“Kelly, Kelly?”

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Someone was pounding on the clinic door.

Given the force, "smashing" might have been a more accurate description.

Kelly was the only doctor in the village, and her house doubled as a clinic.

She specialized in surgeries, with an uncanny knack for anesthesia.

A single precise blow to the head, and the patient would stay unconscious for exactly two hours, never waking up before one hour and fifty minutes.

During the surgery, her patients maintained a serene expression, feeling no pain whatsoever.

In addition, Kelly excelled at amputations.

Her cuts were clean and precise; if she ever decided to switch careers and become a butcher, she would undoubtedly make a fortune.

When the patients woke up, they often found one of their limbs gone.

But the wound was always neatly stitched, and with a bit of savings to buy a prosthetic, they could get back to their lives.

If, however, the patient didn’t wake up, Kelly also ran a lucrative business making custom coffins.

Her reputation in that field was even better than as a doctor, since, to date, no one had ever opened a coffin lid to complain.

Those who did wake up, though, could sometimes be more troublesome.

Every now and then, upon noticing the missing limb, they would confront Kelly to argue.

The most common complaint was:"You cut the wrong one! It wasn’t the left hand; it was the left foot!"

In such cases, considering her reputation and that tiny bit of medical ethics she might actually possess, Kelly offered a free corrective surgery.

She was originally a veterinarian, but under certain circumstances, the differences between humans and animals weren’t that significant.

At that moment, Kelly was sharpening her scalpel, finishing up for the day, and preparing for the next when she heard the banging on the door.

She grabbed her knife and opened the door.

At the entrance stood Susan, with a young sheep draped over her shoulders.

Kelly looked Susan over quickly: all her limbs were intact, none seemed extra or redundant, so no amputations were needed.

“This little one here isn’t doing well,” Susan said, walking into the house uninvited and placing the sheep on the floor. “She hasn’t eaten anything all day.”

“I haven’t treated animals in a long time,” Kelly said, glancing from the sheep to Susan. “I’m a people doctor now. Treating animals is a hassle, you have to fetch medicines, consult books...”

Her tone implied an extra payment might be necessary.

“I’m not asking you to be a vet,” Susan said with a sly smile, already thinking of a way to solve the problem without involving money. “If you don’t charge, then technically it’s not vet work.”

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Kelly immediately knew which part of Susan she should cut off, the thing on top of her shoulders, supported by her neck.

She didn’t perform that kind of surgery often, but her success rate was high, and it always helped boost coffin sales.

But Susan brought good news, better even than extra money: there was a new life growing inside her.

Susan didn’t know this yet, and Kelly had no intention of telling her.

Given this discovery, Kelly decided to examine the sheep.

Hmm, shiny fur, firm musculature, nice and plump.

“So, what’s the treatment? It has to be free,” Susan insisted.

Kelly obliged and gave a free diagnosis:“Terminal illness. No cure. Best to slaughter and eat it.”

After sending Susan off, Kelly closed the windows, extinguished the oil lamp, and retreated inside.

A fetus.

Only seven days old, but enough.

She just needed to prepare.

Like everyone else in the village, Kelly had a habit of going for a drink at the Iguana’s Head Inn, the only lodging in the village center, after finishing her work.

And why drink at an inn? Well, in such a small village, you couldn’t expect to have a separate inn and tavern.

Someone had to profit from both, and the owner of the Iguana’s Head Inn, Venym, decided to shoulder the “burden” of that extra income.

When Kelly arrived, the official closing time had already passed, but the inn never actually closed on time.

Venym always said overtime was bad for your health.

So, he kept a few lamps lit “without working overtime,” which made it more convenient for him to water down the drinks and earn a bit more profit.

He called it “overtime surcharge.”

Thanks to this setup, Kelly could, as usual, order a bottle of Dark Rye and sit alone in a corner, drinking silently.

Behind the counter, there was a shelf filled with bottles.

All of them contained cheap beer, but Venym stored them in fancy, colorful containers stuffed with whatever fit: branches, sliced fruits, even insects—some that fell in by accident, others “intentionally” placed.

Then he slapped on labels with made-up names, and if a drink sold well, he invented incredible tales about how he obtained the recipe.

From saints in church frescoes to young sheep on local farms, all had somehow “taught” him how to craft his drinks.

If all those stories were sent to the capital, with some editing and less exaggeration, Venym would probably become a literary sensation.

The Dark Rye Kelly ordered was famous for one reason: it was popular, but it had no legendary story associated with it, and, most importantly, it never came with any “extras” floating in the bottle.

She spat out a lizard that had drowned in the bottle.

The inn remained shrouded in smoke and chaos.

The patrons poured drinks into their own stomachs or those of others, sharing tales—real or fabricated: six-legged chickens, horned rabbits, or the latest gossip about John and his favorite sheep.

No one bothered Kelly.

People who drink alone always have a special aura that keeps others at bay.

Then she heard the door creak open.

Suddenly, all the voices fell silent.

Kelly thought she might be blacking out from the drink.

She had experienced this before: first, all sound disappeared, then everything went dark—bam! When she woke up, she’d either be at home or in a ditch, and her money would usually have found a new owner.

But this time, she heard a girl’s voice.

“Can I have a big glass of apple juice, please?”

Kelly looked up and saw two figures—one tall, one small.

They had an unusual presence.

Not the aura of someone drinking alone, but one that screamed: “Watch out, kid swinging a giant sword nearby.”

Sensible people kept their distance to avoid being accidentally sliced.

The tall woman was the sword.

Her joints appeared connected by spheres, she was an automaton.

Her master wasn’t operating her, but she moved autonomously.

That meant, at the very least, she was a Level Three automaton, fully capable of killing everyone there with ease.

The girl, on the other hand, tried to act cool, as if she had seen it all before.

But it was clear this was her first time in a place like this.

And her hair… oh.

A noble, no doubt.

Some patrons cast curious glances at them, the kind of “innocent” curiosity that practically shouted: “Let’s whack her over the head and see what happens.”

But not everyone in the village was there.

The place didn’t serve apple juice, only booze.

So, the automaton asked for an apple.

With remarkable skill, the automaton sliced the fruit.

If Kelly had done it, the girl would have ended up with a glass of juice full of pulp and chunks.

The halves of the peel were perfectly intact.

If reassembled, Venym could probably sell them again.

Kelly finished the last of her drink in a single gulp and left the inn.

Level Four—a servant-grade automaton.

Impressive.

That thing could obliterate the entire village in a single attack.