The Substitute Healer (BL)-Chapter 50: ‘Ugh, I’m dizzy…

Just before they reached the tent, Soren heard quiet gossip among the knights nearby.

"Damn... that was brutal."

"Do you think he’s still alive?"

"I don’t think so. His wounds were too deep, and he already looked pale when they brought him in."

"Yeah. With all that blood loss, he’s probably dead."

The whispers followed them as they walked past.

Soren glanced around at the knights, unease creeping into his chest while thinking that something terrible must have happened. Lyric and Gaspar, however, kept walking without slowing down, focused on where they were going.

Soren followed behind them, since he had been summoned along with Lyric.

’I wonder what happened...’ he thought.

After a moment, he quietly shook his head. Whatever it was, he would find out soon and if there was any way he could help, he would.

Inside the healer’s tent rather than the Davenmore tent, several people were already gathered. Arctelle, Irlian, and Caelius were there, with Sylas standing nearby. Cael also stood there with his arms crossed, his expression serious while Alaric appeared calm, though his eyes showed deep thought.

All of them were focused on the scene before them.

Three healers stood over a man lying motionless on the ground. Their palms were stretched out above his body, glowing faintly as they worked. The man was terrifyingly still with his skin pale, his lips dry and blue, and his body soaked in blood.

"So," Alaric said quietly as he stepped closer to the bed, "do you think you can fix him?"

At his approach, the three healers slowly lowered their hands as the faint glow around their palms faded, and they stepped back, exchanging uneasy looks.

Arctelle spoke first.

He clasped his hands in front of him, fingers twisting together as he forced a mild expression onto his face. "I believe it’s too late, Your Grace. He’s beyond saving." His eyes flicked briefly toward Irlian, as if seeking agreement.

Irlian swallowed and stepped forward half a pace. "He’s still breathing, Your Grace," he said, voice low. "But barely." He then glanced at the man on the bed before lowering his head. "He lost too much blood on the way here so he won’t last much longer."

Caelius’s gaze followed Irlian’s, lingering on the limp body then his eyes shifted to Soren. Seeing at Caelius’ expression, Soren stiffened under the look while his shoulders are tensing as his breath caught for just a moment.

"Tch." Cael clicked his tongue and moved forward, stopping beside Alaric. "Do it again."

The healers looked up.

"He brought information we need," Cael continued, his tone cold and firm. "So, we need him alive. Do it again. Now."

Sylas and Lyric stepped in as well, forming a line beside the bed but no one spoke again. The silence pressed down heavily as all eyes returned to the dying man, the unspoken order hanging in the air.

"Excuse me, my lord."

The quiet voice broke through the heavy silence hanging inside the healer’s tent as their heads turned almost at once. There, Soren stood a few steps behind the others with hands at his sides and posture straight but unassuming.

His face was calm for someone standing before a man who looked moments away from death.

Cael’s gaze flicked toward him, lingering for a second longer than necessary before he gave a short nod. "Ah. You’re here." He then gestured toward the bed with a careless flick of his fingers. "Go on, then. Fix him. I don’t care how you do it, just make sure he stays alive."

The motion was sharp and dismissive, like calling over a servant and Lyric noticed it immediately. His throat tightened, and he instinctively glanced at Soren while expecting some reaction but there was none.

"Yes, Your Highness," Soren replied evenly.

He then stepped forward without hesitation with his boots stopping beside the blood-soaked bed. The wounded man lay completely still with his pale complexion and lips tinged blue.

Each breath, if it could even be called that came shallow and uneven, as if his lungs were already forgetting how to work.

A moment after, Soren raised his hands in no rush. Just steady, deliberate movement.

Behind him, Irlian’s jaw tightened. His fingers twitched at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he stared at Soren’s back.

Arctelle, on the other hand stood rigid with his hands clasped behind him and shoulders drawn tight. The muscles in his arms trembled slightly as his fingers curled into fists.

’This lowborn really knows no limits,’ Arctelle fumed silently. ’Showing off in front of the Davenmore lords... and now even before His Highness, how dare he!’

His eyes burned with resentment.

’Well, enjoy it while you can,’ he thought darkly. ’Once we’re deployed to the frontlines, I’ll make sure you don’t come back.’

The air inside the tent suddenly shifted when a low hum filled the space, almost like a pulse.

Golden light bloomed from Soren’s palms which was soft at first, then blindingly bright. It spilled forward and wrapped around the dying man, illuminating the blood-soaked sheets and casting long shadows across the canvas walls.

The warmth of it also pressed against everyone standing nearby.

With that, just a minutes after, the wounded man’s fingers twitched followed by a sharp gasp tore from his chest as his body jerked violently, breath dragging itself back into lungs that had nearly failed.

Someone sucked in a breath.

Seeing that while knowing that the man was already in the brink of death but was now breathing as if he was revived, the healers froze with their eyes wide.

And in that moment, no one spoke.

All eyes stayed fixed on Soren’s hands, on the light that refused to let the man die.

’Just as I thought.’ Caelius watched the golden light slowly fade with his eyes fixed on Soren with open fascination followed by a faint smile curved in his lips, careful and calculating.

’His healing talent really is extraordinary,’ he thought. ’How enviable.’

For a brief moment, a sting of jealousy surfaced in his chest, but he quickly pushed it aside. Talent like that wasn’t something to resent, it was something to secure.

’If it’s true that the Davenmore’s plan to cast him aside one day,’ Caelius mused, ’then I need him on our side. I don’t care what the others think. Soren alone is worth it.’

The smile on his face froze then a thin line of red slipped from Soren’s nose, staining his pale skin making Caelius’s expression instantly sharpened.

Soren, unaware or unconcerned, lowered his hands slowly then the golden glow vanished completely, leaving the tent dim and quiet once more while the wounded man on the bed now breathed evenly, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm with face finally free of pain.

"He’s stable now, Your Highness," Soren said calmly. His voice was steady, though his shoulders drooped just slightly. "He only needs rest and he’ll fully recover."

Cael gave a short hum, clearly satisfied. "Good." His eyes flicked to Soren’s face. "Then, wipe the blood off and take a break or whatever."

The words were casual, almost indifferent, as if nothing remarkable had just occurred.

On the other hand, Alaric stood frozen beside the bed while still trying to process what he’d witnessed. His gaze then met Soren’s for a brief second just long enough for something unspoken to pass between them but Soren looked away first.

Inside, his head swam.

’Ugh, I’m dizzy... but it’s fine,’ he reassured himself. ’That was expected since he was practically dead.’

His steps faltered but then Lyric reacted instantly, reaching out and gripping Soren’s arm before he could fall while Caelius moved in at the same time, steadying his other side without hesitation.

Soren stiffened for a moment but didn’t pull away but that only made Sylas noticed everything.

He frowned, watching Lyric far too closely. "What is he doing?" he muttered under his breath, confusion creeping into his tone.

Then he felt it a sharp, suffocating pressure in the air so Sylas glanced to the side and caught Arctelle’s expression.

The healer’s face was twisted with barely contained fury, his eyes locked onto Soren’s back as Lyric and Caelius helped him away. His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscle jumped beneath his skin, fingers curled into fists at his sides.

When Sylas followed the direction of his stare, there was Soren, unsteady but upright while being supported without question.

And for the first time, Sylas understood.

That golden light hadn’t just healed a dying man. It had shifted something far more dangerous.

When another afternoon came, the dying man came back to his senses and reported everything to the lords.

"That can’t be! How is that possible?" Sylas barked, throwing his hands into the air.

His eyes were wide with disbelief twisting every line of his face. His voice even cracked as he glanced around, expecting someone to deny it.

The soldier before him ran a shaking hand through his tangled hair, tugging at it as if it could pull the memory from his mind. His eyes were unfocused, staring past the group as if the horrors he’d witnessed were still standing in front of him. "I’m telling the truth, my lord... five of my comrades... they’re all dead and only I even barely made it back."

Hearing that, Alaric’s jaw tightened while Cael’s lips pressed into a thin line.

The soldier’s voice broke again, quieter now, but raw and ragged. "Some... some were stomped. Their bodies... they shrank under them... like they weren’t even human anymore. Some was torn in half by the beasts’ jaws before they could even move. And... and others... their heads... smashed. Brains... splattered everywhere... Blergh!"

He then choked on the memory as he vomited while his knees gave out beneath him, and he crumpled to the floor, dry heaving while his body wracked with sobs.

The tent went completely silent, except for the ragged gasps of the fallen soldier while Sylas clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms while Cael’s eyes narrowed, sharp and cold. Lyric’s fingers twitched at his sides, jaw tight as he took in every detail.

No one spoke upon knowing the seriousness of the situation.

The horror of what had just been revealed and what might still be out there pressed down on them, suffocatingly real.

Lyric stood slightly apart, expression unreadable, but even he couldn’t ignore the tremor in the soldier’s body and the way the light in his eyes had dimmed.

The dying memory of the battlefield hung between them like a weight, and for a moment, every breath in the tent felt like it might shatter until Alaric speaks as the standing commander of the unit.

"Gaspar, mobilize our troops and send a word to the capital and to the fortress..."