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ArabicArknights: How Did I Actually Become the Doctor? — Chapter 2
Chapter 2: It’s Been a Long Time Since I Fought Such a Brain-Dead Battle
“Sharp, move to position C8 and hold. Stormeye, switch to Type III explosive shells. At your forty-five-degree left, use the reaction tower wreckage as a reflector; I need an unobstructed sonic corridor of at least four hundred meters.”
“Misery, I need five seconds of absolute silence.” Thirteen red markers illuminated the tactical map in his mind. “With your current position as the center, adjust the resonance frequency of all metal within a thirty-meter radius to 7.72 Hertz.”
“Amiya, stand on that crate. Keep yourself hidden and ignore the ground—just keep your eyes on the sky. Don’t let a single one through.”
“Touch, start diluting the neural reaction neutralizer. Deploy the isolation devices at the coordinates I’ve marked!”
He was playing a tower defense game. A barrage of precise, flawless commands spilled from his lips, partitioning the chaotic battlefield with surgical precision. The frenzied Reunion rioters and mutated hounds were reduced to docile pawns on his chessboard.
Every chain reaction sparked by Originium Arts fell perfectly into his calculations. Every wave of enemy assaults crashed uselessly against the sharpest blades of his formation. Defeating the many with the few, breaking their lines at a single focal point—the Reunion vanguard was as fragile as the skim on top of boiled beast milk. His posture was so relaxed, so utterly devoid of tension, that he looked less like a commander facing a horde and more like a man enjoying a post-dinner dessert.
If anyone else knew how they evaluated him—praising this terrifying, omniscient ‘Ghost of Babel’—he would have complained. To him, he had simply never fought a battle with such an absurdly over-leveled roster.
After spending so long sweating over low-star, under-leveled clears, he was genuinely flattered by Elite Operators who could shave off half an Originium Slug’s health bar with a single casual strike. Sure, the interior of Chernobog was a bit more chaotic than the standard route, but… to a veteran player, was there really any difference between the tutorial stages and this?
“Doctor, there’s someone over there!” Amiya’s voice pulled him from his gamer musings. He glanced up, watching the young Cautus bend down to help a disheveled middle-aged Ursus woman to her feet.
“Thank you…” The woman clutched her young son’s hand tightly. But just as a grateful smile touched her dirt-streaked face, her eyes locked onto the black Originium crystals protruding from Amiya’s wrist.
“You’re… you’re Infected?!” The gratitude vanished, instantly replaced by raw disgust and terror. She flailed her hands frantically, stumbling backward and shielding her son. “What else do you want from us? Please, just let my boy go!”
Amiya’s hand, still extended in the air, froze. She forced a gentle, heartbreaking smile, spreading her palms to show she meant no harm. “It’s okay, we—”
“You were just saved by an Infected.”
The Doctor’s voice cut through the dust, cold and flat. He stepped forward, looking down at the cowering mother and son from behind his visor.
He hadn’t expected this exact scene from the original plot to play out so perfectly. Because they had encountered the Rhodes Island rescue team much later than in the canon timeline, the woman and her son looked far more battered and desperate.
“If she wanted to kill you…” He leaned down slightly, a dark, imposing silhouette, and pointed a gloved finger at the exact spot where the woman had just been sitting.
Right on cue, a cracked concrete pillar groaned and collapsed with a deafening crash, burying that exact patch of ground under tons of rubble.
“…she wouldn’t have needed to lift a finger.”
“Alright, that makes two lives saved.” Ignoring the complex, terrified stares from the Ursus pair, the Doctor straightened up. He didn’t look back at them. Instead, he reached out and rested his hand on the little rabbit’s head, giving it a gentle rub.
Fluffy. Warm. The long ears twitched slightly against his palm.
Damn, that feels good.
Sensing Amiya’s drooping mood instantly perk up, he withdrew his hand, thoroughly satisfied with himself. He really was a master at handling kids.
But… speaking of which. His gaze drifted. What did the tails of the Sarkaz elites feel like?
The intrusive thought took root. He held it in for half an hour of skirmishing, but finally, the curiosity became too much to bear.
“Misery, you can pull back now. Sharp, use your Arts, clear out the remaining hounds, and then we’ll halt and reorganize on the spot.”
The moment the command left his lips, the tension snapped. Almost every operator sagged, a few nearly dropping to their knees in exhaustion.
They were drained. Any veteran who had fought alongside the Ghost of Babel knew the golden rule: under his command, you would never lose, but you would be squeezed of every single drop of stamina, used to your absolute biological limit. If he calculated that you could swing your blade three times, you would not have the strength for a fourth.
“Misery, could you come here for a moment?” The Doctor’s voice, now entirely stripped of its chilling command cadence, softened dramatically. For some reason… he sounded almost guilty.
“Do you have further orders, Doctor?” The loyal, silent Sarkaz wiped a streak of blood from his cheek, looking down at the hooded tactician with the absolute, unquestioning trust of a loyal hound.
The Doctor took a deep breath. It’s fine. It’s fine. I have to ask eventually. They won’t mind. I believe in the power of our bonds…
The prolonged, heavy silence drew the attention of the entire squad. They turned their heads, expecting a grim tactical assessment. Instead, they watched their Commander—the man who had just orchestrated a flawless slaughter like a cold war machine—suddenly press his palms together and bow deeply.
“…Please, can I touch your tail? I’ve been thinking about it for ages!” he practically shouted.
He had spent the last thirty minutes analyzing the squad. Of everyone present, Misery had the best temper and the thickest tail! And, more, he was too embarrassed to ask the female operators first.
Dead silence reigned over the comms channel.
At that moment, every single operator truly believed he had amnesia. The terrifying Ghost of Babel would never do something this humiliating.
Then, defying all expectations, the stoic Misery shifted awkwardly. Looking away like a shy maiden—though his eyes were hidden—he slowly lifted his thick tail and offered it forward.
The Doctor didn’t hesitate. He grabbed it and gave it a firm, satisfying stroke. It was smooth, textured almost like heavy snake scales, yet pulsing with the distinct warmth of living flesh. A very premium feel.
The suffocating atmosphere of the battlefield instantly evaporated under the sheer absurdity of the request. Seeing his blatant curiosity, several Babel-era veterans chuckled and began offering their own traits.
Pith’s fluffy ear feathers quickly became his favorite. He rubbed them so much he was reluctant to let go, prompting the Elite Operator to simply pluck a loose feather and hand it to him with an amused smile.
He really had to thank his lucky stars that touching animal traits didn’t carry any weird, sacred marriage implications in this world. Otherwise, Ch’en would have definitely dragged him to the Lungmen Guard Department for public indecency.
Seeing the relaxed atmosphere, the Ursus civilians they had rescued finally gathered the courage to approach the fire. Two little bear children even tried to offer their round ears to their strange savior, only to be hastily yanked back by their wary parents.
Sitting by the campfire the casters had ignited with Originium Arts—silently marveling at the sheer convenience of magic rock cancer—the Doctor opened the tactical map on his PRTS terminal.
Nearl was ten minutes away from her designated coordinates. Ace had taken a slight detour to clear a path; he was fifteen minutes out.
The air was growing thick, the smell of ozone and dust becoming increasingly choking. A Catastrophe was imminent.
Four hours left? More than enough time.
He accepted a cup of hot water from Sharp. Just as the rim touched his lips, a dark red blur plummeted from the ruins above. Landing with a heavy thud, the figure drew a pair of wicked blades, stepping openly into the firelight to block the squad’s path.
She wore a sleek black coat, her hood pulled low to reveal only a lock of crimson hair and a pair of sharp, hateful eyes. Her blades caught the firelight with a deadly glint.
“…Found you.”
“I’m going to tear you all to pieces.”
The Doctor’s hands began to tremble. Not from fear. He was just trying really, really hard not to burst out laughing.
Why wasn’t he panicking? Because of the stage name flashing in his mind.
Stage 4-4: Don’t Panic.
He had to admit, he suffered from a chronic condition where the mere sight of Crownslayer triggered his comedic reflexes.
“Instructor Dobermann, you’re not too fatigued yet, right? Please move to position D12. Relax, just stand there and wait.”
“Everyone else, continue your break. Time is precious. If you’re feeling anxious, you can perform maintenance on your weapons, but do not enter a combat stance.”
He turned, pointing a finger at a few of the braver Ursus civilians resting nearby.
“You, you, and you.”
“Could you guys do me a favor and help me move a few heavy boxes over here?”
Box-shifter strat, activate!