LTTH C38

Chapter 38

“The healer—”

“We shall go to those who are injured.”

Though complex thoughts clashed and wrestled within Peril and Peter’s arms, Isaac’s command soon drove them swiftly onward. It was vital to uncover the true efficacy of the sanctuary. Yet this place remained a battlefield.

‘Though quite unlike before.’

Though the scene differed markedly from his first arrival, the fact that these souls lived endured unchanged. Amidst the bustling camp, Hansol sharply discerned the distinct white of a tent. His destination could be but one.

“…Very well. Peter shall guide us.”

“Understood!”

Hansol’s gaze fixed unmoving while Isaac gave the command, and Peter stood tall, responding loudly. Hansol inclined his head slightly in thanks before springing after Peter. Soldiers likewise trailed behind, no doubt tending to their wounds. Ignoring the weighty gazes that pinned him, Hansol chose to think lightly of it.

“Though my skills are lacking, they have received emergency treatment and none are in grave condition.”

“Ah, good.”

Peter smiled sheepishly, sweeping aside the tent’s white cloth.

Inside, the atmosphere differed from prior visits. The familiar sharp scent of disinfectant tingled, yet the air pulsed with greater vigor and life.

“Are you all well? Observe who has arrived today.”

“Peter, did you find some skilled pharmacist?”

“There is no one of that sort alive on this battlefield, surely.”

‘Is this youth the healer?’

Watching Peter greet here and there, Hansol formed a reasonable deduction and stepped inside. At that moment, a small shadow long concealed now slipped into the soldiers’ view.

“What? Still poor eyesight?”

“…Indeed. I believe I injured mine too.”

“Peter, it looks like there’s a ghost behind you…”

Ghost! Hansol shot a pointed glance at the soldiers who treated the living as specters. These were living people. Yet somehow, every eye that met his grew wider; Hansol half gave up and moved on. Let them think it a ghost. Far better than being attacked as outside. He chose to let it pass.

“Let me examine you briefly.”

“…”

Each startled reaction upon his approach was burdensome, yet it eased his task of assessment. Thanks to Peter’s excellent emergency care, gauging the severity was swift.

Amid his examinations, a bed set somewhat apart caught his eye. Approaching with curiosity, a familiar face entered his view.

“…!”

‘A semi-corpse?’

Had not Peter said the sanctuary healed injuries? Why then did this man appear worse than before?

“After the Saint’s departure, he joined the front lines with Kassie.”

Peter’s face darkened as he clicked his tongue, hurriedly explaining.

“After the sanctuary waned, he strove to slay every monster left in the Duke’s stead.”

“Perhaps the remaining soldiers follow Rachel more fervently because of his determination, but personally, I wish he would take care of himself more.”

Peter’s gestures accompanied his words; at length, he wore a melancholy expression.

Hansol said nothing but cast healing toward the semi-corpse.

Peter’s care was flawless. Yet despite bandages wrapped here and there, spreading bloodstains and pained expressions refused concealment. This was their best.

If only he had arrived sooner.

Haunted by regret, Hansol repeatedly bathed the figure with healing light. The semi-corpse’s strained expression softened, but still it was not enough.

Damn it. Every time, the need for a regeneration skill echoed in his mind. One use of regeneration would spare such excessive mana consumption and watching those agonized faces.

‘No, it’s not far now.’

Shaking off negativity, Hansol opened his status window. Beneath the level number ‘28’ glowed his experience bar, begun from the very bottom yet now surpassing ten percent.

Faster than in Korea.

It was not that the experience gained was lacking in Korea—all hunters received equal experience and levelled accordingly. The difference lay solely in Britain.

Clearly, he had chosen well in coming.

Stubbornly refusing to enter A-rank or higher gates in America, he had done right.

Endangering oneself in such perilous gates was no match for healing wounded here safely.

‘England, the nightmare of healers, is safe.’

Others might scoff, but for Hansol, it was undeniable.

The near-impossible dream of reaching level 30 was now within reach—perhaps even today.

Yes, let it be the first goal.

Surveying his surroundings, Hansol set a new aim.

Some had lost an arm, others a leg, or eyes and ears—saved from death, yet their expressions spoke of preferring to have perished in the monsters’ grasp.

They resembled Peter: once enraged, clutching a lost arm.

Until severed limbs were found, none among them could return to the battlefield.

Hansol cast healing on the semi-corpse again, trying to count the wounded. Blurred by varied injuries, estimation was difficult, but many had losses. If few enough, he might rely on regeneration effects. Yet that seemed faint hope.

‘I must try harder.’

Mana rising even slightly spurred repeated healing followed by healing light. After many cycles, the semi-corpse began to stir. Soon, his blue eyes fluttered open, gazing at Hansol as if seeing a phantom. His widened pupils trembled, and with a sudden jolt, the man sprang up.

“Ugh!”

Though his move seemed a cry of pain, the semi-corpse—Rachel—ignored it, grasping Hansol’s wrist and uttering in a cracked voice:

“Saint. Is it really you?”

The voice, innocent yet resembling Isaac’s tone, came from a boy far younger than his speech. Hansol chuckled awkwardly, pulling his wrist free.

“Yes, that is correct. I am the healer you know.”

Here, too, they called him Saint. Hansol made no effort to correct the title—for all present used it.

“Indeed.”

“Though your limbs are intact, everything else looks a wreck. Lie still for a moment, let me treat you.”

Despite the brusque tone, the semi-corpse nodded and reclined once more. Like a docile cat, he rolled his eyes and began tracking Hansol’s every movement.

Whether tending to the wounded or briefly reapplying healing, his persistent gaze followed but posed no interference.

Yet such insistent watchfulness soon grew tiresome.

“What do you need?”

“What is it?”

Suddenly the semi-corpse spoke up.

Hansol, wrapping blood-soaked bandages, inclined his head. Perhaps he could wrap lighter, as no bleeding now appeared—thanks to abundant healing.

“What I ask is, how can I stay here?”

His stirring hands faltered; the noisy barracks likewise sank swiftly into stillness. Even the resting soldiers fell silent.

These warriors on the front lines knew better than anyone the value of a healer—and that sanctuary had been no less than divine miracle. By any means, he must be kept—and for as long as possible. Hansol met his piercing blue gaze squarely.

“Money you surely have more than we. Apart from that, tell me if there is aught else we can do.”