The difference between a dungeon and a hospital, Marcus realized as he scraped dried ichor off the floor, was largely a matter of lighting and the volume of paperwork.
It was 3:00 AM in the Castle of Eternal Night. Outside, the "sun" was merely a bruised shade of purple lingering on the horizon, but the Castle's internal rhythm had shifted into high gear. For most inhabitants of the dark—vampires, shades, and things that slithered—this was prime time. For Marcus, a human whose circadian rhythm was stubbornly calibrated to the actual sun, it was a waking nightmare.
"Bedpan!" a goblin nurse shrieked, shoving a rusted metal basin into his chest with enough force to bruise.
"I'm an Orderly," Marcus protested weakly, his eyes gritty with sleep and stinging from the harsh magical lights. "Not a chambermaid."
"You are whatever the schedule says you are, fleshy!" the nurse snapped. Her name was Grizelda. She was three feet of green spite with a bedside manner that made High Inquisitor Valerius look like a grief counselor. "Room 4. The Slime Baron is leaking. Mop it up before he dissolves the mattress again. Budget cuts mean we can't afford new linens."
Marcus sighed, grabbing a mop that had seen better centuries. "On it."
He trudged down the hallway of the Royal Infirmary. The air was thick, a cloying cocktail of alchemical reagents, antiseptic spells, and the sharp copper tang of blood. It was a busy night. Two Skeleton Archers sat in the waiting room, loudly arguing over whose femur was whose, while a Harpy perched on a ceiling beam squawked incessantly about a sore throat caused by singing too many death omens.
Marcus entered Room 4. The Slime Baron—a translucent, gelatinous blob wearing a monocle that floated suspended inside his own body—bubbled apologetically.
"So sorry, dear boy," the Baron gurgled, his voice sounding like bubbles popping in thick mud. "I tried to hold it in, but the humidity in here is dreadful. My viscosity is all wrong. I feel like a melted sorbet."
"It's fine, Baron," Marcus said, mopping up the acidic blue puddle spreading across the floor tiles. The stone hissed faintly where the slime touched it. "Just... try to stay in the bucket next time. Or maybe we can get you a dehumidifier."
As he worked, Marcus marveled at the sheer absurdity of his life. A week ago, he would have purged this creature with Holy Fire without a second thought. Now, he was genuinely worried about its pH levels and hydration.
"You have gentle hands for a human," the Baron commented, his monocle bobbing up and down inside his chest. "Most of your kind scream and run. Or stab. Usually stab."
"I'm broadening my horizons," Marcus muttered, wringing out the mop. "And I don't have a sword anymore."
"A pity. You have the shoulders of a swordsman. Very broad. Very... structural."
Marcus finished mopping and moved to the next room. He was starting to find a rhythm to the madness. Check vitals (if the patient had a pulse), change bandages (or reattach limbs), administer potions, and dodge biting reflexes. It was exhausting, thankless, gross work.
And strangely... satisfying.
He was just finishing his rounds, wiping green slime from his sleeve, when the double doors of the Emergency Ward banged open with a deafening crash.
"We need a doctor! Put him on the slab! Stat!"
Two Ogre porters rushed in, their massive frames nearly filling the hallway, carrying a reinforced stretcher. On it lay a suit of exquisitely tailored velvet armor. The problem was that the armor was thrashing violently, limbs flailing with panic.
And there was no head attached to the neck.
"Where is it?!" the body shouted—or rather, the sound vibrated ominously from the hollow cavity of the chest. "Where is my head?! I cannot see! The darkness consumes me! Am I dead? Again?"
"Calm down, Sir Gallonton!" Grizelda shouted, trying to pin the flailing body down with surprising strength. "We have your head! It's right here!"
One of the Ogres held up a severed head by its long, flowing blonde hair. The head was handsome, with a chiseled jawline that could cut glass, but currently, it was screaming bloody murder.
"My eyes! My beautiful eyes!" the head wailed, tears streaming from swollen, red-rimmed eyelids. "They burn like the fires of the abyss! Make it stop! I can't die blind! I'm too pretty!"
"What's the situation?" Marcus asked, stepping forward and snapping into command mode.
"Dullahan," Grizelda grunted, dodging a velvet-clad fist. "Sir Gallonton. He was jousting with the Black Knight in the courtyard. Took a lance of Pepper-Spray Enchantment right to the face."
"Pepper spray?" Marcus blinked. "That's illegal in tournament play. Clause 4 of the Duelist's Code."
"Tell that to his retinas!" the head screamed. "I am blind! I am undone! Who is there? Is that an angel? Or a reaper come to claim me?"
"It's the janitor," Marcus sighed, holding out his hands. "Give me the head."
The Ogre tossed the head to Marcus like a rugby ball. He caught it instinctively, holding it face-up in his palms. The Dullahan's eyes were swollen shut, snot and tears streaming down his face.
"Sir Gallonton, listen to me," Marcus said, his voice dropping into the calm, authoritative baritone granted by his passive skill, Siren's Breath. The magical charm laced his words with compulsion. "I need you to stop screaming. If you scream, you inhale more of the irritant. Breathe through your nose. Calm."
The head fell silent, sniffling pathetically. "Who... who commands me with such authority?"
"Marcus," he replied. "Now, I'm going to flush your eyes. It will be cold. Do not bite me."
"I am a knight," the head sniffled haughtily, though his lip quivered. "I do not bite. I duel."
Marcus carried the head to the saline basin. He grabbed a flask of neutralizing solution. Gently, he pried one of the swollen eyelids open with his thumbs.
"This is going to feel weird."
He poured the solution.
"ARGHBLARGH!" the head sputtered, spitting water all over Marcus's uniform. "It drowns me! Betrayal! Assassin!"
"Hold the body!" Marcus shouted to the Ogres as the headless torso on the table began to punch the air wildly, sensing its head's distress.
"Stay with me, Sir Gallonton," Marcus said firmly, ignoring the water soaking his shirt. "Focus on my voice. The pain is fading. It is washing away. Blink. Blink for me."
He worked methodically, flushing out the magical pepper residue. He wiped the tears from the knight's face with a clean cloth. Slowly, the angry redness began to subside. The Dullahan blinked, his piercing blue eyes finally focusing on Marcus's face.
"I... I can see," the head whispered. He looked up at Marcus, blinking rapidly. "By the Night... you are very ugly, human. Your ears are so small. But your hands are kind."
"You're welcome," Marcus deadpanned.
He walked over to the thrashing body and jammed the head back onto the neck stump. There was a wet squelch, followed by a solid click as the magical seal reconnected.
Sir Gallonton sat up, rotating his neck to ensure the fit. He looked at Marcus, then stood and bowed deeply, his velvet cape swirling.
"You have saved my vision, Physician. I, Sir Gallonton of the Headless Hunt, am in your debt. If you ever need someone trampled, simply call."
"Just... wear a visor next time," Marcus said, wiping slime and pepper water off his hands.
As the Dullahan strode out of the infirmary with renewed dignity, the room broke into applause. The Ogres grunted approval, banging their clubs on the floor. Even Grizelda nodded, albeit grudgingly.
"Not bad, fleshy," the goblin nurse muttered. "You didn't drop him. The last guy dropped him. Gallonton rolled under the fridge for two hours. He's still sensitive about the dust bunnies."
Marcus leaned against the counter, the adrenaline fading and exhaustion finally hitting him like a physical blow. He felt a presence behind him—cool, commanding, and familiar.
"Impressive."
Marcus turned. Elena was leaning against the doorframe of her office. She held two steaming mugs. She looked tired, her lab coat unbuttoned to reveal a casual black silk shirt underneath, but her eyes were alert and watching him closely.
"You handled the Dullahan better than most of my senior staff," she said, walking over and handing him one of the mugs. "It's Black Moss Coffee. High caffeine. Tastes like dirt, but it keeps you alive."
"Thanks," Marcus took it. It did taste like dirt. Hot, energized dirt. "Do you always have this many casualties on a Tuesday?"
"Every night is a crisis here," Elena sighed, sipping her drink. "Monsters are high-maintenance. They fight, they curse each other, they eat things they shouldn't. It's a full-time job keeping them from extinction."
She looked around the now-quiet ward, her gaze softening as she watched her chaotic subjects.
"They aren't just monsters, Marcus. They are my people. And for a long time, the world has just wanted them dead."
She looked at him over the rim of her mug, her crimson eyes piercing.
"You used to want them dead, too."
Marcus looked at his hands—hands that had just healed a Dullahan instead of decapitating him. Hands that were stained with slime and pepper spray, not blood.
"I did," Marcus admitted quietly. "The Church taught me that darkness was a cancer. That it had to be cut out to save the host."
"And now?"
Marcus looked at Grizelda, who was tucking a blanket around the sleeping Slime Baron with surprising tenderness. He looked at the Skeleton Archer in the corner, reading a comic book and giggling without lungs.
"Now," Marcus took a sip of the mud-coffee, letting the bitterness wake him up. "I think the diagnosis was wrong."
Elena smiled. It wasn't her usual seductive smirk or her predatory grin. It was a small, soft thing. A real smile that reached her eyes.
"Welcome to the night shift, Marcus," she whispered.
She reached out and adjusted the collar of his orderly uniform, her fingers lingering for a second too long against the pulse of his neck.
"Finish your coffee. We have a Banshee with laryngitis coming in at 4:00 AM. And trust me, you do not want to be un-caffeinated for that."
She turned and walked back to her office, her lab coat fluttering behind her.
Marcus watched her go. He felt the Dark Mana in his gut hum contentedly, resonating with the castle around him. He was tired. He was covered in slime. He was a traitor to his race and a heretic to his Goddess.
But for the first time in twenty years, he didn't feel lost. He felt needed.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION][Job Class Updated][New Class: Combat Medic (Dark)][Skill Unlocked: Triage][Corruption Level: 5.8%]
Marcus toasted the empty air with his mug.
"To the night shift," he muttered.