The Bloodforged Kin

Zavier sat in the bathtub, warm water up to his waist. He had the drain cracked open just enough to maintain perfect clarity - water flowing in at the same rate it escaped. Crystal clear water was essential for what was coming next.

The argument with Tess burned in his memory. Neither of them had chosen a healing skill at level five, and when Cass had taken that gauntlet blast during the Scamperer fight, they'd stood helpless as their son bled. Completely dependent on the Bouchards for salvation, armed with nothing but basic first aid and desperate prayers. What happened when the Bouchards weren't there? What happened when someone was dying and they could only watch?

He glanced at the party chat - the twins hunting with Maisy, Tess out with his chain, all of them growing stronger while he remained static. His heart hammered against his ribs as he studied the implements arranged on the closed toilet seat: healing pills, Chloe's numbing compound, the emergency injector, and a box knife sharp enough to split skin cleanly.

The logic was elegant. The Bouchards had proven you could earn skills through obsessive practice outside of combat. Owen's brewing mastery came from countless hours of experimentation. Madison's invention skills bloomed through endless building and testing. Chloe's chemical analysis had developed through deliberate exposure to controlled substances. If Zavier was going to earn a healing skill - and God knew they desperately needed someone in the family who could handle medical emergencies - he needed to understand anatomy at a level no textbook could provide.

And there was no universe in which he would experiment on anyone else.

After the zoo, he'd brought the Bouchards bags of the butterfly creatures, watching in fascination as Chloe analyzed their effects. He'd nearly launched himself across their table when she opened the bag and slid her arm inside, but she'd stopped him with an upraised hand.

"It's fine," she'd said with the calm of someone who'd walked through fire before. "I have a skill that allows me to safely absorb chemicals and monitor their reactions within my body. It helps me create better and more effective potions."

She paused, eyebrows drawing together as the butterflies settled on her skin. "Interesting. They're not using proboscises as expected. Instead, they're merging their bodies with mine on a cellular level through their feet, directly injecting chemicals and bypassing pain sensors entirely."

Zavier's eyes had gone wide, alarm shooting through him, but Owen had simply waved off his concern. The casual gesture of a man who'd watched his wife dance with death a thousand times before. "She'll be fine. Always is."

Chloe continued her clinical dissection of the experience with the professional detachment of a coroner reading autopsy results. "The anesthetic powder in their wings eliminates all sensation - you can't even feel the beat of their wings against your skin. The powder is magically absorbed, traveling rapidly to the brain and releasing serotonin, dopamine, endorphins, and oxytocin simultaneously. Quite a cocktail. I imagine you felt euphoric covered in them."

Her expression shifted to surprise. "Oh! Melatonin is being released now. If I weren't actively focusing, I'd be drifting off to sleep." Another pause, her eyes widening. "Fascinating. Once they sensed the melatonin, they reversed their process - absorbing my life energy instead. About one percent per ten butterflies per minute for someone my size and level. Trivial in small doses, but if you were drugged into blissful unconsciousness and covered in hundreds of these..." She trailed off meaningfully.

She gently shook them off, extracting her hand without harming a single creature. "What do you want for them?"

Zavier smiled, gesturing at the beast cores and supplies they'd brought. "Let's not get transactional. We're friends. You can have the butterflies - I can't wait to see what you create from them. But I do have a request, if it's possible. After experiencing their effects, I thought of something that might be useful for my attempts at learning a new skill."

When he'd explained his theory about earning healing skills through anatomical study, Chloe had leaned forward with scientific interest rather than horror. "If anyone could push the System to recognize medical expertise through direct study, it would be someone willing to use themselves as the subject. The intensity factor alone might accelerate skill development exponentially."

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Owen had nodded slowly, his weathered face thoughtful. "Makes sense. System rewards dedication and risk-taking. Can't get more dedicated than cutting yourself open for knowledge."

Now, rolling Chloe's creation across his forearm, Zavier felt vindicated as numbness spread instantly. Full range of motion, absolute absence of sensation. He tested the compound's efficacy with the box cutter against his palm, tensing as crimson welled up from the cut, then relaxing as he felt nothing.

This wasn't reckless experimentation. This was controlled research conducted with scientific rigor. He had healing pills to maintain his health above critical thresholds. He had the injector for emergencies. He'd studied medical diagrams for weeks, memorizing every detail. Most importantly, he had pharmaceutical-grade anesthesia that would allow him to work with surgical precision instead of writhing through agony.

The family needed this. He needed this. Every time they ventured into danger, every time one of them took damage, they were gambling on whether the Bouchards would be available to save them. This was his path to independence, his way to become their guardian instead of their burden.

He began with methodical precision, flaying skin and muscle from his hand with the focused intensity of a scholar. Rivers of blood spiraled down the drain as he catalogued each layer, each structure, burning the knowledge into his memory while hoping the System recognized his dedication.

Hours passed. Zavier stood on unsteady legs, sealing the nearly empty container of healing pills. Through his arm, hand, and shoulder, he'd conducted meticulous anatomical study, taking pills whenever his health dropped below fifty percent to maintain controlled conditions.

Something felt wrong, though. His left side felt disconnected, as if the signals between brain and limb were traveling through static. The healing pills had restored his health and tissue, but systematic dissection and regeneration of an entire limb in one session had created some kind of systemic strain the System couldn't fully address. He'd need to discuss optimization with Chloe.

Still, the knowledge gained was invaluable. He understood muscle attachments, nerve pathways, blood vessel placement in ways no textbook could have taught him. If this didn't trigger healing skill recognition, nothing would.

He heard the front door open and quickly concealed the evidence, then made his way to the couch on trembling legs. The twins burst in, dirt-streaked and glowing with the satisfaction of successful hunters, while Tess followed with the pleased expression of an evening well spent.

Later, as she leaned down to kiss his forehead, Tess said, "I noticed you cut off your feed just after we left."

His heart lurched, but she smiled with genuine warmth. "I'm so proud of you, honey. You trusted us to be okay. That's a big step."

He kissed her back, guilt churning in his stomach.

Weeks passed in the same pattern. The twins approached level ten, Tess reached twelve, and every night Zavier continued his anatomical research. Arms, legs, shoulders - each session providing deeper understanding of human physiology while nudging his healing skill development forward. He could swear that he felt something building in the System's recognition, distant thunder gathering on the horizon.

But his credit with the Bouchards was nearly exhausted, and tonight he was down to his final numbing compound and last healing pills.

Tonight had to be definitive. If controlled limb study wasn't sufficient to trigger the skill, he needed to understand the torso - the critical region where combat injuries would prove most immediately lethal. When someone took a blade to the gut or shrapnel to the chest, he needed to know exactly what he was seeing and how to address it.

His family was out hunting as a group, having pleaded with him to join them. He'd deflected with research excuses, earning a concerned look from Tess.

"You obsess, Z," she'd said. "You need to get out there and level."

"I'm holding you back," he'd replied. "I need to find other ways to contribute."

The tenderness in her eyes had nearly shattered his resolve. Part of him had wanted to confess everything - explain the healing skill theory, show her his progress, seek her input on the experimental methodology. But he'd learned to deliver results rather than promises.

Now, sitting in the tub with water barely covering his hips, he applied the last of the numbing compound across his stomach and chest. The dosage that had worked flawlessly on thick muscle tissue seemed less effective on the thinner skin covering his organs, but he had four pills and the emergency injector. Multiple safeguards for controlled risk.

He drew a steadying breath, mirror in one hand, kitchen knife in the other. The moment he opened the abdominal wall, he knew he'd miscalculated catastrophically. His intestines spilled out, and his health plummeted from full to critical in heartbeats.

He dropped the knife and lunged for the injector, his trembling hand sending the injector skittering across the toilet seat to fall off the other side.

As darkness pressed against the edges of his vision he managed one last message to Tess:

"I'm sorry. I love you."