Part 1: A Moment to Breathe
Lila sheathed her sword, her sharp green eyes scanning the group of people she'd saved. She moved among them, checking for injuries, her voice calm but firm as she ensured everyone was safe. The huddled men, women, and children nodded, some trembling, others clinging to each other. Silent ghosts hovered around them, translucent figures of lost loved ones, their presence oddly grounding to Greg. Satisfied no one was hurt, Lila turned to him, wiping blood from her blade. "You're good with that healing. Can you keep going? There's more people out there who need help."
Greg glanced at his mana bar showing 13/83. He'd just cast *Heal* twice on Lila's bite wound, and his mana was still low. He shook his head, keeping his tone neutral. "I need a bit to catch my breath. Healing takes it out of me." He wasn't sure how magic worked for others here. Did priests use mana like he did, or was it just endurance? He didn't want to stand out, especially as a supposed newbie priest who shouldn't even know how to cast their spells yet.
Lila nodded, her gaze sharp but accepting. "Alright, rest up." She didn't push, though Greg could sense her curiosity about why a guy in plain clothes was already healing like a pro.
He leaned against the alley wall, the wooden shield strapped to his arm a reassuring weight. He hoped for his spell - Heal worked like other priests. If his eye-casting or mana system was unique, it could draw questions he wasn't ready to answer. For now, he'd blend in and keep his quirks hidden.
As they waited, more survivors trickled into the alley refugees from the chaos, their clothes torn, faces pale. Some clutched makeshift weapons, others only fear. After about twenty minutes, Greg's mana bar ticked back fully. Lila's party arrived soon after with a group of four adventurers, a burly man with a warhammer, a lean archer, a mage with a glowing staff, and a priestess in white robes. The priestess, with black hair and warm eyes, approached Greg. "Thank you for helping Lila," she said softly. "I'm Nia, healer for this party. You're new to the temple, aren't you?"
Greg nodded, forcing a small smile. "Yeah, I'm Greg. Just doing what I can. You're welcome." He kept it short, wary of slipping up.
Lila called over, her party now gathered. "Greg, we're heading to the front lines. The guild's holding a barricade at the market square. We could use your healing there."
He hesitated, then shook his head. "I'll pass for now. Still... getting my bearings." Truthfully, he wanted to avoid attention. A rookie priest slinging spells like a veteran would raise eyebrows, maybe even reach Torin's ears. Besides, this chaos was a chance to level up. His system had already boosted his health and mana after dusting those zombies. In a world this deadly, getting stronger was his best shot at survival.
Nia studied him, her expression curious but kind, then nodded. Lila shrugged. "Your call. If you change your mind, find us at the square." She turned to her party, barking orders, and they moved out, the refugees trailing behind.
Greg stayed put, his mana bar glowing full. He was ready to move now, but he'd play it smart, stay low, learn the world's rules, and grind experience when he could. Survival was the priority, and he wasn't about to risk it by showing off.
Part 2: Power from the Shadows
Greg slipped away from the growing crowd in the alley, his shield tucked close to his chest. He needed to test his limits without drawing eyes. Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, he focused on a distant crate at the edge of the street and silently thought, "Heal." A white light flared where he looked, bathing the crate in a soft glow before fading. Greg's eyes widened. The spell worked from this far, but had it done anything? No way to tell without a target. His mana bar dipped to 76/83. Still, the range was impressive and dangerous, if anyone noticed.
Gripping his shield tighter, he moved toward the front lines, sticking to the shadows of narrow alleys. The Adventurer's Guild building loomed ahead, surrounded by a chaotic crowd of fighters and refugees. Greg ducked low, avoiding their gaze, and crept forward until he reached a vantage point overlooking the market square. There, adventurers clashed with a swarm of zombies, swords slashing, arrows flying, and spells crackling. But the undead kept rising, their broken bodies knitting back together despite the damage. Greg's gamer instincts kicked in. "Necromancer," he muttered. "Gotta be one nearby."
He scanned the enemy ranks but saw no cloaked figure chanting or waving a staff, just endless zombies shambling forward. Then he noticed the priests and priestesses from the Temple of Light. When they cast their spells, golden light flared from their hands, and the zombies crumbled to dust, just like when he used Heal. The problem? Their spells hit one target at a time, and the undead were overwhelming them with sheer numbers. No AOE spells in sight.
Greg smirked. If his Heal worked from this distance, he could farm experience without stepping into the fray. Perfect. He focused on a zombie at the back of the horde and thought, Heal. A white light flashed, and the creature collapsed into ash. "Yes!" he whispered, his mana dropping to 69/83. He cast again and again, targeting zombies as fast as he could lock eyes on them. One by one, they disintegrated, and his mana drained to 27/83.
Level Up! Level 3 Achieved. Health +20, Mana +20. New Stats: Health 133, Mana 103. Greg grinned, his mana now at 47/103.
The extra health and mana were a lifeline, but what caught his attention was the regen. He counted silently, watching his mana tick up faster than before maybe a point every fifty seconds now. Not a huge boost, but enough to make him feel like he was finally getting a grip on this world.
Then he spotted Elara in the chaos. She stood on a barricade, both hands raised, eyes closed, lips moving in a soft chant. Golden light pulsed from her, dusting a zombie nearby. Greg frowned and glanced at the other priests. They were all doing the same reciting prayers, gesturing with their hands, their spells slow and deliberate. His own Heal was instant, triggered by a thought and a look. No chants, no gestures. "Great," he muttered, sighing. "Another thing to hide." If anyone noticed he could cast without chanting, he'd stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone might start asking questions, and that was the last thing he needed.
Greg stayed back, monitoring the fight from his shadowed perch. His mana slowly climbed, now at 50/103. He'd keep helping from afar, picking off zombies and grinding levels while staying under the radar. Survival meant staying smart and keeping his secrets close.
Part 3: Fading Shadows
Greg crouched in the shadows of a narrow alley, far from the chaos of the market square. His wooden shield rested against his side, his mana at 52/103, ticking up slowly. From his spot, he could barely make out the distant clash of swords and shouts of adventurers fighting the zombie swarm. He'd been picking off undead from afar with his eye-based Heal, dusting them one by one to grind experience, but he hadn't seen the necromancer everyone was whispering about. No cloaked figure, no skull-tipped staff, just zombies shambling in the haze of smoke. Maybe the creep was hiding, or maybe Greg was too far to spot them.
Suddenly, a massive white light erupted from the battlefield, so bright it lit up the alley like midday. The glow pulsed, warm and sharp, making Greg's skin tingle as he shielded his eyes. It felt like the whole world held its breath. When the light faded, the distant sounds of fighting stopped. No moans, no screams, just silence. Greg peeked out, squinting toward the square. The zombies were gone, reduced to piles of ash scattered across the cobblestones. He couldn't see the necromancer had they been dusted too, or just slipped away? With no dead to raise, they were out of luck either way.
Cheers broke out, faint but clear, as adventurers shouted and laughed. Greg caught a glimpse of Elara's golden hair on a barricade, her hands glowing faintly as she stood tall, looking exhausted but victorious. The other priests joined the celebration, their robes fluttering. Vanguards pushed forward, yelling, "Search for stragglers!" as they spread out to check for hidden enemies.
Greg shrugged, muttering, "Oh well, there go my experience points. Time to head back." He wasn't about to join the party. His weird magic would draw too many eyes, and he wasn't ready for Elara or anyone else to start asking questions. He slipped through the alleys, heading toward the Temple of Light. The streets were a mess: broken carts, blood stains but no undead lingered. His mana climbed to 58/103 as he walked, slow but steady.
He couldn't resist helping along the way. A man slumped against a wall, clutching a bloody cut on his arm. From behind a crate, Greg thought, "Heal." A soft white flash sealed the wound. The man blinked, then grinned, patting his arm like it was a miracle. Further along, a girl limped, her ankle swollen. Another secret "Heal," and she gasped, walking normally with a big smile. Their shocked, happy faces made Greg feel warm inside. "Okay, maybe I like helping," he thought, then chuckled. "Nah, kidding. It's the XP. Gotta be stacking points." He wasn't sure if healing people gave experience like dusting zombies, no blue screen confirmed it but the idea of missing out was making him twitchy. His gamer greed was turning him a little crazy.
He shook his head hard. "Cut it out, man. This isn't a game. It's real life. People are hurt." He focused on the temple's spire ahead, its golden tip glinting in the fading sun. That itch for levels didn't fade, though.
When he reached the temple, a huge crowd blocked the gates. People lined up, some with bandages, others with minor scratches or blisters, waiting for priests to heal them. Greg hung back, eyeing the queue. Most injuries were nothing, cuts, bruises, stuff that'd heal without magic. "Eighty percent of these people have nothing else to do, do they?" He muttered. Were they taking advantage of the temple's kindness? Did the Temple of Light charge for this? Gold? Supplies? Or were they stuck healing every tiny boo-boo for free?
He tried to slip inside through a side path, figuring he was a priest now. A gruff man in the queue snapped, "Hey! Back of the line!" The crowd turned, glaring like he'd stolen their spot.
Greg raised his hands. "Does it look like I need healing? I'm with the temple."
They didn't care. A woman with a bandaged hand growled, "Cut in, and you'll need more than prayers." A few others nodded, fists ready.
Greg shrugged, unbothered. "Fine, whatever." He sat on a low stone wall beside the queue, waiting for Elara or Torin to show up and sort things out. While he waited, he scanned the crowd for real injuries. An old man near the end caught his eye, his leg gashed deep, blood soaking his pants. From his spot, Greg locked eyes on the wound and thought, "Heal." A quick flash, and the gash closed, the man's face relaxing as he stood straighter. He looked around, confused but smiling. Greg leaned back, grinning to himself. Secret heals, maybe some XP, and no one knew. He'd keep playing it smart, staying low until he figured out this world's rules.
Part 4: Hunger and Hustle
Greg slouched on the low stone wall, his back aching from sitting too long. His mana was almost back to full, and he kept scanning the crowd outside the Temple of Light for anyone who really needed help. A young man with a deep cut on his hand caught his eye, wincing as he held it close. From his spot, Greg focused and thought, "Heal." A soft white flash sealed the wound, and the man gasped, flexing his fingers with a grin. A few others with bad injuries, a woman with a swollen ankle, an old guy with a bloody shoulder got the same quiet treatment. Greg stayed hidden, healing while he sits on the ground, his grin growing with each surprised face. Maybe it was XP, maybe it was just fun. Either way, it kept him going.
After an hour, the serious injuries were gone. The queue was now just people with scratches, blisters, or fake limps, whining for free magic. Greg's stomach growled, loud enough to make him wince. He hadn't eaten since… Well, since he woke up in the morning. Morning felt like forever ago. "Great," he muttered, rubbing his belly. "Magic can't fix this." He tried anyway, focusing on himself and thinking, "Heal." A white flash sparked, but his hunger stayed, gnawing like an angry rat. He sighed, hoping Elara or the other priests would show up soon. A hot meal in the temple sounded like heaven.
The queue kept growing, snaking down the street. Greg shook his head. "Is it worth waiting this long for a paper cut?" he muttered. These people were milking the temple dry, and it bugged him. Did the temple even get paid for this? Or were they stuck playing charity for every lazy bum?
As the crowd swelled, patrol soldiers in clanky armor showed up, their swords glinting in the fading sun. Greg expected them to break up the mob, but they just stood there, keeping the line neat. "Weird," he thought. No dispersing, no shouting to go home. Were these soldiers letting the crowd hog the temple's time on purpose? Did they have some beef with the Temple of Light? The idea stuck in his head, but he had no proof, just a gut feeling.
One soldier, a stocky guy with a scar across his cheek, marched over to Greg. "You," he barked, eyeing Greg's plain shirt and pants. "Why're you here? You're not a beggar aren't you?"
Greg leaned back, casual but annoyed. "I'm a priest. I tried getting inside, but those rude folks in the queue won't let me. Told 'em I'm with the temple, but they threatened to beat me up."
The soldier glanced at Greg's clothes, snorted, and walked off without another word, like Greg was just some nobody. "Jerk," Greg muttered, rolling his eyes.
Fifteen minutes later, Elara appeared, leading a group of priests and priestesses from the battlefield. Their robes were dusty, their faces tired, but they didn't blink at the massive queue. It was like this happened every day. Elara's golden hair caught the light, and her blue eyes met Greg's by chance. She tilted her head, confused, clearly wondering why he was stuck outside.
Before she could say anything, a woman in the queue shouted, "Hey! That guy's trying to cut the line!" Others joined in, pointing at Greg. "He's been sneaking around, acting like he's special!"
Greg flashed Elara a sheepish smile and shrugged. "I told 'em I'm a priest. Even mentioned it to that soldier over there." He nodded toward the scarred guy, who was pretending not to hear.
Elara's eyes narrowed slightly, but she stayed calm. She turned to the crowd, her voice clear and strong, cutting through the noise without shouting. "The Temple of Light serves all who need it," she said. "But when a priest is treated with disrespect, we cannot help. Today's healing is canceled."
The crowd went dead quiet for a few seconds, then exploded with complaints. "That's not fair!" a man yelled. "We've been waiting!" a woman whined. Greg bit back a grin. Elara didn't flinch, just motioned for him to follow. "Come, Greg," she said, her tone firm but kind.
As they headed inside, Greg glanced back. The front of the queue was surrounded, people yelling at the ones who'd threatened him. Fingers pointed, voices rose, but no one dared confront the soldier, who stood off to the side, ignoring the chaos. They just grumbled from a safe distance, too scared to make a move. Greg shook his head, following Elara through the temple gates. His stomach growled again, but at least he was finally getting inside and maybe some answers, too.
Part 5: A Crest and a Crusty Meal
Greg followed Elara through the temple's heavy gates, the crowd's angry murmurs fading behind them. The cool air inside smelled of wax and old stone, a relief after the chaos outside. Elara stopped in the quiet hallway, her blue eyes softening. "I'm sorry, Greg," she said, reaching into her robe. "I should've given you this sooner. It's your crest, proof you're one of us." She held out a small wooden disc, glowing with a soft white light that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Greg's eyes widened as he took it, turning it over in his hands. The light was warm, almost alive, flickering in time with his own pulse. "Whoa," he muttered, fascinated. "This thing's got a vibe."
Elara smiled, pulling a thin metal chain from her pocket. She stepped close, close enough for Greg to catch a faint scent of lavender and looped the crest onto the chain. "Here," she said, slipping it over his head. The crest settled against his chest, glowing faintly. "Wear this always. It shows you're a priest of the Temple of Light." Her voice turned firm. "And don't go out again without proper robes. You're one of us now, and you need to look the part."
Greg nodded, but in his head, he was already arguing. "Robes? In an emergency? Nah, I'm sticking with stuff I can run in." Greg thought. Flowy priest gear was cool and all, but it'd trip him up if zombies came knocking again. He kept that thought to himself, giving Elara a quick, "Got it."
"Come," she said, waving him along. "It's late. You need dinner."
She led him through the temple's winding halls to a large dining room. The smell hit him first, not exactly mouthwatering, more like boiled greens and damp bread. A line of priests and priestesses queued at a long table, scooping food from big pots. Greg's stomach growled so loud he swore the room heard it. He hadn't eaten since waking up in this world, and yesterday's hunger was catching up fast. He shuffled closer, peering over shoulders to see the spread.
One look, and his heart sank. A watery soup that looked like dishwater, a pile of wilted herbs, and small, rock-hard rolls of bread. "This is it?" he thought, grimacing. "I gotta find a way to make some gold and buy real food outside." No way he'd survive on this forever.
He grabbed a bowl of soup, a handful of herbs, and a roll, then plopped onto a bench. The soup tasted like it basically looked like water with a hint of sadness. The herbs were bitter, like chewing grass. The bread? He tried biting it and nearly chipped a tooth. "Nope," he muttered, dunking the whole roll into the soup. He waited a few minutes, letting it soften into a soggy mess, then forced it down. It wasn't gourmet, but it was edible. Barely.
Even after scraping the bowl clean, his stomach still rumbled. "Still hungry," he groaned, leaning back. His mind flashed to the apples he'd seen scattered on the ground during the zombie attack. "Should've grabbed those," he thought. "No CCTV in this world to catch me snagging free fruit." The idea of scavenging felt smarter than relying on this temple slop.
Greg stared at his empty bowl, a dilemma brewing. Should he tell Elara he could already cast Heal? Maybe they'd give him better food if he proved he was useful. A juicy steak, some mead, anything but this. But spilling that he is already able to cast spells might draw attention. Torin's sharp eyes already made him nervous. If he stood out too much, who knew what questions they'd ask? For now, he'd play dumb, keep learning the slow way, and stay under the radar. But man, he'd kill for a burger.