Hearing Nethan’s cries grow louder, I hurry back to him. Kneeling beside him, I wince.
His face and head are caked in blood from countless cuts. One arm is grotesquely bent, and the other is twisted beneath him. His armor is gone, his clothes are in tatters, and deep gashes spill blood everywhere. His legs? They’re bent in the wrong direction from his knees; no wonder he can’t feel them. With that much directional chaos, it’s like his body’s hanging on by a thread.
“Man, he really worked you over,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“You think so?” he whispers through the swelling.
I take a deep breath. “Alright, what do you need? I’m no healer, but I’ll do what I can. Okay?” He gives a weak nod. “So, what potions do you have that can fix you up quickly?” One potion nearly restored my health to full, if only temporarily. Surely, a few more can handle broken bones and internal injuries.
“My… bag…” he rasps. I grab the satchel strapped to his side. Inside, everything’s intact—nine Health, seven Mana, six Stamina, and two Painkiller potions, all [Superior] quality. Looks like someone was planning for the apocalypse.
Turning back to him, I ask, “Which one first? Health, mana, stamina, or painkillers?”
“Pain…” he mumbles. I tilt his head and pour the vial’s contents into his mouth. He gulps down the red liquid and suddenly goes limp. My pulse spikes—did I just kill him? But before I panic, his eyes snap open, and he gasps for air. “Okay, okay, now fix me up. Arrange me!” he demands.
“How do I arrange you? You’re not a damn Lego set!” I shoot back.
“I mean my hands and legs—straighten them out, or my bones won’t heal,” he clarifies. With a snap of my fingers, I get to work.
I grab his right leg, careful to avoid the cuts. “This is gonna hurt, Nethan. A lot.” I pull with all my strength, and there’s a sickening crunch as the bone snaps back into place, followed by a scream so loud it scares off every bird in the trees.
“It hurts… The potion’s not working,” he wheezes as I shift to his left leg. “Wait, wait, give me another—”
“Yeah…” He had two—one for his legs and one for his hands. “Nah,” I mutter, yanking the leg back into place.
Crunch!
“Fuck!” He screams again, this time sending all the small critters—rabbits, deer, squirrels and whatever else—scurrying for cover.
He starts to cry, really cry—like a grown man sobbing, tears streaming like rivers from his eyes and nose. It’s quite the sight. “No one said this was going to be pretty, buddy,” I tell him, reminding myself too. Healing isn’t as simple as sipping a potion and bouncing back. Avoid injuries if you can.
“I know,” he sobs. “That’s why I asked for another…”
“I’m giving it to you now,” I grab another red potion and help him drink it. He drifts in and out of consciousness, his cries fading as he stares blankly at the yellow sky.
“Now, let’s get those hands straightened out,” I say, and wait. When he doesn’t respond, I get to work.
Ten minutes and two near pukes later, I finally finish. The left arm? Manageable. Adjusting it and aligning the fingers was straightforward. The right arm, though, was a bloody mess of flesh and bones trapped under his weight. I had to piece it all together. I’m no stranger to blood and guts; I can watch them without flinching. But handling them? That’s a feeling I’ve never quite gotten used to.
“Nethan, what’s next?” I ask, wiping my hands on the rag.
Nothing. He just stares into space. Is he really dead this time? I put a hand over his nose—he’s still breathing. It must be the potion kicking in, shutting down his brain to dull the pain. Makes sense, but too much blood loss is another problem.
“Nethan, hey buddy,” I jolt him awake.
“Yeah… yeah, what?” he mutters, barely holding his eyes open. “We’re… friends, I know. I swore on my mother’s… grave. Is that not enough? You want me to blow you now?”
“What—No!” I shout, eyes wide. The guy’s delirious. Must be another side effect of the potion.
Before I can say more, he starts up again. “Hey… I can’t feel my legs… I can’t feel my hands…” His face twists with panic, and he’s full-on screaming. “My hands! My hands! My dick, my puppy! I can’t feel my puppy—”
“Alright, that’s enough,” I slap a hand over his mouth. “Now, which potions next?”
His response comes out muffled. I lean in closer, only to realize I’m the one blocking his voice. Rolling my eyes, I pull my hand away, and he says, “Potions? What potions… Do I need potions?”
“Yes, for your hands, for your dick—for your puppy to work again, you dumbass,” I hiss in his ear, and finally, the lightbulb flicks on in his head.
“Potions, I need potions. Health... yeah... that'll work—” Before he finishes, I shove two vials of green liquid down his throat. The results are instant. The swelling goes down, the bleeding stops, and he starts making sense again. His expression shifts from shock to pain, then to joy, and back to pain as the potion does its thing, probably working on more than just the surface wounds.
“More, more,” he urges. I tip three more vials into his mouth. He gulps them down greedily and closes his eyes. I lay his head back onto the ground, waiting.
Minutes tick by with no visible change—his wounds, cuts, and bent limbs remain. Then Nethan's eyes snap open. “What are you waiting for?” he barks, back to his usual self. Honestly, I'm relieved. “Mana potions. All of them, quick!”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Right, magic! I give him a quick nod, popping the corks off the shimmering blue vials. One by one, the potions go down his throat, and a faint, translucent glow surrounds him. Steam rises off Nethan as bones pop back into place. His legs and one hand snap straight, and every injury heals. His skin regenerates, the spilled blood evaporates, and the pain eases.
Watching the magic happen right before my eyes, I can’t help but chuckle. But as Nethan sits up, I notice something off. His right arm is there, but no hand—just a stump.
Can mana not regrow limbs? That already sounds too good to be true.
Nethan notices the issue soon enough. He raises his arm and curses. “Healer, I need a healer,” he snaps, glaring at me like it’s my fault. “Right now!”
I frown. “I already told you I’m no healer. You want me to give birth to one?”
“You can do that?” he asks, genuinely shocked.
I’m dumbfounded. “No! I can’t do that,” I deadpan. “You need a healer,” I say, getting to my feet and extending a hand. “Let’s get you to one. Come on, lead the way.”
He grabs my hand and pulls himself up, nearly yanking me into him. Once steady, he downs the last of the potions. Still, no change in his hand.
“This will buy us some time,” he says, scanning the scene. “We need to get to the healer at the base. Only he can fix... Oh, fuck, my hand is really gone.”
“What?” I follow his gaze. All the fighters—probably level fifty or higher—are sprawled on the ground, too out of it to move or help each other. “Can’t we just teleport to the base and come back with backup?”
“We need everyone’s mana for teleportation. It’s all or nothing,” he replies, heading toward his friends.
As I watch him march away, I groan, dragging a hand down my face. He just piled a whole lot more work on me. But hey, look on the bright side: I get to make more friends. That balances it out, right?
* * *
It didn’t balance out—not even close.
I spent two miserable hours darting between a dozen grown men sprawled across what felt like two football fields. I yell—comforted them, patched them up while they bawled for their mommas like babies. I did everything I could to get them back on their feet. And what do I get for all my trouble? A big, fat, fucking nothing.
Hell, maybe next time I’ll let them cry it out. They’re experts at it, after all, besides staring blankly into space.
I couldn’t get a word through their thick skulls, let alone plant the seeds of friendship. Sure, I could’ve lived with that, if only I’d walked away with some potions as a reward. But no, they just had to carry the bare minimum. And that asshole, Nethan? He even convinced me to donate my stamina potions to them, promising they’d owe me for life. Yeah, I’m really holding my breath on that one.
Which brings me to my current situation—flat on my back, staring at the stars, every muscle aching from all the sacrifices. A painkiller potion would be ideal, but I can't afford to get delirious—these so-called 'kids' in their thirties and forties won’t appreciate that.
Fuck them anyway! I snarl, lifting my head to see them huddled together a few feet away, leaving me and Bad Stain to fend for ourselves. Yeah, he survived. He says it’s dumb luck, but I know better. It’s his brilliant “when they come, I rile others up, they fight, and I run away” strategy at work.
“Smart move, by the way,” I mutter, trying to sound genuine. Can’t really blame him—he did what he had to do to survive.
Brad pauses mid-clean, tilting his head just enough to shoot me a look filled with doubt. I figure he’d be a little self-aware and say something like, “Smart? There’s nothing smart about running away, being a coward,” as if admitting it would somehow make it better. But no, he just goes with, “Uh… Thanks, I guess.”
I really don’t want to be a hypocrite here, so I just nod. “You’re welcome.”
A brief silence falls, but not for long—Brad picks up right where he left off, wiping down his sword like it’s some kind of sacred relic. He mutters to it, almost like a lover, between wiping and the occasional kiss on the hilt. The guy’s way too attached to his murder weapon, and as it turns out, a total chatterbox. Ever since he found me lying on the ground, he’s been going on and on.
“I haven’t been here long, Colt, but when I saw that white guy come down from the sky, I knew he was bad news. Our level gap was so big that my system didn’t even register his level. I’m sure yours didn’t either, right?”
“Yeah,” I reply, realizing he’s got a point. I hadn’t pieced it together at the time, but the best way to know you’re screwed is when you can’t read the opposition’s level at a glance. Sure, I could’ve evaluated the guy, but that’s beside the point. Wait… I did evaluate him. So where’s the result?
---- Results ----
Name: Boss Manuael [Level: 101]
Race: Artiman (D)
Title: Ichor Supremist, Blood Reveler, Man loather, Death Stroker, Life Butcher
Tendency: Professional Racist with a Sadist Nature
Stats:
Appeal: 100 ┃ Constitution: 217
Dexterity: 258 ┃ Strength: 198
Perception: 199 ┃ Mana: 0
Intelligence: 157
Skills: Indomitable
----
I think of the results, and a screen pops up with all the details. I skim through it, and—well, would you look at that—the boss is over level one hundred, just as I guessed. Meanwhile, I’m still rocking a proud zero. Next time we meet, I’m dead. No question about it. Even if I train like a maniac, there’s no way I’m closing that gap in sixty days. Depressing? Yeah, just a bit.
I groan, and it seems to throw Brad off his chatter. He stops mid-sentence, raising a brow at me.
Before I can even think of clearing things up, he jumps in, “You think I’m just some useless chatterbox, don’t you?” His frown deepens, like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“Well,” I’m itching to be brutally honest, but hurting a sweet, cowardly soul doesn’t seem worth it. “No. Not really.”
“Then why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
He mimics my earlier groan, his face twisted with anger.
“Oh, that... I was just—”
“Up on your feet, boys! Time to move,” a sharp voice cuts in.
It’s the big guy with the sleek black hair. Rox is his name, wielding a greatsword. He’s probably the one who took down the orc earlier—the same guy I helped to his feet first. Oddly enough, he’s the only one who wasn’t bawling for his puppy, his ex, or his mother. The man kept his cool the whole time. I respect that.
“Where?” I ask, curious, trying to sit up. But a sharp pang shoots through my back, and I flop back onto the ground. Guess standing around for too long really does take a toll.
To my surprise, Rox extends a hand. Kindness? From a player? Maybe these guys aren’t so bad after all. I take his hand, and he hauls me to my feet.
“We’re heading back to base. We’ve had enough of a fuck-up for one day,” he says, giving me a pat on the back before waving for both me and the still-seated Brad to follow along.
I extend a hand to Brad, trying to pass on the kindness, but the bastard shoves it away, scowling as he gets up on his own and marches off to join the group. If jealousy could scream, it’d sound just like that. Nice—exactly what I needed to brighten my day… or rather, my night.
I sigh, push my annoyance aside, and fall in line behind him, muttering to myself, “Base, here I come.”