Lifestealer: Cursed Healer [A LITRPG Isekai Survival]

Symon pulled the thread back as the soldier collapsed. To say he forced it to retract wasn't quite accurate; in fact, he'd come to realise that calling it a thread was missing something. He'd begun to see the thread as more of a visual indication of something deeper, and not the actual weapon that drained vitality. It was as if the thread was a metaphor for something more complex that he couldn't quite grasp.

That was to say that despite the thread giving off the sense of a reluctant, slow retreat from the downed soldier, there was actually no time at all between when it stopped draining that one and started draining another. It felt a lot like one thread being in two places at once for the briefest of moments.

As such, the new victim's gasp of shock at the icy feeling of having his vitality drained was drowned out by the shouting of the other two remaining guards.

"Damnit, now we gotta carry him!"

"I ain't touching 'em, what if I catch it too?"

"It's a leech or something, man, I'm telling you. You can't just catch it."

"Everyone, calm down," Symon ordered, taking the opportunity to get a few steps back — out of sword range, but still close enough for the thread to work. They'd already shown they weren't just going to let Symon walk away, so his words were just a distraction. If he could weaken them enough with his magic, he'd be able to run away easily enough. He just had to keep things mostly peaceful for as long as possible.

"Hey, he's trying to run!" said the soldier whose vitality was quickly being leeched. With the empowered speed, it would take around a minute before he collapsed, but he'd be weakened enough before then that Symon would be able to run away. Of course, there were still the two other guards, who'd immediately started moving for Symon again.

Symon briefly wondered why people could be so unreasonable. He'd tried to explain his magic to them and been ignored, which had led to this. It was completely avoidable, but that didn't stop him from drawing his sword.

<Just First Steps, but that scarred one is close to Second,> Keelgrave warned.

Considering his own Swords skill was only in the single digits, he didn't have much chance in honest combat. You only needed a single ability above level twenty to be considered on the First Step, but exactly which abilities were over the threshold mattered. Not only would these men have a Swords skill far above Symon's, but their abilities given by their Class were also likely past the threshold, too. They probably weren't anything flashy — they rarely were, for these Warrior types — but you didn't need to look cool to kill. There was nothing Hollywood about a knife in the heart before you could even see it coming.

Even ignoring the numbers disadvantage, he would have had a tough time winning. Sparing the briefest of glances up to the canopy, he couldn't spot Entisse. He would have thought she would have joined in by now, but he was worried she might be a little overconfident in his abilities. He'd barely been here a few weeks, not enough to put him on the same level as trained soldiers. His healing and draining were powerful, but his other skills were comparatively useless.

This issue was highlighted by the rapid approach of the soldiers. He assumed his best interpretation of a defensive stance, but it proved largely ineffective.

The power of their raw attributes and levels quickly brought them into melee range, where they immediately attacked. They didn't even bother using their own swords, the disdainful gleam in their eyes making it clear they didn't think they needed weapons to win.

A fist shot toward Symon's stomach, hitting him almost before he could even register it coming. It lifted him off his feet, sending him flying a few metres before he impacted a tree, his sword spinning off into a bush.

Some splinters broke off with the force of his landing, but the injuries were minor, all things considered. It didn't even hurt much, though all the air had been driven from his lungs.

They didn't seem to be taking the fight seriously as they slowly approached. One of them even paused, folding his arms and allowing his companion to continue onward as he spared a glance back at the other members of his squad. The one Symon had weakened was being helped to his feet, but he was clearly completely out of it.

"Oooh, I do like it when they struggle," the scarred soldier said as he approached.

Symon shifted the thread to the one approaching him, though he kept the draining unempowered. Predictably, he didn't react as he strolled up to Symon and pulled his leg back to deliver a kick. As soon as the boot descended — just leather, fortunately — he empowered the draining, sending an icy shiver down the soldier's spine. The moment of hesitation gave Symon the time he needed to roll to the side, avoiding the attack and sending his own leg sweeping out in response.

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The attack sent the man tumbling to the ground. Not wanting to give him a chance to recover, Symon leapt onto him and began raining blows down on his face. It was difficult to avoid the helmet, and his fists clipped the metal painfully more than once, but there was enough of a gap for him to get a few solid hits in on his chin.

But even when his fists met flesh, it still felt like he was slamming them into a brick wall. Meanwhile, he tried to pull as much vitality through the thread as possible. It might have been the better strategy to just stay on the defensive, taking injuries and healing them while he waited for the thread to weaken everyone enough for him to flee, but that felt too dispassionate.

He was annoyed that they'd responded so aggressively and picked a fight for no reason, but mostly he was worried for his friends. He needed to go make sure they were alright, and he was being kept from them!

"Enough playing," the one under Symon said before sweeping him off like a child and standing up. "We could have you branded for that, you know," he smirked before picking Symon up by the throat, his feet dangling under him.

"Fuck… you…" Symon gasped out as the soldier squeezed. He punched and slapped ineffectively for a few moments before realising this wasn't going to work. His vision was already darkening at the edges, something that he couldn't just heal away.

Another thread stirred in response to his burgeoning panic. Unlike the usual thickly corded dark grey, this was a gossamer-thin, midnight black string that extended up and off into the forest. It tended to fade into the background unless he focused on it, but now it was practically vibrating with eagerness.

The moment seemed to stretch on forever as his flailing attacks gradually weakened, but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds before a little blue bird alighted on his opponent's outstretched arm.

The two made eye contact. If his brain had any oxygen to spare, he might have found the confusion in the scarred soldier's eyes comical.

"What in the he—" was the last thing he said before Stitch unleashed his attack. It was a tiny, high-pitched cough. The undead bird didn't need to breathe, but he'd discovered it could still manually replicate most of the normal bodily processes when commanded. The cough by itself was more cute than dangerous, but there was a secret ingredient to this plan.

Pollen of the black rose.

A few spoonfuls were all the little bird could hold in its lungs, but that turned out to be more than enough.

The soldier instinctively pulled back from the black cloud, but Symon grabbed onto his arms and held him in place. He could have broken free with little effort, but he was already off balance and didn't have the time.

As soon as the pollen reached his face, the screaming started.

It echoed out through the forest, going on and on while everyone stared in silent horror. It was not a pleasant sound, even coming from someone who had been trying to hurt Symon. It only stopped when the soldier collapsed to the ground, emitting only a reedy, gurgling wheeze through his ruined face. He pulled his helmet off, hands clawing at his face in agony as his nails clawed furrows through the melting meat of his face, the flesh sloughing off as he scraped himself down to the bone.

Symon stared on, mouth wide in horror. "Oh, fuck… fuck, I didn't think it would…"

He knew it would be painful and debilitating, but he hadn't expected… this. Entisse hadn't reacted nearly as violently to the pollen, but he distantly registered that the solider must be full on mana where she had been nearly empty.

The soldier died with a final gurgle, and the thread pulled back slowly. Smugly, almost. It left Symon feeling vaguely satisfied, which mingled with the horror at what he'd just witnessed — what he'd just done — in his churning stomach. He forced down his rising bile, but one of the soldiers was unsuccessful in this regard.

When he managed to tear his eyes away from the corpse, little had changed with the rest of the squad. One of them was still completely out of commission after having a large chunk of his vitality drained, another was doubled over, emptying the contents of his stomach, while the remaining one — the man that had watched on impassively as his now dead friend strangled Symon — pointed his sword at Symon. The tip was wavering in the air.

"W-what in the hells did you do?!" he half demanded and half cringed.

"I… uh, didn't mean to," Symon stammered out. He swallowed through the dryness in his throat before continuing. "Listen, man, let's just forget this whole thing happened. No one else has to die. Your buddy in the back will be fine with some rest, too," he said. He wasn't sure how long that last part would take, though he'd bet it would be measured in days at the earliest. It was certainly a better fate than some. He gulped again. His throat felt tight.

The sword continued trembling in the air. The soldier clearly didn't know that the pollen attack was a one-time thing, at least until Stitch flew back and breathed down some more pollen. With a thought, he sent the bird to go do exactly that. It would only take a few minutes, and it wasn't like he would be useful for much more than a brief distraction before getting squished. He'd grown fond of the little bird, so that was out of the question.

He wasn't intending to use it on the soldiers again, but it was better to be prepared. He doubted these were the specific soldiers that had been sent with a mage powerful enough to bring down a whole city, but it was too much of a coincidence not to be related. These couldn't be their strongest soldiers. Having this disturbingly effective weapon in reserve could be the difference between life and death.

The sword held in the air wavered more intensely, particularly when Stitch flew past the soldier towards the manor. They'd gotten all turned around during the fighting. When the soldier gave a panicked swing towards the bird — and missed by a wide margin — Symon took that opportunity to snatch up the dead man's sword. It was a little longer and heavier than his one, but it would work well enough. It beat turning his back on his opponent to rifle through the bush that his had fallen in.

"You son of a bitch, you killed him!" the man shouted, having worked up the courage to confirm that he wasn't interested on moving on.

He approached with a confident stride that didn't match his expression. His sword came swinging for Symon moments after the thread latched on.

One way or another, more people were going to die.