Part 1: Lessons and Urgency
Greg sat in the temple's common room, a cozy space with wooden benches and a crackling fireplace that smelled of cedar. The afternoon sun filtered through narrow windows, casting warm patches on the stone floor. Elara sat across from him, her blue eyes bright as she slid a small, leather-bound book across the table. "This is for you," she said, her voice soft but clear. "A guide to your priest spells."
Greg opened the book, its pages yellowed but smooth.
The title glowed faintly in gold ink: The Light's Grace: An Introduction to Priest Spells.
Simple diagrams and neat script described Heal, Light Ward, Purify, Divine Shield, and Smite. Each spell had a chant and a gesture, like a recipe for magic. His fingers itched to try them, but the words to cast looked daunting, like a foreign language he was expected to speak fluently.
Elara leaned forward, her golden hair catching the firelight. "Take your time, Greg. Some priests need a month to cast their first spell. Practice here, in the temple. Just don't take the book outside, it's sacred, meant to stay within these walls."
Greg nodded, flipping through the pages. "Got it."
Elara smiled, then grew serious. "Let me tell you about the Temple of Light. We serve the Goddess of Radiance, protector of life and truth. Our enemies are many. Shadow cults, necromancers, and creatures born of darkness. They've grown bold lately, stirring trouble across the kingdom. The graveyard beyond the walls is just one problem. Someone waking the dead, and we don't know who."
She paused, folding her hands. Decided to inform Greg more about the current situation in the temple. "The temple's tied to the kingdom and the Adventurer's Guild by contract. They send us gold each month to keep us going, candles, robes, all that. In return, we help when things go wrong. Healing adventurers, purifying cursed lands, even fighting in the frontlines if we must. Right now, we're stretched thin. The guild's swamped with requests, and the kingdom's guards can't handle the unholy auras spreading outside the walls."
Greg's stomach tightened. This sounded like a lot more than chanting prayers and waving a staff. "So, we're like the kingdom's supernatural fighters?"
Elara laughed, a sound like clear bells. "Something like that. But it's dangerous. The Light protects us, but even we can fall."
Before Greg could ask more, rushed footsteps echoed down the hall. The door burst open, and a young priestess stood there, her face pale, her robes is in a mess. "Elara!" she gasped. "An injured adventurer just arrived at the infirmary. He's bleeding heavily. We need your healing now!"
Elara stood, her calm expression sharpening with focus. "I'm coming." She glanced at Greg. "Study the book. I'll be back when after saving the adventurer." Greg watched Elara hurry out of the common room, her white robes flowing as she followed the frantic priestess, leaving Greg alone with the crackling fire and the weight of the book in his hands. The temple was safe, but the world outside was calling and it sounded like trouble.
Part 2: The Spark of Magic
The door swung shut, muffling the echo of their footsteps. The fireplace crackled, its warmth a small comfort in the empty room. Greg sighed and sank back onto the bench, the leather-bound book heavy in his hands. He flipped open the book; its pages filled with dense text and intricate diagrams. The words blurred as he yawned, his eyelids drooping. "This reminds me of reading a textbook when I was young," he muttered, rubbing his face.
He flipped through the first few pages, skimming chants and hand gestures. It was so... formal. Back in the real world, he'd played enough RPGs to know spells were usually just a quick command. Point, click, boom magic. "What if it was that simple here? Screw it," he said under his breath. He glanced at a nearby chair and whispered, "Heal."
A bright white light flared, not from his hands but from the chair he was staring at, bathing it in a soft glow before fading. Greg's jaw dropped. "No way. I don't even need a staff." A blue bar flickered into view at the bottom left corner of his vision, like a HUD in a game. It was labeled Mana: 56/63. He blinked, doing the math. One Heal used 7 mana, meaning he could cast it eight more times. "Okay, that's cool," he said, a grin creeping onto his face.
Curious, he decided to test his mana recovery. He stared at the bar, counting seconds in his head. "One Mississippi, two Mississippi..." At sixty seconds, the bar inched up slightly. By his estimate, it'd take about ten minutes to fully recover his 63 mana. "Not bad, but not exactly fast." He thought.
Greg leaned back, the book forgotten for a moment. Would healing someone level him up, like in games? Or did he need to kill monsters to gain experience? The system hadn't mentioned levels, but that glowing box felt like proof he was still in a game, sort of. He wondered how to tell Elara he could already cast Heal. Would she be impressed or suspicious of him? And why did the spell come from where he looked, not his hands? The book described priests channeling magic through chant and gestures with the use of their hands, not eyeballs. "I'm different, perhaps due to being a player?" he muttered, thinking of the ghosts only he could see. If Torin found out his powers were weird, would he get kicked out of the temple? He wasn't ready to risk, not when this place was his only safe spot.
Still, he wanted to see Elara's healing in action, to compare it to his own. But the book stared at him, its pages practically daring him to keep reading. Maybe it held answers about controlling his strange magic. He stood, pacing the common room to stay awake, the book open in his hands. The firelight danced on the walls, and he muttered the spell descriptions to himself, hoping to make sense of them. "This thing's boring as hell," he groaned, flipping another page. "If every book here's like this, I'm gonna need coffee. Or a miracle."
He kept pacing, determined to learn more. If his powers were different, he should figure them out on his own before anyone, especially Torin, started asking questions.
Part 3: The Empty Streets
Greg slouched on the bench in the common room, the spellbook heavy in his lap. The dense text blurred before his eyes, each yawn pulling him closer to sleep. "This book's worse than a math textbook," he grumbled, glancing at the door Elara had vanished through. She'd been gone too long for a simple healing job. A gnawing worry settled in his chest. Something felt off.
He snapped the book shut and stood, too restless to stay put. "I'm finding her," he muttered, tucking the spellbook under his arm. He stepped into the halls, his boots echoing in the unnatural silence. The temple's grand corridors, usually alive with soft chants or the rustle of robes, were empty. No priests, no ghosts, nothing. The quiet made his skin prickle.
After fifteen minutes of wandering the deserted temple, his unease turned to dread. "Where is everyone?" he whispered, his voice sharp in the stillness. He hurried to the wide window overlooking the kingdom, the one Torin had shown him. The town sprawled below, rooftops, market stalls, distant walls but black smoke curled into the sky from multiple spots, like dark fingers clawing at the horizon. His stomach lurched. How had he missed this?
"Idiot," he hissed, heart racing. He sprinted back to his room, tossing the book onto the bed. The flowing priest robes were too bulky for trouble. He rummaged through the chest and pulled on a simple brown shirt and sturdy pants, easy to move in. "Good enough," he said, lacing his boots tight. If things were going bad, he needed to be ready to run.
Stepping outside the temple, he froze. The heavy metal gates hung wide open, creaking in the breeze. Blood smeared the cobblestones like something had been dragged. Broken crates littered the ground, vegetables scattered and crushed. The air stank of iron and rot. Worst of all, the ghosts were gone, no fruit vendor's spirit, no old woman, no vengeful shadows trailing the merchant. Just an eerie hush.
"A raid?" Greg muttered, half-joking, his voice trembling. "Hope not."
He crept forward, hands empty but senses sharp in the daylight. The sun was high, casting harsh shadows, but the streets felt wrong, like the light couldn't touch the growing dread. Five minutes down the road, he spotted movement of slow, shambling figures. As he got closer, his fears came true: gray skin, milky eyes, tattered clothes. Zombies. Three of them, lurching toward him.
"At least they're not sprinting like in the movies," he said, steadying himself. He'd played enough RPGs to know holy magic like Heal was deadly to undead. Focusing on the nearest zombie, he whispered, "Heal."
A white light flared from where he looked, not his hands, enveloping the creature. It groaned and crumbled into dust, just as he'd expected. A smirk tugged at his lips. "Knew it." He turned to the other two zombies, now closer, their arms reaching. "Heal!" he called, staring at one, then the other. Both glowed briefly before collapsing into ash.
Greg exhaled, pulse hammering. His mana bar blinked in his vision: 42/63. Three casts, 21 mana gone. Turning zombies to dust felt right, but the oddity of his spell coming from his eyes, not his hands, stuck with him. The smoke in the distance was thicker now, and the empty streets screamed danger. He needed to find Elara fast.
Part 4: Survival Instincts
Greg took a deep breath, his heart still racing from dusting the three zombies. The empty street stretched ahead, smoke curling in the distance like a bad omen. "Calm down, man," he muttered to himself. "You've got this. Just use your power smart." His mana bar sat at 44/63 in the corner of his vision, a reminder that running out meant joining the dead. He wished he could see an experience bar, something to tell him when he could afford to push his luck. For now, he had to play it safe.
He didn't dare try his other spells; Light Ward, Purify, Divine Shield, or Smite. Who knew how much mana they'd eat? Heal was working fine against zombies, and he'd stick with what he knew. As he moved forward, his eyes scanned the ground for anything useful. A stick, a knife, anything to swing if his mana ran dry. The cobblestones were littered with debris, broken crates, spilled apples but no weapons yet.
A few minutes later, he froze. Ahead, a grim scene straight out of a game unfolded: five zombies hunched over a body, tearing into it with guttural snarls. Blood pooled beneath, glinting in the sunlight. Greg's stomach churned, but he forced himself to focus. "Five zombies," he whispered, checking his mana. "More than enough. But should I spam Heal or...?"
Before he could decide, a sharp cry pierced the air "Help!" The zombies stopped, their milky eyes snapping toward him. Their heads turned in unison, jaws dripping red. "Ah, crap," Greg groaned. "There goes my chance to save mana."
No time to hesitate. He focused on the nearest zombie and muttered, "Heal." A white light flared from where he looked, and the creature crumbled to dust with a moan. He targeted the next, then the next, casting Heal five times in quick succession. Each zombie collapsed into ash, the street falling silent again. His mana bar dropped to 9/63. "I really need an AOE spell," he panted. "This one-by-one crap's gonna drain me dry."
As the last zombie disintegrated, a blue translucent screen flickered in front of him.
Level Up! Health +20, Mana +20. New Stats: Health 113, Mana 83.
Greg blinked, a grin spreading across his face. "Hell yeah!" His mana bar ticked up to 29/83 still low, but better. The extra health and mana felt like a lifeline in this mess.
His eyes caught something glinting near the body. A one-handed sword, its blade stained but sharp. He reached for it, but the weight nearly pulled his arm off. "Damn, too heavy," he muttered, shaking his head. Nearby, a small wooden shield lay in the dirt, scratched but sturdy. He picked it up, testing its weight. "This'll do." He could bash a zombie's head or buy time for his mana to recover. Gripping the shield, he glanced at the smoke-filled horizon. That cry for help still echoed in his mind. Someone was out there, and he had to move before more zombies showed up.
Part 5: A Healer's Touch
Greg hurried toward the cry for help, his shield gripped tightly, the weight of it grounding him. His mana bar flickered at 31/83 in his vision, a reminder to be cautious. The smoke in the distance loomed darker, but the plea pulled him forward. He rounded a corner into a narrow alley and stopped. A young woman in light leather armor stood panting, her sword dripping blood, her face smeared with grime and crimson. Behind her, a huddle of people, men, women, a few kids clung to each other, their faces pale but relieved. Ghosts lingered among them, faint apparitions of loved ones, their translucent forms whispering silently. Greg let out a quiet sigh. The ghosts were back. That felt... normal, somehow.
He stepped closer, eyeing the woman. She was tough-looking, with short brown hair and sharp green eyes, but something was off. A ragged bite mark marred her left shoulder, the skin torn and bloody. Greg froze. In every zombie game he'd played, a bite meant one thing: infection. But this wasn't a game he knew the rules to. Not yet.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, keeping his distance.
The woman's eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on her sword. "What's it to you? Trying to take advantage of me?"
Greg blinked, raising his hands. "Whoa, I'm a priest. Chill."
She looked him up and down, her frown deepening at his plain shirt and pants. "Doesn't look like it."
"Yeah, well, robes aren't great for running," Greg shot back. "So... are you hurt?"
She hesitated, her shoulders slumping slightly. "...Yeah. One of the dead bit my left shoulder."
Greg nodded, his mind racing. He could cast Heal from a distance, his unique magic but he didn't want to reveal that yet. If people noticed, it might raise questions he wasn't ready to answer. "Take off your top armor," he said, stepping closer. "I need to check the wound."
The woman's eyes flashed with suspicion, but she glanced at the crowd watching and seemed to relax. Witnesses meant safety. She unbuckled her leather chest piece, letting it fall. Follow up by unwrapping some of the bandages that was covering the wound. Greg's face heated up as he realized she wore only bandages wrapped tightly around her chest, no shirt beneath. "Right. Medieval world. No sports bras or singlets here." Thought to himself. Greg shook it off, focusing on the task.
He moved behind her, pretending to inspect the bite. The wound was ugly, jagged and deep, with dark veins spidering outward. Definitely not good. He placed a hand on her shoulder, keeping up the act. Waits for a few seconds before he whispered, "Heal." A soft white light flowed from his touch, not his eyes, sinking into her skin. The wound began to close, the dark veins fading. He cast Heal again, the light flaring brighter. The bite vanished completely, leaving smooth skin, not even a scar.
Greg stepped back, nodding to himself. His Heal worked both ways, dusting zombies and fixing wounds. Offense and defense. "Nice at least she won't turn into one of them." Greg thought to himself.
The woman flexed her shoulder, her eyes wide with surprise. She turned, pulling her armor back on. "That's... incredible. Thank you." She extended a hand. "I'm Lila, with the Adventurer's Guild. My party's out there, holding the front lines against those things. I was guarding these folks, keeping the rear safe."
Greg shook her hand, his grip firm. "Greg. New priest. Glad I could help."
Lila's lips twitched into a small smile. "You don't look like any priest I've met, but you've got the skills. Stick around, we could use you out there." She glanced at the group, who were starting to stand, murmuring thanks. Greg needed to be careful, but Lila's words stuck with him. The front lines. That's where Elara might be and answers to whatever the hell was happening.