( Alash Vortex's POV)
Four months had passed.
Four.
Entire.
Months.
Since Father had informed me that I was apparently old enough to possess something called a job.
I had survived.
Barely.
[You are being dramatic.]
'I wake up before seven in the morning five days a week.'
[Millions of mortals do that.]
'Exactly. A widespread tragedy does not become less tragic.'
The System didn't respond.
Victory.
I leaned back in my chair and looked around the treatment room.
White walls.
Clean beds.
Cabinets filled with medicine.
The faint smell of antiseptic herbs hanging in the air.
Four months ago, all of this had been unfamiliar.
Now?
I knew which cabinet contained burn salves.
Which healer constantly misplaced his examination tools.
Which nurse would bring me tea if I looked sufficiently exhausted.
Which patient beds were positioned closest to the morning sunlight.
And, most importantly...
Which rooms had chairs comfortable enough to sleep in during breaks.
