If someone were to pass by at this very moment, they would see a two-and-a-half metre tall mantis monster sprinting through a field of grass in a panic as a skinny young man held onto it like an unwanted backpack.
The man was panting like a dog and had more open wounds than unmarred skin on his back, but the monster wasn't in much better condition. A dagger and multiple arrows were stuck into it, as well as a plethora of less severe slashing wounds that nonetheless added up.
Thousands of years ago, humans hunted mighty beasts by making use of their superior endurance, wearing their prey out over time until it eventually collapsed, unable to put up a fight. They had done this with flint spears and without the benefit of magic.
Symon had made his caveman ancestors proud, building upon this strategy by attaching himself like a parasite to the creature until, eventually, it couldn't take it anymore and gracelessly stumbled to the ground.
He blinked rapidly and shook his head to clear it, coming back to himself. He'd felt more or less aware of what was happening and could have simply let go if he'd wanted, but it felt so good to fill his vessel that he hadn't seen a need to stop fighting. Plus, why stop when you were winning?
Right, right, the razor stalker isn't dead yet, he thought. He could think more deeply about what he'd just gone through later on. Already, the stalker was trying to push itself up on unsteady limbs.
With his mind clearer, Symon was a lot less confident about approaching the creature without a weapon, even in its weakened state. Still, he recognised that every second he waited allowed it to recover further, so he quickly approached from where he'd rolled off when it had collapsed.
He duly noted that his magic must have levelled up, as the draining thread now snapped out as far as his forearm and hand combined. Once more, he felt that powerful rush of energy as the vitality entered his body, although this time he fought against giving in too deeply. This was made easier as his adrenaline rapidly faded away, letting the pain of his many, many injuries come to the forefront. For one he had a splitting headache even though he was sure he hadn't been hit there. Strange.
Glancing down at his own body, he let out an involuntary gasp. His clothes — his paramedic's uniform, plus the white robe the adventurers had gifted to him — were completely shredded, the same as the flesh below them. Although by now, the white robe was mostly red. Forcing his eyes back to the monster, he stumbled the remaining step closer until he was near enough to touch it.
He was already doing all the damage he could without a proper weapon, although he wasn't sure if he would have had the strength to use one even if he did have one, especially the heavy pipe he'd discarded earlier. He must have lost more blood than he'd realised, as the best attack he could muster was to fall on top of the monster, pushing it back to the ground with a thump. It let out a weak hiss in response, but it had already proven itself unable to dislodge him previously — and that was before having most of its vitality drained. All Symon had to do was lay there, preventing the creature from escaping, and wait.
Well, presuming he didn't die of his wounds before then. His body was a complete mess of crisscrossing slashing wounds, but what most worried him were the multiple deep stab wounds to his chest. His vessel had been full for a while now, but had continued to greedily steal the stalker's vitality regardless, meaning his magic had plenty of vitality and must have been doing its best to patch up his injuries the whole time he'd been grappled onto the monster. Even through the pain — like ice-cold knives were stuck in his body all over — he was aware enough to worry it wouldn't be enough.
He had so many wounds all over that his magic was spread thin, pulsing outwards evenly from his vessel as it searched for injuries to fix. It was impossible to even tell if the wounds were getting better... perhaps they were bleeding slightly slower? The pain was too much for him to concentrate, both a blessing and a curse. His Pain Resistance was keeping him conscious where any normal man would have already passed out from the pain, but that meant he was aware enough to experience every excruciating second.
His mind latched onto his magic; he knew it was his only way out, but how? The razor stalker had resumed its squirming, so he refocused on his draining magic after losing concentration on it due to the pain.
Wait a second...
That was it! He'd always known he could consciously empower and guide his Seize ability, forcing it to drain faster against foes and directing it towards the plant life when he needed to get close to an ally. He'd theorised that he could do something similar with the healing from Idealise in the past, but hadn't had the chance to test it.
With no time to waste — the stalker's blood was also red, but he thought most of the substance around them was his — he tried to focus on the feeling of his vitality. Not on the sensation of it being ripped out of his enemy, but on how it would leave his own vessel. A torrent of vitality flooded into his vessel, but the amount that left it was comparatively much weaker. Focusing on this latter flow, he tried to encourage his vessel to release more, to heal him faster. It didn't work. It was like he was trying to tell his kidneys to work faster; this wasn't a muscle he had any control over, or if he did, he had no idea where to even begin.
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If he couldn't get more vitality out of his vessel, then he just had to use what he already had more efficiently. He thought back to when he'd healed Atabek after he was attacked by the stalker. He'd pulled the vitality from his vessel and guided it into his fingertips, before transferring it directly into the man's wounds — maybe he could just do the first step here? It was the only thing he could think of, so he immediately tried.
As the next pulse of vitality shot out of his vessel like a shockwave, he forced his will upon it and guided its path. Instead of spreading out evenly, he forced it to remain in his chest. His vitals were there, so it seemed a good place to keep the vitality while he searched for the wounds he needed to heal. His whole body was in such pain that he wasn't sure where any single wound started and another ended, so he wasn't sure which spot needed healing the most. Raising a hand to brush away his tattered clothes and inspect his wounds, he paused with his hand in midair. Only the thumb was remaining.
Right, he'd lost them ages ago. They were barely even bleeding, so he had bigger things to worry about. The cut had been so clean that he'd forgotten about them, barely even feeling their loss compared to the pain of all his other wounds. With his other hand, he ripped off his shirt and looked down at his body.
Predictably, he was a mess. The front of his body was the least injured, as it had been relatively safe pressed directly against the stalker's back. His back had been slashed up pretty badly, sheets of blood still flowing out of him. He wasn't a squeamish guy — you couldn't be, to do well in healthcare — but this was a lot to handle. Awkwardly twisting around, he could see the white of his ribs visible through some of the cuts, and that was just what he was able to see with the limited view of his own back.
Swallowing his rising bile, he pushed the vitality backwards, towards the surface of his back. He needed to seal the largest wounds before he died of blood loss, so he continued to push all of the emerging healing vitality to that area. As he did so, he continued his examination of his wounds. His breathing was fine, all things considered, and he knew his heart was undamaged because he was still alive. There were plenty more organs beyond your heart and lungs, but as long as those two were fine he wasn't likely to suddenly keel over from an internal injury in the immediate future.
Ah, there we are, he thought after spotting another area that needed attention, a stab wound just above his hip. That scythe arm must have stabbed straight into him from the side, just like how the monster had first attacked Atabek hours ago. What would have required serious surgery to fix back on Earth had a simple solution on this planet — huh, he just realised he hadn't even asked Keelgrave what this place was called.
Recognising the blood loss and shock was making his mind wander, he pulled all his vitality up to the surface of the wound. The internal damage could wait until he stopped actively bleeding to death. This was the first wound he was able to get a good view of as it healed, watching as the pierced muscle pulled itself together and the skin crawled inwards from the edges. He found it morbidly fascinating to observe, meaning that when the adventurers — just Aslan and Safiya — caught up with him they saw him staring at his own wounds, absolutely coated head to toe in blood while curled up on the back of the faintly twitching razor stalker.
"Oh hey there guys," he said in English while flashing what he thought was a reassuring smile, "I've got everything handled!"
The two adventures shared a long glance, the meaning lost on Symon.
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Much like when he'd defeated the bearcat, he patiently waited alongside the defeated but not yet slain monster until he finally drained all the vitality from it. After it collapsed, it had taken another ten full minutes to finally stop moving, by which point he'd gotten himself to a state where he felt mostly healthy. It had been a little awkward to explain why he wanted to remain laying atop the dying razor stalker, but he'd already told them how his magic functioned so they'd caught on to his reasoning quickly.
Once more, he used Keelgrave as a translator from English into Common, turning to the adventurers that had been patiently discussing something in their native tongue while they waited for him to heal himself.
"Are you guys okay?" he asked, just now noticing they each sported a collection of fresh wounds — they'd all been bandaged already, at least. It must have happened while he was focused on healing himself.
"We will be fine, friend Symon. Please, save your energy for aiding Atabek's recovery."
Well if they said they were fine, he'd take their word for it. Although, hold on, Atabek's recovery? What about their archer? Last he'd seen, Serik had been collapsed in a pool of his own blood after the stalker had broken free of the melee and gone for him. It must have been a full ten minutes ago when that happened, he had to go help him now!
Not wanting to wait the extra fraction of a second for Keelgrave to supply the translated words, he simply pointed back the way they'd came and shouted "Serik!" before standing up. He expected to feel weak and shaky, but if it wasn't for all the blood and ruined clothing he wouldn't have been able to tell he'd even been wounded.
However instead of worrying, Aslan casually waved off Symon's panic.
"He's okay?" Symon asked.
"Do not trouble yourself, he is already dead," Aslan responded bluntly. He seemed oddly... okay. In fact, he almost looked pleased. Looking at him, Symon wouldn't have known that he'd just lost one of his closest companions.
"He — damn, really? Fuck, I'm sorry guys," he mumbled out. If only he'd allowed the wounded stalker to flee instead of letting himself be dragged away. Then, maybe he could have been there to save Serik... the vitality he'd drained then might have been enough to keep death at bay for him. He barely knew the man, so he was hardly going to break down in tears, but he'd still felt attached to him. He supposed that being one of the first people he found while lost in a foreign desert on an even more foreign planet contributed to that, but the fact that his genuine selflessness had so easily bridged the language barrier meant he deserved Symon's respect.
It seemed that good people dying young wasn't something unique to Earth.