Mary Mason left for class.
When she was around, the clinic felt like a legitimate medical facility. The moment she left, it became Ethan Rayne's "Holy Light training room."
He glanced at his watch. This time slot was always the quietest—when the clinic had the fewest people.
He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and walked toward the operating table.
On the table lay a turkey covered in various suture marks—the "test subject" Mary had just been practicing on.
Ethan raised both hands, gazing at the long-dead turkey, and murmured softly.
"Resurrection."
His palms warmed slightly. A pale golden glow seeped from between his fingers, like tiny currents winding through the air and drilling into the turkey's body.
A few seconds later, it twitched.
Its chest swelled. Its throat made a strange "cluck—" sound.
Ethan held his breath, watching.
The ripple of life was brief and fragile. It flickered for a few seconds before quickly collapsing.
The turkey went limp again.
"Seven seconds." Ethan sighed. "One more than last time."
He scribbled a few messy lines in Japanese in his notebook:
"Resurrection—activates heartbeat for approximately seven seconds. Higher concentration = longer survival time. Next step: Try chaining Resurrection with Greater Heal."
The Japanese characters were his little secret—something he'd picked up from anime and manga over the years, then studied more seriously in college. Almost no one who came through the clinic could read Japanese anyway, and even if someone could, he could always claim he was just practicing the language or writing game notes.
After all, World of Warcraft actually existed in this world.
Ever since discovering he had priest abilities, Ethan had been practicing constantly. More than ten years had passed, and he'd mastered nearly every skill—except "Resurrection," which still didn't match the game's mechanics. In reality, resurrected animals usually only survived for a few seconds. Today's seven seconds was his best record yet.
He looked up at the turkey, debating whether to try again.
Just then—the bell rang.
Ding—
The door opened, and an old man walked in.
His head was wrapped in clean white bandages covering a wound on the back of his skull. His white hair was thin as frost, his face clean but carved with the lines of age.
A dark brown sweater hung loosely on his frame, the thin bones of his neck looking particularly fragile beneath the collar.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Rayne."
John Kramer said softly.
Ethan paused, then smiled. "Mr. Kramer. Didn't expect to see you again so soon."
"I just came from the hospital."
John Kramer set down his briefcase and pulled out a stack of reports. "The doctors couldn't explain it. They could only call it—a miracle."
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "A few weeks ago, they said I had only months left. Now, they're telling me surgery is an option."
Ethan took the reports and opened them.
On the MRI images, the dark shadowed areas had clearly shrunk—the kind of "lesion regression" that should be impossible, now visible to the naked eye.
"So why didn't you choose to have the surgery at the hospital?" Ethan asked.
John looked at him intently. "Because I appreciate rules. When we first met, you established the rules. I followed them. Games need rules. So does life. People fear death only because they've never understood the meaning of 'survival.'"
He pulled out a check and gently pushed it across the table.
"One hundred thousand dollars."
Ethan's gaze stopped on the paper, somewhat surprised.
John smiled. "You said—treat first, if effective, pay and proceed to the next step."
"I remember you questioning me at the time," Ethan said. "You told me I was wasting a dying man's time."
"That was directed at those who don't know how to cherish life." John's tone was calm. "I despise people who break their word. Whether in games or in life, rules must be followed."
"You're a lot more talkative than last time."
"When you face death and come back once, words become heavier than blood." John smiled faintly. "The patients in that hospital—they pray, break down, despair, indulge themselves just to survive. In that moment I understood: the living fear the truth more than the dead do."
"So you want to continue treatment?"
"Of course."
Ethan nodded and stood up, pulling on gloves.
He felt a little uneasy.
Sitting before him was just an old, sick man—late-stage brain cancer, weak and emaciated.
One "Holy Fire" from Ethan could purify him completely.
But it was precisely this man who made his body instinctively tense, flooding him with an uncontrollable sense of vigilance and wariness.
Some people instilled fear through violence. Others did it through psychology. Jigsaw's victims feared him—certainly not because they couldn't beat him in a fight.
A man who designed countless death games, even on his last breath, sent chills down your spine.
What made it even more unsettling was that those games, as horrifying as they were, had a twisted logic you couldn't quite deny.
John Kramer had been Rayne Clinic's very first patient.
The day the sign went up, he pushed through the door and said:
"Dr. Rayne, I want to play a game with you."
Ethan hadn't caught on immediately. But the moment he recognized him as "Jigsaw" John Kramer, he froze completely.
John Kramer wore a smile—not threatening, but appraising, as if weighing whether someone was "worth keeping alive."
Ethan forced out a response: "I don't play games. I just save people."
John told him about his late-stage brain cancer, how he'd been scammed by con artists peddling "cocktail therapy." What happened to those people afterward, John didn't say—but Ethan could probably guess.
When John saw the sign that read "Healing Beyond Medicine," he decided to come inside.
To see if this was another scam, or if there really was a miracle to hope for.
Ethan suggested he try one treatment first, then go back to the hospital for a follow-up.
If it worked, he'd pay and continue.
The rules were simple.
John accepted them.
Now, this was the second visit.
John lay down calmly, his gaze fixed on the surgical lamp. The light formed a ring in his pupils, like the entrance to some ritual.
Ethan took a deep breath and gently placed his hands on John's chest and the back of his neck.
He closed his eyes and began recalling the sequence from last time.
Power Word: Fortitude—temporarily increases vitality.
Heal—instantly repairs damaged tissue.
Renew—allows life force to flow slowly through the body, mending and regenerating.
Abolish Disease—eliminates lurking lesions.
The warmth in his palms gradually increased. The air seemed to refract light.
A soft golden glow spread from his fingers, seeping into John's body.
The rhythm of blood flow intertwined with his heartbeat, as if the entire world were breathing in sync.
Just a few minutes later, Ethan's forehead was covered in fine beads of sweat.
He lowered his voice. "That should do it..."
The light slowly faded.
He released his hands and exhaled deeply.
John sat up quietly.
His complexion was more ruddy than when he'd arrived, his eyes showing a clarity and sharpness that had been absent for a long time.
"How do you feel?" Ethan asked.
John pressed his lips together, his voice low. "My brain... no longer feels like it's being constantly squeezed. This time, I can be certain—it's more effective than last time."
He paused, his gaze deepening.
"Doctor, you've made me think of a question."
Ethan looked at him. "What question?"
"If a person possesses the ability to save others," John said slowly, "does he also have the right to decide—who deserves to be saved?"
Ethan was silent for a moment before answering. "I'm not a judge."
"But you decide who gets to come back from death."
"I don't decide." He shook his head. "I just heal."
The corner of John's mouth curved into an almost imperceptible smile. "Then I'm truly very fortunate."
The air became stagnant, with only the indicator lights on the equipment blinking.
Ethan said nothing more.
He removed his gloves and walked behind the counter, quietly cleaning the operating table.
John stood and straightened his coat.
"Thank you, Doctor," he said. "I don't fear death. But you've given me more time—to save those who are still alive, yet already dead."
The bell chimed softly. John Kramer left.
Ethan stood under the light, watching that figure disappear.
After a long while, he finally picked up the check and smiled bitterly.
"The most dangerous patient... is it too late to turn this into a veterinary clinic?"