“Is it a weighing machine?”

“Yes.”

Kors nodded at Nik.

“Weigh him.”

“Weigh?”

“Vitor…”

“Shut up, Nik! I want to know how much he weighs. I think he is underweight, I want to know how much to take action. It is strange that this is not obvious to you and is surprising. I have already begun to doubt your professionalism.”

“Well, well. But then he needs to take off his clothes.”

“No, this is impossible. He won’t undress in front of you.”

“Not in front of me, I don’t need it, but in order for the scales to show the correct body weight.”

“Go weigh him! I will subtract the weight of the clothes, I understand this.”

The doctor just shook his head.

“Then let him at least unfasten his weapon.”

“Okay. Nik, take off your belt and unfasten your swords.”

Nikto obediently took off his weapons and stood on the scales. The doctor aligned the weights on the bar in front of him.

“Well, what is there?” Kors asked impatiently.

Cartmer gave him a number:

“Normal weight. For his height, this is a perfectly acceptable body weight.”

“But he’s thin!”

“He is thin, but not below the norm for his height.”

“You just don't understand anything!”

“Well, maybe a little below the norm, but not critical,” the doctor shrugged his shoulders. “Moreover, he is still young, and he is a warrior. You came from Crimson Rock, right?”

“Yes.”

“Where, as far as I know, you spent a long time in a tough siege. Hiking, battles. Such a life is not conducive to gaining body weight.”

“Are you deliberately misinforming me?”

“No.”

“He's got exhaustion!”

“I would not say that.”

“Everything is clear, you don’t understand anything.”

The doctor just shook his head, but didn't mind. He returned to the table and wrote down Nikto’s weight and height on a piece of paper. Nik, too, silently began to re-fasten his weapons.

Kors took off his boots, because they had a small heel, and stood up to the vertical ruler, put a bar on his head. Then he walked away, examining the figure. Seeing that he was literally a centimeter short of up to one hundred and ninety, he frowned in displeasure and annoyance:

“Heck!” He hit the bar. “It’s a wrong device!”

“Do you speak red?” Cartmer asked Nikto.

“Yes,” he nodded.

The doctor was looking at him very closely, and Nik grabbed the gloved hand onto his belt at his waist.

“Do you take stimulants like most black warriors?"”

“Yes.”

“Narcotic substances?”

“Y… Yes…”

“If you want me to treat you and find really effective and correct medicines, you must allow me to take a blood test from your vein.”

Nik recoiled involuntarily and took a step back towards the door.

“You are afraid?”

“No.”

“Don't you understand why this is needed?”

“I don't know, I think I understand.”

“Having studied the composition of your blood, I will understand what drugs you need.”

“I take prohibited d… drugs,” said Nikto.

And now Cartmer staggered back, but he quickly pulled himself together.

“Then the analysis is all the more necessary!”

Kors was looking at the alcoholized freaks with curiosity, carried away when he turned around and saw that Nik was sitting at the doctor’s table. The sleeve of his jacket was pulled up, the bracelet was unlaced, and the doctor bent over his hand, syringe in hand.

“Hey!” He shouted like a madman. “What are you doing?! You motherfucker! Nik!”

Nikto and Cartmer shied away from each other.

“I need to take his blood for analysis,” the doctor justified a little frightened, obviously not expecting such a reaction from Kors.

“Did you ask me for permission? Was I asked?”

“But… your son seems… quite capable of taking responsibility for himself.”