Part 1: Prayers and Patience
The next morning, a sharp knock yanked Greg from a dreamless sleep. A priest stood at his door, his gray robes crisp despite the early hour. "Time to rise, Greg," he said, voice calm but firm. "Wash up. We're heading to the main hall for your first lesson."
Greg groaned, dragging himself out of bed. After splashing cold water on his face in the washroom, he followed the priest through the temple's quiet halls. The main hall was grand, with high ceilings and glowing runes etched into the stone floor. Rows of benches faced a raised platform where a priest stood, reciting prayers in a droning voice. Greg plopped onto a bench, already bored. The priest's words blurred together, something about the Goddess of Radiance and serving the Light. Greg yawned, then yawned again, losing count after the fifth one. He couldn't believe the other priests and priestesses sat so still, their faces calm, barely blinking. How are they not asleep? he thought, stretching his arms and slouching to get comfortable.
He shifted, twisted, even cracked his neck, half-expecting a glare or a scolding. But no one said a word. The priests and priestesses kept their eyes forward, like statues. Lucky break, Greg thought, slumping lower. The hour dragged on, each prayer feeling like a lifetime.
When it finally ended, Greg shuffled to the dining room, hoping for something better than last night's meal. No such luck. The same watery soup, bitter herbs, and rock-hard bread waited. He stared at the spread, nearly facepalming.
"This again?" he muttered. Every glance at the food reminded him how broke he was and how broke the temple seemed.
"Gotta find a way to make some coin." He thought, grabbing his portion and sitting down. He dunked the bread in the soup right away, letting it soften before choking it down. It filled his stomach, barely, but the taste was like punishment.
The same priest who woke him approached, sitting across from him. "I'm Brother Calen," he said, his voice kind but tired. "Let's head to the common room. Have you read the book Elara gave you? Any questions?"
Greg nodded, wiping soup from his chin. "Yeah, one. Do you need a specific recitation to cast spells? Like, exact words?"
Calen smiled, his eyes crinkling. "No, Greg. Everyone's recitation is their own. As long as it comes from the heart and the Goddess accepts it, the spell will work. It's about faith, not formulas."
Greg kept his face blank, but inside, he was practically dancing. Jackpot! This meant he could mumble anything, random words, game quotes, whatever and no one would bat an eye. His chantless unique power was safe, as long as he faked some kind of chant.
"Another question," Greg said, leaning forward. "Does casting spells use something up? Like, can you cast forever, or is there a limit?"
Calen's smile faded, a hint of disappointment in his eyes. "Everyone has a threshold, Greg. Casting too many exhausts you. You'll feel it, a heaviness, like your body's drained. Push past that, and you can still cast, but it'll cost you. It shortens your life. Be careful."
Greg's stomach twisted. His mana bar made sense now. It was his limit, his "threshold." But shortening his life? That was new. And scary. "One more thing," he said. "Does casting Heal different from, say, a fireball?"
Calen shook his head, looking wistful. "I wouldn't know. I've never been able to cast magic, even as a boy. I serve the Goddess in other ways, but I always wished…" He trailed off, then forced a smile. "You'll learn with time."
Greg nodded, understanding. Without his system's blue screens and mana bar, he'd be just as lost. It was like playing a game without a HUD, pure guesswork. He owed the system more than he thought.
Calen stood. "Come. I'll show you how the others cast healing spells for the injured. You'll see it in action."
Greg replied before walking away. "I'll meet you there. I want to grab the book Elara gave me for reference."
Calen nodded and stepped out, his robes swishing. Greg lingered a moment, his mind racing. He didn't need the book, his spells worked fine but it was a good excuse to keep up the "newbie" act. Plus, watching the others might show him how to fake his chants better. He smirked, grabbing the book from his room before heading out, the glowing crest around his neck pulsing faintly. Time to learn how to blend in or at least look like he was trying.
Part 2: A Scream in the Hall
Greg stepped into the healing hall, and a wall of stench hit him like a punch. The sharp smell of blood, mixed with sweat and something sour, churned his stomach. He clapped a hand over his mouth, fighting the urge to puke. No way I'm losing that soup, he thought, swallowing hard. It was his only meal, and with the temple's sad excuse for food, who knew when he'd eat again? He didn't have a single coin for better grub.
The hall was packed, just like yesterday. A long line of people snaked out the door, waiting for healing. One by one, patients shuffled forward, some limping, others clutching wounds. The priests and priestesses worked like a well-oiled machine, their faces calm and smiling, no hint of annoyance. They didn't even talk to each other to decide whose turn it was. Just stepped up, cast their spells, and moved on. Greg edged closer, trying to catch their words. The chants were soft, all different, some mumbling about the Goddess, others just quiet whispers. He strained to hear, curious how their magic worked.
Watching them heal without asking for a single coin surprised him. He kinda liked it, this selfless vibe. But it was weird, none of the patients said what was wrong. No "my arm hurts" or "I twisted my ankle." The priests just cast Heal, and it fixed everything, cuts, bruises, even broken bones. Greg wondered if it could cure diseases or poisons too. Was Heal some kind of magic cure-all in this world?
Brother Calen stood among the group, waiting his turn. He didn't cast spells, just recited prayers softly, his face peaceful. Greg's eyes drifted to the next patient, a young woman stepping into the hall. She kept her head down, her dark hair hiding her face, moving slowly like she was shy. But something about her made Greg's skin crawl. A bad vibe, like a warning bell in his gut. What's wrong with her? he thought, his heart picking up. A voice in his head screamed that she wasn't right, something evil was hiding in her.
He didn't know why he felt it, but he trusted that instinct. Before she reached the center of the hall, Greg focused on her left foot and thought, "Heal." A white flash sparked, fast and quiet. But instead of healing, her foot burst with a sickening squelch, like a rotten fruit splitting open. Greg gagged, stepping back. It looks like something from the horror games he used to play, all slime and decay.
Black blood oozed from her foot, pooling on the floor. The woman giggled softly, a creepy sound that grew louder, echoing in the hall. The priests and priestesses froze, their calm faces cracking with confusion. Before anyone could move, she let out a piercing screech, so loud it hit like a shockwave. Nearest tables and benches flew across the room, crashing against walls. A priestess nearest to her sailed backward, slamming into a pillar with a thud. Dust and debris choked the air, clouding Greg's vision. All he could hear was that awful giggling, now mixed with groans and cries from the crowd.
A sharp, wet stab cut through the noise, followed by a woman's scream of pain. Greg's heart pounded as he waved dust from his face, squinting. When the haze cleared, the young woman wasn't human anymore. Her body had twisted into something demonic skin gray and cracked, eyes glowing red, long sharp claws glinting in the dim light. One claw pierced a priestess, lifting her off the ground. Blood dripped as the priestess struggled, gasping.
"Nooo! Amelia!" a priest shouted, his voice breaking.
The creature laughed, a bone-chilling cackle, and with a flick of its other claw, sliced the priestess in half. Her body fell in two pieces, blood spraying the floor. Greg's stomach lurched, his legs frozen. This was a nightmare straight out of his worst gaming memories.
Part 3: Chaos in the Light
Greg's eyes were glued to the mangled body of the priestess, Amelia, sliced in half on the blood-slicked floor. Her organs spilled out, glistening under the hall's dim light. His stomach churned, the urge to vomit clawing at his throat again. He turned away, breathing hard through his nose. "Not now, not now" he thought, forcing down the watery soup still sitting heavy in his gut.
The demonic creature cackled, its gray, cracked foot stomping down on Amelia's head with a sickening crunch. Greg flinched, bile rising, but his focus snapped back as the creature screeched, grabbing tables and benches, hurling them like toys. He'd already cast Heal on it twice, once on its foot, once on its arm hoping to dust it like a zombie. Each time, the targeted spot burst in a spray of black blood, but the thing just laughed, its flesh knitting back together in seconds.
A table flew straight at Greg. He tried to run, but his legs felt like they were stuck in mud, heavy and useless. What the hell? Panic surged as he threw himself to the floor, the table sailing over him, missing by inches. It crashed into the wall, splintering. Lying there, heart pounding, Greg glanced at his status in the corner of his vision. Next to his health bar (133/133) was a new icon, a snarling, fanged face that pulsed red. He stared at it, and a tooltip flickered:
Debuff: Fearful Paralysis. Movement restricted.
"Crap," he muttered. Without thinking, he focused on himself and thought, "Purify." A soft light washed over him, costing 10 mana (73/103). The icon vanished, and his legs felt light again. He scrambled to his feet, scanning the room. Other priests and priestesses near the creature stood frozen, their faces pale, eyes wide. They're hit with it too. Greg didn't hesitate, targeting the closest ones and thinking, "Purify," one after another. Each cast cost 10 mana, dropping him to (13/103). The priests blinked, shaking off the debuff, but Greg was tapped out. He needed time for his mana to regenerate, and the creature wasn't slowing down.
The hall's doors burst open, and Elder Torin stormed in, Elara at his side. Torin's sharp eyes swept the room, taking in the blood, the debris, and Amelia's body. His face hardened. "Smite the beast!" he bellowed. "Those who can't, heal the wounded! Now!"
The creature's red eyes snapped to Torin, and it pounced on the nearest priest with terrifying speed. Its jaw unhinged, revealing rows of jagged teeth, and in one sickening snap, it bit the priest's head clean off. Blood sprayed as the body slumped. Greg's stomach twisted, but the other priests and priestesses didn't flinch. They stood like statues, reciting their chants, hands glowing as they prepared Smite. Greg shook his head, muttering, "They're gonna get slaughtered like this."
He needed to act. His eyes darted around, landing on a broken chair nearby. He grabbed a jagged wooden leg, an idea sparking. If Heal makes it burst, maybe I can use that. He focused on the wood, thought, "Heal," and hurled it like a javelin. The creature glanced at it, not even bothering to dodge, but when the glowing wood pierced its side, it screamed a high, ear-splitting wail. Black blood oozed from the wound, slower to heal this time.
Greg grinned, grabbing another wooden leg. "Got you," he whispered, casting Heal on it. He threw it hard, aiming for the creature's chest. It hit, and the beast shrieked again, clawing at the wound. But its red eyes locked on Greg, narrowing with rage. It crouched, ready to lunge right at him.
Part 4: Dust and Deliverance
Greg's eyes locked on the demonic creature, its red gaze burning with hate. As it crouched to leap, he bolted, heart hammering. He weaved through the healing hall, dodging priests and priestesses still chanting, their faces pale but focused. "Don't run into them, don't run into them." He thought, legs pumping. He thought he'd made it but then a table came out of nowhere, slamming into his side. Pain exploded as he flew, crashing into a stone pillar with a sickening thud. His vision blurred, and his health bar flashed in his sight, plummeting to (42/133).
He tried to stand, but his head spun like he'd been hit by a truck. The creature loomed over him, its jagged claws gleaming. It screeched, and that same paralyzing fear hit him again.
The red-fanged icon blinked back: Debuff: Fearful Paralysis. Movement restricted.
Its claw rose, ready to end him. Greg's mind raced, and he thought, "Purify!" A soft light washed over him, eating 10 mana (33/103). His legs unlocked just in time. He rolled to the ground, but the creature's claw grazed his shoulder, slicing deep. Blood sprayed, and his health crashed to (14/133). I may die here, he thought, panic choking him as he scrambled backward, pushing with his legs.
The creature roared, ready to lunge again, but a brilliant light cut through the hall. Elder Torin stood tall, his chant complete. "Smite!" he shouted, pointing with his left hand. A glowing sword of white light formed above his head and shot forward, stabbing the creature's chest. It screamed, black blood oozing. Other priests and priestesses joined in, their own Smite spells summoning more radiant swords. Each blade pierced the creature, pinning it in place. The swords glowed brighter, their light swallowing the hall. The creature's screams grew louder, desperate, until it exploded into a cloud of gray dust, leaving only silence.
A blue screen flashed in Greg's vision.
Level Up!
Level Up!
Level 5 reached. Health +40, Mana +40.
His max health jumped to 173, mana to 143. A warm light enveloped him, and his health bar slowly filled back to (173/173), the pain in his shoulder fading. He sighed, slumping against the pillar. If I didn't have to hide my powers, I could've ended that thing myself, he thought, half-proud, half-annoyed.
He stood, legs shaky, and looked around. The healing hall was a wreck smashed tables, broken benches, blood and dust everywhere. Amelia's body lay in pieces, another priest headless nearby. Two confirmed dead. Several others were sprawled on the floor, some groaning, others still. Greg couldn't tell who was alive. His stomach twisted, but he pushed it down.
Torin approached, his sharp eyes scanning Greg from head to toe. "You're risked your life for us." he said, voice low but steady. "Thank you."
Greg nodded, too tired to say much. "Yeah, uh, no problem." He just wanted out of this mess. He headed for his room, the glowing crest around his neck pulsing faintly. As he'd feared, no dinner was served that night. Everyone was too battered or shaken to care about food. Greg's stomach growled, but he ignored it, collapsing onto his cot.
Alone, he decided to test his spells, curious about their costs now that he'd levelled up. Focusing inward, he tried each one, watching his mana bar. Heal took 7 mana. Light Ward cost 5. Purify was 10, same as Divine Shield. Smite hit hardest at 15 mana. He nodded, memorizing the numbers. Good to know, he thought. If he was stuck in this world, he'd need every edge especially if more demons showed up.
Part 5: Routine and Regret
The next morning, no one knocked on Greg's door. He woke up at noon, sunlight streaming through the small window of his room. His body ached from yesterday's fight, but his health and mana were full. After splashing water on his face, he trudged to the dining hall for lunch. The same watery soup, bitter herbs, and hard bread waited. He sighed, grabbing a bowl, then spotted Elara near the hall's entrance. Steeling himself, he walked over.
"Hey, Elara," he said, scratching his neck. "I, uh, figured out how to cast Heal last night. After the fight, something felt… different. Like my body just knew how."
Elara's eyes lit up, a warm smile spreading across her face. "That's wonderful, Greg! The Goddess must have blessed you." She waved him to follow. "Come, let's get you to the healing hall."
The hall was spotless, a stark contrast to yesterday's blood-soaked chaos. No furniture remained just bare stone floors and priests standing in a loose circle, waiting for patients. Greg's chest tightened with guilt. He'd slept through the cleanup, leaving the others to handle the mess. Back home, living alone, he never had to think about helping out. Here, no one even asked for his help, and that made it worse. I'm not cut out for this group stuff, he thought, sighing.
Elara nudged him toward the group. "Stand with the others. When you're ready, step forward and heal a patient. Take your time."
Greg nodded, joining the line of priests and priestesses. Up close, he noticed how striking they all were: sharp jawlines, bright eyes, like models from his old world. He hadn't seen his own face clearly yet, just blurry glimpses in water. Am I one of them now? he wondered, shaking it off. He focused on the healers, listening to their chants. Each muttered something different, a mix of prayers and personal words, all blending into a low hum. How do they not get distracted? Greg thought. He'd trip over his words in a second with all this noise.
Patients trickled in, one by one, with cuts, bruises, or limps. Greg watched the healers work, then decided to jump in. When a gap opened a moment when the others weren't ready he stepped forward, pretending to mutter, "Uh, light of the Goddess, can you perhaps fix this guy?" He thought, Heal, and a soft flash sealed a man's gashed arm. The man grinned, thanking him. Greg stepped back, faking a tired look, like he was still practicing.
Hours dragged on, and Greg's legs screamed from standing. He kept healing when he could, muttering nonsense to blend in. No blue screen popped up, though no level-up. Guess Level 6 needs more juice, he thought, frustrated.
A bell rang, sharp and clear, signaling the end of the session. The priests and priestesses filed toward the dining hall. Elara approached, her smile kind. "Good work, Greg. You did well today."
He shifted, nervous. "Thanks. Uh, when can I be a real priest? Like, help the adventurer's guild out there?"
Elara's eyes widened, surprised but pleased. "You're eager! That's good. But be patient. Practice healing here for fifteen more days. It'll prepare you. The more you heal, the stronger your magic grows."
Greg's heart sank. He knew healing gave XP, but it was probably ten times slower than slaying monsters. Fifteen days of this? Still, he nodded. "Got it. Thanks, Elara." He headed to the dining hall, bracing for another sad meal.
For the next fifteen days, Greg fell into a grind. He slept past morning prayers no one woke him, so noon was his start time. Wash up, choke down lunch, head to the healing hall, fake chants, heal patients, and wait for the bell. Then dinner, the same awful soup and back to bed.
By the tenth day, a blue screen flashed: Level Up! Level 6 reached. Health +20, Mana +20.
His max health hit 193, mana 163. He grinned, but the thrill faded fast. The routine was numbing, and the food never got better. By day fifteen, he was ready for anything to break the monotony, even another demon.