“Aren’t you, you know, a healer?” Pierre pressed Hydrion, calm as ever. “Can’t you heal him?”

  “Oh.” Hydrion, who was in fact a healer, considered that for a moment.

  It was true: he had chosen the class because he suspected it would be in the highest demand. But his reasons were selfish—healing himself when regeneration wasn’t enough, keeping his party alive, and using the role as a ticket into any group he wanted. Healing some random, charred stranger just because he looked like overcooked bacon? That was a novel idea.

  “Hey!” Hydrion finally called after the blonde woman, who was already a few dozen feet ahead in her half-run, half-limp and steadily moving further from her companions. “This isn’t the ER. You won’t find doctors here. What you need is a healer. Bring him over,” he added, turning to the two carrying the half-conscious man.

  The group stopped, and the blonde woman turned around so sharply she almost fell.

  “Psst.” Martha materialized at Hydrion’s side, keeping her voice low. “Could you drag it out a bit? The panic in the air is delicious. Maybe pretend you’re healing him while he slips a little further, before you pull him back from the edge of—”

  “You’re a healer?” The middle-aged woman’s hoarse voice cut through Martha’s suggestion, urgent and sharp.

  Martha’s grin froze. She pivoted smoothly, offering the strangers in need her sweetest smile.

  The woman who must’ve been the party leader, or the interim leader at least, looked utterly spent. Ash dulled her blonde hair, strands clinging to damp temples. Her red cheeks bore clear tracks where sweat had carved pathways through the dirt. As she barely regained her balance after turning too quickly, she was still leaning heavily on her staff, but the moment Hydrion’s offer fully registered, exhaustion gave way to desperate hope. She pushed forward, hand outstretched.

  “Name’s Faye,” she said, words tumbling out. “Oh my god, please, can you heal him?” She gestured at the burned man her companions had already brought closer and continued without waiting for a response. “We were fighting those goddamn imps—and it was going well—but we pushed too far, too fast. Mike here took on more than his share to keep us safe.”

  “I understand you don’t want to lose him and continue the tutorial alone.” Hydrion nodded. “Well, it better give me some damn good XP since we’re pausing the whole operation just for you. We were just getting our party fine-tuned and warmed up, making minced meat of those creatures when you showed up.”

  If Faye noticed the obvious lie, she didn’t show it. “Here! Lay him down here!” she called to her companions, pointing at the ground in front of Hydrion.

  The man and woman carefully lowered the moaning patient to where she indicated, Faye kneeling beside them to support Mike’s head.

  “Have you done any healing already?” she asked matter-of-factly. “Can you heal it all? You don’t have your healing on cooldown?”

  “I don’t have my healing on cooldown,” Hydrion answered, kneeling next to the man.

  His clothes were blackened and torn where, Hydrion assumed, fireballs had struck. The man’s skin was mottled with angry red and blistered patches, some areas raw and weeping while others were charred and cracked like scorched leather. In places, the burns had stripped away the outer layer of skin, leaving a sickly sheen that caught the light. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one rattling with pain, and his face was drawn tight, jaw clenched as though holding back a scream. And the smell. The acrid smell of burned flesh clung to the air—even Martha, who’d been eager to drag out his suffering moments ago, wrinkled her nose and took a subtle step back.

  Dear journal, today we will be committing a live experiment on a human subject found in the forest.

  Hydrion chose a spot by his first patient’s shoulder where the skin was exposed but looked relatively intact, and placed his hands there.

  The requirement to place his front extremities on a subject was ridiculous and disgusting. He promised himself he’d check later if he could heal through clothes, but he didn’t want to risk it now. He had one shot before his healing went on cooldown and wanted to make the most of it.

  “And I don’t think I’m at a job interview,” he added defensively, then drew a deep breath to center himself.

  Hydrion steadied his inner heads, shutting out the circle of curious onlookers. Ever since he had stepped into this new world, a nagging unease tugged at the back of his mind. In his homeland, magic had come to him easily, almost instinctively. Perhaps not quite as natural as breathing, but close—it required only the smallest sliver of effort to touch the arcane. Here, though, the connection was gone. It was like leaving the house without his watch—something so constant, so ingrained, that its absence jarred him every time he instinctively reached for it throughout the day. The world felt wrong without it.

  He mentally called upon the spell and tried activating it, feeling awkward all along. The spell description said its strength would scale with his familiarity with the target, which wasn’t too helpful. He didn’t know the guy in front of him and he had absolutely no clue how human bodies functioned. Come to think of it, he had never really paid attention to how any creature’s body functioned—beyond the basics. In his mind, if ripping something’s head off didn’t work, it was time to get the fuck out, not study the damn thing.

  Hydrion recognized there was a brain—pathetically singular and irrelevant in this case. A heart—also unhelpful, since it seemed to be working. Lungs—but the guy was breathing, so as above.

  He frowned, realizing his own humanoid form should have given him more insight, but somehow the knowledge hadn’t transferred properly. Brainless rapid regeneration could have something to do with it. He knew there was more beneath the skin—muscles, blood vessels, nerves—but the details were frustratingly hazy. It was weird scientific lab-coat sorcery stuff. Still, he could work with what he understood: regeneration. Fixing the visible damage to skin and underlying muscle tissue should be possible, while making sure not to just seal the surface over deeper burns that would need additional attention and mind-searching on his part.

  So skin and muscles it was, for a start. He deliberately linked the spell to restore both layers, hoping his limited anatomical knowledge would be enough. If Faye could hear his thoughts, she would probably sling the man over her shoulder and run. After all, the matching wedding rings on their hands suggested she was invested in his well-being. Probably.

  Maybe, just maybe, being a healer might have been a bit of an overreach in his aspirations. He started to consider whether he should hang around some kind of doctor for a while to become more familiar with how human—or humanoid—bodies worked. Or maybe Martha would have some insights, given her... particular interests.

  Additionally, he could spend some time examining his own human form—there was hope the system knew better what it was doing than Hydrion himself back on his home planet. It had always been somewhat disputable whether his human form back then contained everything a human should have, or just the basics held together with a lot of arcane. He’d never let anyone check the insides, after all. So much to do, so few heads.

  He deliberately slowed the healing, hoping to maximize its effectiveness, targeting the worst-looking areas of the man’s body. For him, it felt like minutes passed—what was probably only seconds for everyone else—but the effects were immediate.

  A faint glow spread from beneath Hydrion’s palms, seeping into the scorched flesh like water soaking into dry earth. The blistered skin shivered, then slowly knit together, raw patches smoothing over as if an unseen hand were painting them whole again. The charred edges dulled, paling to tender pink, and the man’s ragged breathing eased, each gasp stretching a little deeper. The acrid stench of burned flesh ebbed, giving way to a scent alien to this land—the damp musk of earth and the sour tang of rotting vegetation.

  Any doctor smelling that around their patient would probably load them with antibiotics and disinfectants, but Faye and her companions didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they looked relieved, watching their comrade visibly improve.

  That gave Hydrion pause. He hadn’t considered disinfectants, performing what amounted to surgery on dirty ground with ash flakes drifting down. And while casting, he hadn’t thought about infections. Were those even a thing in this game? Maybe it would be worth keeping these people around for a bit—for scientific purposes. His healing skill’s cooldown was only ten minutes, and he could perform it again soon, since the first cast hadn’t quite finished the job.

  The patient wasn’t actively dying at the moment, but that could change fast if the system was an absolute asshole and made bacteria not only a thing, but a leveling nightmare.

  Unlike most threats back home, bacteria could actually hurt him in the long run if left unattended, despite his regeneration. He remembered the Black Death sweeping across the earth, his close run-in with the disease, and how he’d had to actively use magic to heal himself. Give that plague, say, fifty levels and a few abilities…

  He shivered, not daring to voice the possibility aloud, and hoped the system couldn’t read his mind. Otherwise, he might have just summoned a Cthulhu-level terror into this new world.

  The glow faded. The man gasped—a full, clean breath—and sat up, patting his chest and arms as if making sure they were real. “Holy shit. Holy shit, it worked!”

  The teammates who had been supporting him earlier—the young man and woman who’d carried him over—surged forward the moment he sat up. The woman got there first, throwing her arms around him with a choked “Dad!” that she probably hadn’t meant to let slip. The young man wasn’t far behind, gripping his father’s shoulder like he needed proof it was real.

  Faye remained kneeling beside him, tears cutting fresh tracks through the dirt on her face. “Mike, oh my god—”

  “This…” the young man muttered, looking at his shaking hands. He couldn’t have been older than twenty. “This game is fucked up. Holy shit, it’s fucked up.”

  “We didn’t expect it to be… so real,” the young woman beside him added.

  “That smell though,” Cruz Control muttered, wrinkling her nose.

  “Reminds you of Louisiana’s summer, doesn’t it?” Sir Wpierdol asked, taking a deep breath in. “Decaying vegetation, fish, musky scents…”

  “Or reek of rotten eggs.” Cruz Control shrugged. “But it definitely left an impression.”

  “Oh come on, don’t be mean.” Balladin butted in. “Everyone can fart while casting spells, happens to the best of us.” He added without much conviction.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “All in all it worked.” Pierre said, seeing Hydrion’s eyes changing their hue from golden to red in a flash. “You feeling all right sir? I’m curious. Would you mind explaining the medium-rare state we found you in?”

  ***

  In the end, it took one more heal to restore Mike to full functionality. The fresh pink skin looked almost absurdly healthy compared to the charred mess from minutes ago.

  “Call me Rustbucket,” the now-healthy man said with a weak grin. “That’s what I go by here.”

  Hydrion accepted the flood of gratitude that followed with what he hoped looked like gracious patience rather than mild discomfort. Names were exchanged—theirs forgettable, his magnificent—and somewhere in there the family stopped crying long enough to form coherent sentences.

  This time Hydrion made sure to weave ideas of inflammation and infection into his spell, though he received no feedback on whether they were necessary. He considered that a spell for scanning problems might be useful—perhaps incorporated into his Identification spell—but decided not to dwell on the matter for now. Instead, he accepted the whole group’s gratitude and promises of future help, along with some information about the world they had entered, and let the other team, who turned out to be a family of gamers, go their own way while he refocused on his own party.

  When it came to Horror Story, Hydrion had many thoughts swirling in his heads, especially about their supposed front liner.

  “Maybe opponents will trip over themselves trying to pet our front liner…” he mused, considering their warrior panda bear shifter. “Or maybe someone will see the bad guys pummeling a poor panda and rush to the rescue?” He delegated one of his heads to the subject, while the rest turned to other issues.

  Hydrion decided to split the party into pairs, spreading them out to cover more ground while still keeping each other in sight. He picked up the pace for the group, expecting them to jog wherever the terrain would allow—both to explore a larger area in less time and hopefully gain a point or two in stats over the long run. Pun intended. The decision to have them separate came after Sir Wpierdol dispatched those first three imps on his own; until they encountered stronger foes, it seemed wasteful to have so many people competing for such easy experience.

  At the furthest point from the road, Hydrion took position with Sir Wpierdol. He considered them the most experienced fighters, best suited to face danger from both the front and the flank. He would not feel right putting anyone else in that position.

  To their left he placed Don Espadón and Cruz Control—safely between his own location and Pierre’s pair—believing that the presence of a female spectator might boost Don’s performance.

  Further along were Pierre and Jack, assigned together so Pierre could keep an eye on their front ranker. Hydrion worried Jack might grow too soft on opponents, but trusted Pierre, his drowner buddy, to finish off anyone who needed it without hesitation.

  Closest to the road landed his most unusual duo: Martha, the eccentric streamer with a lasso, and the guitar bard. Hydrion was quite certain what to expect from Martha—she was potentially more experienced than even Sir Wpierdol, and he surely didn’t want to get in her way. The bard, though, was the question mark. Would he play his instrument, or simply smash imps with it? Since Hydrion hadn’t seen any other weapon on the man, he suspected it would be the latter. Regardless, even starved from lack of internet, panic, and misinformation, Martha should still be a terror to deal with, keeping the guitarist safe.

  ***

  “Oh, oh, oh!” Martha jumped up and down, clapping her hands. “An imp!” She pointed ahead, where between blackened trees and amid falling ash, the outline of a monster appeared—quickly joined by three more shapes.

  “Oh look, look! He brought his friends! Owww!” She clasped her hands to her chest, eyes wide and sparkling, as if presented with a basket of puppies.

  The imps had spotted Martha and Balladin, likely drawn by the neon-blue headphones pulsing in rhythm as the witch’s excitement grew. The System had somehow integrated her streaming gear, transforming it into magical equipment that no longer needed batteries or charging—just mana.

  “Quickly, quickly!” She waved at the bard. “Play something! Or—no! Play Bad Reputation!” she specified, tugging the rope free from her arm.

  “Any particular buffs?” Balladin asked, sliding the guitar off his shoulder.

  Martha was brimming with joy, finally able to do what she was born for. She grinned at the imps, her eyes widening as a fireball whistled past her head and splashed against the rocks, sending a wave of hot air down her back.

  “Hm…” She tapped a finger against her lips. “Speed. I want to play with those adorable, snuggle-wuggle gummie bears.”

  Balladin glanced at the nearest imp—its sharp teeth bared in a vicious snarl, glowing red eyes radiating hostility—and shrugged.

  Martha let out a delighted shriek, skipping toward her enemies with maniacal laughter. Behind her, an electric guitar roared to life, music blasting through the battlefield as though amplified by a wall of speakers. The witch dodged fireball after fireball, her pink hoodie a blur of motion as she closed the distance.

  Bringing up the rear and loyally playing backup music, Balladin felt the familiar shadow and loving embrace of resignation settle over him. He’d felt this before—in his previous life, in his accounting firm, when another “straightforward audit” turned into a labyrinthine nightmare of creative bookkeeping and offshore shell companies.

  All he had ever wanted from this game experience was to play music and inspire a nice team of adventurers. Watching Martha, he was beginning to realize he had somewhat missed his mark. Instead of serenading Red Riding Hood on her way to grandma’s, he was providing the soundtrack for a chimney-diving rabid wolf about to commit home invasion and murder—grinning the whole way. Not quite the inspiration he was going for.

  It was, he reflected with the calm of the already damned, very much on-brand for his existence.

  Martha swerved behind the first imp, ducking under its outstretched paw as it released a fireball. With assassin-like precision, she looped her rope around its throat. She spun her victim to face the other threats, pulling him close and using his body as a shield against the incoming blast. The creature screeched in agony as the flames struck, clawing at the rope to loosen its grip.

  Martha stepped back, planted her foot against its spine, and yanked hard. Its eyes bulged, tongue lolled, and a moment later its body crumbled into ash. By then, the pink witch was already skipping toward her next target.

  In the back Balladin threw himself into the performance with full rock-star theatrics—head banging, fingers flying, voice soaring—all while maintaining the resigned expression of an accountant reviewing another problematic audit: ‘Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! Not me, me, me, me, me, me, me!’

  The witch seized another imp by the face and twisted him toward his companions. Martha liked the hellscape well enough, but she wasn’t fond of all the fire. Repurposing her enemies as shields seemed the most practical way to put their bodies to use before they expired.

  At first, when she saw fireballs splashing against the fort walls and heard the booming impact, she thought the skill was terribly dangerous. Perhaps it would be—if one were struck repeatedly by it, as Rustbucket had proven—but for now she found that as long as none hit her directly, it wasn’t too troublesome.

  “You see that imp there,” she whispered into her captive’s ear, the music pounding around them. Dark smoke curled from her lips with every word. “He laughs at you when you’re not looking. Says his fire burns hotter than yours.” She pursed her lips, realizing it wasn’t easy to sow discord among creatures she barely understood—especially ones as dumb as rocks. “Oh, and he’s already promised your tail to the hounds.”

  The imp forgot all about her, glaring instead at his companion, who scrambled sideways to find a better angle on the witch.

  Martha abandoned the two of them and turned toward the third, who was busy shaping a spell.

  She had to admit, the background music really enhanced the experience. Balladin’s voice had a rich, smooth quality that made even violent monster-slaying feel somehow... refined. Professional. Like she was starring in her own music video.

  As the bard hit the chorus—”And I’m only doin’ good when I’m havin’ fun!”—she swung her lasso and hurled it at the fiend, but the rope missed completely. The imp glanced at where it landed, then back at her, grinning with yellow, crooked teeth. His grin faltered, replaced by terror, as his shadow ripped free from his body. A shriek unlike anything the forest had ever heard tore through the ash-laden air.

  Dust swirled as Martha turned to face the last imp. He looked back and forth in confusion between his own hand and the disintegrating body of his comrade, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Then, as if struck by intuition, his gaze shifted to the side.

  ***

  Charles, who had decided to join the main column and familiarize himself with the setting before venturing into this new, exciting world on his own as any proper solo player would, heard the familiar music drifting from the forest and frowned. Until now, the game had unfolded as expected: a few imps slipping past the convoy soldiers, quick skirmishes, then moving on. They hadn’t lost anyone yet, at least not close enough for him to notice, but the atmosphere had started to become a bit dense for his fun-loving soul. Music? That was new.

  Curiosity pulled him toward the sound.

  He climbed a low rise of gray rock and gravel that, as it turned out, served well as a half-hidden observation point to the happenings on the sparsely forested plains around the road used by the main player-NPC contingent. Charles hid in a bush that was more ash than anything else—but the only thing growing there anyway—and looked down.

  Below, a lean figure hunched over an electric guitar, hair whipping as he thrashed jagged riffs, fingers blurring across the fretboard. The distorted cover of Bad Reputation roared through the clearing, all defiance and reckless swagger.

  But that wasn’t what made Charles freeze.

  A pink-haired woman stood beneath a tall branch, hauling on a rope. She wore a hoodie and plaid skirt, neon-blue headphones clamped over her ears, and grinned with manic delight as she hoisted an imp higher and higher. The creature swung helplessly at the end of her rope—eyes bulging, feet kicking, claws scrabbling at the noose tightening around its neck.

  Charles’s mind blue-screened.

  The woman spotted him. Without missing a beat in her grim work, she raised one hand and waved cheerfully.