Lifestealer: Cursed Healer [A LITRPG Isekai Survival]

Symon woke up in a good mood. He was shaping up to have a busy day ahead of him, filled with training and preparation, but that was fine. More than fine, really. With the dungeon in spitting distance, he finally had a clear path to getting his magic under control. It would be dangerous, very much so, according to the scattered notes left by Lady Renske — she hadn't even entered it properly — but he was used to the danger by now.

At least it would have a purpose beyond being for simple survival. When he finally got a handle on his magic, he'd be able to do… well, whatever he wanted. He wanted to use his magic to help people, but he didn't want to spend all of his second life as some completely selfless monk. He hadn't had much of a proper childhood, or really much of a life at all. He'd been sick for almost all of his life, then, when he miraculously recovered, he was so focused on giving back that everything else just fell to the wayside.

This new life was a second chance, both to complete that dream but also to experience all the things he'd missed out on. This wasn't some grand bucket list, but the more mundane banalities of human existence that most people wouldn't think twice about as they passed by. Travelling, living in his own house or apartment, going out with his friends just for fun. That was a big one: he hadn't exactly had time to be Mr. Popular.

To do all that, he needed to make use of the dungeon. To do that, he wanted the full team with him.

So where were they?

He leaned against the same dead tree he'd been leaning against for the past hour, tapping his foot impatiently. It wasn't like the others to be late, especially Aslan. There might have been some trepidation about the training needed to get through the barrier, but he wouldn't just not show up without any warning.

"Something's wrong," he said, breaking the silence.

"Oh?" Entisse said, looking up at him from where she was sitting next to him, slumped against the same tree. Stitch was in her cupped hands where she had been 'studying the blood' of the little undead bird. He was pretty sure she just found him cute.

"They were supposed to get here a little after sunrise, but it's been—" he glanced up at the Suns in the sky, their light filtered through the thick canopy "—way longer than that."

She slowly stood up with the same languid, predatory grace she always exhibited, even despite sitting cross-legged in the same spot for hours. Stitch hopped up to her shoulder, the one remaining stabilising wing in the back fluttering madly. "What manner of ail befalls them?"

"Uh, I'm not sure. Celebrated too hard and overslept?" he guessed, but the words didn't feel right even as he said them. He had a bad feeling about this.

"Are we to wait or investigate?"

"Investigating," he said immediately. "Although you should probably stay here. I doubt the village would react well, and there's always a chance word about you gets back to the mainland." They still weren't sure why she'd been captured in the first place, so they couldn't tell how serious the Imperials would be about re-capturing her. He figured it wasn't worth the risk to find out.

She shook her head. "I will escort your soft form through the forest and remain there while you deal with the humanlings."

He was about to defend himself from being called soft, but reconsidered it after remembering her claws had cut through the living armour. "Fine, will you be okay alone in the forest?"

She gave him a look that seemed to imply the answer was obvious.

"Forget I said anything, Miss Bloodfang Huntress."

They set off at a rapid pace, long strides eating up the distance between the manor and Brackstead. Neither beast nor monster attacked them, and the forest itself was quiet. A little too quiet.

When Entisse paused her loping gait, he was already ready for action.

"Footsteps. Metallic," she said stiffly.

"More living armours?" he asked, confused. He wasn't sure how they would have looped all the way around to be coming from Brackstead's direction.

"No, I feel the blood. They are humans. Several of them."

That wasn't good news. She wasn't able to differentiate people by her sense of blood alone, but the metallic sounds meant it wasn't the Dumosans: only Aslan wore a chainmail shirt, but she heard too many distinct sources. It just didn't add up.

Symon quickly decided on a plan. "Just like the armours. You hide, I try and handle things. If that doesn't work… well, we'll get to it when we get to it."

He stood clearly in the middle of two trees, making himself visible. There was no path through the forest, so this was the best they'd get. Entisse quickly pointed him in the right direction before scrambling up a tree. She burrowed into the dense canopy and, even knowing where she was, he had a difficult time making her out.

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With a hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword, he began strolling slowly towards the source of the noise. It wasn't long before he could hear it himself, and not much longer after before the sources revealed themselves.

Four suits of armour strolled side-by-side out through the vegetation, the styles vaguely reminiscent of the sets found in Lady Renske's manor. Where they differed was that they clearly had people inside them: instead of the full helm he was familiar with, they were wearing ones that only protected the top half of their heads, the metal stopping around their eyes and nose. They kind of reminded him of Viking helmets — the historical ones, not the horned version he'd seen in movies.

All pairs of eyes immediately locked onto Symon. They each had their swords drawn, but didn't make any immediate aggressive overtures.

"Hello gentlemen," Symon started nervously. "What brings you to this neck of the woods? Literally, hah."

The two front figures shared a glance before refocusing on Symon. While speaking, he noticed a small patch on the side of their armour. It was red and gold, the colours of the Empire, but decidedly less fancy-looking than the guards he was used to. Those had capes, while these were much closer to a modern Earth army's medals and decorations. For that matter, the more he looked, the simpler their attire was.

They had a metal breastplate, arm bracers, and shin guards, but it was a far cry from the full body coverage the Baron's guards had boasted. Their armour had been unmarred and beautiful, even to Symon's untrained senses, while these were dirtied and had more than their fair share of scratches and dents.

"You are the healer?" the figure on his left asked. His voice was gravelly, and he was probably in his early thirties, though Symon felt like he'd had a rough life. A few scars were present on visible bottom half of his face, and his eyes were harsh as they peaked through slits in his helmet.

"That would be me. Symon, to be precise. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You are being summoned for investigative purposes," the same man said. As one, they began walking towards him, before giving him an order, "Do not resist."

Symon hopped backwards, raising his hands in a gesture he hoped was placating. "Um, about that. There's this magic thing, people shouldn't get close to me or—"

"Convenient," the figure on the right spoke, his first words of the encounter. "What's next, your daddy's an Earl?"

Symon sighed. "Okay, I already see where this is going. Why don't you sort things out with the Baron's guards? I squared things away with, what was it… ah, Guard Captain Fons!"

The same guard scoffed, stepping into his range. His thread twitched eagerly, but he shifted it to one of the trees before it could target the other man. By now, he'd already killed most of the larger plants, giving him a short window to either move or accept he'd be targeting the others. "As if we'd trust a word from those stuck-up bastards. Never done a day of real soldierin' I'd wager."

The other one nodded. "Aye, that's true. A little healer all alone in some beast woods, I wonder what he's up to?" he asked, though it felt like he was talking just to talk and wasn't expecting an answer. "Either way, we're going to give you a nice close escort back to our commander for a proper questioning. Don't try and run, you'll just get a sword in your thigh, then we'll have to carry you. That'll just piss us off, and you wouldn't want that."

These soldiers hardly seemed like the most upstanding men in the world, but that didn't mean he wanted to drain them to death. Although, the timing is a bit too perfect to be a coincidence… what are the chances these are the same soldiers who attacked Entisse's people? Still, even a minute or so wouldn't be lethal, but it would be enough to make them take him seriously. With a shrug, he stopped focusing on his thread, allowing it to snap to the vitality-rich targets. "Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you."

"Yeah, yeah, just start walking and there won't be any problems."

Symon started walking in the direction they'd come from. The rear pair of guards moved behind Symon, forming a tight square around him. True to their word, they didn't do anything beyond stand uncomfortably close to him. He wasn't sure if he should be empowering his draining or not: they'd be able to feel it if he did, which would hopefully resolve the whole misunderstanding faster, but they could also just interpret it as a deliberate attack. He elected to continue the stealthy approach, already knowing they'd feel the effects soon enough.

"Why in the hells is a Healer out all by himself anyway? These woods ain't safe," one of the soldiers prompted. Contradicting his words, he'd gone so far as to sheathe his sword at his side.

"Oh, just out for a stroll. Stretching my legs and all that," Symon supplied. Judging by their expressions, no one believed him, but they hadn't believed him about his magic either.

As predicted, it took a little less than a minute for the soldier he was inadvertently targeting to realise something was wrong. He blinked hard a few times, as if trying to wake himself up. "Shit, man, I don't feel so hot."

The only soldier who hadn't yet spoken leaned forward and looked him over. "Aww hells, probably a fuckin' leech or some shit."

Symon stifled the urge to chuckle, turning it into a cough. If only they knew how close they were. Well, I did try to tell them…

The noise must have given the soldier with the cruel eyes an idea, because he turned to Symon. "Hey, Healer, how about you fix my pal here and I put in a good word for you, yeah?" he asked.

"A good word for me? What did I even do wrong?" he asked innocently. It was kind of satisfying to watch the soldier sway dizzily: he had no one to blame for this but himself, so Symon didn't feel that bad. Once they'd been weakened enough, he could simply walk away. He was constantly worrying about his draining, and if someone wanted to make it impossible for him, why even bother?

The soldier opened his mouth to say one thing, but seemed to change his mind after looking at his friend. "Maybe I just leave you behind with a sword in the thigh, how about that? Think you could heal your leg fast enough to get out before a beastie found you? If we're really lucky, maybe you'll even lure out that elf bitch and—"

One moment, Symon was listening to the threats, and the next, something heavy had slammed into his side and sent him sprawling to the floor.

As a trickle of vitality began repairing his bruised ribs, he instinctively held onto his thread, pulling vitality through faster to ensure he maintained a full vessel.

"You dumbass, we're supposed to bring him back in one piece. He's a citizen, not like those savages," one of the soldiers said.

"Little fuck was reaching for his poker!" one of the soldiers shouted defensively. Symon frowned as he began pushing himself upright. Had he? Everything had happened so fast, he wasn't sure.

"The hell was that for?" Symon grunted once he pulled himself up to his full height, his injury already healed. At the same moment, the one he'd been draining collapsed to the ground.