Chapter 8: Recovery and Recognition
Pain was the first thing. Sharp, insistent, radiating from ribs that screamed with every breath.
I opened my eyes to unfamiliar ceiling beams and the smell of something herbal—medicinal. A small room, clean linens, afternoon sunlight filtering through shuttered windows.
"Not dead. Good start."
"Don't try to move."
The voice came from beside the bed. An older woman, grey hair pulled back severely, hands busy mixing something in a mortar. The local healer, presumably.
"Where—"
"My clinic. Guards brought you three days ago." She didn't look up from her work. "You've been in and out. Fever broke this morning."
"Three days. Lost three days."
I tried to sit up anyway. The pain hit like a hammer, and I dropped back to the pillow with a grunt.
"Told you." The healer approached, pressing fingers against my bandaged ribs. Her touch was clinical, assessing. "Three deep gouges. Cleaned them as best I could, but you'll scar. Whatever made those marks..." She shook her head. "I've seen war wounds that were kinder."
"Alpha drowner."
"So the guards keep saying. I'm not entirely sure what an alpha drowner is, but the wounds suggest something very unpleasant." She began unwrapping my bandages, examining the flesh beneath. "Healing well, though. Better than expected."
The system interface pulsed at the edge of my vision.
[CURRENT STATUS]
Health: 47% (recovering)
Active Conditions: Three rib lacerations (healing), Multiple minor cuts (healing), Fatigue (moderate)
GP: 2,547
Level: 3
Available Ability Points: 3
I focused on the ability purchase screen while the healer worked.
[AVAILABLE ABILITIES]
Basic Regeneration (Passive) - 500 GP
Effect: Increases natural healing rate by 50%
Note: Does not enable supernatural healing. Accelerates normal biological processes.
"That's the one."
I purchased it. The GP counter dropped to 2,047. A warm sensation spread through my body—subtle, like sunlight on skin—and the pain in my ribs dulled from sharp to aching.
"Interesting," the healer muttered, frowning at my wounds. "Very interesting."
"What?"
"The inflammation is down significantly since yesterday. Your body's fighting the infection faster than it should." She rewrapped the bandages with practiced efficiency. "I've seen quick healers before, but not this quick. Must be your youth."
"Must be."
I stayed in her clinic for five more days. The wounds closed at a rate that confused her medical knowledge but didn't cross into impossible. By day eight, I could walk without wincing. By day ten, I was functional.
The Guard Captain visited on day six.
He came with a coin purse—heavier than expected—and an expression that mixed respect with something like wariness. He set the purse on my bedside table and stood there, arms crossed, studying me like a puzzle he couldn't solve.
"Twenty crowns for the contract," he said. "Plus fifty extra."
"Extra?"
"The alpha. Previous contractors didn't even report alpha presence. We thought it was a standard nest, maybe larger than usual. You killed something that shouldn't have been there."
"Shouldn't have been there according to whose information?"
I filed that away for later. Intelligence failures were useful to know about.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." He pulled a chair close and sat heavily. "Your name's circulating. Guards, merchants, adventurers passing through—everyone's heard about the kid who cleared the sewer nest solo. Some admire you. Some think it's impossible. A few are probably planning to test whether you got lucky."
"And you?"
"I think you're dangerous." He met my eyes directly. "Not a threat—not yet. But dangerous. The smart kind of dangerous, which is worse than the stupid kind." He stood, chair scraping. "I'll have work for you, if you want it. Smaller contracts, better pay now that you've proven yourself. But be careful. Reputation attracts attention, and not all attention is friendly."
He left. The coin purse sat heavy on my table. Seventy crowns total—enough to replace equipment, pay for healing, and still have savings.
Mira's Perspective
The tavern buzzed with the drowner story for a week straight.
Every customer had a version. The sewer kid. The monster killer. The crazy teenager who'd walked into darkness and walked out carrying proof of the impossible. Details changed with each telling—by the third day, some versions had him fighting twenty drowners, others had him using forbidden magic.
I knew the truth was probably simpler. And more impressive.
When he finally appeared at the tavern again, moving slowly but moving, the common room went quiet. He looked thinner, paler, with new scars peeking from bandages at his collar. But his eyes were the same. Sharp. Calculating. Taking in the room in a single sweep before choosing his usual table.
I brought him soup without being asked.
"You should still be in bed."
"Probably." He ate slowly, carefully. Healing bodies needed fuel. "But I hate lying still."
"Most people would milk that wound for another week of rest."
"Most people didn't choose to crawl into a sewer full of monsters."
Fair point.
The tavern keeper gave me a look—other customers needed attending—but I lingered. Questions had been building for days. Weeks, really, since I'd first noticed him.
"Can I ask you something?"
He looked up from his soup. "You can ask."
"What are you actually doing?" The question came out harsher than intended. I'd been holding it too long. "Nobody our age fights monsters alone unless they're running from something or running toward something. You're too smart to be the first kind, which means you're the second. So what is it? What are you building?"
He didn't answer immediately. I watched him weigh words, discard options, choose carefully.
"Something that helps people," he said finally. "Something that takes overlooked potential and gives it a place to grow. The world is dangerous—wars, monsters, magic that destroys as often as it creates. I want to build an organization that makes people stronger. Prepared."
"That's very... idealistic."
"Maybe. But it's also practical." He met my eyes. "Why? Are you interested?"
The question stopped me cold.
"I have a little magic," I heard myself say. Words I hadn't planned to share, spilling out because he'd asked directly and I was tired of hiding. "Not much. Enough that Aretuza tested me when I was twelve. They said my potential was... insufficient. Sent me home to become a serving girl."
His expression didn't change. No pity. No dismissal. Just attention.
"What kind of magic?"
"Light. Small things. I can make a room brighter, see in darkness. Useless for combat, they said. Not worth developing."
"They measured wrong."
I blinked. "What?"
"Raw power isn't the only thing worth developing. Application matters. Creativity matters." He pushed his empty bowl aside. "What if someone offered you proper training? Resources Aretuza wouldn't waste on you?"
The old wound ached—rejection still fresh even after years. "I'd ask what they wanted in return."
"Smart." He smiled slightly. "Think about it. I'll have a real answer for you when I'm fully healed."
Then he paid, nodded to me, and left.
I stood there holding his empty bowl, mind racing with possibilities I'd buried years ago.
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