Cultivating in the Wizard World

Ten years later.

The cobblestone streets of the old town of Wudu had been repaved, with new stones filling in the potholes, their color slightly lighter than the surroundings, like fresh patches on an old dull gray coat.

The gas street lamps on the corner were replaced with electric lights, wires pulled over from the direction of the factory, weaving a dense web over the old town.

The bakery owner's wife was still there, but her son had taken over the business.

She sat in a chair behind the cash register, wearing reading glasses and knitting, occasionally looking up at the customers coming and going at the entrance.

The old bookstore was still around.

The paint on the wooden door had been redone, the hinges replaced with new ones, no longer making that elongated creaking sound.

The wooden sign on the door frame had also been replaced, its lettering more precise, with a simple pattern carved along the edge.

But the words "Old Bookstore" hadn't changed, looking exactly the same as they did ten years ago.

A small clinic had been expanded next to the bookstore.

Speaking of expansion, it was actually just renting out the empty building next door for years, breaking through the wall in between, and renovating the interior.

The clinic's facade wasn't large, with a glass door, and a sign in blue lettering on a white background hanging at the entrance, saying "Noren Clinic."

Below it, in small letters, read "Specialist in Peculiar Injuries and Soul Damage."

At this moment, the clinic door was pushed open from the inside.

Eric walked out.

He was taller than ten years ago, with broader shoulders and a straightened posture.

The youth on his face had completely faded away, replaced by a calm and steady demeanor, born from witnessing various injuries over time.

He wore a white long coat, a pen tucked into the left chest pocket, and a medical record folder in his right hand.

Eric's hair was shorter than it used to be, revealing a full forehead with a sharp jawline, carrying a ruggedness not typical of young men.

Behind him followed a middle-aged man dressed in a dark blue uniform.

The man's left arm was in a sling, bound tightly from shoulder to wrist, yet there was no visible trace of blood.

A new scar marked his face, running from the tail of his eyebrow down to his cheekbone.

"Mr. Collins, come back next Wednesday to have your stitches removed."

Eric stopped on the steps at the door, flipping the folder to the last page and tearing off a slip of paper to hand over.

"For dressing changes, you can do it yourself using the method I taught you last time. But if any black lines appear around the wound, don't handle it yourself. Immediately go to the association headquarters to find Doctor Valentine and have him contact me."

The middle-aged man took the slip, folded it up, and put it in his pocket.

He moved his arm in the sling, his fingers flexing open and closed, nodding with satisfaction.

"Dr. Eric, your skills really are undeniable," the middle-aged man's voice was gruff and hoarse. "The doctors at headquarters studied my soul damage for three days, saying it'd take at least half a year to recover, and it might even leave permanent aftereffects. You treated me twice, and now I can barely feel it myself."

"That's because you have a strong foundation," Eric chuckled. "The peculiarity within you has been working with you for almost twenty years, making your soul's resilience much stronger than the average person. I just helped reconnect the broken parts, and the rest healed on its own."

Hearing this, the middle-aged man's expression turned complex.

"That's still because you have good technique," he said with undeniable certainty in his tone. "Other doctors don't have this skill."

Eric didn't continue the conversation, just shook his head slightly, tucking the folder under his arm and opening the glass door for the middle-aged man.

The middle-aged man stepped out of the clinic, pausing on the step below the door.

His gaze swept over the gray sky of the old town, finally landing on the deep green wooden door next to the clinic.

"That one... isn't here today?" he whispered, motioning towards the bookstore.

Following his line of sight, Eric shook his head.

"The mentor's consultation times are not open to the public. If needed, the association will make appointments through official channels."

The middle-aged man said, "Ah," and didn't ask further.

He had been receiving treatment here for almost a month and never met the legendary "Dr. Noren" in person.

There were many stories about that doctor within the association. Some said he was very old, others claimed he wasn't a doctor at all but a retired High Tier Spiritualist, and some linked him to the incident at the mental hospital years ago.

But no one could confirm any of it.

He only knew that this young Dr. Eric was a student of that doctor.

And Dr. Eric's skills already far surpassed those of the best doctors at the association headquarters by an unknown margin.

"See you next Wednesday," the middle-aged man said, turning and heading towards the alley.

A black association vehicle was parked at the alley's end, with the driver already waiting in the seat.

Eric stood at the clinic door, watching the man get into the car before sighing and returning to the clinic.

The clinic wasn't large but had clear functional zones.

Opening the door behind the consultation room revealed a short corridor.

On the left side of the corridor was the treatment room. He walked to the treatment room's entrance, opened the door, placed the folder on the shelf behind the door, and began tidying up the treatment table.

Used gauze, cotton balls, and gloves were sorted into different trash bins.

Surgical instruments were placed in the ultrasonic cleaner, and the start button was pressed.

A small piece of rune sticker personally drawn by Jeming, left on the treatment table, was carefully peeled off with tweezers and stuck onto a special preservation board, marked with the date and patient number, and stored in the drawer.