"Option One it is. How delightfully prudent of you, Sister." Fran watched Haidra's retreating figure, her gaze lingering like twilight over a closing door. "A purely human specimen enduring four augmentation cycles… If only all clients boasted such robust constitutions."
She sank deeper into the clinic's velvet chaise, limbs dissolving into cushions with feline languor. "No haggling either…"
[Patient: Haidra Moira — Recovery Confirmed. Monthly Objective: Grade A Achieved.]
[Next Emergency Dispatch: Randomized — 30 Days]
[Payment Received: Unidentified Bio-Technical Manual (Common Tier)]
——
"Appraise the manual."
[Processing… Appraisal Complete.]
[Title: Fundamentals of Spinal Architecture (Terra Medicus Catalog)]
[Rarity: Common]
[Effect: Unlocks Associated Medical Frameworks. Analytical Proficiency +3%]
[Note: "Yearning to summon Celestial Tier-III Guards? To forge your spine into an abyssal horror? To cheat death itself? Dream on! This primer barely cures stiff necks!"]
"Such venomous footnotes," Fran muttered, squinting at the text. "Baiting with grandeur only to sucker-punch readers? How… inventive."
Disappointment proved impossible—Common-tier loot rarely exceeded expectations. Yet the manual's snark kindled a wry smile.
"Very well—let's digest this primer."
Ten minutes later, Fran closed the manual with a satisfied snap. "Assimilated."
[Spinal Architectonics (Terra Medicus): Mastered. Analytical Proficiency +3%]
[System Alert: Theoretical framework unlocked. Practical application restricted—insufficient facilities/artisan-grade tools.]
"Not the Holy Terra I anticipated... but progress is progress." She shelved the volume among her teeming collection, each spine a testament to stolen knowledge.
"Access status panel. Let's audit Sister Haidra's contribution."
[Processing…]
[Operator: Fran Herschel]
[Species: Homo sapiens sapiens (♀)]
[Age: ██████]
[Proficiency Matrix:
Terra Medicus: 3%
40k Bio-Augmentics: 37.9%
Mechanical Prosthesis: 10.1%
Organic Prosthesis: 30.5%
Xenobiology: 27%
Neurophysiology: 21%
Clinical Psychology: 19%
Anatomical Mastery: 79%
Genetic Recomposition: 27%
Soulforging: 17.1%
Forbidden Alkahest: 21%]
[Unique Ability:
Sterile Aura (Lv.81): Generates 3m-radius zone repelling pathogens/particles. Ambient luminescence eliminates shadows.]
[Trait: The Eccentric Physician]
Bio-technical comprehension +100%
Anatomical analysis yield +100%
Permanently maintains surgical detachment]
——
Fran traced the holographic readout with a suture-scarred finger. "Ah, but where's the thrill in predictable gains?" Her laughter echoed through the clinic, sharp as a scalpel's edge.
"Before, the resolution of the 'bio-prosthetic technology' was at 30%, which has now increased by 0.5%. Meanwhile, the 40k medicine originally stood at 36.9%, showing a substantial rise of 1%..."
Fran stroked her chin, conducting a quick tally of the resolution she had gained from this medical visit.
While 0.5% and 1% might seem negligible at first glance, they represented a rather alarming figure. Achieving a resolution of 100% in any given field would signify reaching the pinnacle of that world's technological hierarchy—an all-encompassing knowledge void of any omissions, including the lost and the fragmented.
These advancements might well be the result of millennia of research, employing an unfathomable number of life forms as experimental subjects...
"I hope Sister Haida appreciates this medical service. No, I must add her to my premium clients list and offer her a 10% discount next time..."
It was exceedingly rare for a patient to provide Fran with a cumulative resolution of 1.5%. Typically, treating an average person would yield resolutions hovering around three decimal places; even a mere 0.01% would be considered fortunate. Most times, there would be no resolution at all...
After all, if an ordinary person underwent enhancement surgery, they would likely collapse during the first phase, unable to withstand the excess blood flow from a second heart.
"Sigh, even so, it seems the clinic doesn't attract many repeat customers… I've never received a single negative review."
Fran sighed lightly, reclining on the plush sofa, her legs swaying gently. In this relaxed position, she kicked off her chunky-soled shoes.
Her suture-laced fingers trailed down her calves, peeling off knee-high black stockings. She balled the fabric and arced it toward a laundry hamper—a flawless three-pointer from mid-distance.
"Forgot about the abomination's ichor splattered last night." Fran eyed the stains with clinical detachment. "Blessed be dark hosiery."
——
Norlington Central District | Secretshunter Order Headquarters
"Now the Cryptic Chamber rats come groveling?" Alvyn's roar shook the executive office. Mountainous frame trembling, he resembled a grizzly mauling its cage. "Where's their beloved riddling tongue? Muted by shame?"
"Fucking incompetents!" A fist cratered the mahogany desk. "Routine patrols encountering Heretic Deacons? Did you outsource threat assessments to baboons?"
Vivian from the Cryptic Chamber shrunk beneath his wrath. "The site's cleansed, sir. We recovered the Deacon's… remains. His skull was—"
"Do I look like I care if that motherless cultist breathes?" Spittle flecked his beard. "He turned his entire nest into Lesser Abominations! Rot's fucking guaranteed!"
Veins throbbed at his temples. The junior officer's ill-timed report reignited his fury.
"What matters is Haidra Moira's status! That woman's the finest Funerary Attendant we've bred in a decade!"
"Do you comprehend what a perfect mission record signifies?" Alvyn's voice dropped to glacial timbre. "That she bested three combat masters—unarmed, blades, firearms—within two years? That she's Athan Moira's blood?"
Vivian trembled beneath his titanic shadow, the name Moira hanging like an executioner's blade. "But... no corpse was recovered—"
The silence stretched before her whisper broke it.
Unexpectedly, the storm abated. Alvyn's shoulders quivered—rage forcibly metabolized into leaden composure. When he spoke again, it carried the weight of catacomb stones:
"No body terrifies me most. Two liters of her blood crusting the snow. Drag marks leading... elsewhere."
"You mean—" The color drained from Vivian's face.
"If those zealots claimed her remains..." His knuckles whitened around a dagger's hilt. "The desecration they'd inflict... How do I face Athan bearing such news?"
A throat cleared behind them.
Alvyn turned with joint-cracking slowness. There stood Haidra—no pallor of blood loss, no tremor in her stance—leaning against the doorway like Death's jest.
"Haidra—alive?" Alvyn's voice wavered between relief and suspicion, his hand inching toward the holster beneath his coat.
Two liters of blood lost. A Heretic Deacon's sacrificial rite. Even optimism couldn't bend mortality's arithmetic. Yet here she stood—whole, unmarked, her platinum pendant conspicuously absent.
The nun met his gaze, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. Methodically, she disarmed: revolvers, knives, habit draped over a rack. Within moments, she stood weaponless before him, thrusting a sheaf of documents into his hands.
"Mission briefs. Logistics receipts. After-action report." Her tone betrayed nothing, though her clipped stride toward the infirmary hinted at unease. "And a personal medical invoice. Reimburse it."
Alvyn stared at the paperwork. Bloodstains—both ink and organic—bloomed across the pages.
"I require a full physical and psyche eval. Details are there." She gestured to the report without turning. "Read it yourself."
Her exit was clinical, yet the arrhythmic click of her boots betrayed turmoil.
She feared no missing organs. What haunted her was the inverse—some addition grafted by that deranged physician from the Mistveil Clinic.
Alvyn stared at the paper-laden hands, momentarily frozen. The efficiency, the lethal precision—every detail aligned with the Haidra he knew.
"Sir..." Vivian's tentative voice pierced the silence. "The Sanctum's purity wards would've flagged any corruption. Sister Haidra couldn't have breached—"
"Of course I fucking know!" He growled, then forced composure. "Old hunters cherish caution—sentimentality, girl! Dismissed."
As the door sealed behind her, he collapsed into his leather throne, breath escaping like a deathbed confession. Even with hours spent rehearsing condolence speeches for Athan Moira, the relief of Haidra's survival left him lightheaded.
Methodically, he reviewed the documents:
Mission brief: clean.
Supply logs: pristine.
A redacted medical invoice—1,145.14 silver. North District 13, Mistveil Clinic. Fran Hessel, M.D.
"Exorbitant, yet plausible for trauma surgery..." His thumb traced the sum. "Why does this number feel... calculated?"
Then realization struck. "North District caps at Twelfth Street. There's no—"
His gaze snapped to the final page—Haidra's after-action report. Two minutes later, the document slipped from numb fingers. The office drowned in glacial quiet.