Accidental Healer

With my assent, Ellison spins on his heels, walking over to a small group of deer people—including the big one—and begins speaking in his native tongue.

Oddly enough, his translator ability toggled off. Smart. Wouldn’t want me eavesdropping.

They leave me standing there, waiting while they talk—and talk—and talk some more. It must be an hour or longer that they leave me standing, waiting with Mischief. I kill time by running through sword forms in my mind.

I am getting restless when Ellison finally turns back to me.

“We are torn.” His voice is even, but his eyes carry weight.

“I will admit you have me convinced. In turn, I was successful convincing a few others. But there are still some—foolish ones—who believe we should fight.”

A muscle twitches in my jaw. “They believe our numbers give us the advantage.”

I run my hands through my hair and sigh. “I assume you tried explaining how wrong they are?”

“I did. They remain unconvinced.” He shifts hesitantly. “So I proposed a compromise.”

My ears perk up.

“A show of strength.”

I nearly snort but manage to hold it in. Of course. Classic.

“Alright,” I say grinning. “What’s the deal?”

“One-on-one. Your best fighter against ours.” His eyes flick toward Mischief.

I really need to stop bringing him to these things. He’s always stealing my thunder. It’s hard to blame them though.

“No spells. No skills. Non-lethal.”

Once he’s done explaining I start rolling my shoulders. “Fair enough. Who am I fighting?”

Ellison raises an eyebrow. “You?” You’re wearing healer’s robes, are you not?”

Looking down at my simple gray cloak I just shrug.

Ellison chose his next words thoughtfully, likely hoping not to offend me. “It is important that you demonstrate strength.” He glances up at the hill. “Perhaps the large one? Or better yet…”

His eyes come back to Mischief.

“…Your monstrous friend?”

“No, it's fine. I’ll fight your best.” I didn’t hesitate in the slightest.

Ellison levels a flat stare at me, he’s not sold. I’m glad he is taking this seriously. A decisive show of strength must be important.

Most likely his people were much more on the fence that he led on.

“Are you sure?” He asks, studying me carefully.

I nod. “It will be fine.”

“Who did you have in mind?” As if I even need to ask. I already know who it will be. The seven-foot brute who had been a wrecking ball during the raid steps forward.

I’d watched him fight—raw power, overwhelming force, not really much in the form of technique.

He looks at me and tilts his head, then back to Ellison as if to confirm. Clearly confused he mutters something in his native tongue.

Ellison shrugs and simply points at me.

The brute narrows its eyes at me brow furrowing as he gives me a once-over—like he doesn’t understand why a ‘healer’ was volunteering. I grumble one last time about Mischief not even being that scary.

I guess I’d just have to show him.

-

Durkil was listening closely while Ellison took time recounting his conversation with the newcomers.

He spoke of the man’s strange honesty—his naïve but oddly compelling offer to merge factions despite knowing nothing about them.

His description of the small leader’s confidence, his belief that if it came to a fight, the Guildians would certainly lose.

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Durkil already felt the weight of that claim, especially after sizing up the monstrous feline prowling at the man’s side.

Not everyone was convinced. Daevon, the spellcaster, was the most vocal skeptic.

“It’s too convenient,” Says with a scoff. “Why would he invite us in so easily? It is so obviously a trap—a way to enslave us.”

Daevon also was skeptical that a handful of fighters could overpower their entire force. Let alone all the new levels.

“They’re bluffing,” he insists. “If we strike first—eliminate the beast—then we can crush them before they react.”

Ellison, however, shut that down immediately.

“Even if we win,” he counters, “we’d be making enemies of this world’s people. You want to trade our only chance at freedom for another war?”

The debate was dragging on until they all came to a compromise.

If the newcomers could prove their strength—show that their confidence wasn’t a bluff—then they’d discuss an alliance.

And so, a contest of champions was decided.

Durkil was chosen.

It was a close vote—Daevon obviously thought he should have the spot—but ultimately, Durkil was the strongest among them.

After there was agreement Ellison went to share the proposal. The human and Ellison speak briefly before Ellison turns and nods to Durkil.

Head high Durkil walks forward swinging his club in tight rotations. He was not a stranger to fighting monsters. Running into large and dangerous looking mana beasts was not common on Ulm but Durkil had faced them before–some were even twice his size.

But something about this feline made his skin crawl. He reminds himself this fight wouldn’t be lethal while taking a steadying breath.

Then came the first surprise.

Instead of the large feline predator–or even the large man on the hill, Ellison points to the small awkward man in grey healer robes.

Durkil frowns. The healer barely reached his chest. Was this a joke?

Appearances could be deceiving—Durkil is no fool, the universe was full of strange and powerful beings—but a healer?

How much of his growth was dedicated to Intelligence and Wisdom rather than Strength or Agility? This is meant to be a test of strength, what did this man intend to do? Heal me into submission.

Durkil takes a step forward but hesitates. This was a non-lethal fight, so he’d have to be careful. Just one wrong swing could end the human. Durkil settles on a controlled strategy—targeting the legs.

If this man was truly a healer, his best defense would be regeneration. He should be able to destroy the legs without causing a lethal blow or even lasting damage. Simple enough.

Durkil raises his club and charges.

With a thunderous step, he lifts his club high above his head before swinging it crashing down in a sweeping arc aimed low.

Already, his first mistake. The strike meets nothing but air. The man isn't there. Durkil’s momentum carries him forward, almost pulling him off balance.

He stumbles forward off balance, but quickly corrects his stance—but his target was already behind him. Durkil’s eyes widen.

Huh?

That swing had a massive radius. How had the small man avoided it?

Now on guard, Durkil adjusts his stance. He tightens his swings—keeping his club close, testing his opponent’s reflexes.

But each time he strikes, the man is gone just before the blow can land.

It was maddening. It was infuriating. Durkil could tell—his opponent wasn’t even trying to counterattack. His swings grew more and more frantic.

Discarding the initial plan of aiming solely for the legs–he powers forward. No more holding back. He will take whatever he can get.

The human? He keeps dodging. Effortlessly. Was he toying with me? Durkil grits his teeth. Nothing. Not one strike connects.

That’s enough. Throwing caution to the wind he lets loose. His club of blur of wild swings—the careful targeting is long gone—his brow set in determination to land a single hit.

The man in the cloak isn’t dodging like a fighter, or even a warrior. He moves like the wind. Durkil feels his frustration reach its peak. What was the point of this!? If he doesn’t strike—then this fight is a stalemate.

Durkil can’t move fast enough to hit him, but at the same time, a ‘healer’ can’t possibly hit hard enough to take him down.

…Right?

That’s when everything changes. Durkil swings—a wide, heavy blow aiming at the man’s ribs.

This time, the man doesn’t dodge. He moves forward. Durkil’s swing is perfect this time. Heavy. Fast. Unstoppable.

Then—shhk!

The impact never comes. The weight in his hands vanishes. But the strike didn’t miss.

Rather than dodging–the small man's sword flicks out like a viper, in a blur.

Durkil’s club—his weapon—separates into two pieces.

The larger chunk spins through the air, flipping end over end. He barely sees it before it thumps to the ground.

Silence. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.

Durkil barely has any time to process what is happening—When he feels the cold steel at his throat.

His body locks up. Then he looks down.

The robed man stands before him, sword outstretched, blade pressing lightly against Durkil’s neck. His heart thuds in his ears.

And then… Durkil meets his eyes.

In that instant, he understands.

This man wasn’t bluffing. He wasn’t making idle claims or boasts of his own strength. He was simply stating the truth.

This isn't just a healer. He can see that much.

The broken handle of his club drops to the ground. Standing there, cold steel against his throat he peers into the man's eyes.

And what does he find? A glimpse–just a whisper–of something unstoppable.

Durkil had never felt small before. But in this moment standing before this human?

He was staring at a ripple. A ripple that Durkil knew–with his very soul–would one day become a tidal wave.

Then the man smiles and pulls back his sword before turning to Ellison and speaking in his foreign language.

Durkils hand moves on instinct to his throat where the sword had rested. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from his opponent.

Just who was this small unassuming boy they were tying their fate to?