Springwater Village was everything Simon had anticipated.

  Unfortunately.

  It reminded him of pictures he'd seen on Earth of distantly rural towns that were disconnected from society at large. Places so forgotten that they were an afterthought in the grand scheme of things, growing poorer and more isolated with each generation.

  If you took one of those towns, tripled its poverty rates, aged its infrastructure by several hundred years, and themed it like a medieval fantasy story...then you got Springwater. Every building he walked past was dirty, ancient, and practically on the verge of collapse. They probably would've crumbled to dust if someone leaned on them the wrong way.

  Springwater's people weren't any better-off. All of them were underfed and in need of a proper meal. Many, many proper meals. It stoked Simon's guilt in a distressingly personal manner, bringing up memories of Grace's soup kitchen, watching tears brim as people ate decently for the first time in god knows how long.

  A small part of him wanted to eject his rations out of Inventory and onto the street for these people to share. A larger part of him rattled off an extensive list of reasons as to why that would be a bad idea – especially when trying to move quickly and quietly. The smaller part heeded the larger part's advice, but it wasn't happy about it.

  Going hand-in-hand with the malnutrition epidemic, Springwater's fashion sense could be summed up as 'whatever was available'. While Simon's initial Valtian outfit had felt coarse and threadbare, he'd been dressed to the nines compared to the average person here. There were more people in rags than otherwise.

  He was starting to regret donning the garments he'd lifted from Ebris and Lucette's caravan. Not because it had belonged to slavers – waste not, want not – but because its finer quality marked him as an Other to the citizens of Springwater. Even with his true valuables stashed safely within Inventory, the instant that anyone in Springwater looked at him or Katarina, they could tell that these two unfamiliar faces had wealth.

  To an extent. Owning a carriage and nice clothes was like a drop in the bucket when measured against the overwhelming affluence of nobility. But for the residents of Springwater, that one drop may have been more than they'd drank all week.

  Most people turned away upon noticing his group, correctly assuming that getting involved with unknown, strangely-dressed newcomers would lead to a mountain of headaches. But some...they didn't avert their eyes.

  They kept staring.

  It made the simple act of walking through public streets feel like stepping across a minefield. Needing to tote an unconscious Gerold on their shoulders didn't help. Simon and Katarina had asked for directions to cut down on aimless wandering, but the nearest physician's clinic was still a fifteen minute hike away.

  Which meant fifteen minutes of vulnerability. Of constantly peering around for whoever appeared overly interested in their trio. Scrutinizing each individual passerby as if they were a lurking threat.

  Tasks that Katarina immediately demonstrated considerable experience with. Simon did his best to keep an eye out, but it soon became apparent that if he'd been by himself, he would've wasted too much time deciding whether people's curious glances were innocuous or sinister. He wouldn't have caught the ones they should truly be worried about – malefactors who were skilled at feigning disinterest while simultaneously plotting against him.

  Katarina picked out those types like they were emblazoned with bright neon arrows. She glared daggers at them, forcing the would-be muggers to swiftly back down. Her gaze was more effective than if she'd pulled out actual daggers; a look of unhinged desperation that just dared them to try taking this bit of hard-won comfort from her.

  Simon didn't have the heart to do the same. Not when the weight of his own inaction was pressing down on him.

  After witnessing thousands of people struggling to get by, right before his very eyes...he was already calculating how much of his resources he could justify parting with.

  I don't need *everything* in the carriage. Only enough to establish myself somewhere – buy a house in a city of influence. Maybe selling the spare Navigation Crystal would suffice? Excess funds and supplies can go to those in Springwater that need it most.

  Logically, he was aware that startup capital was vastly important. Each coin he frittered away on charity would set his plans back by a measurable degree. Some of that might be recouped via Heroic Valor's bonus EXP, but he honestly doubted it would be commensurate to his losses.

  The arguments came easily. I transmigrated here to save Valtia from destined annihilation. A godlike figure confirmed that this world is dead in a year or less. Even some of the locals believed that they only had a couple decades left before society collapsed. By that metric, I literally can't afford to spend money on random people when ALL of my efforts should go towards averting the apocalypse.

  But did that mean ignoring those suffering right in front of him? Did lofty goals supersede individual misery?

  Earlier, Katarina had told him that one Navigation Crystal could alter the course of someone's future. She was right – but change didn't need to be so grand as that to have an effect. He'd seen it firsthand on Earth. Although chronically underutilized, basic acts of charity had the potential to be transformative.

  A few coins...a proper meal...just a single gesture of kindness...

  That was all it took to get some people back on their feet.

  Simon shook his head in a harsh motion, dispelling his wayward thoughts. This is too complicated of a decision to make when I'm obviously emotionally compromised. One thing at a time. First we get Gerold to a doctor, then I start assessing my plans moving forward.

  If all else failed, and he wanted to help people without hurting his long-term prospects...he could always default to Valtia's new infinite money glitch: finding more slavers and cracking their skulls open like pi?atas. As their blood flowed, so would Simon's stream of revenue. Funds, supplies, and EXP – his for the taking.

  Caelryn City would be a good place to start. He should pay Lucette's other friends a visit one day. Inform them of her tragic demise via a rampaging Fell Beast. Offer to buy them rounds at the local bar.

  There was probably poison that became tasteless when mixed with alcohol.

  --

  The rest of their walk was mercifully uneventful. Katarina's death glares kept the vultures at bay. In truth, navigating through Springwater turned out to be a bigger challenge – outside of one bone-dry fountain in the center of a plaza, the village didn't have much in the way of notable landmarks.

  Nevertheless, they made good time. Not making good time wasn't an option. Less than ten minutes later, Simon and Katarina found themselves standing before an old building with the word 'Physician' etched into a wooden frame above its door.

  Either this was a highly-elaborate trap, or they'd arrived at their destination. And if it was the former...Simon would almost be impressed at the trap-setter's ruthless ingenuity. Targeting newcomers to Springwater? Preying on distressed travelers with sick relatives? Directing them to a fake health clinic?

  Well played, really.

  He didn't even have the chance to Identify the building before Katarina urged him onward. She all but kicked down the front door, ferrying Gerold inside with equal parts hurry and care. "We require assistance!" she called out, raising her voice. "My fath–"

  Both of them stopped in their tracks. The first thought that came to Simon was that if this somehow was a false health clinic, the deceivers had seriously gone the extra mile.

  It would've taken a lot of money to hire dozens of grievously wounded actors.

  Springwater's clinic was chock-full of moaning, bleeding patients. Many of them had jagged rocks sticking out of their flesh. Some were missing limbs. Several were completely motionless, so silent and unmoving that it was impossible to tell if they were still alive.

  An aroma of creeping death was starting to permeate the air.

  I *did* see the occasional bloodstain on the road leading here, Simon recalled. Like a trail of fresh red breadcrumbs. Guess these people were brought in recently. After they...

  Went to war, presumably. His mind conjured an image of Springwater's muggers leaping from the shadows, knives at the ready, yet that couldn't be right. Identify had informed him that the bloodstains weren't a result of criminal activity. It was why he hadn't told Katarina to turn back.

  But if not that, then...what happened?

  He knew one way to find out. Choosing a patient at random, he cast Identify once more.

  Name: Harland Grave

  Description: A lifelong citizen of Springwater Village. Has fallen on hard times – much like everyone else there. However, just because you've fallen on hard times doesn't mean you've hit rock bottom, which this day plainly exhibited. Was severely injured alongside his compatriots.

  Estimated Level: 1 (6 when healthy)

  Not a detailed answer. Which meant that there was an angle he wasn't considering. Identify couldn't reveal information that contradicted his implicit beliefs.

  Blood on the road, Simon mused. I think the first time I saw it was fairly close to the fountain. And Identify mentioned that these other injured people were Harland's 'compatriots'. So they joined together, then set out to do...what? An uprising or riot of some sort?

  Using Identify on Harland again would show the same Description, but there were plenty of other patients to choose from. Simon picked a woman laying in the bed next to him.

  Name: Serena Evergreen

  Description: A lifelong citizen of Springwater Village. Has fallen on hard times – much like everyone else there. Severely injured alongside her compatriots. Their cause was not an uprising or riot. It was wholeheartedly supported by the entire village. Alas, it failed.

  Estimated Level: 1 (7 when healthy)

  The *entire* village supported them. So they didn't attack – or get attacked – by anyone within Springwater. Maybe an external bandit raid? Or Fell Beasts congregating outside the village?

  Next patient. Identify.

  Name: Celica Bhassor

  Description: Not a bandit raid. Not Fell Beasts located outside Springwater.

  Estimated Level: 1 (6 when healthy)

  It didn't even write out the rest of the Description this time.

  Simon was beginning to feel mildly frustrated. He wouldn't run out of patients to Identify anytime soon – which was a tad morbid – but no one enjoyed having an answer on the tip of their tongue, dancing just out of reach.

  What am I missing? Has to be something that I wouldn't have guessed with the information I have now. If I take my knowledge of Valtia and intentionally subvert it, then...

  His eyes widened.

  Patient #4. Identify.

  Name: Oliver Arvina

  Description: He and his compatriots were brutalized by a lone Fell Beast located inside Springwater Village. The Beast still resides here now.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Estimated Level: 1 (5 when healthy)

  Simon had seen the perimeter of Springwater. The village's border was absolutely packed with Warding Orbs. Those Artifacts, imbued with what Katarina had called 'sacred mana', were the lynchpin that made it possible for civilization to exist in Valtia at all. Even at a poverty-stricken settlement like this, no expense was spared to ensure protection from Fell Beasts.

  And it still hadn't been enough.

  He was jarred from his ruminations by someone fast approaching. The man looked to be in his early 60s, with a thinning hairline and deep stress-wrinkles engraved onto his face. By his bloodstained attire yet lack of visible injuries, Simon clocked him as the resident physician.

  "Who's injured?" the man asked, in a gruff, fatigued voice. He jabbed a gnarled finger at Gerold. "Him?"

  Katarina nodded insistently. "My father, yes. Although not injured. He's sick and in need of..."

  She trailed off. Her insistence faltered as she glanced around the room of maimed and dying patients, wincing at what she was about to say. "...In need of immediate assistance."

  The physician narrowed his eyes. "What's he sick of?"

  "We're not sure. Couldn't afford a full examination until now. My father has endured by taking all-purpose medicine infused with mana and–"

  "He gonna die soon?"

  Katarina appeared taken aback. "He – he's been holding on for the past few days."

  "Then he can keep for another few." With a dismissive gesture, the physician waved at an empty bed in the corner of his clinic. "Put him there. Contact me if his condition worsens or his heart stops."

  As he turned and walked away, Katarina stood still...briefly. Like gasoline lit by a match, her shock rapidly intensified into boiling wrath. Teeth bared, hand reaching for the knife hidden in her sleeve, she stepped forward–

  Simon pulled her back by the shoulder. "Don't," he cautioned.

  "Don't?" She nearly snarled at him, any semblance of fear she may have had for the 'Demon' now overruled by a swelling fury. "He disregarded my father's life as if it was nothing!"

  "Yeah, he's a prick. He's also the only physician in Springwater." There weren't any magic healers like Lucette, either. They'd asked. "We can't get on his bad side."

  Katarina's eye twitched. "Yes, because that awful man is being of such great help right now."

  Simon waited a moment to reply, taking care to avoid shoving his foot in his mouth. "The physician will attend to your father after assisting everyone whose life is at immediate risk. We have enough medicine in stock to keep Gerold going for another couple days. He'll survive – that, I promise you."

  Nailed it. That sounded much more diplomatic then 'Don't people in this world know about the triage system?', which had been his kneejerk response. While he hated that Gerold's life was being jeopardized by bad luck and poor circumstances...if Simon were in the doctor's shoes, he wouldn't have changed course either.

  Getting mauled by a Fell Beast took priority over an unknown illness that was, for the moment, stable.

  Katarina screwed her eyes shut. "I know." She exhaled, letting out her rage in a long, drawn-out breath. "You're right. I know. I know. It's just...he's my..."

  "He's your father," Simon finished, his tone gentle. "This just shows that you love him. For now, though, let's stay calm and–"

  He stopped mid-sentence, catching something at the edge of his peripheral vision.

  "Hey." Simon whirled around, stomping towards the physician. "You." His voice could have been carved from granite. "What exactly are you doing?"

  The physician paused. He stared at the transmigrator with a look of utter confusion, his hands – his red, bloodsoaked hands – hovering over an unconscious woman sporting a nasty torso wound. "About to remove an embedded claw," he said. "The Beast got her good. Left a gift. Afterwards, I'll apply mana tinctures, sew her back up."

  Simon grimaced. "Without washing your hands first?"

  "Why would I?"

  ...Right.

  Valtia doesn't have germ theory.

  On Earth, it was common knowledge. Something taught to grade-schoolers. But in the context of humanity's many millennia of existence, widespread germ theory was less than two centuries old – a mere blink in history's eye.

  Health practices were dire for most of those millennia, too. Simon distinctly remembered reading about a period in 1800s-era Britain where giving birth at a hospital had a higher infant mortality rate than staying home. The primary cause?

  Infection. From doctors not washing their hands or surgical tools after operating on other patients.

  Slow down, Simon told himself. Valtia isn't Earth. Things could be different here. Mana might make people sturdier, for one. Verify your information before causing a scene. You also just walked through streets of starving, impoverished people – it's possible that you're still emotionally compromised, and are looking for a problem to solve where there is none.

  Hoping that he was overreacting, he cast Identify on the physician.

  Name: Jonathan Berg

  Description: A trusted physician who has been assisting people in Springwater Village for years. Well-regarded, and is typically a cordial fellow, but the events of today have pushed his bedside manner to the breaking point. Extremely competent...for a man taught by Valtia's limited pool of knowledge. As it stands, his icky, sticky hands are going to infect and kill at least half of his remaining patients. Fell Beast residue isn't the best thing to share between injured people.

  Estimated Level: 8

  Okay.

  Cognizant of Katarina and the physician eyeing him, Simon spoke with the most agreeable tone in his repertoire. "Could you please wash your hands before continuing?" he proposed. "I've heard that it improves the patient's chance of recovery. Doesn't need to be much. Just take a cloth, wet it, and scrub until there isn't blood on your skin."

  Gloves and disinfectant would also be appreciated, but hey. Baby steps.

  The physician – Jonathan – glared. Something in his gaze seemed to twist imperceptibly. "You want me...to cleanse my hands?"

  "Ideally, yes. Is there–"

  "With water?!"

  He said it loud enough to draw the attention of the rest of the room. One half-dead patient cracked their eyes open, resurrected by the intoxicating allure of drama.

  "Have I offended you?" Simon kept that same agreeable tone, wondering what context he'd missed this time. "If so, I apologize. I'm merely attempting to help."

  "May the Ancient One take these Fell-cursed outsiders," Jonathan ranted, as if he hadn't heard a word that Simon said. "Sauntering in here, demanding aid for an uninjured man, asking me to waste water on frivolous nonsense!"

  ...The fountain in the village plaza was dry. It hasn't rained at all since I came to Valtia. And at one point, I recall Relia saying: 'Might as well try summoning the rain while you're at it.' Like the concept of rainfall was a fanciful dream.

  Simon pivoted, injecting a note of urgency into his vote. "I have water," he explained. "I'll give some to you. In exchange, use a fraction of it to wash your hands and tools before operating on patients. You can keep what's left over. Is that fair?"

  It was more than fair. As far as trades went, this one was grossly lopsided. Jonathon rightfully should've taken it in a heartbeat.

  Should have.

  The reason Simon remembered that factoid about hospitals in 1800s-era Britain wasn't because of their poor health conditions. History is rife with doctors throwing medical procedures at the wall and rolling with whatever appeared to stick. It's unsurprising that people didn't yet know the importance of disinfecting and washing their hands.

  Except that someone had told them to.

  A man by the name of Ignaz Semmelweis discovered that cleansing himself before procedures significantly decreased the rate of infant mortality. His findings were consistent and replicable. Semmelweis then took what he'd learned and presented it to the wider medical community, arguing strongly for reform.

  He was opposed just as strongly. In fact, some doctors made a point to wash their hands less. As a form of protest. A gentleman's hands, they claimed, were always clean.

  It took them decades to change their ways.

  That was why Simon remembered this tiny slice of history. Tens of thousands of infants and mothers – dead, because of pigheaded obstinance. Because people felt insulted at being told they were wrong. Because it was easier to adhere to tradition.

  Because they simply couldn't be bothered.

  "I've been a physician in Springwater for all my life," Jonathan began. He drew himself up, posture straightening, as if his sense of pride was a steel rod inserted into his spine. "Could've moved to a city, lived comfortably, but I chose here. It was where people needed me most. Without my aid, hundreds would be dead."

  He fixed Simon with an imposing glare. "Who are you, outsider, to tell me how to save lives?"

  "That isn't what–"

  "And you're offering water for free?" Jonathan sneered. "If you and your lover are so wealthy as that, then why couldn't she afford a full medical examination for her father? I don't know what con you're trying to pull, outsider, but no resident of Springwater is foolish enough to fall for a story so riddled with holes. We've already had our fill of moneyed folk coming in and thinking they're our betters."

  The physician turned away. "Go take a seat before I lose my patience. I'll see the girl's father when I'm good and ready...assuming he's even sick at all."

  Simon remained silent. He clasped his hands together, fingernails digging into palms, almost drawing blood. An itch was crawling around his shoulder blades.

  Hmm.

  So. After trudging through the dismal, depressing streets of Springwater, ignoring people in need so he could reach the clinic as soon as possible...he was supposed to go wait in the corner. Watch Jonathan stick his filth-encrusted hands into dozens of people's bodies. Understand that the majority of them were being condemned to death right then and there.

  And do nothing.

  Hmmmmm.

  Simon's mouth broadened into a smile.

  For a fleeting moment, he considered unsheathing his longsword and pressing it against the physician's throat. But, no, that wouldn't work. Others would go call for help – protecting the village doctor is a communal interest – and Simon would be summarily overrun by virtuous interlopers.

  He was only one human, after all. If he wished to make a threat with real impact, the kind where people would actively avoid getting involved, then it couldn't just be worrisome.

  It needed to be terrifying.

  In that case–

  Everyone froze.

  Jonathan froze. The patients froze. Katarina froze...although she seemed conflicted, unsure whether she wanted to hold her head in her hands or use them to throttle Simon.

  Who was now holding his Shapeshifted demon arm at the physician's neck, five wicked talons lovingly wrapped around the man's windpipe.

  "Wash your hands. Pretty please."