Mary Mason went to class.
With her there, the clinic was like a regular medical institution; once she left, it turned into Ethan Rayne's "Holy Light Training Room".
He glanced at his watch; this period was always the quietest, when the clinic had the fewest people.
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He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and walked towards the operating table.
On the table lay a turkey crisscrossed with various suture marks, an "experiment" left by Mary when she was practicing earlier.
Ethan gently raised his hands, gazed at the long-dead turkey, and chanted softly.
"Resurrection Spell."
His palms warmed slightly, and a faint golden glow escaped from between his fingers, winding through the air like tiny currents, drilling into the turkey's body.
A few seconds later, it twitched.
Its chest puffed out, and a strange "cluck—" sound came from its throat.
Ethan held his breath, observing.
The ripple of life was brief and fragile, flickering for a few seconds before rapidly collapsing.
The turkey went limp again.
"Seven seconds," Ethan sighed, "one second more than last time."
He scribbled a few lines of Chinese in his notebook:
"Resurrection Spell—activates heartbeat for about seven seconds. The higher the mental concentration, the longer the survival time. Next step: attempt to follow Resurrection Spell with a powerful Heal."
Next step: attempt to follow Resurrection Spell with a powerful Heal.
These Chinese characters were his little secret. Almost no one in this city could understand Chinese, and even if someone did, he could explain that he was writing a game guide.
After all, World of Warcraft really existed in this world.
Ever since he discovered he possessed a Priest's skills, Ethan had been practicing. Ten years had passed, and he had almost mastered all skills, but the Resurrection Spell still didn't match the in-game setting. In reality, resurrected animals mostly only survived for a few seconds. Today's seven seconds was his best record to date.
He looked up at the turkey, hesitating whether to try again.
Just then—the doorbell rang.
"Ding—"
The door was pushed open, and an old man walked in.
His head was wrapped in clean white bandages, covering the wound on the back of his head. His white hair was sparse like frost, and his face was clean but etched with the lines of time.
A dark brown sweater hung loosely on him, and the slender neck bone beneath the collar looked particularly fragile.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Rayne."
John Kramer said softly.
Ethan was startled, then smiled, "Mr. Kramer, I didn't expect to see you again so soon."
"I just came from the hospital."
John Kramer put down his briefcase and took out a stack of reports. "The doctors couldn't explain it, they could only call it—a miracle."
The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. "A few weeks ago, they said I only had a few months left. Now, they tell me I can have surgery."
Ethan took the reports and opened them.
On the MRI films, the dark areas had visibly shrunk; that almost impossible "lesion regression" was apparent to the naked eye.
"Then why don't you choose to have the surgery at the hospital?" Ethan asked.
John looked at him. "Because I like rules. The first time we met, you set the rules, and I obeyed. Games need rules, and so does life. People fear death simply because they've never understood the meaning of 'survival'."
He pulled out a check and gently pushed it onto the table.
"One hundred thousand dollars."
Ethan's gaze lingered on the paper, a little surprised.
John smiled, "You said—treat first, if effective, then pay and proceed to the next step."
"I remember you questioned me then," Ethan said. "You said I was wasting the time of a dying person."
"That was for those who don't know how to cherish life," John said calmly. "I hate people who break contracts. Whether it's a game or life, rules should be followed."
"You're much more talkative than last time."
"When you face death and then come back, words become heavier than blood," John smiled faintly. "Those Patients in the hospital—they pray, break down, despair, indulge to stay alive. At that moment, I understood: the living fear the truth more than the dead."
"So you want to continue treatment?"
"Of course."
Ethan nodded, stood up, and put on his gloves.
His heart tightened a bit, and his fingers trembled slightly. Yes, he was trembling.
The old Patient sitting before him, yet he felt a primal fear.
That aura—not of violence and oppression, but of control.
A man who designed countless death games, even with one breath left, could send chills down one's spine.
John Kramer was Raine Clinic's first Patient.
That day, not long after the sign was hung, he pushed the door open, and the first thing he said was:
"Dr. Rayne, I want to play a game with you."
Ethan didn't react immediately, but when he recognized him as John Kramer, the "Jigsaw Killer," he froze instantly.
John Kramer had a smile on his face—that smile was not a threat, but an assessment, as if weighing whether a person was "worth continuing to live."
Ethan struggled to utter, "I don't play games, I only save people."
John told him he had late-stage brain cancer and had been deceived by a group of scammers selling "cocktail therapy." He didn't say what happened to those people later, but Ethan probably knew the outcome.
When John saw the words on the sign—"Healing Beyond Medicine"—he decided to come in and see.
To see if it was another scammer, or if there was truly a miracle to be expected.
Ethan suggested he try one treatment first, then go back to the hospital for a recheck.
If effective, then pay.
The rules were simple.
John accepted this rule.
Now, this was the second time.
John lay down calmly, his gaze fixed on the operating light. The light in his pupils transformed into a ring, like the entrance to a ritual.
Ethan took a deep breath, gently placing his hands on John's chest and the back of his neck.
Closing his eyes, he began to recall the sequence of the previous spellcasting.
"Power Word: Fortitude"—increases vitality for a certain period.
"Heal"—instantly restores damaged tissue.
"Healing Spell"—allows vitality to slowly flow, repair, and regenerate within the body.
"Cure Disease"—clears latent lesions.
The temperature in his palms gradually rose, and the air seemed to refract light.
A soft golden glow spread between his fingers, seeping into John's body.
The rhythm of blood flow intertwined with his heartbeat, as if the entire world was breathing in sync.
Just a few minutes later, Ethan's forehead was covered in fine sweat.
He lowered his voice, "Almost done..."
The light slowly receded.
He released his hands and let out a long breath.
John quietly sat up.
His complexion was rosier than when he arrived, and his eyes revealed a long-lost clarity and sharpness.
"How do you feel?" Ethan asked.
John pursed his lips, his voice low: "My brain... no longer feels like it's being constantly squeezed.
This time, I can be sure—it's more effective than last time."
He paused for a moment, his gaze deepening.
"Doctor, you make me think of a question."
Ethan looked at him: "What question?"
"If a person has the ability to save others," John slowly said,
"does he also have the right to decide—who should be saved?"
Ethan was silent for a moment, then replied, "I am not a judge."
"But you decide who comes back from death."
"I don't decide." He shook his head. "I just treat."
A barely perceptible smile floated on John's lips: "Then I am truly lucky."
The air became still, with only the instrument indicator lights flickering.
Ethan didn't speak again.
He took off his gloves, walked behind the counter, and quietly tidied the operating table.
John stood up and adjusted his trench coat.
"Thank you, Doctor," he said. "I do not fear death.
But you've given me more time—to save those who are alive, yet already dead."
The doorbell chimed softly, and John Kramer left.
Ethan stood under the light, watching that figure disappear.
After a long time, he picked up the check and gave a wry smile.
"My most dangerous Patient... Is it too late to change this to a pet clinic now?"