TravelingDreamer
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Chapter 20: The Archive Needs a Warning About Nobles
🕑 Added 2024-05-01 19:38:05 +0000 UTCWe traveled for another two days and passed the other herd of mini-bison, but I didn’t conduct any new experiments. It didn’t feel right to kill just for practice, not when I already had more bison meat than I knew what to do with.
I tried giving Stretch some raw minced beef. He sniffed it, looked at me like I’d offended him, and sat down with a dramatic huff.
“Really?” I asked.
He wagged his tail and looked at me expectantly.
I made him patties. He wolfed them down with loud chomps and a happy tail thump, letting me know I’d finally met his service standards.
On the evening of the second day, I sat by the fire, flipping through the songbook, looking for something new to learn. I stopped at a song I hadn’t noticed before.
I blinked. Sophie loved this song. She used to hum it occasionally, and always, whenever I got too deep in my head and worried about things she thought were beyond my control, she would hug me and say, “Relax, whatever will be, will be, and we’ll handle it.” And sing it to me.
I adjusted the guitar on my lap and started picking out the chords, slow and tentative at first. The melody was simple. Familiar. And just like that, the memories came flooding back. As I played, they rolled in one after the other. My vision blurred, and I blinked hard, but the tears still came.
Stretch padded over without a sound. He rested his head on my lap, warm and solid, like an anchor. I ran my fingers through his fur, trying to steady myself.
“You know,” I murmured, my voice catching, “Sophie had the worst sense of timing... but the best sense of humor.”
Stretch looked up at me, his ears perked, as if he was listening.
“She could crack a joke in the middle of a fight, and somehow I’d be laughing instead of fuming.”
A tear rolled down my cheek.
“She was a disaster in the kitchen,” I said with a weak chuckle. “Years of cooking lessons from me, and the best she could manage was omelets and boiled pasta—if she didn’t forget to stir it. Sometimes she did, and we’d end up with a pasta brick we had to cut instead of swirling it in the sauce. One year, she tried to bake me a cake for my birthday and ended up with a chocolate brick. We smacked it on the table just to hear the sound and laughed so hard she had to wipe her mascara. She ended up taking me out for donuts and stuck a candle in one of them.” I sighed. “Best birthday ever.”
Stretch tilted his head and licked my cheek.
“But somehow, she made everything feel right. We used to dance in the living room—the silliest dances we could think of. We’d act out the lyrics with exaggerated motions and jump around like idiots.” I paused, my voice barely a whisper. “I still miss her every day. But I can talk about her now without falling apart.”
Stretch gave a soft whine and nudged my hand with his nose. I smiled through the tears and scratched his ear.
“Thanks, buddy,” I whispered.
I kept talking, letting the stories come. About her laugh. Her stubbornness. The way she used to hog the blankets. Stretch stayed beside me the whole time, licking my hand now and then, as if he understood every word. And in that moment, in the night’s quiet, under the stars and beside the fire, I didn’t feel so alone.
The next day, a heavy melancholy hung over me like a fog. I walked in silence, barely noticing the scenery around me. Stretch padded quietly at my side, without his usual antics.
After a few hours, my mind wandered back to the looting spell. I still couldn’t figure out why the pelt had flown off—or up—when I’d intended for it to stay put. Or why I could separate meat from bone, but ended up with either minced meat or stew chunks, never the clean steaks I wanted. It didn’t make any sense. I visualized everything right, but the results stayed unpredictable.
That was when I had a revolutionary thought.
Well, revolutionary might have been a bit of a stretch. It was more like a painfully obvious realization that I should’ve had way earlier.
When I healed the rider, I’d leaned heavily on what I actually knew—medicine. I didn’t just intend for the healing to happen. I understood what needed to be fixed, how the body worked, and how I could direct the mana to achieve the desired outcomes. The operating word was knew.
And when it came to skinning or butchering?
Yeah. I didn’t know a damn thing.
I stopped walking and facepalmed. “Of course the mana did weird shit,” I muttered.
If I wanted to separate a pelt cleanly or cut proper steaks, I needed to understand the correct way to do it manually. Watch how people did it with their hands. A butcher. A hunter. Someone who’d done it a hundred times and knew what “right” looked like.
Now that I had connected the dots, the logic was so clear I was embarrassed I hadn’t thought of it earlier.
I opened the Map. All that walking, and I’d barely moved—maybe two centimeters across the World Map. Zooming in, I spotted a town to the northeast. It wasn’t far, a day or two at most. It was time to meet people again.
Just in case, I tied a red bandanna around Stretch’s neck to make him look a bit more domesticated. He gave me a sidelong glance but didn’t object.
After another full day of walking, we reached a wooded area. I checked the Map, got my bearings, and angled toward a nearby road. A couple of hours in, voices drifted through the trees.
I stopped, grabbed Stretch’s bandanna to halt him, and crouched low. Human voices. Male. I spent the 500 mana to learn the language and crept forward, keeping to the shadows.
It started as noise—rhythms and syllables I couldn’t quite make sense of. Then, a word or two made sense. Not enough to understand anything yet, but the magic was working, slowly teaching me the language one word at a time.
“— long — — — here?”
“Not long. — — soon.”
“Did you — them —?”
“Yeah — Lopan — them — inn. — only — —”
A few more pieces clicked into place. I strained to hear, trying to make sense of what they were saying.
“— only one guard?”
“Yes. Guard and —.”
“Maybe — — more guards?”
“— surprise. Not —.”
“— sure?”
More of the structure snapped together. My stomach tightened.
“Stop — stupid questions. If you're afraid, go home.”
“Not afraid — asking.”
“Shut up.”
“Why? They’re too far to hear us.”
“Shut up.”
By then, I had heard enough. The meaning was clear. They were watching someone. Counting guards. Waiting for the right moment. And they weren’t planning a welcome party.
I crept forward, and Stretch moved beside me, low to the ground. We slipped between the trees and stopped behind a thick clump of bushes.
Two men stood half-hidden near the road, both with swords drawn. They wore worn and dirty clothes—layers of leather and wool patched together, some seams torn. One had a tangled beard, and his belt sagged under the weight of mismatched pouches and gear. The other was thinner, younger, with a narrow face and short-cropped hair. His stance was tense, fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword, and he kept twitching, like he couldn’t keep still.
A faint breeze drifted through the trees, carrying their scent—sweat, unwashed fabric, and something sharp and sour, like old onions left too long in the sun.
The young one scratched at his neck and swatted at the air, muttering curses under his breath—“mukar turd” something, followed by “shatmek-eating nitwit.” At least I was learning new curse words.
They stopped talking.
I stayed crouched, silent. So did Stretch.
Soon, a carriage came into view. The two men shifted forward and raised their swords. I reached for my staff, my heart racing. No way I was going to let them hurt anyone.
The coachman spotted them and shouted—then tumbled off the side of the carriage.
The bandits charged.
I ran after them, staff in hand, and caught up just as the older one pulled ahead. I swung low, sweeping the younger one’s feet out from under him. He hit the ground with a loud grunt. The guard drove his sword straight into the older bandit’s gut. I winced. That hadn’t been the plan. I meant to disable, not kill.
An arrow whizzed past my ear, so close it ruffled my hair, and thudded into the side of the carriage with a solid thunk. I flinched and ducked instinctively. Stretch didn’t hesitate—he was already off, sprinting into the trees in the direction the arrow had come from.
I followed.
Branches whipped my arms and legs. I heard a growl, a shout, and then a high, sharp yelp.
I pushed through the brush and nearly stumbled over them. A man stood there, bleeding from the arm, clutching a knife. Stretch was favoring one side, blood staining his fur. A bow lay discarded on the ground. I didn’t think, just brought my staff down hard. The man dropped instantly, his neck twisted at a bad angle. I stared at him, stunned I’d done it.
Stretch limped over, tail low, eyes wide. The wound wasn’t deep, just a slice along his ribs. I healed it quickly and rubbed his head.
“Idiot,” I said, more relieved than angry.
Back on the road, the coachman was still alive—but barely. Blood dripped from his mouth, his breathing shallow. I dropped beside him and cast Diagnosis. He had an arrow lodged between his ribs. It had grazed the heart and lodged in the lung. Diagnosis didn’t let me see the arrow, but I could feel the surrounding tissue. I was pretty sure it didn’t have a triangular head or barbs. It felt straight. Or at least I hoped it was. It was too close to his heart.
I split my mind—one half for Anesthesia, the other to cast Healing Touch as I slowly extracted the arrow, healing him with every centimeter. I’d managed about two centimeters when cold steel touched my throat.
"Stop!" the guard barked, his voice sharp as he pressed the sword tighter against my throat.
"I healer. Help," I said, my heart pounding but my voice steady, keeping my hands visible.
"You... healer?" His brow furrowed, suspicion written all over his face.
"Yes," I nodded. "Healer."
"Stop!" he repeated, more forcefully this time.
I frowned, confused. I raised one hand slightly and made a slow, questioning gesture—open palm, tilt of the head. A universal what the hell are you talking about?
He pointed down. "This man not —.” He pointed at the carriage. “In the — — important man. And — is — sick."
"Sick man wait. This man no. He dead."
"Stop! The man — coach is — important. This man not. He can die," the guard snapped, his tone cold and final.
I stood, not backing down. My fists clenched at my sides. "No! Heal man first. Then man in coach."
He reached for me. I shoved him back.
"You stop me," I said, pointing at Stretch, "and he—"
How the hell do you say bite?
I snapped my teeth together, mimicking a bite. Stretch growled on cue, low and threatening, his teeth bared.
The guard hesitated.
I turned my back on him and dropped beside the coachman. Recasting Anesthesia, I continued extracting the arrow, healing him slowly with every centimeter I pulled. My hands moved quickly but carefully, the tension still buzzing under my skin, but my focus locked on the wound.
Once the arrow was out, I cast one last Healing Touch and ended Anastasia. The coachman didn’t stir. That didn’t worry me—Stretch had reacted the same way after healing.
I gently shook his shoulder. He groaned, eyes fluttering. I offered him water, bread, and cheese. "Drink. Eat. Down. When feel good, up. Understand?"
He nodded, murmuring something I didn’t fully catch, but I didn’t need to. His tone, the way he looked at me—it was enough.
I turned to the guard. “Now sick man.”
We moved toward the coach. Two dead bandits lay sprawled on the ground, their throats cut. The sight stopped me. I’d seen worse in the ER—gunshot wounds, stabbings, the works—but I’d never stood next to a body I’d helped put there. I shook it off. Still had a patient.
The guard opened the coach door. Inside, buried in a ridiculous pile of plush pillows, was a man in ornate clothes, thick rings on every finger. He sneezed as the door opened—loud and wet. The guard launched into a detailed report of the attack. At first, I caught maybe half of what he said, but context filled in the rest, and the language magic kept doing its thing.
When the guard finished, the noble zeroed in on me.
His face twisted in outrage. “How dare you heal a garbage commoner!” he spat. “Do you have — idea who I am? I am Lord Mekan! My health is more important than that of a — coachman!” His eyes were wild, nostrils flaring as he sneezed again, loudly. “You dare put that — of filth above me? The audacity! You must be — or completely incompetent to think his life worth more than — —!”
He kept going, louder with every sentence.
“I should have you flogged for this insolence! What kind of healer are you? Do you not understand the correct hierarchy? My life, my health, is everything! That commoner is nothing. Less than nothing! A tool, disposable!”
I stared, expression blank. The longer he ranted, the easier it was to pick up new words.
“You stand here, defying me, refusing to heal me first?! You’ll regret this, healer. I swear it. You will beg for mercy. You will crawl. You will—”
I stopped listening. His tantrum kept going for another few minutes.
Lord Mekan finally sucked in a breath and turned to the guard. “Give the coachman thirty lashes for getting shot and thirty more for delaying my healing.”
Now I knew three things:
He was a total shithead.
He didn’t deserve my help.
And the coachman was in danger.
I stepped forward. “I’m not healing you,” I said flatly. “You don’t deserve it.” My voice was calm, but my blood boiled.
I turned my back on him.
“Stop!” he barked. “Turin! Kill him!”
I heard movement behind me and spun. The guard lunged.
Too slow.
I caught his arm, twisted hard, and used his momentum to flip him clean over my shoulder. He hit the ground flat on his back with a thud. Before he could move, my boot came down on his neck, pinning him in place.
“Try it again, and you’re dead,” I said, voice low. “I’d rather heal than hurt, but I won’t let anyone kill me.”
Stretch moved in beside me, teeth bared, growling. The guard went completely still.
“Understood?” I asked.
He nodded.
I stepped off and walked toward the coachman. The man’s face had gone pale. His hands trembled.
“Do you know what the noble just ordered?” I asked gently.
He nodded. “I can’t leave. I owe Lord Mekan money. Until I pay him, I’m his—.”
I cut him off. “How much?”
“Ten gold,” he whispered.
I took out a gold ring with a ruby and held it out. “This enough?”
He stared at it like it might vanish. “I can’t take it... I can’t repay you.”
“A gift from a stranger,” I said, pressing it into his hand. “Go pay him.”
“I can’t accept—,” he said again, voice cracking.
“Do you want the lashes?”
He clutched the ring as if it were a lifeline. “No,” he said, and walked toward the carriage.
I turned toward the trees.
As I walked back into the wilderness, I realized that perhaps I wasn’t as ready to rejoin society as I thought.
