Truth Beneath the Pulse

"Miss Yana, bringing your father for a check-up?"

Amara Ravenswood’s voice flowed gently, like a calm stream slipping through stone. Her fingers still rested lightly on the patient’s wrist, steady and precise, yet her gaze had already lifted—warm, attentive, quietly welcoming.

Yana inclined her head slightly.

"Yes, we’d like to see Senior Divine Doctor Ravenswood. Is he available?"

Her tone remained respectful, but beneath it lingered something tighter—an urgency she could not fully hide.

Amara’s lips curved into a soft smile. She gestured toward the back with effortless grace, her posture relaxed, composed.

"Grandpa is in the back reading. You can go ahead."

The faint scent of herbs lingered in the air—earthy, calming, grounding the restless edge in Yana’s chest.

"Thank you."

Yana didn’t hesitate.

Her hands tightened slightly around the wheelchair handles as she guided her father through the narrow passage. The noise of the crowded clinic gradually faded behind them, replaced by a quieter, older stillness—like stepping into a space where time itself slowed to breathe.

Wren Tyson glanced briefly at his daughter.

"You’ve been tense since we arrived."

His voice was low, observant.

Yana didn’t answer immediately.

"I’m fine," she said after a moment, though her grip on the chair didn’t loosen.

He didn’t push further—but he noticed.

When they reached the inner room, Senior Divine Doctor Ravenswood sat beneath a pool of soft light, dressed in a simple green robe. An ancient medical text rested in his hands, its worn pages whispering of years, of lives, of things learned and things lost.

He looked up as they entered.

Recognition flickered in his aged eyes.

"Ah... you’ve come."

His voice carried both warmth and quiet authority, steady as an old tree that had weathered countless storms.

"What’s troubling you today?"

Yana stepped forward, her posture straightening slightly.

"Senior Divine Doctor Ravenswood, some time ago, we met a skilled healer who treated my father’s legs with some success."

She paused, choosing her words with care.

"We were hoping you could evaluate the effectiveness of that treatment."

Beside her, Wren Tyson let out a quiet sigh.

"Sigh... forgive us for troubling you, Senior Divine Doctor Ravenswood. I feel perfectly fine, but she insisted I come."

There was calm in his voice—but beneath it, a trace of resistance.

He didn’t like this.

Didn’t like being examined again. Didn’t like questioning something he had already accepted.

Amara, still standing near the doorway, watched the exchange quietly. Her gaze lingered for a brief second—not intrusive, just observant—before lowering again, respectful of the space.

"Healed your legs?"

The old doctor’s brows lifted slightly.

Surprise came first—

Then something sharper.

Interest.

"With my medical skills, I could not resolve your condition..."

His eyes narrowed faintly as he looked more closely at Wren, the air in the room shifting—subtle, but unmistakable.

He set the book aside slowly, eyes narrowing.

"Could there truly be such a skilled healer?"

There was no mockery in his tone.

Only curiosity.

Only seriousness.

He reached forward without delay, placing two fingers on Wren Tyson’s wrist.

The room seemed to still.

Even the faint sounds from outside faded into silence.

Amara closed his eyes.

His breathing slowed.

His senses focused.

Time stretched—

A heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

Then—

His expression changed.

The calm shattered.

His brows knitted deeply, and the veins along his temple faintly rose.

When he opened his eyes—

There was anger.

Pure, unfiltered anger.

"This is outrageous!"

His voice rang through the room, sharp and heavy.

"Who would be so reckless? Which scoundrel did this?"

Yana froze.

Wren Tyson’s grip tightened on the armrest.

"What happened?"

Their voices overlapped slightly, both caught off guard by the sudden outburst.

Senior Divine Doctor Ravenswood was known for his composure.

For his patience.

For his gentle temper.

To see him like this—

Something was very wrong.

Amara’s gaze hardened.

"This person indeed has high medical skills—perhaps even slightly better than mine..."

He spoke slowly now, each word deliberate.

"But their intentions are extremely malicious."

The air grew heavy.

"I don’t know what acupuncture method they used on you."

His fingers tapped lightly against Wren Tyson’s wrist again, as if confirming what he already knew.

"With their skills... if they were willing to patiently perform Acupuncture Therapy every half month..."

His voice dropped slightly.

"They could cure your legs in a year."

Hope flickered—

Only to be crushed in the next breath.

"But—"

The word struck like a blade.

"This person used unscrupulous methods for quick results."

Amara’s voice rose again, anger breaking through restraint.

"They targeted the wrong points. This treatment severely depletes the body’s vital energy."

Silence.

Dead silence.

Even breathing felt loud.

"Even if it heals..."

He looked directly at Wren Tyson.

His eyes no longer soft.

"They won’t live more than a year."

The words fell like a verdict.

Cold.

Final.

Amara’s face flushed with anger, his hands trembling slightly.

"Lack of skill is one thing..."

His voice carried deep disgust now.

"But having a malicious heart—"

He exhaled sharply.

"—is worse than being an animal."

Yana’s face turned pale instantly.

Her fingers trembled on the wheelchair handles.

Could Julian...

have been right?

The thought hit harder now.

Because it was no longer speculation.

It was confirmed.

Wren Tyson sat frozen.

The pride in his posture cracked—just slightly.

Shock rippled through him.

The young man he had admired...

The one he had trusted...

Had such intentions?

His throat tightened.

Beyond anger—

Came something heavier.

Guilt.

Deep, suffocating guilt.

He remembered Julian standing there earlier.

Speaking calmly.

Trying to warn him.

And how he had responded—

With disdain.

With arrogance.

With dismissal.

His hand rose slowly.

Then—

Slap.

The sound was sharp in the quiet room.

His palm struck his own face.

Not lightly.

Not gently.

A soldier’s slap.

Punishing.

"I..."

His voice faltered.

His eyes lowered.

"I shouldn’t have acted that way."

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Authors Notes: Dear Readers, Thanks so much for joining me on this adventure! Your enthusiasm, feedback, and encouragement really keep me motivated to keep bringing *Villain of Fate: The Tyrant System* into existence. If you’re loving the Chapters, I’d love it if you supported my book with a Powerstone, review, or even a Golden Ticket—it helps me develop as a writer and lets more readers enjoy the story. I look forward to hearing your ideas and thoughts, so please don’t hesitate to share!

With love,

Saturn_Virgo_777

Creator of Villain of Fate: The Tyrant System

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