Exchanging Vows: The Swapped Wife Is a Top Shaman

Chapter 35: Chapter 35

Ivy’s Point of View

The butler stepped forward and bowed to the young man.

"Young Master Edmund, this is Physician Lin. A traveling healer who claims to have treated conditions others could not cure."

The young man, Professor Aldwin’s son, looked at me with tired, skeptical eyes. "Another one."

"I understand your doubt." I nodded respectfully. "But I ask only for the chance to try."

He sighed heavily, his broad shoulders sagging with exhaustion. "Fine. Do what you will. Everyone else has."

I moved toward the bedroom door. Ash immediately stepped forward to follow me.

"Wait here," I said firmly.

"Young Master, we should accompany you—"

"You have no protection against the illness." I kept my voice low. "None of you do. Stay outside. I’ll be fine."

Nell looked worried, her hands twisting in her skirts. "But—"

"I know what I’m doing. Trust me."

They exchanged uncertain glances but stayed back.

I pulled a cloth mask from my bag and secured it over my face, making sure it covered both my nose and mouth completely. Then I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was dim. Suffocating. The air hung thick and stale, heavy with the smell of sickness and medicinal herbs that had failed to help.

Professor Aldwin lay in a large bed at the center of the room. The sight of him made my heart clench with sympathy.

He was a skeleton wrapped in skin. His face was gaunt and yellow like old parchment. His cheeks had sunken into deep hollows that cast shadows across his features. His hands, resting on the blanket, were nothing but bone and paper-thin flesh covered in age spots.

Every few seconds, a violent cough wracked his frail body, shaking him like a leaf in a storm.

I scanned the room quickly. Windows on all four walls. Every single one shut tight. Curtains drawn against the daylight. No fresh air circulating. No natural light penetrating the gloom.

No wonder he was getting worse. This room was killing him as surely as his illness.

"Open the windows," I ordered.

The butler hesitated, wringing his hands. "The previous physicians said to keep them closed. To prevent the illness from spreading to others—"

"They were wrong." I pointed at the nearest window with authority. "This room is a tomb. The patient needs air. Fresh air. Clean air. Open them. All of them. Now."

The butler looked at Physician Harlow, seeking confirmation. The older physician considered for a moment, stroking his beard thoughtfully, then nodded slowly.

"It... couldn’t hurt at this point. The professor’s condition can hardly worsen."

The butler snapped his fingers at a servant hovering near the door. Within moments, the windows were thrown open one by one. Cool afternoon air flooded the room like water breaking through a dam. Sunlight streamed in, chasing away the oppressive darkness that had settled over everything.

Professor Aldwin squinted against the sudden brightness, raising one skeletal hand to shield his eyes. Then he coughed again. A wet, rattling sound that seemed to come from deep within his chest.

"Don’t bother with any of this." His voice was a thin whisper, barely audible. "I’m dying. Everyone knows it. Just let an old man go in peace."

"Father, please." Edmund rushed to his side, taking his father’s frail hand in both of his own. "Don’t say such things. We’re trying to help you. We haven’t given up."

"Help?" The professor laughed bitterly, though it cost him dearly. The sound turned into another coughing fit that left him gasping. "Twelve physicians. Twelve failures. There is no help for what I have, son. Accept it."

Edmund’s face twisted with anguish, his jaw clenching tight. "There has to be something. There has to be."

"Let me examine him first," Physician Harlow interrupted, stepping forward with professional confidence. He set his leather bag on a nearby table and pulled out various instruments. "If you would allow me, Professor."

The old man waved a skeletal hand dismissively. "Do what you want. Poke and prod to your heart’s content. It won’t change anything."

Physician Harlow worked methodically, his movements practiced and precise. He checked the professor’s pulse at several points along his wrists and neck. Listened to his breathing with a wooden tube pressed firmly to his chest. Examined his eyes by pulling back the lids. His tongue by asking him to open wide. His fingernails by pressing on them and watching the color return.

He asked questions about symptoms. About sleep patterns. About appetite and digestion. About the nature and location of pain.

The professor answered in a tired monotone, his voice growing weaker with each response. Yes, he couldn’t keep food down anymore. No, he hadn’t slept properly in weeks, perhaps months. The pain was everywhere and nowhere. A constant ache that had settled into his bones like an unwelcome guest that refused to leave.

After fifteen minutes of thorough examination, Physician Harlow stepped back from the bed.

His face was grim. His eyes held no hope.

"I’m sorry." He shook his head slowly, heavily. "The disease has progressed too far. His vital organs are failing one by one. His spiritual essence is nearly depleted entirely."

"Surely there must be something you can do—" Edmund started, desperation cracking his voice.

"There is nothing." Physician Harlow began packing his instruments back into his bag with careful, practiced movements. "I can give him medicines to ease the pain. To make his remaining time more comfortable and peaceful. But a cure?" He sighed deeply. "I’m afraid that is beyond my abilities. Beyond anyone’s abilities."

The room fell silent except for the professor’s labored breathing and the soft whisper of wind through the open windows.

Edmund looked like a man watching his entire world collapse around him.

"Now," I said, stepping forward with purpose. "It’s my turn."

Physician Harlow glanced at me with something like pity mixed with irritation. "Young man, I admire your confidence. Truly, I do. But I have forty years of experience treating the sick and dying. If I cannot cure him—"

"Your experience is with conventional medicine." I moved to the professor’s bedside without hesitation. "Mine is not."

I knelt beside the bed, bringing myself to the old man’s level. The professor watched me with clouded, rheumy eyes that had seen too much disappointment.

"Another one," he murmured weakly. "Another fool who thinks they can cheat death itself."

"I don’t cheat death." I leaned closer, holding his faded gaze. "I simply know things that others don’t."

I placed my hand gently over his chest, feeling the weak flutter of his heart beneath my palm. Closed my eyes. Began to chant under my breath, words so quiet they were barely a vibration in the air.

The words were ancient. Older than the packs. Older than the kingdom. Inaudible to anyone but me. They opened my spiritual senses like a key turning in a long-locked door.

And suddenly I could see.

Not with my eyes. With something deeper. Something that existed beyond the physical world, in the realm where spirit and flesh intertwined.

The professor’s body lay before me like a detailed map. I could see his failing organs, their light dimming. His weakened heart, struggling with each beat. His congested lungs, filling with fluid they couldn’t expel.

But more importantly, I could see his spirit.

It was dim. Flickering. A candle flame guttering in a hurricane, moments from being extinguished forever. The threads that connected his soul to his body were fraying. Snapping. One by one, like ropes on a bridge giving way.

Spirit Wasting. Just as I had suspected from Luna Helena’s description.

I traced the damage with my senses, following the decay to its source. Found it nestled at the core of his being. A dark mass, pulsing with wrongness. A spiritual parasite that was slowly, methodically consuming his life force.

*That’s why the physicians couldn’t help. They couldn’t see this. They were treating the symptoms while the true disease feasted unseen.*

I withdrew my hand and opened my eyes.

"Well?" Edmund’s voice was tight with desperate hope, his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. "Can you help him? Please, tell me honestly."

I stood. Straightened my robes.

"Yes."

The word dropped into the silence like a stone into still water.

Everyone stared at me.

"What?" Physician Harlow looked incredulous, his professional composure cracking. "That’s impossible. You barely examined him. You touched him for two minutes at most—"

"I saw enough."

"Saw enough? I spent fifteen minutes conducting a thorough evaluation using time-tested methods. You touched him briefly and hummed to yourself!"

"Sometimes two minutes is all you need when you know where to look." I turned to face Edmund directly. "Your father has a condition that ordinary physicians cannot detect, no matter how experienced they are. It’s not a disease of the body. It’s a disease of the spirit. That’s why no medicine has worked. That’s why he keeps getting worse despite everyone’s best efforts."

"A disease of the spirit?" The young man looked confused, his brow furrowing deeply. "What does that mean?"

"It means I can cure him. But it will take time. Several treatments spread over weeks. And it will require methods that may seem... unconventional to those unfamiliar with the old ways."

Professor Aldwin stirred on the bed, his eyes focusing on me with sudden sharpness. "You’re either a liar or a madman. Perhaps both."

"I’m neither." I met his faded eyes without flinching. "I’m a healer. A real one. The kind your physicians don’t believe exists anymore."

"Father, please—"

"Don’t get your hopes up, son." The professor’s voice was sad. Resigned. Hollow with too many disappointments. "I’ve heard promises like this before. They always end the same way."

Edmund turned to me. His eyes were desperate. Pleading. The eyes of a man grasping at his last, fraying thread of hope.

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