The Genius Doctor Who Lives Twice - Chapter 13

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 13
“I apologize for summoning you at such a late hour.”
McKintosh offered a brief greeting and settled into his seat.
Soon, servants brought warm tea.
While the tea was being prepared, Allen observed the secretary’s movements with careful attention.
The way he flinched with his right hand, furrowed his brow, and repeatedly flexed and curled his fingers.
“My right hand has been anything but normal for these past three months.”
McKintosh sipped his warm tea and began to speak.
“My fingertips tingle and my palm throbs, and it only grows worse with time. At night especially—the numbness wakes me from sleep. The pain is becoming unbearable.”
He rubbed his right wrist and palm alternately, his expression one of clear distress.
“At first, I thought time would heal it, so I endured. But now I can scarcely grip a pen. I’ve been practicing writing with my left hand as a precaution, yet this right hand shows no signs of improvement whatsoever. It’s maddening, truly.”
Edward stared at the secretary’s hand with a vacant expression.
He looked utterly lost—as if he hadn’t the faintest idea where to begin, let alone offer any medical insight.
Allen, meanwhile, found his mind racing with knowledge from Dreamland, lightning-quick and vivid.
“If I may ask, Secretary—are certain fingers more numb than others?”
“The thumb, index, and middle fingers suffer the most.”
Allen glanced sidelong at Edward and gave him a subtle jab beneath the table.
Edward, catching the signal, furrowed his brow as though lost in serious deliberation.
“Hmm, yes… I see.”
It was his signature performance—Physician’s Contemplation.
After a moment of theatrical pondering, he turned to McKintosh and spoke with formal courtesy.
“Secretary, might I trouble you for a moment while I discuss this condition in depth with my apprentice?”
“Of course. Take your time.”
The two stepped into the corridor.
Edward glanced around briefly, then immediately let out a heavy sigh.
“Good heavens, I haven’t the slightest idea. What do we do? Is it arthritis?”
Panic was written across his face.
He looked almost frantic.
Perhaps he’d had so little experience with men of such standing?
From Allen’s perspective, however, McKintosh was no great dignitary at all.
He remained perfectly composed.
“Calm yourself. Take a deep breath. He is simply a patient like any other.”
“Hah… yes…”
Edward drew in a long, measured breath.
His composure returned somewhat, and with it, the characteristic bearing of a “great physician” resurfaced.
Or at least, the outward appearance of one.
“Are you somewhat steadier now?”
“…I suppose so.”
“When we return, I want you to perform these two tests precisely as I show you.”
Allen demonstrated the first: holding both hands back-to-back, wrists bent ninety degrees, maintaining the posture for a full minute.
Then he added the second: gently tapping the ligament at the center of the wrist with his fingertips.
“What in the world is this? Some sort of incantation?”
“If done correctly, the patient will feel a sharp tingling. If not, we must consider other possibilities—but given the symptoms alone, I’m almost certain.”
“….”
Edward still wore a bewildered expression, turning his own wrist over to examine it.
Allen understood perfectly.
After all, they were dealing with a condition that hadn’t even been identified in this era.
“It’s called Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. A condition I’ve named myself.”
“Ah… so you’re saying this is a disease you discovered?”
“Discovered is perhaps too strong a word. In any case, it exists in no medical text that I know of.”
Carpal Tunnel Syndrome—an occupational affliction that befalls those who overwork their wrists like a curse.
The mechanism was clear and the cure straightforward, yet in an age when the very function of nerves remained mysterious, this illness was nothing short of an inexplicable hex.
“Let me explain the anatomical principle simply. Have you heard of the Median Nerve?”
Edward nodded at Allen’s question.
“Of course. It descends from the upper arm, passes through the inner elbow, and extends all the way down to the palm as a major nerve, does it not? Why do you ask?”
“That nerve passes through a narrow ligamentous passage at the wrist. We call that passage the Carpal Tunnel. When someone like your secretary grips a pen for prolonged periods, that passage narrows and compresses the nerve. That compression is the source of the pain.”
Allen pressed his own wrist as he explained the anatomical structure.
Edward’s eyes widened as he wondered if surgery might be required, but Allen shook his head and offered a simple remedy instead: a Splint.
Edward regarded the prescription with considerable doubt.

It can be resolved that easily?
Yet in the next moment, words he’d spoken to Allen came back to him.
‘I will hear everything you have to say. Without a shred of doubt.’
At the very least, he had to trust.
Trust in this man’s treatment.
If he himself held no conviction, he could never persuade the patient.
* * *
The two of them returned to the Reception Room.
McKintosh the scribe sat in precisely the same posture as before.
His right hand remained troublesome enough that his expression was still twisted in discomfort.
“Ahem, well….”
Edward cleared his throat and took his seat.
He fixed McKintosh with an air of studied confidence.
“Scribe, would you hold your wrist in this position for me.”
He demonstrated: both hands pressed palm-back against his chest, fingers bent downward.
The Phalen Test, as it was called.
McKintosh complied, though puzzlement flickered across his face.
After thirty seconds his brow twisted sharply, and before a full minute had passed, he lowered his hands as though stifling a cry.
“Dreadful! It’s as though hundreds of needles are pricking my palm.”
“That will do. Now, may I examine your wrist?”
Edward took McKintosh’s wrist carefully in hand.
Following Allen’s instruction, he tapped gently along the path where the median nerve ran.
McKintosh let out a sharp intake of breath and grimaced.
Tinel’s Sign positive.
Edward did his utmost to project the bearing of an authoritative physician.
He furrowed his brows deeply, rested his chin on his hand, and performed the theater of profound contemplation.
Allen watched this clumsy performance and swallowed his laughter.
“Hmm. From what I can discern, this is not a matter of vital energy or bone, but of nerve. You require a splint.”
“A splint? My wrist isn’t sprained.”
“Indeed. The key is to immobilize your wrist during sleep so it doesn’t bend and irritate the nerve. A light wooden board and cloth will suffice.”
McKintosh’s gaze sharpened, fixing on Edward.
Edward felt his lips dry and signaled urgently to Allen with his eyes.
Allen smoothly picked up the thread.
“Complete recovery may take several months. However, if you wear it consistently each night, the pain should diminish noticeably within a month or two. Above all, consistency is what matters.”
“I’ve had bloodletting, cupping, and every remedy under the sun. Nothing worked. Now you’re telling me a splint will cure it?”
McKintosh continued to scrutinize them both from beneath his deeply sunken eyes.
Edward forced himself to steady his wits.
“Yes.”
Remarkably firm.
Edward himself was startled by it.
“Sometimes the simplest remedy proves the most certain cure.”
McKintosh’s rigid posture eased somewhat as Edward’s words flowed with the natural grace of a true physician’s Mask.
A faint smile crossed his face.
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“….”
“You offer treatment that hardly seems like treatment at all, yet everyone who’s received it speaks highly of it. They say there’s no better cure than that.”
Edward’s eyes widened at McKintosh’s sudden words of praise.
“So it seems this too will follow suit. I’ll trust you. In the meantime, my left hand can manage what my right cannot—though I’ll need to grow accustomed to it, I suppose.”
McKintosh smiled wryly, a hint of self-deprecation in it.
Edward released a breath of relief.
Though only inwardly.
“Then I shall apply the splint for you myself.”
Edward had a servant bring thin wooden board and cloth, which he used to secure the scribe’s wrist carefully.
He maintained the wrist at its most comfortable angle while ensuring the binding was not too tight.
His hands moved with practiced precision, as though experience guided them.
“Scribe, simply maintain this position. Be careful not to let your wrist move.”
“I can manage it myself. Understood.”
McKintosh nodded.
Then he flicked his fingers with his left hand.
Presently the steward approached and offered them payment.
A single gold coin.
“…What is this?”
“I’ve dragged you out at this late hour, so I must repay you properly. If your wrist heals, I’m prepared to compensate you far more generously than this.”
Edward swallowed hard and accepted the gold coin.
The two of them left the mansion.
McKintosh offered to call a carriage for them, but Edward politely declined.
He wanted to walk.
The moment they stepped outside and turned into the nighttime streets of Green Hills, Edward let out a long, shuddering breath.
“…I thought I was going to die.”
“For someone so nervous, you handled yourself very well.”
“I scraped together every ounce of courage I’ve accumulated in my lifetime. One wrong word from that man, and everything I’ve built as a physician could come crashing down.”
Then Edward glanced sideways at Allen.
“…But you were far too calm. You must have seen plenty of important people in Kalden as an internist, haven’t you?”
“I’ve seen a few.”
“Well then, how are the Kalden nobility? Do these noble folk excrete gold instead of waste?”
Allen let out a soft laugh.
“Hardly. They pass what they consume. The stench is worse, if anything.”
“Quite right—it would be strange if anyone short of the Emperor himself could produce anything but ordure, wouldn’t it?”
Edward spoke with a hint of jest.
It was a jab at court protocol, where the king’s bowel movements were euphemistically referred to as “producing plum blossoms.”
Allen received it with a quiet smile.
He knew all too well that an emperor was merely a man beneath his robes.
The only difference lay in the garments draped upon him.
“…Still, a gold coin, of all things.”
Edward heaved another deep sigh.
“It weighs on me heavily. What if, after such generosity, nothing comes of it? Surely he’ll call me a charlatan?”
“Have you considered that all the other physicians have already come and gone? We’re his last hope.”
“But we’ll bear the brunt of the blame regardless, won’t we? Let me ask you plainly—it will work, won’t it?”
Allen fell silent for a moment.
Then he answered.
“…It may not. If it doesn’t, we’ll need to resort to other means.”
“What other means?”
“Surgery.”
Carpal Tunnel Release—a procedure to free the nerve trapped within the hypertrophied ligament.
Edward’s face went rigid at the simple explanation.
“…I’ve never heard of such a surgery.”
“Of course you haven’t.”
“Why? Is it only performed in Kalden?”
“No. It’s a surgery no one in the world has ever performed before.”
Edward froze in place.
Allen continued walking and spoke on.
“If it comes to that, we can name it after you, Edward.”
Edward stared at Allen, still rooted to the spot.
Then he suddenly cried out.
“Alllllllleeeeeeen!”
* * *
A month had passed.
Allen and Edward made their way together to the secretary’s residence in Green Hills.
The drizzle that had fallen since morning had stopped, leaving the street damp, and the wet bricks gleamed a deeper crimson than usual.
“Huff. Huff. How do I look? Do I seem nervous?”
Edward whispered to Allen as he stepped down from the carriage.
Allen chuckled softly.
“Drop your shoulders a bit more. You’re holding too much tension.”
“…Like this?”
“And lift your chin a little higher. Right now you’re slouching.”
“…Like this?”
“Straighten your spine with confidence. We’re here to check on progress, not to be scolded.”
Edward immediately adopted the Physician’s Mask.
Allen appreciated how quickly his feedback registered—at least there was that advantage.
Today was the day they would assess the progress from the Splint prescription.
For a month, they had not visited the Green Hills estate.
No summons had come either.
And now they were going directly to check on the progress.
The two men, ushered into the grand manor, were shown at once to the Reception Room.
Silver teacups and pastries sat upon the table, but Edward, tense as he was, could not bring himself to touch them.
“What if surgery becomes necessary? I don’t know what to cut or how to proceed—”
“Steady yourself. It’s a last resort. And it’s hardly an impossible operation.”
“But—but still! Your hands lack the finesse, and frankly, I’ve never performed such a procedure myself……”
As the two conversed in hushed tones, Chief Clerk McKintosh appeared.
His expression bore its usual severity, and his right hand remained bound in a splint.
McKintosh looked no different than when they had first seen him.
His mouth still sagged downward, and his mood seemed unchanged.
He pulled up a chair and sat, regarding Edward slowly.
“Doctor.”

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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