TravelingDreamer
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Chapter 6: When Pride Hurts More Than Training
🕑 Added 2024-04-29 21:06:19 +0000 UTCThe phone buzzed on the table, and I stalled before answering. The lawyer’s name flashed on the screen, a reminder of all the loose ends still needing to be tied up. Finally, I swiped and held the phone close.
“Good afternoon,” he said in a businesslike tone. “I’m calling to let you know that Liberty Mutual has released the life insurance funds. I will transfer them to your account shortly.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but he continued before I could get a word out.
“There is another matter,” he said, a slight hesitation in his tone. “Your in-laws have filed a lawsuit. They’re attempting to gain control of your wife’s trust fund.”
Eyes closed, I released a slow breath. “Figured they might do something like this.”
“We anticipated it, yes,” he confirmed. “Your wife had the foresight to make her intentions clear. We’ve put measures in place, but I wanted to inform you immediately.”
I leaned back, nodding even though he couldn’t see me. “Thanks. I’m ready for whatever they throw my way.”
“Good,” he replied, his tone firm. “We’re prepared.”
The silence was heavy with the weight of the lawyer’s words, and I stayed frozen, the phone pressed to my ear long after the line went dead. I stared at the ceiling. Memories of Sophie filled my mind, each a mix of warmth and sorrow. Her parents’ faces came to mind, but not in a pleasant way. No, I remembered their visits during her last days, how they’d talked about money as if Sophie were some cold financial transaction rather than a person.
How could they have looked at her like that?
Each time they left, Sophie would cry quietly, tears soaking the shoulder of my shirt. It wasn’t about the money. I couldn’t care less about it—but watching her suffer from their cruelty, seeing her heart broken by her own family… my hands shook just thinking about it.
I drew a deep, shuddering breath. They hadn’t cared about her illness or her pain. Just the money and jewelry. I begged her, again and again, to give in to their demands just to buy herself some peace. But Sophie was stubborn. Sometimes, she got something into her head, and nothing could change her mind. No pleading, cajoling, or asking could help. She dug her heels in, and that was that. She’d simply shake her head, look up at me with stubborn eyes, and say, “They’re not getting anything.”
After a while, the anger cooled, leaving clarity in its wake. If I was going through with this, there were things I needed to do—plans I needed to make. So, I turned my focus to my preparations for the journey ahead.
One of the first decisions was about weapons.
A gun?
The minute the thought crossed my mind, I shuddered. Uninvited, memories surged forward—people bleeding out on ER beds, me trying to keep them alive long enough for the trauma team to prep the OR. Or worse—me checking the clock to note the time of death. Guns were effective. I knew that better than most. But no. Just… no. Too much trauma. Too many bad memories.
That demanded some thinking. I combed through articles and LitRPG books, treating them as manuals, and looked for ideas and suggestions. Swords and knives, though popular choices, didn’t strike a chord with me. If I were honest, they made me uneasy. I’d handled scalpels with confidence, but wielding a weapon in a fight? Different story. The memories of all the knife wounds I treated in the ER didn’t help much, either.
The staff seemed to have potential, and there were always the classic bow and arrows. After some consideration, I settled on those two and signed up for training.
In the evening of the first day of training, I hobbled into my hotel room, every step a fresh reminder of my terrible decision-making. Two Staff-Fighting classes in one day—what had I been thinking?
After the first class, my muscles ached, but it felt like the kind of soreness I could shake off. By the end of the second, though, I practically limped. My legs were noodles, and my arms were dead weight. Every step shot a lance of pain up my legs to my butt. Raising my hands to scan the door card and grab the handle was a heroic feat.
Climbing out of bed the following day was a survival challenge. As I eased one leg over the side, a wave of pain shot through my thighs, like someone had swapped out my muscles for lava. With a groan, I stumbled toward the bathroom, clinging to the walls for balance, every muscle protesting like it had been personally betrayed. By the time I reached the sink, I just wanted to crawl back into bed.
“Well, that was genius, wasn’t it?” I mumbled to myself, practically whimpering as I turned around. The ache lanced through my legs with every step, reminding me how long it had been since I’d done any serious physical activity. Not since my university days had I pushed my body like this—back when jogging around campus once a week was part of my routine. Now, my body was paying the price for years of neglect.
Archery was on the schedule that afternoon, but the thought of lifting a bow, let alone drawing it, felt laughable. With a sigh, I shot off a quick email to cancel, then spent the rest of the day sprawled on the couch, every tiny shift of my body a fresh reminder that maybe, just maybe, I should’ve stretched… or started with something a little less intense than two hour-long back-to-back Staff-Fighting classes.
I cast the first spell in my life, and it did absolutely nothing. I didn’t expect miracles—after all, it was called Minor Heal—but I expected something. Nothing. Zero change. My body still hurt all over, just like a second ago.
I wanted to argue with the spell out loud but stopped and tapped on it to re-read the description. “Mends broken bones, cuts, scrapes, and common ailments like colds.”
This time, I did argue with the screen out loud. “The rips in the muscles from over-exercising are like cuts! So why isn’t the spell helping?”
It didn’t respond. I almost gave up on the spell and refunded the ability point but stopped myself. It would be useful in other situations.
After an hour of drifting between self-pity and disappointment, an idea struck me out of nowhere. I’d learned how to sense my mana system—to see it in some strange, internal way. The flow of energy. The channels. The pulsing cores. It took time, but I’d managed it.
You’re a doctor, I reminded myself. If anyone can figure out how to heal without relying on some pre-packaged spell, it should be you. What if I could look inside my body in the same way? My medical training kicked in, sketching out the possibilities in my mind. From skin to sinew, muscle to bone, I knew the anatomy of each layer. I just needed to figure out how to see it.
With my eyes closed, I mentally pictured my body like an MRI, carefully tracing through each layer. I tried to “look” at the tissue under my skin like I viewed the mana flow, focusing, reaching deeper. But as hard as I concentrated, it was a blank, an endless wall of nothing. No magic sight activated, no sudden awareness of the flesh beneath my skin.
Okay, maybe not that simple.
But I knew I could do this; I just needed to approach it with patience. I tried again, digging into the muscles layer by layer, focusing harder, pressing my awareness along the aching lines of pain that were practically begging for attention.
Still nothing.
I clenched my fists.
Ouch.
That was a mistake with aching muscles.
Shifting my focus to the most painful spots—the knots in my shoulders, the raw ache in my calves and butt—I tried to breathe through it, slower this time. I didn’t just picture them. I thought of the actual fibers, how they’d likely torn under the stress, tiny rips my body would naturally heal over time if I let it.
Gradually, as I sank deeper into focus, a strange sensation passed through me. I couldn’t see the tears exactly, but there was something. A faint awareness, like a shadowed outline, tracing each sore line. The sensation was barely perceptible, like trying to see a faint shimmer at the edge of my vision.
Getting somewhere.
Bit by bit, I sensed those damaged fibers, like a faint impression.
Alright. Now what?
I mapped the sensation along the lines of pain, feeling out each section until I could pinpoint the areas where the damage felt the worst, a dull throb that resonated in my bones.
With focused effort, I pictured those muscle fibers knitting back together, coaxing each tiny micro-tear to close up. I tried to will the pain away and smooth over each torn fiber with sheer mental effort. The ache stayed, stubbornly ignoring my attempts.
Maybe I’m missing something?
Healing in the books always involved mana, after all. I knew it powered spells; maybe it was the missing key. If mana could flow through channels, it could also reach the muscles. Worth a shot, right?
Drawing mana from my core, I guided it toward the nearest muscle, trying to ease it into the fibers. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through my arm, almost like someone had jabbed me with a live wire. I let out a strangled shout, instantly recoiling.
Okay, that’s a hard no!
I clenched my teeth, feeling the sting from channeling mana still vibrating through my arm. Alright, think, I told myself, giving my shoulder a rub. You’re a doctor, not a masochist. There’s got to be a gentler way.
I took a steadying breath and tried again, channeling mana through my hands, directing its flow carefully. It’s like applying a bandage from the outside, I thought, guiding my hands over the sore spots and resting them lightly on my shoulders. Focusing intently, I coaxed the mana to stream from my hands and into the aching muscles beneath, willing it to seep into the tissue and soothe the pain.
There was a faint warmth, the mana pouring from my hands and reaching the muscles. But the ache remained, stubborn as ever. It was like pouring water on a rock and expecting it to soak it in.
Fine, I thought, unwilling to back down. I experimented again, returning to the faint awareness of the damaged fibers. I concentrated on each micro-tear, picturing it as vividly as possible, imagining the fibers knitting back together in minute detail. This time, I didn’t just let the mana flow freely—I nudged it, giving precise instructions and visualizing the healing down to each muscle fiber.
And then… it happened. A warm, subtle pulse spread through my muscles, lifting the pain just enough to make me realize I’d accomplished something. It didn’t heal my muscles completely, but there was a noticeable improvement. I straightened, shoulders loosening, as a wave of relief washed over me.
It worked. I allowed myself a small, triumphant smile. It actually worked. With each attempt, the effect improved and became more pronounced.
Casting spells was a paradox—both instinctive and deliberate at the same time. The process wasn’t something I had to analyze step by step consciously, yet it required clear intent. It was a bit like flexing a muscle, except it was about “flexing” the mana channels instead of physical effort. To make it work, I had to focus on the pathways leading to my palms, shaping the energy with a precise instruction—an intention that dictated what the mana would become and what it would do.
My red light began to blink.
You have learned the spell [Heal Muscles]
YES!!!
It took about ten castings of the spell on different parts of my body, but eventually, I was fine. I regretted canceling the archery, but didn’t want to call back and look weird. So, I started looking into hand-to-hand combat instead. After checking out a few options and watching a bunch of YouTube videos, I landed on Krav Maga. It made sense—this discipline dealt with practical, real-world defense. The techniques looked straightforward and used the environment, not flashy exhibition stuff, which was exactly what I needed. I called and signed up for classes.
Three months blurred into a steady rhythm, each day shaped by a grueling schedule. Mornings kicked off with Krav Maga at a dojo, my muscles still stiff as I worked through defensive drills. Archery came next, followed by staff training at another center by noon. Each strike and block left my arms aching, but the steady burn told me I was getting stronger. A quick lunch and a few healing spells got me back on my feet, pushing through lesson after lesson until evening and dinner. The only real change after two months was winter settling in completely—I now had to trudge through Stuttgart’s snow-covered streets, shivering between sessions.
My trainers kept complimenting me, calling me a natural.
My Staff-Fighting reached level 5, my Krav Maga reached level 5, and my Archery reached level 3. I moved to Berlin and trained in various centers as an advanced student. I didn’t want to raise suspicion with too fast progress.
My healing spell had eventually reached level 12. After hitting level 10, I noticed a significant improvement—I could cast it faster, it affected a larger area, and used less mana, dropping from 30 to 25 units per cast. The improvement was sudden, between one cast and the next. A milestone that took me by surprise. Encouraged, I set my sights on bringing all my skills to that level.
Over the next two months, I trained relentlessly. Krav Maga and Staff-Fighting reached level 10 sooner than expected, thanks to a fresh start as an “advanced student” to blend in. Progress came steadily, but one skill lagged stubbornly behind.
I frowned at the status screen, frustrated as Archery stayed fixed at a stubborn “7.” Despite hours at the range and practice at three different centers, it refused to budge.
Alright, back to the drawing board.
I turned to my collection of LitRPG books, searching for tips and techniques on Archery, and found three titles, each featuring a character with excellent bow skills. I spent the next few days immersed, hunting for tips between plot twists and power-ups.
The best Ideas I found involved shooting while moving at a static target or standing and shooting at a moving target. Both involved motion. I searched online, hoping to find a center that trained archers on the go, but the closest I got was a video. On the screen, a guy in full hiking gear demonstrated his skills, switching smoothly from walking to jogging to sprinting, all while nocking and rapidly releasing arrows.
That might work.
Within hours, I’d stocked up on enough arrows to equip a Mongolian raiding party straight out of Genghis Khan’s era, along with camping gear, food, and water. Fully loaded, I set out for the Taunus mountain range, eager to put the method to the test. For the next three weeks, I trained relentlessly, settling into a rhythm—the crunch of snow beneath my boots, the snap of the bowstring, and the soft thud of arrows finding their mark. Or missing entirely, vanishing into snowdrifts or the underbrush.
I switched between running, walking, jumping over rocks, and ducking under low branches, gradually feeling the movement become more natural. By the end of each day, I was winded and drenched in sweat despite the cold, but my visible improvements kept me going. At the end of each day, I checked my status screen, and after three weeks, it finally happened. A grin spread across my face as I saw the change in the number—Archery reached level 10. And just below it was an unexpected bonus: my Agility had risen by one.
Guess all that running and jumping paid off.
Something nagged at the back of my mind—a memory of two spells I’d bought ages ago and promptly forgotten. Embarrassed at the oversight, I winced but resolved to train them immediately.
The first spell, Mana Shield, seemed simple enough. A force field flickered around me and enveloped my body. It was invisible, but I could feel it encasing me in a thin layer of mana, like an outerwear made of spandex. It stayed for about seven to eight minutes and then dissipated. I cast it again, expecting some change and a sense of progress. But nothing. No improvement, no strengthening—just the same faint second layer. Frustrated, I cast it repeatedly, counting each attempt. No matter what I tried, the spell didn’t progress at all. The only thing on my profile was the name, with no number beside it. By the fortieth cast, I had a strange feeling of a sucking emptiness and lightheadedness. Curious, I checked my mana.
750 out of 3000.
I stared, blinking in disbelief. “Wow,” I muttered, rubbing my neck. That’s not good. I cast it again and watched my mana drop by another 50. I already discovered that my mana regenerated about ten units a day. Now I understood how slow it was.
No wonder the Traveler complained about low mana regeneration.
The only solution I could think of was going to a Gate to regenerate. I looked on the map of Germany online and saw that Frankfurt was closer than “my” Gate in the Black Forest. But to locate the Gate, I had to buy the Travelers’ Map ability. Thank God I still had an ability point. The Frankfurt Gate mentioned in the World Information was indeed very close to the city. Decision made, I packed up my gear, determined to head there first.
