Our journey continued for another two days, during which we encountered several more herds of mini-bison. However, I refrained from any further experimentation. It didn't feel right to kill animals merely to test my abilities, especially since I already had an abundance of bison meat. I attempted to feed Stretch raw minced beef, but the spoiled wolf insisted on it being cooked. So, I made him patties, and he showed his appreciation with a contented tail wag and eager chomping.
On the evening of the second day, I sat by the fire, strumming my guitar. I stumbled upon the chords for "Que Sera Sera," a song that Sophie, my late wife, adored. As I played, memories flooded back, and tears welled up in my eyes. Stretch, sensing my sorrow, placed his head gently in my lap. I stroked his fur and began to recount stories of Sophie to him, my voice trembling with emotion.
"You know, Stretch," I began, my voice trembling, "Sophie had this incredible sense of humor. She could make me laugh even on the worst days."
Stretch looked up at me with his soulful eyes, and his ears perked as if he were hanging on to every word.
"And she was absolutely hopeless in the kitchen," I continued, a bittersweet smile playing on my lips. "Years of cooking lessons from me, and she could still only make omelets or simple pasta. Once, she tried to make a cake for my birthday and ended up with something that resembled a brick more than a dessert. We banged it on the table, laughing, and she took me out for donuts and stuck a candle in one of them."
Stretch tilted his head, almost as if he could picture the scene.
"But she had this way of making everything better," I said, my voice growing softer. "We used to dance in the living room, just the two of us. No music, just our own little world. I still miss her so much, but at least now I can think about her without feeling like my world is falling apart."
Stretch whined softly, nuzzling my hand in a gesture of comfort. I smiled through my tears, grateful for his presence. I continued talking to him, and telling him stories from our life together. He listened, licked my hand occasionally, and made me feel that I wasn’t alone. I was grateful for his unwavering companionship.
The next day, a heavy melancholy settled over me, and I walked in silence. Stretch, ever in tune with my emotions, stayed close by my side without his usual playful antics. As we walked, my thoughts drifted to my looting spell. I still couldn't understand why the pelt had flown off when I wanted it to stay put, or why I could separate meat from bones but only get it minced or in small chunks. It didn't make any sense. I realized my lack of knowledge about this world's magic system was hindering me.
It dawned on me that perhaps my problem was a lack of understanding. The Traveler's account had mentioned that this world’s magic system was underdeveloped, but maybe I could learn from local experts. I could visit a butcher or a hunter and ask them to show me the proper techniques. To perform a task, one must first learn it.
Checking my Map, I saw that despite all my traveling, I had moved barely two centimeters on the World Map. Zooming in, I noticed a town to the northeast and decided to head in that direction. It was time to meet people again. Just in case, I tied a red bandana around Stretch's neck to make him look more domesticated.
After another day's walk, we reached a dense forest. I oriented myself using the Map and headed towards a nearby road. After a couple of hours, I heard voices. I stopped, spent 500 mana to learn the local language, and crept closer to ensure they were human and to understand enough to communicate. As I listened, the more I understood, the less I liked what I heard.
"Did you * them *?"
"Yes. Lopan * them * the inn."
"You * only one guard?"
"Yes. Guard and *."
"Maybe * * more guards?"
"Stop asking * * questions. * * afraid go home."
"Not afraid * asking."
"Be quiet."
"Why? They are far * * hear us."
"Be quiet."
Creeping closer, I hid behind some bushes. Stretch, my genius wolf, crept alongside me, remaining silent. Through the leaves, I saw two men hiding behind trees near the road. They stopped talking and mostly cursed at the bugs, but I learned some colorful local swear words like "mukar turd" and "shatmek-eating nitwit."
Soon, a carriage came into view, and the men drew their swords. I couldn't let them harm or kill anyone, so I summoned my staff and prepared to intervene. The coachman suddenly fell from the carriage, and the two men charged. I ran after them, sweeping the feet out from under one of them. The guard used the opportunity to stab the other bandit in the stomach. I winced at the sight; I had intended to disable, not kill.
An arrow whizzed past my ear and struck the carriage. I saw Stretch darting towards the source of the arrow. I followed, hearing growling, a shout of pain, and then Stretch whining in pain. I burst through the bushes to find a man, bleeding from one arm and holding a knife in the other. Stretch was injured, and a wave of anger surged through me. I struck the man’s head, breaking his neck. The shock of taking a life momentarily stunned me, but I snapped out of it. He had likely killed the coachman. I checked Stretch's wound—it wasn't deep, and I healed it immediately.
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Rushing back to the road, I found the coachman barely alive. Casting Diagnosis, I found out that the arrow had pierced his ribs, nicked his heart, and lodged in his lung. He was coughing up blood. I couldn't see the arrowhead, but judging by the wound, the tip was straight, not barbed. I could pull it out slowly and heal as I went.
After partitioning my mind, I cast Anesthesia and started to work when I felt a sword pressed to my throat.
"Stop!" The guard's voice was sharp, his eyes wide with urgency as he pressed the sword closer to my throat.
"I healer, help," I responded, my heart pounding but my voice steady.
"You healer?" he asked, his brow furrowing in suspicion.
"Yes," I affirmed, nodding.
"Stop!" he repeated, his tone more insistent.
Confusion etched across my face. I didn't understand why he repeated the command, but I made a questioning gesture with my hand, hoping it was universally understood.
"This man * important. In the * * important man. And * is * sick. Heal him." The guard's face was stern, his eyes darting towards the coach.
"Sick man wait. This man no. He will dead," I insisted, my voice growing firmer as I looked him in the eye.
"Stop! The man ** coach is * important. This man * not; he can die," he declared, his expression hardening with determination.
Standing up angrily, I clenched my fists and said, "NO! Heal man first, then man in coach." My voice was laced with frustration.
He tried to grab me, but I pushed him away forcefully. "You stop me," I pointed at Stretch, "And he ...” I didn’t know the word for bite yet, so I made a biting motion with my mouth. Stretch growled menacingly in response, his teeth bared.
Returning to the coachman, I recast Anesthesia and continued extracting the arrow. My hands moved quickly but carefully, and my mind focused on the task despite the tension. Once the arrow was out, I cast Healing Touch and ceased the Anesthesia. The coachman remained asleep, which didn't concern me; I had seen this reaction in Stretch before.
I gently shook the coachman's shoulder to wake him, offering water, bread, and cheese. "Drink, eat. Down. When feel good, up. Understand?" I asked, my tone gentle but firm.
He nodded, thanking me with words I didn't fully understand but whose meaning was clear from his grateful expression and tone.
Turning to the guard, I said, "Now sick man," my voice steady and authoritative.
The sight of the two dead bandits, their throats cut, stopped me. I had seen death in the ER and treated many gunshot and stab wounds, but I had never been directly involved in causing it. Shaking my head, I reminded myself there was still a sick man to treat.
Approaching the coach, the guard opened the door. Inside, amid a pile of plush pillows, lay a man who sneezed loudly as the door opened. The guard began a detailed account of the attack. Initially, I caught every other word, but understanding the context and being there helped improve my comprehension rapidly.
Once the guard finished recounting the events, the man turned his ire on me, his face contorting with fury. "How dare you ** healing * a garbage commoner!" he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Do you have * idea who I am? I am Lord Mekan, and my health ** important than * of a worthless coachman!" His eyes blazed with indignation, and he started sneezing. "You dare to * that * of filth over me? The audacity! You must be * or utterly incompetent to think * life * any value compared to *."
He continued his tirade, his voice rising with each word. "I should * * * flogged for this insolence! What kind of healer are you, ignoring the needs of your betters? Do you not understand * hierarchy here? My life, my wellbeing, is *! That commoner is nothing—less than nothing! He is expendable, a tool to be used and discarded. And yet, you stand here, defying me, refusing to heal me first!" His face was a mask of contempt, his eyes narrowing as he looked down on me. "You will regret this, healer. You will regret crossing Lord Mekan."
His tirade showed no signs of abating as he continued to rant. "Do you think yourself noble for saving a wretch like him? Foolishness! Sheer foolishness! You should be begging for my forgiveness, not defying me. I am a man of power, of influence. I could have you thrown into the darkest dungeon, left to rot for your defiance. And yet here you stand, insolent and proud. I will see you broken, healer. I will see you grovel for mercy when you realize the grave error of your ways...” By this point, I tuned him out and waited for him to run out of steam. At least the tirade taught me much more of the language.
His tirade lasted ten minutes, revealing three things:
1. He was a total shithead.
2. He didn’t deserve my help.
3. I had to convince the coachman to leave; his life might be in danger.
The noble idiot's face twisted with arrogance as he issued his commands. "Guard, give the coachman thirty lashes for getting shot and another thirty for delaying my healing," he barked, his voice dripping with disdain.
I stepped forward, anger simmering beneath my calm exterior. "I’m not healing you. You don't deserve it," I stated firmly, my eyes locking onto his with unwavering resolve. Turning on my heel, I began to walk away.
"Stop!" he commanded, his voice rising in indignation. When I ignored him, he seethed with rage, his face reddening. "Guard, kill him!"
The guard lunged at me, but I was ready. With a swift movement, I flipped him over, pinning him to the ground with my foot on his neck. My heart pounded, adrenaline surging through my veins. "If you value your life, ignore that order," I said, my voice cold and steady. "I prefer healing over hurting, but I won't let you kill me." Stretch stood beside me, growling lowly, his eyes fixed on the guard.
The guard nodded mutely, his eyes wide with fear and understanding.
I went to the coachman, his face pale and trembling. "Do you know what the noble ordered?" I asked gently.
He nodded, his voice shaking. "I can't leave. I owe Lord Mekan money. Until I pay him, I'm his *."
"How much do you owe him?" I asked, concern lacing my voice.
"Ten gold," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.
Summoning a gold ring with a ruby, I held it out to him. "Is this worth ten gold?" I asked, my eyes searching his for any sign of hope.
"I can't take it; I can't repay you," he stammered, shaking his head in disbelief.
"A gift from a stranger," I said softly, pressing the ring into his hand. "Go pay him."
"I can't accept *," he protested weakly, his eyes filling with tears.
"Do you want the lashes?" I asked, my voice gentle but firm.
He shook his head, clutching the ring as if it were a lifeline. "No, I don't want the lashes," he whispered, his eyes filled with gratitude and relief, and went to speak to the noble. Meanwhile, I walked back into the wilderness, realizing I might not be as ready as I thought to rejoin society.