The Laziest God Mortal Reincarnation

( 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.

Professional knowledge.

Essential.

Dream Haven rested against my chest.

Naturally.

Father had attempted to ban it.

He had failed.

Penelope had established rules instead.

No sleeping while patients were waiting.

No sleeping during treatment.

No sleeping during staff meetings.

No occupying unused patient beds.

The fourth rule had been added specifically because of me.

Unreasonable discrimination.

Still...

I had adapted.

Mostly.

My schedule had become disturbingly consistent.

Wake up.

Complain.

Eat.

Complain.

Ride to the infirmary with Penelope.

Complain.

Attend morning briefing.

Complain internally because Penelope had threatened administrative consequences if I disrupted it.

Then work.

That part...

I complained considerably less about now.

The first few weeks had been strange.

At the border, injuries were straightforward.

Not easy.

Straightforward.

Someone had been stabbed.

Heal the stab wound.

Broken arm.

Repair the bone.

Burn.

Restore the damaged tissue.

Mana exhaustion.

Stabilize them and let their body recover.

Soldiers possessed a remarkable ability to injure themselves in predictable ways.

Civilian medicine was different.

Annoyingly different.

The first elderly woman I treated hadn’t been wounded at all.

She simply couldn’t breathe properly.

I had stared at her for several seconds before realizing that healing mana couldn’t solve a problem I didn’t understand.

That had been...

Humbling.

Master Valerian would have enjoyed it.

Fortunately, the infirmary had actual physicians.

Not simply healers.

People who studied disease.

Organs.

Poisons.

Chronic conditions.

Mana disorders.

Things I had barely encountered at the border.

So I learned.

Not enthusiastically.

Let’s not exaggerate.

But I learned.

I started spending mornings shadowing senior healers.

They taught me how to examine symptoms before using magic.

Apparently immediately flooding a patient with healing mana was considered poor medical practice.

Who knew?

[Most trained healers.]

’Nobody asked.’

I learned how different diseases affected the body.

How healing magic could sometimes worsen abnormal tissue growth.

How mana contamination needed to be removed before regeneration.

How certain poisons reacted badly when damaged organs were restored without neutralizing the toxin first.

I learned that some illnesses couldn’t simply be healed.

Sometimes the best thing I could do was reduce pain.

That had bothered me.

More than I expected.

At the border, almost everything had an answer.

Enough mana.

Enough skill.

Enough time.

Here...

Sometimes there wasn’t one.

I didn’t like those cases.

But I had stopped avoiding them.

That probably counted as progress.

[It does.]

’I wasn’t asking for emotional evaluation.’

[You were clearly thinking about it.]

Annoying.

My afternoons were usually easier.

Injuries.

Emergency treatment.

Recovery work.

Things I understood.

And after the first month, the senior healers stopped hovering behind me.

After the second, they began sending difficult cases directly to me.

By the third...

People started requesting me by name.

That was inconvenient.

"Is Young Lord Vortex working today?"

"Can Lord Alash examine my son?"

"I was told the silver-haired healer..."

The first time I heard someone call me the silver-haired healer, I nearly left.

Penelope stopped me.

Apparently abandoning one’s workplace because of an embarrassing nickname was "unprofessional."

The patients didn’t care.

To them, I was simply the strange young healer who carried a pillow everywhere.

That reputation had spread rapidly.

Children liked Dream Haven.

Which was a problem.

They constantly wanted to touch it.

I constantly refused.

There were boundaries.

One six-year-old girl cried.

I felt terrible.

Then she asked again while crying.

Manipulative.

Dangerously manipulative.

I let her touch one corner.

One.

She immediately smiled.

I had been defeated.

I never told Penelope.

She already knew.

Penelope somehow knew everything that happened inside this building.

After four months, I finally understood why Father had looked so confident when he told me she handled administration.

Penelope was terrifying.

Not physically.

Probably.

Administratively.

She remembered names.

Schedules.

Supply numbers.

Budget requests.

Staff rotations.

Which healer had requested leave three weeks earlier.

Which apothecary had exceeded their monthly ingredient allowance.

Which merchant had delivered inferior moonroot six months ago.

I had once watched a forty-year-old physician attempt to explain why three patient reports were incomplete.

Penelope simply stared at him.

He apologized.

Completed them.

Then apologized again.

Beautiful.

Terrifying.

I had developed a deep respect for administrative power.

From a safe distance.

Unfortunately, distance wasn’t always available.

"Alash."

"No."

"You don’t even know what I’m asking."

"Experience."

"Three treatment reports are missing."

"I healed the patients."

"That’s not the same as documenting it."

"They’re healthy."

"Alash."

"They can personally confirm."

"Write the reports."

That conversation occurred approximately twice per week.

Sometimes three times.

My record keeping had improved.

Against my will.

Penelope called it growth.

I called it institutional oppression.

Still...

Working with her had become comfortable.

Very comfortable.

Our morning carriage rides became routine.

She reviewed documents.

I slept.

She woke me when we arrived.

Sometimes violently.

By which I meant she removed Dream Haven.

Cruelty.

At lunch, we usually ate together unless something urgent happened.

She told me about problems with the infirmary.

I told her which problems could probably be solved by removing unnecessary paperwork.

She ignored most of my suggestions.

I also discovered Penelope wasn’t simply pretending to understand medicine for administrative purposes.

She knew a lot.

Not enough to treat people.

But enough to understand what the healers needed.

Sometimes she joined consultations involving budgets or rare treatments.

She would sit quietly while senior healers discussed some complicated procedure, then ask one question that revealed everyone had forgotten something obvious.

Extremely annoying.

Also impressive.

I had told her that once.

She stared at me for almost ten seconds.

Apparently I didn’t compliment people often enough.

Another problem for future Alash.

Current Alash had enough responsibilities.

My Apothecary training had improved too.

That part I genuinely enjoyed.

Lord Declair’s laboratories were ridiculous.

In a good way.

Controlled furnaces.

Mana-regulated distillation equipment.

Ingredient preservation formations.

Reference books.

Specialized measuring artifacts.

And an ingredient storage room that nearly made me reconsider my negative opinion of wealthy merchants.

Nearly.

During the first month, I mostly experimented with formulas I already knew.

By the second, the head apothecary began allowing me access to advanced recipes.

By the third, he stopped supervising unless I was using something expensive.

By the fourth...

He started asking me questions.

That was strange.

Apparently having an Intelligence stat as absurd as mine made formula analysis considerably easier.

I could notice interactions that took normal apothecaries several attempts to identify.

That didn’t mean every potion worked.

There had been explosions.

Small ones.

Mostly.

One ceiling needed repainting.

Penelope added a new rule after that.

No unsupervised experimentation involving volatile ingredients.

Extremely targeted policy.

I was beginning to suspect discrimination.

But the biggest change over those four months wasn’t medicine.

Or even waking up early.

It was security.

I hadn’t noticed it immediately.

That was embarrassing.

The first morning, I assumed the tall man standing near the infirmary entrance was a guard.

He was.

Technically.

Then I noticed him outside during lunch.

Then beside the carriage when we left.

Then outside the Vortex estate the next morning.

Then inside the infirmary again.

By the third day, I became suspicious.

"Penelope."

"Hm?"

"That man is following me."

She didn’t even look up from her papers.

"Yes."

I stared at her.

"You knew?"

"Obviously."

"Should we be concerned?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because he’s your bodyguard."

Ah.

Apparently that was information people expected me to discover independently.

His name was Cassian Rook.

S-ranked core.

Former royal military officer.

Extremely quiet.

Approximately forty years old.

Dark hair.

Grey eyes.

A scar across his chin.

And the permanent expression of someone who had never found anything amusing in his entire life.

Lord Declair had hired him.

Specifically for me.

I objected.

Naturally.

Apparently Lord Declair considered having one of the five SSS-potential children working inside his property both an honor and a terrifying security liability.

Reasonable.

Annoying.

But reasonable.

My kidnapping years ago hadn’t exactly encouraged confidence either.

So Cassian became permanent.

Carriage.

Infirmary.

Alchemy building.

Lunch.

If I left the property during working hours?

Cassian came.

If Penelope and I stopped somewhere on the way home?

Cassian came.

If I went to the bathroom?

He remained outside.

That had been the final insult.

"Do you expect someone to assassinate me while I’m urinating?"

His expression didn’t change.

"Possible."

I had stopped asking questions after that.

The worst part?

He was competent.

Extremely competent.

The System could detect him, obviously.

But normal people?

Cassian could disappear into a crowd while standing only twenty meters away.

He rarely interfered.

Rarely spoke.

Never complained about my sleeping.

That last point earned him considerable respect.

After two weeks, I decided he was acceptable.

After one month, I occasionally forgot he existed.

After two months, that mistake ended when someone actually tried approaching me.

Not an assassin.

Worse.

A noble recruiter.

A man from some merchant house had somehow gotten past the main reception area and attempted to offer me a "private opportunity" involving his family’s medical business.

Cassian appeared beside him so quickly I nearly missed the movement.

One moment the man was speaking.

The next, Cassian’s hand rested on his shoulder.

"Leave."

The noble left.

Immediately.

I looked at Cassian.

"You could have done that during the banquets."

"No."

"Why?"

"Wasn’t assigned."

Tragic.

I considered hiring him personally.

Unfortunately, I had no idea what S-ranked bodyguards cost.

Probably more than pillows.

Not worth it.

Maybe.

Security around the infirmary itself had increased too.

That was Lord Declair’s doing.

Two additional B-ranked guards were stationed near the main entrances during my working hours.

Visitor identification became stricter.

Private treatment areas required authorization.

Even staff access to my schedule was limited.

At first, I thought it was excessive.

Then Penelope reminded me what had happened when I was twelve.

I stopped complaining.

Mostly.

SSS potential didn’t make me invincible.

I’d learned that lesson already.

Potential was a promise.

Nothing more.

Until that promise became actual strength, there would always be people who saw me as something valuable.

A political asset.

A weapon.

A hostage.

A threat.

I hated thinking about it.

So I usually didn’t.

Cassian handled that for me.

Efficient arrangement.

Still, there was one security rule I absolutely refused.

"No."

Penelope stared at me.

"Alash."

"No."

"It’s safer."

"No."

"We just want you to use the staff entrance instead of the main entrance."

"That’s not the problem."

"Then what is?"

"The staff entrance passes the kitchen."

Penelope blinked.

"Yes?"

"The smell wakes me up."

She closed her eyes.

Cassian turned his head away.

I stared at him.

"Did you just laugh?"

"No."

Suspicious.

Very suspicious.

Eventually we compromised.

I used the main entrance.

Cassian increased surveillance.

Diplomacy.

I was excellent at it.

[Debatable.]

Four months passed like that.

Slowly at first.

Then strangely quickly.

Patients.

Apothecary.

Penelope.

Cassian.

Dream Haven.

Morning briefings.

More patients.

Sometimes Marco and Elara visited.

Elara loved the infirmary.

For approximately twenty minutes.

Then she became bored and tried exploring restricted areas.

Cassian returned her personally.

She claimed he was frightening.

I agreed.

Cassian ignored both of us.

Marco was different.

He asked questions.

About treatment.

My training.

Apothecary.

He even watched me heal once.

Afterward, he became quiet.

I didn’t ask why.

Our relationship was improving.

Slowly.

He still wanted to surpass me.

That was fine.

Actually...

I hoped he did.

Strong siblings increased my chances of sleeping peacefully during future catastrophes.

Very practical.

My own training hadn’t stopped either.

Father and Master Valerian had made certain of that.

Physical training before work three days a week.

Barrier practice.

Healing practice happened naturally now.

Constantly.

Four months inside the infirmary had exposed me to more variety than years at the border.

I learned.

Adapted.

Improved.

My control became finer.

I wasted less mana.

Minor injuries required almost no conscious effort anymore.

Complex internal damage still demanded focus.

Diseases were unpredictable.

Poisons remained annoying.

But compared to my first day?

The difference was enormous.

And there was another benefit.

My quests.

Healing hundreds of different people wasn’t particularly difficult when working inside one of the capital’s largest infirmaries.

The Akashic Record clearly approved of my career change more than I did.

Several objectives progressed far faster than expected.

Every time another notification appeared, I felt a small amount of satisfaction.

Followed immediately by annoyance because progress usually meant the next objective became worse.

Classic Akashic Record behavior.

Still...

I was stronger.

Much stronger.

Not dramatically in core rank.

That remained slow.

But experience?

That was different.

I had stopped thinking of healing as simply closing wounds.

Now I understood the body better.

The difference between repairing something and treating someone.

Master Valerian would probably say that distinction mattered.

I would never tell him I agreed.

He’d become unbearable.

I looked toward the window.

Outside, afternoon sunlight crossed the central courtyard.

Patients moved between buildings.

Healers walked quickly beside them.

Cassian stood near the hallway entrance.

Motionless.

Watching.

Penelope was somewhere upstairs arguing with the supply department.

Probably winning.

And me?

I sat inside a treatment room.

Dream Haven against my chest.

Waiting for my next patient.

Four months ago, I had considered this place a prison designed specifically to prevent me from returning to the border.

Now...

I didn’t hate it.

That realization was deeply concerning.

[Growth.]

’We’ve discussed this.’

[You have become responsible.]

’Watch your language.’

[You wake up early.]

’Stop.’

[You work.]

’System.’

[You maintain treatment records.]

’Not willingly.’

[You care about your patients.]

I became quiet.

That one was harder to argue with.

Annoying.

A knock sounded.

The door opened.

A nurse leaned inside.

"Young Lord Alash?"

I looked up.

"Yes?"

"We have another patient for you."

I sighed.

Then placed Dream Haven beneath one arm and stood.

"Condition?"

"Severe mana-channel inflammation. The senior healer wants your opinion."

My sleepiness faded.

Just slightly.

"Bring them in."

She nodded and disappeared.

I stretched.

Four months.

Which meant only two remained before Zenith Academy.

Two months until I stopped being an infirmary healer and became a student.

Again.

I wasn’t sure whether that sounded better or worse.

No morning employment.

Good.

Classes.

Bad.

Dormitories.

Potentially good.

Training.

Bad.

Libraries.

Good.

Hundreds of teenagers.

Terrible.

I sighed.

Future problems.

Current Alash had a patient.

Cassian shifted beside the doorway as a stretcher approached.

I moved Dream Haven onto the chair.

Then paused.

Looked at it.

Looked at the approaching patient.

And stepped away from the pillow without hesitation.

[Interesting.]

’Don’t start.’

The System remained silent.

But I could feel its amusement.

I ignored it.

Mostly.

Four months ago, I would have complained about losing another break.

Now I was already examining the patient’s mana channels before the stretcher crossed the doorway.

Apparently employment had done something terrible to me.

It had made me competent.

Tragic.