Location: Demon Citadel Infirmary (Early Morning)
Dawn's sickly light filtered through stained‑glass windows as Itsuki Hiroto tip‑toed into the Demon Citadel's Infirmary. Yesterday's "Sleeping Saint" fiasco still left his limbs sore, but today he was on cleanup duty—an assignment he'd begged for, hoping to wield a mop instead of magical relics.
Rows of curtained beds lined the vaulted hall. Pale demon patients lay draped in blankets, coughing into gnarled pillows. At the far end, a pair of exhausted healers scurried between vials and tinctures, their robes streaked with soot and soothed with desperation.
Hiroto carried a wicker basket of freshly laundered bandages and jars of antiseptic salve. Sera followed, lugging a pail of cleaning solution strong enough to peel paint.
"Just tidy up," he whispered. "No miracles, please."
Sera winced. "Last time you 'tidied,' you cured a summit envoy's gout by wiping his boots."
Hiroto shrugged. "I cleaned them with salve. Technically not a miracle."
He set down the basket and began dusting a shelf of glass vials. Absentmindedly, he knocked over a small bottle labeled "Rapid Regrowth Elixir." It shattered, spilling pale blue liquid across the floor.
"Watch out!" Sera yelped, but Hiroto slipped on the slick floor, arms flailing.
CLATTER!
He crashed into a rack of potions. Another vial—"Fever‐Break Tonic"—tipped over, mixing its crimson contents into the blue puddle. Steam hissed as the two combined, forming a swirling lavender vapor.
Hiroto scrambled upright, hands trembling. "Oh no—no, no, no."
Before he could react, a small figure emerged from behind a curtain: a demon child, cheeks crusted with sweat, clutching a ragged doll. Feverish coughs rattled the child's ribs. The healers darted over, alarmed.
"He's too weak," one healer gasped. "We need the Fever‑Break Tonic—"
She froze, nose wrinkling at the lavender mist. "That's… not our tonic."
Hiroto swallowed. "It's… mine?"
The child lurched forward, eyes glazed. He stumbled toward the puddle, reaching out.
"He's attracted to the scent," the healer said. "It… smells calming."
Hiroto's heart pounded. "No—child—back!"
But before he could stop him, the boy's fingers brushed the vapor. Soft purple tendrils curled around his skin. He blinked once, then twice—and the color drained from his cheeks. His coughs died to a faint whisper.
He straightened, eyes bright and clear, then ran to the nearest healer, flinging his arms around her knees. "I… I feel better."
A hush fell. Demon patients stirred, watching the scene as though witnessing a miracle. The lavender vapor dissipated, leaving the tile floor stained in pastel hues.
Hiroto and Sera exchanged horrified glances.
Location: Quarantine Ward (Mid‑Morning)
Word spread like wildfire. Soon the Infirmary's central corridor brimmed with anxious patients and hopeful attendants. Whispered rumors grew louder:
"Healer Hiroto cleansed the plague."
"A single breath from him broken can cure."
"The Silent Savior heals by touch."
Chancellor Beltram and Ambassador Ravric arrived in uneasy tandem from Solencia, flanking Virelya in borrowed armor. They pushed through the crowd as Hiroto knelt beside the now‑laughing child, dabbing the spill with a rag.
Beltram cleared his throat. "Captain Hiroto… we hear you've… eradicated a case of the Crimson Fever."
Hiroto's face drained. "I… didn't mean to."
Ambassador Ravric peered at the mosaic of spilled potions. "The combination—blue and red—produces a lavender cure. Brilliant accidental alchemy."
"He's right," the lead healer said, adjusting spectacles. "Your mixture accelerated cellular regeneration and broke fever. It's unprecedented."
From the far corner, an elf envoy stepped forward, voice soft but insistent. "Divine Variable, will you heal our orphaned wards?"
Dwarven guards muttered, "Our miners suffer collapsed lungs—if he can heal plague, imagine crushing stone sickness!"
Beastfolk herbalists offered sprigs of moon‑moss. Merfolk priests laid a bowl of saltwater at his feet. All bowed in unison.
Hiroto stumbled backward, nearly tripping over an infirmary gurney. He shook his head, hands raised. "No, no, no. I am not a healer. I'm a—warehouse clerk!"
But the crowd surged forward, desperate faces pressing close: "Touch my child!" "Cast your breath!" "Sanctify this wound!"
Virelya planted herself beside Hiroto, voice loud. "Enough!" She sheathed her sword with a clang. "He's here to clean floors, not cure diseases."
Her authority hushed the crowd—for a heartbeat. Then they murmured, bending to retrieve linens dropped in their rush.
Beltram cleared his throat. "We must leave, Captain Hiroto."
Ravric nodded. "This… frenzy will break Infirmary protocol."
They ushered Hiroto toward the exit, where a crowd of demon clerics knelt in fervent prayer, chanting, "Healer of the Broken. Silent Hand of Health."
Location: Infirmary Courtyard (Mid‑Afternoon)
By mid‑afternoon, the Infirmary Courtyard had been converted into a makeshift shrine. A banner proclaimed:
"Hiroto the Healer: Purveyor of Lavender Cure"
Underneath, a wooden sign read:
"Line Starts Here"
and stretched out to the far gates. Demon subjects of all ages queued patiently, holding vials, bandages, and family talismans.
Hiroto, flanked by Sera and Virelya, squeezed through the throng. He held a soup ladle—his reluctant "healing tool"—and sampled a bowl of what looked like diluted tonic.
"Don't taste it," Sera hissed. "You'll be fully responsible for another miracle."
Hiroto grimaced, setting the ladle down. "I… don't want to do this."
A voice called out: "Healer Hiroto!" A frail scholar approached, clutching a tome of demonic anatomy. "My notes say your touch can mend… can you—"
Virelya stepped between them, arms crossed. "Captain's on break."
Sera waved her flask. "Emergency meditation potion. He needs real rest, not more healing."
Hiroto exhaled, shoulders slumping. "I just… want a simple life."
Behind them, the line crested and dipped out of sight. The shrine's crystal lanterns glinted in the fading sun.
Location: Palace Garden Terrace (Early Evening)
That evening, Hiroto collapsed into a wooden bench on the Palace Garden Terrace, distant enough from the Citadel's frenzy to hear only soft birdcalls. Virelya handed him a bowl of steaming noodles; Sera offered a flask of calming tea.
Hiroto closed his eyes, spoon paused mid‑air. "I… cured a plague."
Sera sat cross‑legged, firm but gentle. "By accident. Don't forget that."
Virelya leaned against the railing. "But now they believe in you. They'll build statues, temples, maybe a medical order in your name."
Hiroto slurped a noodle. "I'm not a healer."
Sera reached across, touching his arm. "You are what they need right now. Maybe accept it—just for one night."
Hiroto sighed, eating. "One night."
Across the garden, a lone lantern flickered to life—a signal from each realm's healers, invoking Hiroto's "aid." A distant trumpet echoed the call of disciples.
Hiroto groaned, head in his hands. "I swear, if they ask me to cure insomnia next, I'll…"
Sera grinned. "You'll be too famous to sleep."
He peered over the terrace railing at the Citadel's silhouette against the sky. I didn't mean to cure a plague. But perhaps… if my accidents bring peace and health, I can live with that. He took another bite of noodles, resolve softening in the comforting warmth of broth and friendship.
And as the lanterns glimmered and the night sighed over Solencia, Itsuki Hiroto—reluctant healer, accidental hero, and ever‑optimistic noodle cook—prepared for the next day's challenge: staying human in a world desperate for miracles.