76: Chapter 76: Universal Healthcare Takes Root, Everyone Can Be Saved

"Move! Everyone move!"

Locke carried the blood-soaked Old Tom, slamming open the door to the Medical Station. His hoarse roar made the lightbulbs in the waiting area flicker. Old Tom's left calf was shattered by a collapsed ore deposit; jagged white bone shards pierced through skin and muscle, stained with dark brown slag and rags. Blood dripped down Locke's arm, leaving a horrifying dark red handprint on the door panel.

"Alice! Come out quickly! Old Tom's leg is shattered!"

Alice rushed out of the dispensary, still clutching a half-bottle of unsealed disinfectant. She glanced at the wound, her icy blue eyes showing no fluctuation. Her voice was as cold as surgical forceps fresh from an ice cellar: "Put him on the bed in the second examination room. Locke—"

"I'll stay to help!"

"You go out. Wipe the blood at the door clean. The smell of blood will scare the children."

Locke opened his mouth, but ultimately swallowed his words. In the face of those eyes that brooked no negotiation, any argument was futile. He gently laid Old Tom on the bed, turned around, and crouched at the door, using his sleeve to wipe at the blood on the floor, inch by inch. After a couple of swipes, he looked up at the tightly shut door of the examination room and muttered in a low voice: "This woman's gaze is scarier than a Chaos Sorcerer's curse."

Lin Mo stood before the window of the Archon's office, taking it all in. His right hand gripped the window frame tightly, his knuckles turning white. Old Tom was the most silent rock driller in the mine; he didn't say a word from morning till night, knowing only how to bury his head and swing his hammer. When the mine roof collapsed this morning, he had used a crowbar to hold it up for three seconds, buying time for two young miners to escape. The price was a leg.

Countless numbers raced through his mind: how many days the grain would last, how much ammunition had been consumed, how many men were needed for the next border patrol—these numbers, interlocked like gears, each tied to a dozen lives. But today, one number pressed heavily upon all those gears: the third workplace injury this month.

In Blackstone Town, workplace injury was never just an injury; it was a death sentence.

Kahn's secret letter and the results of the serial number tracking had crushed his last bit of hesitation. Someone on Terra was moving against him; the shadow of Chaos was tightening, and the secret of the Underground Shelter would be exposed sooner or later. If he was still waiting for a "perfect opportunity," that opportunity would never come.

He decided to start with the softest and hardest place: healthcare.

Golden characters slowly emerged at the edge of his vision, as if someone were branding them into the void with a red-hot iron rod.

"mirror of the emperor – Insight"

"The Empire's territory spans the galaxy, but every border world is an isolated island. Healing the wounds of a village is closer to my will than conquering the enemies of a planet. The enemies can never be killed off—but a person who has been healed will go on to heal the next person."

Lin Mo stared at that line of golden text for a long time. Suddenly, he spoke softly to the empty office, his voice light, yet as firm as carving into stone:

"You are right. The enemies can never be killed off. But every person saved is a nail. A nail driven into the map of Chaos, a nail driven into the way this world is supposed to be."

The golden characters flickered. It wasn't a system prompt; it felt more like a silent acknowledgment.

He thought of Wang Defu. The old man who had dragged him into Blackstone Village from under an orc's axe on his first day of transmigrating. When he died, it was just a shallow wound infection that dragged on for two whole weeks. Because there was no medicine.

If there had been a Medical Station then... but no ifs. He could only do what he could: ensure the living wouldn't have to face the same ending.

He picked up the plan he had spent three sleepless nights drafting with Alice, pushed open the door, and walked out.

He bumped into Yang Shitou carrying a medicine chest in the corridor. The honest man stopped in his tracks, his eyes fixed on the paper in Lin Mo's hand, his voice a bit tight: "Archon Lin Mo... is that plan going to be posted?"

"Post it."

Yang Shitou was silent for a few seconds, shifted the medicine chest from his right shoulder to his left, and managed to say earnestly: "When I was little, my dad died because he couldn't afford medical care. When he passed, he told my mom not to let the children follow his path. My brother was the same later." He adjusted the medicine chest, "It's good to post it."

Lin Mo patted him on the shoulder without speaking. Some things didn't need an answer.

The universal healthcare program was ground out, word by word, in the dispensary at the back of the Medical Station that smelled of disinfectant.

The first night, Alice took the draft, scanned it for less than two minutes, and set it on the table. " 'All residents' is too vague a scope." Her tone was a pure statement, devoid of any emotion, "Do the natives count? Do the refugees count? If a Chaos deserter sneaks in and needs treatment—"

"Treat them." Lin Mo sat on the medicine chest opposite her, hands crossed on his knees, "Save the person first, then screen them. The intelligence vomited up by a living Chaos deserter is worth more than ten thousand corpses."

"You are betting the entire medicine inventory on a probability."

"I am not betting on probability." Lin Mo looked into her eyes, "I am betting that—most people, as long as you give them a way to live, won't choose a dead end. If a desperate Chaos soldier finds that they treat him here, feed him, and don't interrogate him, who do you think his gun will be pointed at?"

Alice was silent for ten seconds. Her icy blue eyes stared at him without blinking, as if scanning every word he said with psychic power. Then she picked up the charcoal pen, crossed out all the long-winded qualifiers in the "Scope of Application" column, and wrote two words:

All Personnel.

The second night, they argued until midnight. Alice insisted on rationing based on severity, while Lin Mo refused to set any income threshold. Finally, Alice slapped the charcoal pen onto the table with a crisp sound: "Do you know this plan will empty our antibiotic inventory in three months?"

"I know. That's why we need to find new supplies within three months."

"Where from? Falling from the sky?"

"Buy from merchants, swap at Imperial supply stations, and—"

"Imperial supply stations won't give antibiotics to a border village." Alice interrupted him, her tone not argumentative, but merely stating a fact she had witnessed for seven years, "I served in the Astral Knights for seven years, and every supply application was cut down. Frontline troops can't even get enough medicine, why would your Blackstone Town?"

Lin Mo didn't answer. He stood up and took a roll of coarse linen bandage from the medicine cabinet—woven from local hemp by Old Tom, with stitches thick enough to poke a finger through.

"Look at this." He handed it over, "The cost is one-twentieth of the Imperial standard bandage, and the effect is not much worse. We don't need Imperial antibiotics—we need to make them ourselves."

Alice took the bandage and twisted it with her fingertips. She didn't speak, but her brow furrowed slightly—that was the sign that she had truly started thinking.

"Is this hemp thread woven locally?"

"Old Tom wove it. Took it apart seven times, wove for three days, before he could weave the first usable piece."

"That blacksmith?" Her fingers traced the warp and weft, "The spinning isn't uniform, but the tensile strength doesn't lose to the goods from the Imperial military factory. What weaving method did he use?"

"Double-warp, single-weft cross weave. He said this way it won't get looser the more you pull it."

Alice put down the bandage and stared at Lin Mo for two seconds. "I'm beginning to understand why you can survive in this godforsaken place."

The third night, they discussed critical patient referrals. Lin Mo proposed building an isolation ward, but Alice rejected it outright: "Solve the ventilation and drainage first. An isolation ward without air circulation is more fatal than not isolating at all." She walked to the corner, drew a square five steps long and wide on the wall with her finger, "Position it here. Window facing south, door facing north. Use bamboo pipes for the ventilation duct—" She paused, looked back at him, "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I understand. The inner diameter of the bamboo pipe cannot be less than eight centimeters, and the elbow angle cannot exceed thirty degrees—otherwise the airflow resistance is too high. I wrote it down when Old Tom was building the ventilation pipes for the Arsenal."

Alice glanced at him. The look was very brief, less than a second. But something in it was different.

The final plan was condensed from three pages to one. No complex terms, no exception lists, the core was just one sentence:

Within the jurisdiction of Blackstone Town, no one will die at the door of the Medical Station because they cannot afford the medical fees.

"You have kicked aside the Empire's medical system." Finally, Alice folded the plan, her tone still professional.

"Did the Empire ever have a medical system on Hope Star?" Lin Mo countered.

Alice didn't answer. She tucked that thin sheet of paper into the pocket on the inside of her robe, right against her heart.

The morning the plan was posted on the bulletin board, the square in Blackstone Town was packed with people. No one spoke; everyone stared at that piece of paper as if looking at some incredible miracle.

Old Tom came out of the Arsenal, his hands covered in oil and grease, standing on tiptoe at the outermost edge of the crowd. He was illiterate, but he recognized the big characters for "Medical," "Free," and "All." He pulled the pipe from his mouth and tapped Yang Shitou's shoulder with the stem: "Shitou, read it for me. What does it say up there?"

Yang Shitou cleared his throat and read word by word: "Effective immediately, within the jurisdiction of Blackstone Town, all residents—"

"Don't read the title! Read the content!" Old Tom was anxious.

"—Regardless of natives, immigrants, veterans, or refugees, no payment is required for treatment at the Medical Station, medicine will be rationed according to a unified standard, and critical patients will be prioritized for transfer to the new treatment area—"

"No money?" Old Tom shoved the pipe back into his mouth, biting down hard even though it wasn't lit, "Where will the medicine come from? Falling from the sky?"

Yang Shitou ignored him and continued reading, his voice getting softer, but clearer: "Core principle of the program—Within the jurisdiction of Blackstone Town, no one will die at the door because they cannot afford the medical fees."

The square was dead silent.

Old Tom pulled out the unlit pipe and knocked it twice on the sole of his shoe. The ash fell to the ground like his messy thoughts at that moment. He turned around and saw a young mother holding a child standing next to him. She was also illiterate, and had been standing there quietly listening since he called out to Yang Shitou.

"That... miss," Old Tom's voice suddenly dropped, as if afraid to scare something, "did you hear? No money."

The mother held her child tighter. "My son has had a fever for three days," her voice was as light as a breeze, "I have no money... I just came to see if it was true."

"It's true." Yang Shitou nodded very seriously, looking down to confirm the words on the notice again, "It's written right there, word for word."

No one applauded. No one cheered.

Old Tom watched the mother holding her child, walking step by step toward the Medical Station, and stuffed his pipe into his pocket. He didn't say a word and turned back to the Arsenal. That afternoon, he rummaged through the scrap pile for a whole hour, found three steel plates that could still be used, and started hammering out the second batch of sterilization pots.

No one asked him to do this. He just felt that the woman's back hurt his heart.

Lin Mo stood before the window of the office, taking in everything that happened in the square. He didn't go down. He didn't like to become a symbol to be looked up to in front of other people's suffering and hope. But he remembered Old Tom's back as he bent over rummaging through the scrap pile—the afternoon sun falling on his graying hair, iron filings flashing with fine light in the air.

A knock sounded at the door. Yang Shitou poked his head in: "Archon Lin Mo, the notice is posted. The crowd has dispersed."

"What did you see?"

"Old Tom went back to build sterilization pots. He went without eating, I brought him a bowl of porridge and left it at the entrance of the Arsenal." Yang Shitou thought for a moment and added, "That lady holding the child cried when she walked into the alley. No sound, just her shoulders shaking hard. I think... she was happy."

"What's her son's name?"

"Didn't ask. She's bringing the kid for a dressing change tomorrow, I'll ask clearly."

"Go."

Yang Shitou turned to leave, then stopped, looking back at him, a simple, pure light shining in his eyes: "Archon Lin Mo, in the future... will really no one die from not having money for medical care?"

Lin Mo looked at that honest face. He thought of Wang Defu, and all those who had died in vain because there was no medicine.

"There won't be any more," he said.

Yang Shitou grinned, though no sound came out. But his back was much straighter than it had been a moment ago.

A universal healthcare program without applause.

A mother holding her child wept silently in the alleyway.

On the first day of the program's implementation, the patient intake at the Medical Station nearly doubled.

The news spread like wildfire to the surrounding villages.

A gaunt man carrying a bundle paced in front of the Medical Station for a full half-hour. Finally, Alice walked out and blocked his path: "How long have you been putting off that leg injury?"

"Three months... no, four months." The man shrank back, his voice trembling. "I heard... they don't charge for treatment here? Do I have to sign some sort of indentured servitude contract? Are you going to draft me into the army?"

"No contracts. No drafting. No taking your land." Alice interrupted him, every word hitting the ground like a nail. "Come in. Sit down. Roll up your pant leg."

The man stared at her for a few seconds, then slowly walked in and sat on the examination bed. As he rolled up his pant leg, his hands kept shaking—not from pain, but because it had been so long since anyone had been willing to let him sit down and talk.

In the evening, Lin Mo went to the Medical Station. He wasn't there to inspect as an Archon, just to move two crates of sterilization pots that Old Tom had just forged. They were made of steel plate and looked as rough as if they had been trampled by orcs, but the welds were seamless, and every sealing ring was fitted with absolute precision.

When he put the crates down, he saw Alice bandaging a scratch on the arm of a five or six-year-old girl. The girl's mother stood nearby, at a loss, not knowing where to put her hands—her clothes were covered in patches, and the soles of her shoes were worn so thin they were almost transparent.

"Does it hurt?" Alice asked, her movements never stopping.

The girl shook her head, though her eyes were already brimming with tears.

"If it hurts, say it hurts." Alice slowed down her bandaging, wrapping two extra turns beyond the standard. "Come back in three days to change the dressing. If you take it off yourself, I'll have to re-bandage it. You'll hurt more, and I'll waste a roll of gauze. It's not worth it."

She pulled a peppermint from her pocket and placed it in the girl's palm.

"You can eat the candy. But eat it after a meal. Eating sugar on an empty stomach will give you a stomachache." Her voice still lacked warmth, but when she said the words "stomachache," she pressed the candy a little harder into the girl's palm.

The girl took the candy without smiling. But she clutched it so tightly that her knuckles turned white. As she walked out of the Medical Station, she kept her head down, staring at her palm as if she were holding the most precious treasure in the world.

Lin Mo stood at the door, watching the small figure walk away. He remembered—this box of peppermints was something he had carried with him when he crossed over. Alice had taken two from his pocket back then and had kept them until now.

The mother supported the girl as they walked to the door, stopping briefly beside Lin Mo. She didn't know Lin Mo, only that this person in the black training uniform had just brought in two crates.

"Are you... the one in charge here?" she asked hesitantly.

"Just helping move some things," Lin Mo said. "How did the child's hand get hurt?"

"Fighting a dog for a bone, got scratched by the fence." The mother stroked the girl's head, her voice filled with a heavy exhaustion. "She got the bone, but also a deep gash. Before, when she got cut, we'd just apply stove ash... This time, she was in so much pain she couldn't sleep all night. I heard that someone here could treat it."

"No more stove ash from now on." Lin Mo crouched down, looking into the girl's eyes. "Every time you come to change the dressing, the lady will give you a piece of candy."

The girl clutched the candy even tighter and asked in a very small voice: "Will the lady always be here?"

"Yes."

The voice came from the treatment area. Alice didn't walk over, remaining head-down as she treated the next patient, but her voice carried through the smell of disinfectant, clear and distinct, every word striking the wall like a nail:

"The Medical Station won't move. Neither will I."

The girl's mother didn't say thank you. She picked up her daughter, and when she reached the door, she suddenly stopped, turned back toward Alice, and said in a low voice: "Doctor, how long has it been since you slept?"

Alice's movements paused for a beat. She looked up, her icy blue eyes appearing exceptionally bright in her weary, red-rimmed face. "I slept," she said. "Four hours."

"Four hours isn't enough." The mother's voice was small but exceptionally firm. "You need to sleep. If you collapse, who will we go to for treatment?"

Alice looked at her, placing the hemostat in her hand gently onto the tray with a soft metallic click. After two seconds of silence, she said in that voice that had never refused a single patient: "Next. Come in."

The mother said nothing more. She held her daughter and, before walking out the door, took one last look at those red-rimmed, icy blue eyes.

Lin Mo saw the almost empty tin of peppermints in the corner of the dispensing counter. The candies inside were, one by one, becoming the most precious gifts in the hands of the children of Blackstone Town.

"What are you doing standing at the door?" Alice didn't even look up, busy treating a blood blister on an old miner's hand.

"Moving the sterilization pots. Old Tom said these sealing rings were pressed with a new formula and wanted you to tell him how they worked after you used them."

"Tell him they work very well." Alice's fingers wrapped the bandage rapidly. "But his welding points are still too coarse. If he lowers the welding torch temperature by twenty degrees, the weld seam can be one-third thinner, and the lifespan of the sealing rings can be extended by twenty percent."

"Go tell him yourself."

"I told him, but he won't listen. He thinks women don't understand blacksmithing."

Lin Mo smiled. It wasn't because he found it funny, but rather the realization that "this is exactly something Old Tom would do." "Alright, I'll tell him."

As he walked out of the Medical Station, he looked back. Alice was bandaging the old miner, her speed fast, but every turn precisely overlapped the previous one by a third. It was a standard military bandaging technique, but she would always add one extra turn.

Back in the office, Lin Mo opened the innermost compartment of his backpack. Hidden there was an unopened box of peppermints, the last box he had brought with him when he crossed over. He had kept it all this time, unable to bring himself to eat it, and hadn't told anyone.

He put the candy in his drawer, thinking of finding a suitable reason to give it to her.

He walked to the window and looked at the night sky of Hope Star. On the Empire's star charts, this planet didn't even have a name, just a cold string of numbers. It was a speck of dust in an archive, waiting for an unrecorded battle to wipe it out completely.

But today, there was a medical program written for everyone here.

The golden text did not appear. But Lin Mo felt that the brightest star in the night sky flickered once.

Those gears were still turning in his mind. Food, ammunition, patrol numbers... if one number changed, everything had to be recalculated. But today, beside these cold numbers, there was an extra line of warm light.

That evening, Rock knocked on his door.

The bearded man still smelled of sweat and gunpowder from the patrol. He stood at the door, his expression looking as if he had been holding it in all day.

"Come in."

Rock sat down, and the chair creaked under him. He rubbed the unwashed bloodstains on his hands and said in a muffled voice: "Archon Lin Mo, that medical program..."

"What about it?"

"I'm not saying we shouldn't do it." Rock scratched the back of his head, his rough recklessness tinged with a clumsy sincerity. "I'm saying... Old Zhao's leg, it was saved. Alice said the bone was shattered, but the main blood vessels weren't severed. Any later by half an hour, and it would really have been gone."

He didn't continue. But the weight of those unfinished words made the whole room feel a little heavier.

"What are you trying to say?"

Rock took a deep breath and slapped his knee hard with a loud smack: "What I'm saying is, this thing you're doing is good! I, Rock, am uneducated, I don't understand policies or clauses, but I know one thing—before, when I came back from patrol, what I feared most wasn't orcs, wasn't Chaos, it was hearing someone say that someone else had died. Died because they couldn't afford treatment."

His voice was as coarse as sandpaper on sheet metal, yet every word hit the ground hard: "Now I'm not afraid. When I went in today, Old Zhao was still awake. He just said one thing to me—he said, 'Rock, my leg is still here.'"

He wiped his nose hard with the back of his hand, the motion forceful. "Before, no one who had their leg crushed by a rock ever survived. Never. Today is the first time."

He stood up, walked to the door, stopped, and didn't look back.

"Old Zhao asked me to pass on a message. He said his life was saved by the Medical Station, and when his leg heals, he'll stand guard for the Medical Station for free for the rest of his life. He doesn't want any pay."

"Tell Old Zhao," Lin Mo's voice wasn't loud, but it was very clear, "what he owes the Medical Station isn't money, it's a life. When his leg heals, keep his life and live it well. No need to stand guard."

Rock turned his head sharply. In those eyes that were always full of recklessness, something seemed to be stuck in his throat. He opened his mouth, and in the end, only two words squeezed out: "Archon Lin Mo—"

"Go eat."

Rock pushed the door open and walked into the night. His footsteps made a series of muffled sounds on the stone road. After walking a dozen steps, he suddenly stopped, turned toward the empty square, and shouted with all his might:

"Listen up, everyone! Archon Lin Mo has spoken! From now on, anyone who gets injured, bring them to the Medical Station! Whoever dares to say they can't afford it and won't go—I, Rock, will be the first to carry them there!"

The shout carried far and wide into the night.

Lin Mo took a new territory registration form from the drawer and drew a mark on the copy with a charcoal pencil—a circle with a dot in the middle.

A new beginning.

—Lin Mo, Field Inspection Notes on the First Day of the universal healthcare program

In the third week of the program's implementation, people from the North Mining Village arrived.

It was an old woman with gray hair and a middle-aged man with a leg disability. They stood at the entrance of the Town Hall for a full hour, so constrained they didn't know where to put their hands. Finally, Yang Shitou couldn't watch anymore and ran over to knock on Lin Mo's door.

"Archon Lin Mo, there are two people outside who have been standing there for over half an hour..."

"Let them in."

When the two were led in, the old woman's hand shook so much while taking the cup that she spilled half of it. Yang Shitou silently refilled it for her and said in a low voice: "Don't be afraid. Archon Lin Mo doesn't make things difficult for the common people."

The middle-aged man's gaze was fixed on the cracks in the stone floor, not daring to look up. "We are... from the North Mining Village. We heard from merchants that medical treatment here doesn't cost money. Our village has twelve households, seven elderly people, and three children..."

"You want to be included in the medical coverage of Blackstone Town?" Lin Mo interrupted his fading voice.

The old woman raised her head sharply. In her eyes, there was a kind of light that Lin Mo had seen in Wang Defu's eyes—the stubbornness of someone who still dared to hold onto the last glimmer of hope in a desperate situation.

"Archon, we aren't here to beg." Her voice trembled, but every word was articulated clearly. "We can work, we can mine, we can farm, we can pay taxes—as long as..."

"As long as what?"

"As long as you treat our people." The old woman clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white. "My husband got lung disease last year. The mine boss said if he couldn't work, he should get out. We had no medicine, he coughed for three months, and in the end, what he coughed up was all black..." She paused, swallowing the sob that rose in her throat. "When he passed away, he told me that nobody in this place would care whether we lived or died. I don't believe it. I've come to try."

Lin Mo sat behind the desk, watching her. He thought of Wang Defu. If the old man were still alive, he would be very happy to see this, wouldn't he? On a frontier planet forgotten by the Empire, someone had pushed the boundaries of "caring" a little further.

He took a new territory registration form from the filing cabinet and pushed it in front of them.

"Fill out this form, and you will be residents of Blackstone Town." His voice was not loud, but it pierced through all the gloom like sunlight. "From now on, when your people come for treatment, there will be no charge. If your people are injured in the mines, send them here for treatment. Your elderly will not have to cough for three months again."

The old woman stared at the paper, her lips trembling for a long time. She didn't say thank you. She stood up and bowed deeply to Lin Mo, her waist bending until it almost snapped. Then she picked up the charcoal pencil and crookedly wrote her name on the paper.

When the middle-aged man wrote, his hand shook severely, and the charcoal pencil broke once. Yang Shitou silently took a new one from his pocket and handed it to him. The man looked at him, and Yang Shitou scratched the back of his head and said one word very honestly: "Write."

Yang Shitou saw them to the door.

The old woman stood on the steps and looked back at the door of the Town Hall. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and said to the man beside her in a hoarse voice, "Do you believe it now?"

"I believe it."

"My man was wrong." The old woman carefully folded the copy of the registration form and tucked it into the innermost pocket of her clothes. "In this place... someone cares whether we live or die."

The middle-aged man took a few steps with his crutch and suddenly stopped. "Auntie, can the seven old folks in our village really get medical treatment?"

"They can." The old woman's voice was no longer trembling. "That Archon, he looked into people's eyes when he spoke. It wasn't the look one gives a beggar. It's different from the mine boss."

"Then what should we tell everyone when we get back?"

"Just tell them—move." The old woman gripped the paper in her clothes tightly, as if she were holding the hope of the entire village. "We move tomorrow."

Lin Mo stood by the window, watching their backs disappear at the end of the alley. He knew that more people would come in the future. He knew this road would be difficult to walk. But he still kept the peppermint candy that Wang Defu had left behind. He kept it to commemorate the old man who planted the first row of crops and fired the first shot of Blackstone Village's counterattack. To commemorate the person who, in this forgotten corner, told him to survive.

He placed the new registration form into the filing cabinet and drew that mark—a circle with a dot—on the copy.

A month after the universal healthcare program was implemented, Alice personally delivered the first operational report to Lin Mo's office.

She placed the report on the desk, did not sit down, and stood there, her ice-blue eyes watching him as if waiting for him to finish reading. Lin Mo opened the report; he was all too familiar with that meticulous handwriting, with every piece of data annotated with its source and calculation method.

The number of patients increased by sixty percent compared to the previous month, but the wound infection rate dropped by a full forty percent.

Severe case referral rate: zero.

"Severe case referrals are zero." Lin Mo set the report on the desk. "How many people used to wait until they were in critical condition before coming in every month?"

"At least four or five." There was a trace of almost imperceptible relief in Alice's tone. "This month, zero."

"Why has the infection rate dropped so much?"

"Before, people waited until their wounds were rotting before they dared to come; now, they come as soon as there is redness or swelling. With timely dressing changes, the infection naturally doesn't spread." She pointed to a line of numbers on the report. "It's not my merit. It's because your autoclaves and bandages are sufficient. When there is enough medicine, people dare to come early."

Lin Mo flipped to the end of the report and saw the handwritten note:

"Pressure on medical supplies inventory is increasing. At the current rate of consumption, antibiotics will run out in two months. It is recommended that the procurement priority for medical supplies be raised to the highest level. P.S.: The third batch of autoclaves made by Old Tom is thirty percent more effective than the previous two batches. He didn't come to collect his pay."

"Running out in two months. What is your suggestion?"

"Two paths. First, find Kahn. The medicine prices on the merchant shipping routes are forty percent cheaper than the imperial supply stations. Second—" Alice paused. "You weren't joking about manufacturing antibiotics yourself, were you?"

"I wasn't."

"Then do it as soon as possible." She took a handwritten list from her pocket and placed it on the report. "This is the minimum list for self-production. Antibiotics first, anti-inflammatory drugs second, anesthetics third. If Old Tom can build autoclaves, he can build fermentation tanks. The principle is similar."

Lin Mo picked up the list. It contained the names of seven types of medicine, the minimum monthly production, and the required raw materials. Each one could be grown or gathered on Hope Star.

"You've done your homework long ago."

"I never do useless things." Alice turned and walked toward the door, stopping halfway without looking back. "Lin Mo, you said you wanted to save everyone. When the medicine isn't enough, how do you intend to choose?"

"I won't choose." Lin Mo said. "Buying and manufacturing, we will push forward with both."

Alice stood at the door for two seconds. "I served in the Astral Knights for seven years, and no Commander would ever choose 'both' when the budget was insufficient. They would all choose 'buy'. Because manufacturing is too slow; by the time it's produced, the war might already be over."

"But the war we are fighting is not just this one." Lin Mo watched her back. "We are fighting all the ones to come."

Alice looked back at him. Then she nodded and pushed the door open to leave.

Lin Mo wrote a line on the report: "Medical supply procurement priority raised to the highest level. Deduct Old Tom's pay from my personal salary. Immediately initiate the self-production medical project evaluation."

He put the report into the completed folder. Blackstone Town's first autonomous policy—officially operational.

Golden text appeared again, this time clearer than ever before.

"mirror of the emperor・Confirmed"

The success of a policy does not lie in how many people praise it, but in how many people need it. You have done what even those elders in the imperial court of Terra disdain to do: care for those who are not included in the Empire's statistical reports. Keep going. You will lose much on this road, but you will find much more.

Lin Mo watched the golden text slowly fade away. He lowered his head, looked at the report that read "Severe case referral rate: zero," and said softly, "Those forgotten by the Empire, they are not a burden. They are the light in this galaxy that should never be forgotten."

Then he took the unopened box of peppermint candy from the drawer and put it in his pocket.

When he pushed open the door to the Medical Station, Alice was grinding some grey-green dried leaves on the compounding table. The air was filled with a faint herbal scent, a bit like mint, but more astringent, mellower, and carrying the unique mineral taste of Hope Star's soil.

"What are you grinding?"

She didn't look up. The leaves in the mortar were pounded into fine powder; she pinched a small amount with her fingertips and pressed it flat into a square mold.

"A local herb. The scent is sixty percent similar to mint."

She handed over the pressed thin slice. It wasn't an exquisite peppermint candy wrapped in candy paper, just a dried and pressed leaf, with uneven edges and varying thickness, but pressed squarely.

"It doesn't have the coolness of Earth, but it can refresh your mind."

Lin Mo took it and put it in his mouth. It was indeed not cool. The astringent taste spread on the tip of his tongue, like some plant that had grown by a mineral vein for a long time, having melted the resilience of this land into the leaf.

"How is it?" she asked. Her tone was still strictly professional.

"It's not cool," he said. "But it has another taste. A better taste."

She lowered her head and continued to grind the next leaf. The sound of the mortar was a little softer than before.

He didn't say thank you. She gently pushed the next pressed leaf to the corner of the table closer to him.

A month later, a new piece of paper was posted on the bulletin board in the square.

It wasn't an official document from the Archon's office. It was a public health notice handwritten by Alice. The wording was concise and straightforward, and in front of every step, a small illustration was drawn: how to identify early symptoms of wound infection, how to disinfect bandages with boiling water, and how to treat minor burns with cold water.

At the bottom, a small herb was drawn.

When Lin Mo passed by, Alice was standing beside it, using a thumbtack to re-pin the corner of the paper that had been curled by the wind.

"You wrote this?"

"Is there a problem?" She pressed in the last thumbtack and turned around.

"Not many people are literate. What you wrote..."

"Locke will read it to them. Old Tom will. You will too." She clapped the dust off her hands. "The literate reading to the illiterate—this model has been running in Blackstone Town for half a year. A notice is not for people to read and understand; it is for people to survive."

Lin Mo looked at the paper. The handwriting was neat, the line spacing was twice as wide as a standard official document, and every illustration was drawn with extra care. This wasn't a notice. It was a first-aid manual made on a single sheet of paper. Written for those ordinary people who couldn't even read.

Locke was standing in front of the notice, frowning, identifying it word by word. Seeing Lin Mo approach, he pointed at the simple drawing of the herb with the expression of someone who had just discovered a new continent: "Lord Lin Mo! This herb she drew is everywhere on the back mountain! How long has she been here, how does she know it better than I do?"

"Because she is Alice."

Locke blinked. Then he nodded, as if those four words explained everything. He scratched his head and muttered as he walked away: "It says there to use cold water for burns... The last time I was burned by the stove, Old Tom told me to smear soy sauce on it..."

"Do not smear soy sauce."

"But Old Tom said—"

"You go back and tell him that his ancestral secret recipe is wrong."

Lin Mo stood in front of the bulletin board for a while. The universal healthcare program was never just a policy. It was a proof. Alice was proving it, Old Tom was proving it, Yang Shitou was proving it, even that mother holding her child was proving it—proving that in this dark galaxy, there were still people who cared whether they lived or died.

He turned and left. There was no need to stay too long. As long as he confirmed it was posted there, it was enough.

That night, on the last page of his notebook, Lin Mo wrote a "Lin Jiang Xian":

Iron horses trample the frontier moon, the isolated village's night fires are like stars.

For whom does the ten-year-sharpened sword sing? A body full of courage, a life unknown for ten thousand miles.

He closed the notebook. He had never told anyone about this. A product manager from the twenty-first century, in the Warhammer 40K universe, recording his own thoughts using a Ci-poetry style from a thousand years ago. But he felt this was right. Some things should not be thrown away just because the world has changed.

Language. Memory. Those things that constitute "me." If they were all thrown away, would he still be Lin Mo?

He stood by the window, looking at the brightest star, and unconsciously whispered, "Who exactly are you? What are you looking at?"

No one answered. At least not right now.

He put the notebook back into the drawer, his fingertips pausing on the cover for a moment, as if saying a silent goodbye to that version of himself who still held onto Earth habits.

The star outside the window flickered again.

This time, it was not an illusion.

Golden text appeared for the fourth time, more urgent than any time before:

Do not stop searching. He is waiting for you. Time is their weapon—but time is also consuming them.

Lin Mo stared at the line of text. His first reaction was not awe, not shock, but the product manager instinct engraved in his bones.

"So, this plan has a time limit."

The golden text did not answer. But that star flickered again.

He pulled open the drawer, took out the notebook again, and flipped to the page holding the "Lin Jiang Xian."

Then he froze.

On the back of that page, he didn't know when, a letter had appeared. A faint, golden J.

It wasn't written on. It wasn't a charcoal mark, not an ink stain, and not an engraving. It was the fibers of the paper itself, changed in structure at that spot by some incomprehensible power, turning into the same gold as the mirror of the emperor.

He held the paper up to the moonlight. The letter shimmered with a soft light under the moonlight.

Lin Mo was silent for a long time. Then he turned the paper over and, at the very bottom of the "Lin Jiang Xian," added a character in tiny writing:

"Come."

Golden text appeared for the third time. This time, the flashing speed was astonishingly fast, as if some existence that had originally been unimaginably distant was approaching at a speed exceeding that of light.

He has been watching you the whole time. From the first day you transmigrated. From the first time he opened his eyes on the Golden Throne and saw the darkness at the end of time. You were not chosen by accident. You are the only answer that was not excluded after being calculated for tens of thousands of years.

The text faded very slowly. As if the person writing it did not want the handwriting to leave the paper.

Lin Mo closed the notebook.

Outside the window, that brightest star flickered again.

And on Terra, tens of thousands of light-years away.

On the Golden Throne, those eyes, exhausted of all warmth by ten thousand years of torture, opened slightly into a slit.

The direction he looked toward was exactly aligned with the position of Hope Star.