Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

Sunday walked through the streets of Blumwin like he owned them. He had snuck out shortly after waking up, having decided that some solitude would do great for all the questions running rampant in his head. He was getting involved in quite a few ventures, mostly troublesome stuff. Nothing new, although the scale this time would certainly be different.

The city looked different to him now. Gone was the vibrant life, the wonder of a new civilization. Instead, each shadow made him think of prayers in the dark, and each person he passed was a potential enemy. And for what?

Old Rud had once said that people were like a disease that left a mark the moment you gave them an opening. Someone could fuck up your life in an hour and even if you never saw them again, the consequences would stay.

Sunday finally saw reason in the drunk bastard’s words. Wasn’t his whole stay in this new world dictated by the wants of a few strangers he had run into? Wasn’t he thrown around like a character in a video game or a story? Be it a higher power or something else, it didn’t matter.

He didn’t mind throwing the hounds at his enemies, not at all. He was sure he wouldn’t lack enemies when the time came. Sacrificing innocents though… that was below him. He saw them now, the people. Struggling, trying to make ends meet. All of the city’s initial beauty had evaporated like a drop of rain in the desert. Was it he who looked at it differently, or was something stirring the darkness beneath the beautiful exterior, forcing it to come to the surface?

Riya and the wight had also gotten on his nerves. They once again made him question if leaving Pearl with Arten and the villagers was the right move. Maybe he was wrong, and it was bitterness dictating his thoughts. Perhaps it was annoyance that he had yet to find a single clue about who or what had brought him here. He would use them all the same, no matter their goals.

His walk finally ended at the steps of the mighty Arcanum – the place that would hopefully give him some answers. Its tall walls and imposing columns were grayer now, colder. All its magnificence and power were locked behind its doors, unreachable to the common folk. And yet lines were always present, knocking at the doors, seeking a better life.

It was very early, so Sunday sat down on one of the benches he assumed would remain shaded from the accursed yet beautiful light of the morning sun, and tried to gather his thoughts. Calming down and putting it all in order would serve well for his practice of the arts and for not allowing his state of thought to dictate his actions.

It was a few minutes later when he heard a few sets of footsteps surround him, and almost felt relief. Being alone with one’s thoughts was not pleasant.

He looked up with calmness only to find the mean-looking woman and her two large thugs – the same ones he had chased away the previous day.

“Oh, no,” he said with mock horror. Even sarcasm sounded grey now, “The three buffoons have me surrounded. Whatever will I do? Will it be both my money and my life or do you want something else? Just don’t take away my sanity, I’ve barely got any left.”

“Sanity is overrated. And what more is there but money and life?” the woman responded with a small smile, surprising him. She didn’t seem to try as hard to be threatening this time, but her natural presence was still anything but calm. She was tired, certainly. Sunday felt sort of a kinship when he looked at her.

She’s fed up with bullshit, and so am I. What if? After all, stranger friendships have blossomed throughout history.

“Do you want to take a seat so we can wait for the sun together, or…?”

Savia's lips twitched. She looked around and nodded to the two thugs. One of them went to the right, the other to the left but not before giving Sunday a long hard-to-read look.

“What’s his problem?” Sunday asked, not expecting a reasonable answer. He knew very well what the problem might be.

“You healed his tooth. He wants to say thanks but doesn’t know how to.”

Healed his tooth…? My slap? I’ll be damned. It must be the effect of Savage Healer. Who knew proper dentistry is part of wellness... “Emotionally unavailable parents?”

“No parents.”

Well, I walked right into this one. Sunday nodded sagely, ignoring the increase in awkwardness.

“I know what that’s like. My name’s Sunday, and I’m very glad you’ve chosen to talk. I had a rather bad day yesterday and starting a new one in the same vein would just be too much.”

“Tell me about it.”

The woman sat next to him and exhaled loudly. Her hands immediately got busy fiddling with the steel rings on her fingers. Her hands were calloused and rough, and covered in scars – burn marks and cuts. The hands of one who did what she had to survive. Sunday’s hadn’t been half as bad back when he was a human.

“Savia,” she said simply and offered her fist which Sunday bumped after a second of contemplation. “Sorry ‘bout yesterday. Your friend’s quite the fat fish and we got excited at earning some easy coin. Didn’t know we were dealing with a mage. Especially a healer…”

Those last few words made him scrunch up his nose. Cursed talents. Sunday the healer. I should pay for a banner to hang above the city gates, or someone might miss that fact about me. It only took me what, two days?

“Makes no difference. I know what’s it like to have no options so I don’t judge you and yours. People are rarely in this line of work because they’re evil,” he sighed. Then again, there are some sick fucks out there…

Savia mulled over his words as if memorizing them, before responding. “I reported what happened to my boss. Had to, or someone else would. Liars get drained. He didn’t even have time to chew us up as he ran to his boss. So fair warning, you might want to hole up in that tavern of yours or the Arcanum. You’ve stepped in dangerous waters.”

Oh, no, not again. I just got my new boots. How nice of her to warn me, though. “Why are you telling me this?”

Savia shrugged. “You got Ganor’s tooth fixed when you could’ve done a whole lot worse with your spells. I know how mages are. A debt owed is a debt repaid and I don’t mean to offend a healer.”

“So, you staked out the Arcanum, waiting for me?”

“We got other work around here, but that was part of it.”

“I see. Is that Baron so scary?”

The woman shot Sunday a strange look. If she was surprised or confused at his ignorance, she didn’t show it. He liked that about her, even if she was technically an enemy.

“You know who’s after your friend, then. You know, and you sit out in the open, talking with one of his goons?”

“Maybe I’m stronger than I look?”

“No.” Savia shook her head. “I know trouble. You’re more trouble than you’re worth, but you’re not that strong. Even as a healer, even as a mage, you’re not vampire-strong. And certainly not Baron strong. Look, I got the sense it ain’t ‘bout simple gold with your friend.”

Well, well. “That’s alright, I’ll figure something out. I’ve taken a liking to Vyn.”

“Confidence without something to back it with will get you killed. Trust me. The point is, you did a good thing. I consider us square now.” She stood up and gave Sunday one last look, “I ain’t foolish enough to go after a healer, but others will be. Take care, Sunday.” She moved to leave and the two men came to flank her once again.

“Hey,” he stopped her, “If you ever think about changing employers, find me. I might not be much right now, but that won’t last. If I survive, that is.”

There was no reaction, but the one he had slapped – at least he assumed it was that one as the two men looked quite alike – turned and looked at Sunday as if he was about to strangle him. Then, the large thug waved – a small shy movement from the wrist.

Sunday waved back; his smile was suddenly not as forced as it had started. It’s hard for people to be truly good or bad. Ah, this life will be troublesome. Hopefully, there are no cool vampires. What’s a man without enemies?

Laughter escaped his throat despite himself. It was a good thing there were only a few undead milling about, as Sunday was certain he looked quite insane at the moment. Things would go his way or he would die swinging, and as history had proven, dying wasn’t all that scary.

The memory of the encroaching darkness that had swallowed the city of corpses passed his mind uninvited, but clear, and he shook off the ball of needles that appeared in his stomach.

At least he had things to look forward to. Hopefully, today would be the day he would be joining the Arcanum and getting some answers.

***

Zihei carried yet another romance novel under his armpit as he spoke excitedly, “You must know, Sunday – is it all right if I call you that? You didn’t mention a last name.”

“It’s fine, I don’t have one.”

Zihei nodded. “You must know, getting those examiners was quite the pain. Magi don’t stay in one place and although we have a few always at the Arcanum they’re often closed for weeks to months at a time, practicing their arts or cultivating spells. I won’t even mention the guards.”

“I see. Thank you for the effort, then.”

“No. No, that’s my job. Between you and me, we, the magi, are an odd bunch and the two I’ve gotten as witnesses are even worse. Well, one is the good type. As long as you treat him as he treats you, then you’ll have no issues. The other’s a combat mage and quite young, so just don’t piss her off. Please? She’s only a rank one novice like you and awakened recently, but combat magi are a different breed.”

That certainly puts things into sharp perspective. I wonder what a true mage can do.

Zihei Aturi, Initiate of the Arcanum, which Sunday had come to understand meant rank two, rather than rank one, led him through the twisting stone and marble hallways.

It seemed that awakening itself and stepping rank one was considered easy and wasn’t worth being spoken about the same as rank two, which signified a mage’s talent and perseverance in the face of the mindless practice of the arts for years on end.

The inner walls were adorned with various portraits and busts of unknown faces that stared coldly at them. Sunday had to keep up so he had little time to read the tiny plaques set below each work of art, but they were most likely to tell the tales of the grand and illustrious magi whose faces were cast in stone for eternity.

Eventually, after a few quite dangerous flights of stairs that led them far below ground, they reached a large hall with a floor of sand and mounds of gravel strewn around. The walls were marked by countless different scars, and quite a few piles of ash and practice dummies lay broken all around.

“Is this the shmuck?” a human girl asked with a scowl. She was leaning on a jagged rock straight in front of them. Her blonde hair was past her shoulders and braided in a single complicated pattern, ending in what Sunday could only describe as a weaponized hair band. It was very spikey. The girl was shorter than him, but her presence was enough to make up for that.

Shmuck? Is my transmigrator language pack malfunctioning or did this girl just call me a shmuck?

“Who let this unruly child in?” Sunday asked, turning toward Zihei. “You got a daycare side gig?”

The burst of magic was faster than anticipated and Sunday barely avoided the fist that came for him as if propelled by a rocket engine strapped to an elbow. The girl’s whole body flew past, twirled, and she landed lightly near the door they had just used to enter.

If she had hit me… Alright. No one will be able to say I don’t treat everyone equally. It’s time to slap a b—

“Please, please. Calm down. It’s a misunderstanding, isn’t that right, Sunday? He has bad eyes, Lady Elora.”

Lady?

The girl stood up, scowling and fixing her stance as if preparing to assault Sunday again.

“I’ve never had better eyes,” Sunday said, glaring at the girl. Essence churned inside of him in impatience. “Say, what would happen if I beat up a member of the illustrious Arcanum?”

Zihei visibly paled at the turn of events, and clutching at his book as if it were a shield, answered slowly, “The Arcanum operates outside of local authority and has its own set of rules. However, mages are individuals wielding great power and who are, in most cases,” he hesitated, but the girl remained silent, “…quite prideful. Conflict is inevitable and common, so each mage is responsible for their own well-being unless the harm that had befallen them injures the honor of the institution or puts its integrity at risk. If… If… you were a member then this could be sanctioned as an official duel, and it would be added to the participants' official records.”

I see. A lot of words to say that we can go wild.

A true mage – not like the wimpy Arten, or the wounded Jishu who couldn’t demonstrate even an ounce of power till the very end. This was a proper combat mage, a member of an institution centered around the study of spells and arts that could turn a simple man into a force of nature.

Sunday felt excitement the likes of which hadn’t coursed through his veins since the days of wrestling the other orphans for a scrap of stale bread.

However, this time it was not survival on the line. It was growth and strength, and not being put down by any random person who thought themselves better. And he had his newly awakened slapping skills to test.

The girl— no— the woman before him would show him where he really stood. It was worth the risk. And he truly wanted a piece of her right now.

“What do you say? Wanna fight?”