Muneer_Jahan

In his old world, Elric had nothing—no powerful family, no elite degree, just relentless hard work and a passion for healing. Dismissed as a third-rate doctor, he shocked the nation by saving a congressman’s life and becoming an overnight celebrity. But just when his career was rising, tragedy struck.

Now, Elric opens his eyes in a world unlike any he’s ever known—a land of swords, sorcery, and strange beliefs. Reborn in the countryside of a magical kingdom, where even a common cold is blamed on spirits, he’s the only one who understands how the human body truly works.

With no palace, no power, and no one to trust, Elric sets up a humble clinic in a rural village. Armed with science and sarcasm, he treats the sick, challenges ancient traditions, and slowly earns the awe and fear of a world ruled by magic.

Mocked as a fraud. Hunted by rival healers. Feared by nobles and mages alike.

But this world is about to learn—
Even a third-rate doctor can change history.

Fantasy Clinic: Chronicles of a 3rd-Rate Doctor

Far from the walls of Elric's quiet clinic, deep within the marble halls of the palace, the Royal Council gathered under the shroud of candlelight. A heavy stillness hung in the chamber, disturbed only by the rustle of silk robes and the occasional clink of a jeweled ring against polished wood.

Chancellor Morian, the oldest and most cunning of the council, leaned forward.

"So, the king met with the boy," he said, voice like dry parchment.

"Yes," whispered by Lady Virella, her fan fluttering like the wings of a nervous bird. "But he's no longer a boy, is he? He's a man. A healer. A... revolution waiting to happen."

Morian narrowed his eyes. "Or a weapon. One we must either wield... or destroy."

Back in the village, Elric's clinic buzzed with life. Patients came and went—children with fevers, farmers with twisted ankles, mothers clutching infants. Lira moved between them with grace, taking notes, soothing cries, fetching tools with practiced ease.

But something in Elric had changed.

He was quieter. More focused. Every movement had purpose, every glance was calculated.

After the king's summons, the fire in his eyes had shifted. What had once been a flicker of curiosity had become a slow, steady blaze.

That night, as Lira cleaned the last of the glass jars, she spoke up.

"Your highness you've barely spoken since the palace."

Elric, seated at his desk, didn't look up. "There's a war coming."

She paused, wiping her hands on her apron. "What kind of war?"

"The kind fought with ideas," he said. "With fear. With control. And I'm in the center of it."

Lira crossed the room and sat across from him. "You didn't ask for this."

"I didn't," Elric agreed. "But I'm not running away either."

He opened a drawer and pulled out a worn leather journal. Inside were detailed drawings of veins, pressure points, and diagrams that looked both anatomical and... arcane.

"I've been studying more than just the body," he said quietly. "There are ruins near the forest. Old ruin, long forgotten. Balen mentioned them before he left."

"Ancient ruins?" Lira's eyes widened. "You think they're connected to your healing?"

"I think they're connected to something much older," Elric said. "And I think the council knows it."

Meanwhile, in the shadows beyond the village, cloaked figures moved under cover of night. Their leader, a man with silver hair and a scar across his jaw, held a parchment sealed with the royal crest.

"Orders from the council," he said coldly. "The prince is to be watched. If he becomes a threat..."

The Serpent’s Whispers