As Elara stepped out of the racing club and reached for her helmet, her phone rang.
She glanced at the screen.
Wesley Drummond.
“Hello?”
A familiar older voice came through the line, steady and composed.
It was Wesley Drummond.
“Elara, it’s me.”
“Dr.
Drummond?”
Dr.
Drummond was a renowned senior physician at the Central Military Hospital and one of the most respected doctors in the country.
Over the course of his career, he had served on major emergency medical teams and saved more lives than most doctors could count.
Despite the wide age gap between them, he and Elara got along remarkably well and had become unlikely friends.
Wesley was silent for a moment before speaking again, his tone serious.
“There’s something I need your help with.”
Elara lifted a brow slightly.
“What is it?”
“Adrian Whitmore.
Edmund Whitmore’s grandson.”
Elara’s expression did not change.
Wesley’s tone grew heavier.
“His condition has deteriorated badly.
At this point, standard treatment is no longer enough to bring it under control.”
“The Central Military Hospital brought in three of the country’s top specialists for a case conference.
None of them found a solution.”
“The Whitmores brought in specialists from overseas too.
Nothing helped.”
At that, Dr.
Drummond let out a soft sigh.
“The Whitmores are offering a hundred million to anyone who can cure Adrian.”
A hundred million.
For most people, that was life-changing money.
On the other end of the call, Elara gave a flat, almost casual, “Oh.”
“Then let them keep looking.”
Wesley fell silent.
That was clearly not the answer he had expected.
“Not interested at all?”
“Not interested.”
Elara glanced at the time.
“I’ve got an exam tomorrow.”
Wesley let out an exasperated laugh.
“You’re really turning down a hundred million because you have an exam?”
“I have more than enough already.”
Elara said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
It wasn’t like she was short on cash.
The balances in the encrypted accounts tied to her private work were large enough that she rarely bothered checking them.
Besides, money had never been the only reason she accepted a case.
Wesley was not finished.
In a low voice, he said, “What if I told you Adrian’s condition… might only be something you can solve?”
Elara’s eyes sharpened a little.
“Send me the file.”
Wesley sounded relieved.
“Alright.
I’ll send it right now.”
Less than a minute later, her phone buzzed with an encrypted medical file.
She opened it, and dense medical records filled the screen: test reports, medication logs, consultation notes, and surgery records.
…
Elara stood beneath a streetlamp, scrolling through the file page by page.
Cars streamed past, headlights sliding across her face while she kept reading without looking up.
When she reached the fourth page, her finger paused.
“There’s something wrong with this diagnosis.”
Wesley went quiet.
“Where?”
“Here.”
Elara tapped the relevant section, her tone precise.
“Your team diagnosed a neurological lesion, but judging from his clinical presentation, this is not a straightforward neurological injury.”
Wesley said nothing.
Elara kept scrolling, scanning the data quickly.
“Second issue.”
“You put him on high-dose pain medication.
It may suppress the symptoms temporarily, but it also masks what’s actually happening.”
Wesley drew a sharp breath.
“And there’s a third one.”
Elara’s voice suddenly cut off.
She went back over one set of results from top to bottom.
As she read, her expression gradually grew more serious.
“His bloodwork doesn’t match the symptoms.”
Wesley immediately asked, “What do you mean?”
“If this were only the lesion you identified, that marker shouldn’t be this high.”
Elara’s voice stayed even.
“So the real problem isn’t the lesion you’re all staring at.”
A long silence stretched across the line before anyone answered.
A few seconds later, Wesley asked,
“Have you seen Adrian’s earlier records before?”
“No.”
“Then you…”
“Medical records can lie.”
Elara lifted her eyes to the dark street outside, her voice cool and even when she spoke.
“But symptoms don’t.”
Wesley said nothing.
Wesley held the phone in silence for a long moment, unable to think of a response.
Once again, he realized he had underestimated her.
From only a few pages of records, she had already identified three critical problems.
One of them was something even he had missed.
That was more than ordinary talent.
Her clinical judgment was unusually sharp, far beyond what he had expected.
Wesley took a breath.
“Elara.”
“Hm?”
“Are you willing to take this patient?”
Elara didn’t answer right away.
She lowered her gaze to the phone screen.
After a long pause, she finally said,
“Send me the full case file.”
“Okay!”
Wesley agreed immediately.
“I’ll send it right now.”
After the call ended, Elara kept her phone in hand.
She opened a hidden app and passed three layers of security—a password, fingerprint scan, and iris scan—before a different inbox appeared.
This was the private account she used for medical cases.
It was filled with treatment requests from patients and families all over the world, many of them waiting for answers.
A new message sat at the top.
Sender: National Health Ministry.
Elara tapped it open.
It was a formal invitation.
It invited “The Healer” to join a national research and treatment program for rare and critical illnesses.
She skimmed it without much reaction.
“As expected.”
She’d already seen this coming.
For years, she had worked under the dark-web alias “The Healer,” without photographs or any public identity, accepting only the most difficult cases.
Her fees ranged from hundreds of thousands to tens of millions.
Wealthy clients, medical institutions, even ordinary people—anyone who found the right contact channel could submit a case.
At first, she took only an occasional difficult case.
Over time, the requests multiplied.
Talented doctors, pharmacists, and researchers gradually joined her network as well.
Some members of her network handled drug development, others focused on clinical trials or medical data, while another group managed pharmaceutical sourcing and supply chains.
Within a few years, she had quietly built an international medical network of her own.
And at the center of it all was Elara.
The Healer.
The mysterious physician no one had ever seen in person.
Elara logged out, returned the phone to its normal screen, and slipped it into her pocket.
The invitation from the National Health Ministry did not surprise her.
After years of work, official attention had only been a matter of time.
As for Adrian Whitmore…
Her gaze dropped to the medical file she had just received.
“I’ll take a look.”
With that, she put on her helmet.
The motorcycle roared to life and disappeared into the night.
…
Meanwhile, back at the Weston home, the mood was not nearly as relaxed as everyone had expected after Elara left—especially for Alexander.
The bleeding had stopped for the moment, but he was still pale and tense, visibly forcing himself to stay upright.
Broderick sat beside him, then seemed to remember something and looked up.
“Alexander, I just heard something.
The Whitmore family has been looking everywhere for a doctor lately, and they’re offering serious money.”
Alexander looked up.
“The Whitmore family?”
“Yeah.”
Broderick’s expression sharpened, as though he had just spotted an opening.
“Mr.
Whitmore’s grandson is seriously ill.
I heard even the country’s best doctors are out of options.”
“The Whitmores are offering a hundred million to whoever can cure him.”
A hundred million.
Alexander’s breathing stalled for a second.
The Westons were still wealthy, but business had been difficult for several years, and the family was far less secure than it appeared.
If they could establish a connection with the Whitmores…
The hundred million would be only the beginning.
The Whitmores’ connections alone could open doors the Weston family had never been able to reach.
Alexander looked at Broderick.
“Are you sure?”
The question came out sharper than he intended.
Broderick gave a firm nod.
Rosalind, sitting nearby, caught the implication as well; interest flickered across her face.
“Alexander, should we try to contact the Whitmores?”
Alexander did not answer, but the idea had clearly taken hold.
Rosalind lowered her voice.
“If we can cure the Whitmore heir, we won’t just get the money.
We’ll have a direct connection to the family.”
“And by then…”
She didn’t finish the sentence.
But everyone there understood exactly what she meant.
This was an opportunity.
One that could change the Weston family’s position overnight.
Broderick immediately pulled out his phone.
“I’ll ask around and find a way to reach the Whitmores.
We have to try.”
Alexander nodded.
“Alright.
You handle it.”
The three of them immediately began making plans.
Not one of them knew.
While they were trying to figure out how to get the Whitmores’ attention—
the person who had actually been asked to help
was not one of the famous physicians they were trying to contact.
It was the woman they had just driven out of the Weston family.
Elara.