Accidental Healer

Durkil walked alone through the crumbling streets of Ulm.

Once, it had been a capital—a city of power, its warriors unmatched, its craftsmen revered. Now? Now, it was little more than a dying husk.

Durkil often wondered what Ulm had once been. His imagination transforming the reality his eyes showed him.

Uneven roads, cracked from decades of neglect, became finely paved walkways bustling with trade and commerce. The buildings—if they could even be called that–barely standing, walls sagging, roofs barely keeping out the wind-- transformed to sturdy monoliths of white marble gilded with colorful banners.

If Ulm had ever been great, that time had long since passed.

The air was musty with the stench of spoiled food and waste. Durkil barely noticed anymore. Most of his days were spent outside the city, mining for the larger factions. Compared to the cramped sweaty stench of working in the mine the city smelled like roses.

Durklil looked at the blue-green heavens filled with burning suns that were barely specs glittering in the twilight. It wasn’t uncommon for Durkil to wander the streets late at night. He preferred the streets that way. Quiet besides the rattle of cloth scraps against stone openings.

There is a scuttle in the street. Likely a small creature foraging for food. Good luck, Durkil thought bitterly. He followed the noise but the culprit is already long gone. He hadn’t realized he had walked so far from his hovel. No surprise his hooves had carried him to the one building in all of Ulm that was moderately well maintained.

Durkil stopped to glare coldly. The monument to the Immortals. A three story stone building surrounded by small purple shrubs and wide pillars with worn but ornate stenciling in burnt orange, a stark contrast to the white pillars.

Each floor held a shrine to one of the three Immortals. The top floor belonged to the self-proclaimed god, Devorah. Durkil spat into the bushes.

The Immortals. Ageless leaders that lived mostly in legends in the long abandoned impoverished territories around Ulm.

Many Guildians worshiped them, near-deities who shaped the fate of the world. There were temples, shrines, even entire doctrines dedicated to their glory.

Durkil wasn’t one of those Guildians.

At eighteen years old, Durkil’s mind was constantly preoccupied with questions no one could answer.

Whenever he thought of the Immortals, his skin crawled. How could anyone so powerful allow places like Ulm to rot? The Immortals stripped resources from worlds like his, feeding the expansion of their empires while leaving the people here to starve.

Were they watching from above? Had they simply forgotten about Ulm in their expansion or did they just not care? Either way, they had moved on to greater things.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

And Durkil was one of those left behind.

He stood at just over seven feet tall, his antlered head setting him apart even among his own kind. Born with the fighter class, his body was built for combat—just like every guildian in Ulm.

It wasn’t that Guildians didn’t produce non-combat classes at birth. In fact, Ulm had almost a one-to-one ratio of fighters and craftsmen. His sister had been one of those born with a crafting class. Durkil was young when the Devorites came and whisked her away.

His eyes locked on the burnt-orange stenciling. Unbidden, a memory surged.

A loud knock on the door. His mother scrambling to hide his baby sister–cut short as the door to their small home was kicked off its hinges. Splinters sprayed across the dirt floor, biting into Durkil’s skin.

His little heart pounded in his chest. His father said that this day would come. It always did, randomly once a year.

Strangers clad in purple and gold shining armor step casually into the room. Durkil raised a shaky hand to shade his eyes from the light bursting into the room outlining the men.

One is clearly a Guildian with prominent tasseled antlers protruding from a well made helmet, the other some other breed of alien, likely from a faction conquered long ago.

The men reached for Durkils mother while she fought to shield her baby. She pleaded with the men through snot and tears, they didn’t need to take her daughter. The men's faces were stone, the pleas falling on deaf ears.

Then the pleas changed, she demanded that if they were going to take her daughter that they would have to take her too. The Guildian didn’t listen, he pried the child loose from my mothers grasp and shoved her into a heap in the dirt.

The men began to leave. Panicked, my beautiful mother drew a knife she kept hidden near her ankle and lunged for the armor clad guildian.

The Alien moved in a blur. A flash of steel. Then his mother was falling, the sword buried deep in her chest.

The Alien’s gaze flicked to Durkil, hollow eyes lingering a moment longer than necessary. Then he sheathed his blade, his face empty, indifferent. Then they were gone.

Durkil’s hand twitched, reaching out instinctively for his mother. His body wouldn’t move, frozen by terror. He watched, paralyzed, as his mother fought and fell. He didn’t scream. He couldn’t. His voice died in his throat, strangled by fear and shame.

He curled up, too paralyzed to even weep. Soft tremors racked his small frame until his father arrived and wrapped him in a blanket holding him until sleep overtook him.

The memory faded, but the shame remained, coiled tight in his chest. Durkil unclenched his fists, blood dripping from where his nails had bitten into his palms.

According to the Devorites religion, the children with crafting classes were being taken and blessed by Devorah and the other immortals. Durkil knew better.

The sad truth was craftsmen could level without combat. That meant they couldn’t remain unchecked. Fighters on the other hand. Without battles to fight they would remain dormant, never growing, never becoming a threat.

That’s why the Devorite soldiers appeared each year. Sent by leaders—unknown and unseen by Durkil—to take every new Guildian born with a crafting class away never to be seen again.

According to legend–centuries ago, when Guildian was first inducted into the System, war consumed everything.

The world was divided between two titans: Devorah, a spellcaster of unimaginable power, and Oliver—an enchanter whose craft turned soldiers into legends.

For hundreds of years, their war consumed millions. In the end, it was betrayal that sealed Oliver’s fate.

No one knew who had snuck into his treasury. Some said it was a trusted ally, others whispered that Oliver’s own kin had betrayed him. But the truth was lost to history… or buried by Devorah’s will.

With its power, Devorah crushed Oliver’s forces, killing him and his entire retinue. And she never forgot what it took to win.

When she took control of Guildian, she locked the world down. In order to maintain control and prevent rebellion, she centralized power. She controlled the raids. The resources. The people.

If you weren’t chosen, you were left to rot. Durkil had never been chosen. He was just another warrior forced to work, never to fight. spending his life mining for scraps.