Coming out of the Hairy Bear with several long baguettes wrapped in cloth and two portions of cleaned raw chicken, Victor headed back home. Angoulême was probably already waiting for him there, expecting him to cook.
There weren't many customers in the tavern that morning. The young man introduced himself as a newcomer mercenary who didn't want trouble. Two drinks, plus an extra five orens, bought him a pleasantly long chat with the owner, Griffarin.
According to Griffarin, the gang boss in this area was Ramsmeat, and he'd had quite a few clashes lately with the newly rising Salamandra.
As for the girls who did street trade in the Temple Quarter, they all belonged to Madam Carmen of the "Eager Thighs" academy. She'd gathered the vulnerable women—who would otherwise be bullied as scattered individuals—into a group, then struck a deal with Ramsmeat so he'd send his men to keep the girls safe.
On top of that, Victor also spotted Jethro—wearing a uniform, clearly slipping away from duty. He was the guard under Captain Vincent Meis, the one who'd issued the troupe their gate passes. Jethro was hunched in a corner of the inn, buying fisstech from a supplier.
He looked desperate for it—restless, jittery. He paid, grabbed it, and left in a hurry without ever noticing Victor.
That was worth remembering.
Some information looked useless at first glance, but at the right moment it could be incredibly handy—like a sheet of paper. In an emergency, it could become toilet paper.
After dodging a few beggars trying to grab at him along the way, and a couple of street girls trying to lure him, Victor found himself passing Saint Lebioda's Hospital again before he knew it.
"Victor? Is that you?"
A dull, strange voice called him over.
He turned his head—and there stood a full-blown medieval plague doctor. The outfit looked suspicious no matter how you cut it. Hearing descriptions before had only made it sound bizarre; seeing it in person was genuinely shocking.
The person who'd called him wore a leather wide-brimmed black hat that completely covered the hair, meant to block anything that might stick or drip down from above.
A bird-beak respirator covered the face, the long beak packed with medicinal aromatic plants and special spices to filter miasma, soften the stench of corpses, and dull the poison in the air. Over the eyes were red glass lenses.
A black coat reached all the way to the feet, treated with tallow, wax, and camphor oil to reduce exposure as much as possible. Leather breeches protected the legs and groin from infection.
And to finish it off: waxed brown leather gloves, and a long, slender, thornwood cane with a sharp tip.
In that instant, Victor finally understood something—those villagers at the tavern outside the city didn't merely "respect" doctors. Any ordinary person who'd seen this outfit wouldn't want to sit near her while eating, not even if she was stunning.
"Hey, Shani." Victor answered with certainty. He didn't know anyone else who dressed like that.
Shani kept the length of her cane between them to maintain distance. "Mm. It's me. I'm glad you made it into the city safely, Victor. Sorry—only afterward did I realize you might've needed my help…"
Victor smiled bright and easy. "It's fine. I got a pass pretty quickly. How's everything at the hospital?"
"We isolated in time, so the number of infected didn't grow. But the ones who are already sick…"
The bird beak swayed left and right as she spoke. Victor knew it wasn't appropriate, but he still found it kind of funny—if you stepped too close, you'd get poked.
Shani clearly didn't want to linger on plague talk. "So, what's all that? Going somewhere to eat?" She nodded at the bread sticking out of his bundle and smoothly changed the subject.
"I bought a house—Temple Quarter, not far from here." Victor lifted the bundle and gave it a shake. "I'm making herb-roasted chicken at noon. Want to come to my place for lunch?"
At that, the beak jutted forward, and Shani lifted a finger to herself. "Are you inviting a plague doctor to your home for lunch? Are you sure?" Her voice was heavily distorted through the mask, but the teasing was unmistakable.
"Heh. I'm not joking. I really am inviting you." Victor smiled and added, "I trust you'll handle disinfection properly. And of course, so will I."
"Huh-huh-huh-huh…" Shani's laughter came out bizarre through the mask. "That's rare. Thank you for the invitation, Victor. But I need to get back to work. Another time."
Victor didn't mind the gentle refusal. He pulled out a scrap of paper, wrote his address, and set it on the ground. "No problem. This is where I live. Whenever you have time, come by and sit a while.
Someone's home in the morning and at night. Only the afternoon, we're usually both out. If I'm not around, the one who opens the door might be a girl—Angoulême. I've mentioned you to her."
With that, Victor waved goodbye to Doctor Shani.
…
Herb-roasted chicken, sliced baguette, and borscht.
After a cheerful midday meal, the young captain of the Phantom Troupe cruelly announced their new way of life. He declared that his troupe member's freewheeling days were over, and that it was time to enter the era of "learning makes me happy" again.
From now on, every morning the two of them would jog together, then do practical sword training. After that, Angoulême would stay home and read—assigned reference book: Common Herbs and Practical Salves—while the captain handled information gathering and shopping in the city.
In the afternoon, they'd go outside the walls together. Depending on the situation, that meant collection practice or monster hunting, and occasionally swim training.
In short: while completing Kalkstein's gathering task, Victor also intended to cultivate a well-rounded, multi-purpose, high-quality enforcer.
After making the announcement, Victor left Angoulême behind—so she could enjoy one last day of leisure with a miserable face—while he went down into the basement alchemy room and began studying the deposit Kalkstein had paid him: Analysis of the Effects of Purifiers, Decomposers, and Binders.
Just from that deposit, he could already tell an alchemist's professional knowledge was worth learning. The long journey and all the time spent getting here for this job wasn't a loss.
…
That night, legs crossed, Victor poured bottle after bottle of cheap, low-grade liquor into the cauldron. He was about to do the thing every isekai traveler eventually does—
Make alcohol.
His conversation with Doctor Shani at noon had reminded him: it was time to get proper disinfectant. Given his special ability, the sweet spot between effectiveness and practicality was clear—seventy-five percent alcohol.
People in this world knew strong spirits could disinfect, but they couldn't reliably produce the best ratio. For Victor, of course, that wasn't a problem. All he needed to do was stir up alcohol close to one hundred percent, then dilute it with water by measure.
In the blink of an eye, the disinfectant was ready. For a product like this—where the process could be clearly defined in his mind—the mental strain wasn't heavy.
Feeling like he still had some strength left, Victor thought of an earlier idea.
He hesitated briefly. Rationally, the odds of failure were extremely high—but from a humanitarian standpoint, it was something he had to try.
So Victor put on gloves, covered his mouth and nose, and took a tube of blood from his herb pouch, pouring it into the cauldron.
Blood from someone who had recovered from the Catriona plague. In theory, it should contain antibodies—maybe he could try refining them…
He gripped the long stirring rod and began to mix.
In an instant—
The moment his mental power was drained dry, the young man collapsed and passed out.