comply.

Every morning, we practice sword swings together.

Pados’s swings are rough and unpolished—likely because, as a farmer, he’s never properly wielded a sword before. If he had become an adventurer as he intended, he surely would have met an untimely end.

But it’s not entirely his fault; he simply never had a proper mentor. Now, I’ll be that mentor for him.

"Focus your entire being on each swing. Swinging aimlessly is a waste of time," I advised.

"Yes, sir!" Pados responded, tightening his grip on the sword.

Even to face someone like Monoglok, the sword emperor who seems to have achieved mastery without any effort, Pados will need to hone his skills through hard work.

It’ll be fascinating to see the results when the diligent farmer faces the seemingly effortless emperor.

As usual, I was treating injuries and illnesses when a commotion erupted outside.

This clinic seems to attract noisy visitors for some reason. Of course, adventurer guild representatives like Darnan and royal messengers only come because I’ve involved myself in their affairs.

"Doctor! Is the doctor here!?" a loud voice called out.

"What’s all the shouting about? I can hear you perfectly fine without yelling," Pal admonished.

It was a canine beastman—someone I vaguely recognized. Where had I seen him before?

"This isn’t the time for that! It’s serious!" he exclaimed.

"And what exactly is so serious? If this is some kind of prank, I’ll send you flying," Pal retorted sternly.

If Pal sent him flying, it might actually kill him, so I stepped in to diffuse the tension.

"First, calm down. Take a deep breath," I suggested.

"O-okay… haah, hoo…"

It hit me—I remembered this beastman. He was my clinic’s first patient when I opened. He’d been on the brink of death, his body riddled with wounds from a fang viper. I think he introduced himself back then, but his name escaped me.

"Feeling calmer now? What’s the emergency?"

"People are collapsing everywhere!" he exclaimed.

"Collapsing? What do you mean?"

"Just come with me!" he pleaded, grabbing my arm.

"Let go of him!" Pal shouted, following behind as the beastman dragged me out of the clinic.

As we entered the slums, I saw people lying on the streets.

"Look! These people—they won’t move!" the beastman exclaimed.

"They’re dead, aren’t they? It’s not unusual for people to collapse and die in the slums," Pal commented dismissively.

Indeed, deaths from starvation or exposure in the slums are tragically common. I’ve heard countless such stories at the clinic.

"No, look at their faces!" he said, kneeling to reveal one of the collapsed individuals.

"Gah!?" I gasped upon seeing the face.

This person wasn’t dead. Their chest rose and fell faintly with shallow breaths.

"Ugh, what’s wrong with their face?" Pal muttered.

"Exactly! Every collapsed person looks like this!" the beastman exclaimed.

Their face was discolored, a deep bluish-black, as though ink had been spilled over their skin. This sight triggered a memory—one of a specific illness.

"Blackface Disease…" I muttered.

Its formal name is Loydrefus Bronson Disease, but most people know it as Blackface Disease because of the distinctive discoloration it causes.

"Bl-Blackface what now?" the beastman stammered.

"Blackface Disease," I repeated. "If my memory serves me, it’s a contagious disease that spread around 50 years ago."

"A contagious disease!?" he exclaimed, recoiling in horror.

"Yes, and a highly infectious one at that. How many people have you seen collapsed like this?"

"I don’t know exactly, but there are dozens for sure!"

"If dozens are showing symptoms, then hundreds in the slums are likely infected. If it spreads beyond the slums, we could be looking at thousands—or even tens of thousands—within the capital."

"We need to seal off the slums immediately, or the casualties will escalate rapidly."

"But sealing off the slums would starve everyone inside to death," Pal pointed out.

"Yeah, we’d die either way!" the beastman agreed. "Seal us in, and we’re finished!"

"I’m not suggesting trapping everyone inside; it’s to stop outsiders from entering. It’s to contain the spread, not imprison the people," I clarified.

"Still…" Pal hesitated.

"There’s no time to argue about this. What’s your name?" I asked the beastman.

"Me? I’m Dawson," he replied.

"Alright, Dawson. Gather all the patients showing symptoms and bring them here."

"W-what are you going to do with them?" he asked nervously.

"Treat them, of course."

"You can cure it?"

"I’ll do my best."

"…Alright. I’ll gather them," Dawson said, running off.

"Pal, inform the Adventurer’s Guild about this. The rest is up to the guild and the kingdom," I instructed.

"Understood," Pal replied, already moving to act.

Though technically, this isn’t the guild’s responsibility, I don’t have the authority to mobilize the kingdom. For now, this is the best I can do.