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

Morning in the village was never truly quiet—roosters crowed, carts creaked over cobblestones, and the air buzzed with the chatter of traders. But today, a strange tension clung to the wind like mist before a storm.

Elric stood at the edge of the forest, his fingers tracing the mark that had begun to form on his wrist overnight—thin lines like roots, curling inwards into the shape of a serpent. It pulsed faintly with warmth, reacting to something only it understood.

Lira watched him from a distance, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. "That's from the Tree, isn't it?"

"Yes," Elric replied. "Or maybe… something beneath it. Selene called it a sigil—a seal tied to the Bloodroot Pact."

"I think I've had it for longer than I know," he said. "It just hadn't awakened."

Inside the clinic, Cai was awake and alert, poring over medical diagrams with a focus that bordered on obsessive. Elric noticed the same shimmering energy around him, like a faint halo of something old stirring in new blood.

"You're learning fast," Elric said, setting a cup of tea beside him.

"I feel like I already knew some of this," Cai admitted. "I look at your notes and something clicks—like remembering a song I forgot I knew."

"That's exactly what this is," Elric murmured. "Memory. Not just yours, but inherited—passed through blood. That's what they were experimenting with."

Elric nodded. "They tried to recreate an ancient lineage. And we were part of it."

Far away in the capital, the Royal Council was not idle. Morian paced within the strategy hall, banners fluttering gently above him. Across from him, Lady Virella held a report sealed in black wax.

"He's unlocked the sigil," she said quietly.

"How many days until it fully manifests?"

"At most a fortnight. Less if he continues making contact with the Tree."

Morian's brow furrowed. "Then we don't have a fortnight."

Virella placed another sealed letter on the table.

"The Crimson Circle has accepted the contract. Their blade has already been dispatched."

Morian's eyes closed for a moment. "A shame. He could've been an asset."

Back in the village, Elric sat across from Selene in the clinic's basement, which he'd converted into a private study. The stone walls, once damp and crumbling, now glowed faintly with runes drawn in crimson chalk.

"You knew this would happen," he said to her.

Selene nodded, her silver hair falling over one shoulder. "The Tree only awakens for those with its blood. The pact binds your life to its roots."

"It means the kingdom will fear you. But those in the shadows… they'll want to use you. Or kill you."

"Is there a third option?" Elric asked.

"Yes," Selene said, reaching into her cloak and handing him a cloth-wrapped bundle.

He unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a dagger—not ornate, but etched with the same serpent-root sigil now on his wrist.

"This is your key," Selene said. "To the ruins. To your past. To what lies beyond the veil of medicine and magic."

Elric gripped the hilt. "And what lies beyond?"

Selene met his gaze, unblinking. "Power born not from sorcery, but from truth. The truth of the body. Of blood. Of pain."

That night, someone stepped silently into the village—cloaked in black, face hidden behind a mask of crimson glass. A glint of steel flashed briefly beneath the robe.

The Healer's Sigil