It wasn’t so different from the original description after all. He was skin and bones—literally no flesh to spare anywhere on his frame. Beneath the loose clothing, the sharp ridges of his ribs and the deep cleft between his pectoral muscles were painfully visible.
But!
There was one crucial detail the original had completely omitted.
How could they leave out how devastatingly handsome he was? His skin was parched and dull, cracked from dehydration, and his emaciated state made him look pitiable… yet.
That perfectly straight nose, those long lashes framing exquisite blue eyes, and—most unfairly—the tiny tear mole just beneath his right eye that somehow added a layer of dangerous, seductive allure.
I could say it with absolute certainty: if he gained even five—no, ten—kilograms, his beauty alone could unify the entire world under one empire.
Now I understood why Astrid had fallen so hopelessly in love with this dying man. How could she not?
“What is that expression for?” Jin spoke, voice raspy and faint, yet still carrying an effortless sexiness that made my pulse stutter. “You look startled. Am I that pitiful? No… it’s something else, isn’t it? Pity, perhaps? Or are you thinking that my lack of flesh is the one and only flaw ruining what would otherwise be flawless features?”
Wh—what?
Was he reading my mind? Did he have superpowers?
I had been utterly captivated by his face, and now his calm, precise dissection of my thoughts left me reeling.
“No need to panic. I’m simply a little quicker at reading people than most. Nothing suspicious or magical about it—just an old habit of watching others’ expressions closely.”
Again! He had read me perfectly once more. Of course anyone could spot basic surprise, but how did he keep peeling back layer after layer like this?
“When I look at someone’s face, I can guess most of what they’re feeling. The rest I fill in with deduction. It’s not difficult.”
He answered my unspoken question as if he had heard it out loud.
They said the only reason this frail man, who looked incapable of lifting a finger to defend himself, could lead a massive rebel army was because his mind was terrifyingly sharp.
Sharp? That was an understatement. Even now those vivid blue eyes gleamed with relentless calculation. His brain had to be burning calories at an alarming rate.
Sir. Do you have any idea how much energy your brain consumes when you think this hard? You’re already fighting a deadly illness with every scrap of strength you have left. If you waste it all on mental acrobatics, no wonder you’re this thin.
“Now you’re thinking my cleverness is harming my health.” He gave a weak cough. “You may not be wrong… khk.”
Mid-sentence the coughing seized him again, harsher this time.
He’s really going to suffocate like that, I thought, worry spiking—followed immediately by a shiver of dread at how seamlessly we were communicating even though I hadn’t spoken a single word yet.
“…Haa.” After a long moment he steadied his breathing. “I’m sorry to the new doctor, but… I’ve already been bled quite enough. And regrettably, if I lose any more blood I think this frail body might give out entirely. Do you really believe it can withstand that?”
Still catching his breath after the fit, he laboriously lifted his left arm. Around his wrist was a bandage stained dark with blood.
In that instant, one of Astrid’s memories surged to the surface.
In this era, physicians believed illness stemmed from an imbalance of bodily humors. To restore balance, they would cut the patient and draw blood.
Bleeding a dying man—drawing out basin after basin of blood. That was the practice called phlebotomy.
Are you insane? You’re bleeding a patient this emaciated, who’s already coughing up blood every day? What if he hemorrhages? What then?
And if that wound becomes infected… forget three months—he wouldn’t last days. Tetanus? Sepsis? No, no, no!
Another memory from Astrid followed right behind. Her father, the physician, treating trauma patients by heating iron rods and cauterizing wounds with them, or pouring boiling oil over the injury before bandaging it.
If any of my predecessors—the ones who fled after only a few days—had done that to Jin…
No. Absolutely not.
I started trembling.
“Bring alcohol right now! The strongest kind you have! Hurry!”
Disinfect, disinfect! Without thinking I rushed to his bedside. Alcohol wouldn’t be perfect sterilization, but it was infinitely better than nothing. I had to remove the bandage and see the wound immediately.
“Alcohol… you say?”
Richard stared at me blankly.
Yes! Alcohol! The original said he was outstanding in combat but not particularly bright—guess they weren’t exaggerating. This guy really was slow on the uptake.
“Yes, alcohol. Preferably the strongest you have.”
Afraid that even a rough tug might snap something, I very gently took hold of Jin’s forearm. Wait—first things first. I needed to wash my hands. I had just escaped a filthy prison cell; my hands were crawling with who-knew-what bacteria.
If I touched his wound like this… this fragile, jellyfish-like man could die because of me.
Did they even have proper soap in this era? Should I disinfect my hands with alcohol too?
“…Um, is there somewhere I can wash my hands?”
I carefully set Jin’s arm back down. Even Jin—who supposedly had such brilliant insight—was wearing a faintly bewildered expression. Clearly the situation was beyond his current ability to parse.
“Follow me. I’ll bring the alcohol shortly.”
Richard led me toward a small door in the corner. I followed without hesitation.
Inside… the sight was startlingly similar to a modern bathroom.
“Turn this way for cold water, this way for warm. You can adjust the temperature as you like.”
Excuse me?
Did he just say that turning these faucets would produce hot water?
I stared at Richard, wondering if I had misheard. This was impossible. No matter how many of Astrid’s memories I sifted through, this world did not have advanced plumbing.
Clean water meant walking a long way to a well or spring. Streets reeked of human waste. That was the reality.
“The technological prowess of the dwarves who built this underground city is more astonishing than most realize. It’s not devilish magic—please use it freely. Ah, and that cleanser over there was specially developed by our alchemist.”
Richard seemed to have misinterpreted my shock as fear of the unknown and hurried to reassure me. I was simply stunned that modern-level conveniences existed here. To someone without any knowledge of the modern world, this would indeed be mind-blowing.
He gestured toward a small glass bottle with a pump dispenser that looked exactly like modern hand soap.
Richard left me alone in the bathroom.
I pressed the pump once, half expecting disappointment.
A perfect sphere of rose-scented foam dropped into my palm.
What… is this place?
I glanced into the mirror above the sink. Yes, that was definitely Astrid’s face staring back—bewildered expression and all. I was still inside Liberator of the Underground City… right?
Of course soap existed in this era. It was an extreme luxury, not something common folk could afford. Yet the foam in my hand was indistinguishable from the stuff I knew from home.
I shook my head sharply to snap myself out of it. No, no—this wasn’t the time to get lost in speculation.
I had to hurry back and examine that walking corpse’s wound. If anyone had cauterized it with red-hot iron or poured boiling oil on it… even if the burn itself didn’t kill him, infection would finish the job before long. On a body this weakened, any infection would be fatal.
Aaaah!
I scrubbed my hands furiously.
