The city of Neo York never slept. Rain poured relentlessly, washing the neon lights into long streaks on the slick streets. John Tan trudged along, his shoes soaked, his coat clinging to his thin frame. At twenty-four, he was buried under debts, living in a cramped apartment above a rundown clinic he barely managed to keep afloat. His life was monotonous, a cycle of endless patients, unpaid bills, and the gnawing feeling that he was destined for mediocrity.
That night, as he returned from a particularly grueling shift, the wind pushed an envelope through the cracked door of his apartment. It was thick, yellowed with age, and sealed with a strange wax emblem he had never seen before—a symbol of interlocking serpents, elegant and ominous.
John's hands trembled slightly as he broke the seal. Inside lay a leather-bound book, dust covering its surface. He flipped it open, expecting something mundane, but the pages shimmered faintly under the dim lamp. Strange symbols ran along the margins, interspersed with sketches of herbs, blood vessels, and what looked like surgical incisions—but far more intricate, almost impossible to comprehend.
A shiver ran down his spine. "What is this…?" he whispered, brushing off the dust.
The first page was written in a language he didn't recognize, yet somehow, the meaning seeped into his mind. Techniques, formulas, even the tiniest adjustments to human anatomy seemed to make sense intuitively. John felt a warmth spreading through his body, like the first sun rays breaking through a long, cold winter.
This… this could change everything.
For hours, he stayed awake, reading, copying notes, experimenting on minor injuries—cuts, bruises, burns—starting with himself. The first success made him gasp. A burn mark on his hand, stubborn and scarred for years, faded completely after he followed a sequence of movements and herbal applications described in the book.
His mind raced. "If this works… I could heal anyone. I could… be someone."
The thought was intoxicating, but reality intruded. He had no clients of significance, no reputation, no money to acquire herbs or tools for advanced procedures. Still, a strange pull urged him onward. It was as if the book had chosen him, and turning back was no longer an option.
Just then, a knock on his door startled him. A young boy, ragged and shivering, stood outside, clutching a scraped knee. "Please… help me, mister," he pleaded, tears streaking his face.
John hesitated. Normally, he would have ignored it. But tonight felt different. Something deep inside demanded he act. He opened the book to the relevant section on trauma care. The instructions were unusually detailed: precise pressure points, layering of herbs, timing of movements.
John worked carefully, his hands trembling but steady. Sweat dripped from his brow. The boy winced at the initial manipulations, but gradually, the bleeding stopped, the pain subsided, and within minutes, the wound began to close, leaving only faint pink skin.
The boy stared in disbelief. "It… it's gone!"
John's heart pounded. I… actually did it.
Before he could dwell on the miracle, a shadow fell across the doorway. A man, tall and dressed in a black trench coat, stepped inside, eyes cold and sharp as a knife. "Impressive," he said, his voice low, resonating with authority. "You have the legacy. But do you know what that entails?"
John froze. "I… I don't understand. Who are you?"
The man smiled faintly. "Healing is only the beginning. Great power attracts great danger. You are no longer just a street doctor, John Tan. You are a target—and an heir."
He handed John a small card with an address scribbled on it. "Go tomorrow. Refuse, and your enemies will find you before you even know what's happening."
John looked down at the card, the rain outside beating harder against the window, his heart thundering in his chest. The words on the first page of the book came back to him: "Only the worthy can inherit the power to heal beyond life and death."
A mixture of fear and excitement surged through him. His life—every failure, every hardship—suddenly seemed like a prelude to this moment. He had no choice but to follow the path laid before him, into a world he didn't yet understand.
As the city's neon lights flickered outside, John clenched the book tightly. Somewhere, deep in the shadows, forces were already watching, and his journey had just begun.
Cliffhanger: On the last page of the book, a new line appeared, glowing faintly:
"Your first trial awaits at the edge of night. Only those who endure pain shall rise."