The Gate Traveler

Before going to heal people, I finally checked my blinking red light.

Like I thought.

I put the free points into Creativity. It was at 47, and I was curious to see what it would get at 50.

I whooped, jumping up and down, then practically sprinted down the hall with the notification still floating in front of me like a glowing badge of honor. If Mahya dared call me Clueless again, I'd point to this milestone, especially the part about brilliance, and raise an eyebrow. Not a word needed. A full counterargument, locked and loaded.

Too bad she still hadn't come back.

I changed direction and made my way to Al's lab instead. I found him hunched over a bench, holding a tiny vial up to the light, and the whole lab stank of burnt herbs.

"Hey," I said, grinning. "Check this out."

He gave me a sideways glance, took in the glowing screen, and leaned in to read. As his eyes moved down the text, his expression slowly twisted into something between a frown and a man trying to do math while constipated. He blinked a few times, nodded slightly, then furrowed his brow even deeper. His fingers tapped against the bench, then against the side of his leg, then stopped entirely as he shifted from one foot to the other. He ran a hand through his hair, then scratched his temple like the words had given him an itch.

"What's the matter?" I asked, watching him twitch as if he were trying not to say something impolite.

Al didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed on the text, scanning it again, and his fingers drummed against the edge of the bench before going still.

"I must say," he finally said, his tone measured, "this is quite the accomplishment. Genuinely impressive."

I tilted my head and gave him a look. "But...?" I asked, drawing the word out just enough to make it clear I wasn't buying the pause.

He exhaled through his nose, then tapped one finger against the text. "But the part regarding unorthodox thinking concerns me."

He shifted his weight again and scratched his temple, clearly choosing his words. "Since you are a wizard," he said, in a serious tone, "I must admit I am concerned. All wizards are already quite unorthodox in their thinking. This milestone may only intensify that tendency. You might become... worse."

I stared at him, mouth hanging open.

Then I just turned around and walked out without a word.

No, I won't show this to Mahya.

Still annoyed, I set out to find people who needed help. For the first hour, I just wandered through the slums, healing anyone who looked like they needed it. Little by little, with each spell cast and each quiet thank you, the irritation faded. My mood lifted, though in a place like this, "good" was a stretch. It was hard to feel cheerful surrounded by so much bleakness, with the ruined city looming in the background. Also, my thoughts kept drifting back to my realization about Earth, weighing on me more than I liked.

After about an hour of weaving through narrow alleys and crumbling streets, I reached what had to be the center of the slums. It wasn't the center geographically, but the way people moved, gathered, and listened made it obvious this was the heart of the place.

It was a wide, open area, half covered in soot and flattened debris, but someone had cleared enough space for people to work. Three elderly people sat on makeshift stools around an overturned crate that served as a table. A slim woman with a sharp nose and gray-streaked braids barked orders with authority. Her sleeves were rolled up, and a smudge of ash streaked across one cheek. Kids came up to her in pairs or threes, listening as she pointed and spoke.

"Go check that all the fires on 7th Street have been put out," she told one group, her voice clipped. "If you see smoke, yell for help, don't try to put it out yourself."

To her left, a broad-shouldered man with burn marks on his arms leaned on his knees, speaking in low tones to a boy who looked barely old enough to lift a bucket. He nodded slowly, then waved the kid off toward the east.

The third adult was older, with a long, drooping mustache and one pant leg pinned where a limb had once been. He balanced a hand-drawn map on a slate across his knee, squinting down at it with a furrowed brow. After a moment, he tapped a spot with one crooked finger, then looked up at a trio of teenagers standing in front of him, waiting for instructions.

"Ask around on 4th and 5th," he said, his voice rough. "See who's got space. Even a dry floor will do for now. Make sure they know it's temporary, just until we can start fixing the collapsed homes."

One teen nodded, already turning to leave, before he added, "And if anyone's willing to take in kids, send them my way. We've got too many sleeping outside."

I stayed off to the side while they gave out orders, not wanting to interfere. But the one-legged man noticed me and gave a small wave, motioning me over with two fingers and a tired half-smile.

"You're the healer who's been working the slums since yesterday?" he asked, eyeing me up and down.

"Yes," I said.

He leaned back slightly, studying me. "You know we can't pay, right?"

"Yes."

"If you're hoping for some kind of reward from the Emperor, you can give that up right now," he said, a sharp edge sneaking into his tone.

"I wasn't hoping for anything like that," I said, shaking my head.

He raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

I gave a firm nod.

He squinted at me, lips pressing into a line. "Then why are you helping us?"

I shifted my weight, folding my arms across my chest. "I saw people who needed help, so I helped. When I graduated from Medi—" I cut myself off and corrected, "—when I finished my studies as a Healer, I swore to treat the sick to the best of my ability, to avoid causing harm or injustice, and to use my knowledge for the benefit of those in need. To me, helping people who can't pay is exactly what that oath is about."

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He stared for a moment, blinking slowly like he was trying to translate what I'd just said into something that made sense. That usual look Travelers get when they accidentally sound like they're from another world.

But then he gave a small nod, harrumphed softly, and patted the overturned crate next to him.

"Sit down. I'll send the children to bring you the sick."

He barked a few quick orders to some boys lingering nearby. "Go tell the families to bring their sick here. Anyone too weak to walk, carry them. Careful with the burns and broken bones."

The kids nodded and scattered in different directions.

He turned back to me, shifting his weight as he adjusted the slate resting on his knee. "So, where are you from, stranger?"

I hesitated, then opened my Map for a quick glance and chose the furthest name I could find. "From a different continent. Sansum, to be precise."

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought everyone there had red skin."

"They do. Well, the original people do," I said, closing the Map. "But there's a sizeable community of immigrants who settled there a few hundred years ago. Mixed roots, different backgrounds. I'm one of those."

He hummed under his breath and gave a thoughtful nod, eyes drifting back to the crowd forming in the square.

A thin woman limped into the square with a child on her hip and another clinging to her skirt. One of the boys guided her forward. She glanced at the man, then at me, unsure.

"Bring them over," he called to her. "This one's the healer."

I knelt beside the older child, who looked about eight. Burns and lacerations covered his arms and legs. I placed my hands gently on his chest and let the healing magic flow through him. His breathing steadied, and the tension eased from his small shoulders. His mother let out a shaky gasp and pulled him into her arms, holding him close.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice breaking.

I gave a small nod, still crouched beside them. "Let's take a look at the next little one."

The man waited quietly as I cast on the second child. When I was done, he gestured toward the crate beside him. "Come. Sit while they bring more. We'll talk."

I sat down beside him and stretched my legs out with a quiet sigh. He leaned forward on his crate, rubbing the side of his thigh where the leg used to be.

"How did you lose it?" I asked, keeping my tone even.

He gave me a sideways look. "Bit of a rude question, isn't it?"

I shrugged. "If I were asking out of morbid curiosity, sure. But I'm a healer. I'm asking because I care how it happened."

He studied me for a second, then let out a low hum and gave a slow nod. "Used to be an adventurer," he said, eyes on the edge of the square where more people were gathering. "Not a great one, but decent. Had a team I trusted. We were stupid. Young. Went into a dungeon we shouldn't have touched."

"What happened?" I asked.

He tapped the edge of the crate with one finger. "Ambushes," he said quietly. "Traps. Monsters we weren't ready for." His gaze drifted toward the ground, unfocused. His finger kept tapping. "We thought we had it mapped out. Thought we were careful. But we were wrong." He paused, swallowed hard, then gave a weak chuckle with no humor in it. "I was the only one who made it out. And I didn't even make it out whole." He reached down and thumped his stump with a flat palm. "My team... they were eaten. Gone. Armor, gear, rings with all the loot, and all the money too." He rubbed his forehead, eyes still far away. "I had a little on me, just enough. Used every coin to get myself patched up. It was enough for healing, but not for... you know. Not for growing anything back." He let his hand fall to his lap and exhaled slowly. "After that, there wasn't much left."

Another teenager came over, struggling under the weight of a man slumped across his shoulder. I stood up, pulled out my treatment table, and helped ease the man down onto it as gently as I could. His arm was wrapped in what looked like a shirt sleeve, now soaked with blood.

I carefully cut away the makeshift bandage, peeling back the blood-soaked cloth. The wound beneath was a deep, jagged gash, still oozing, the skin around it swollen and discolored. I pressed my hands to the injury and cast Healing Touch. As the surface began to knit itself closed, I ran a quick Diagnose to check for other damage. Crushed bones, torn ligaments, and severe internal bruising. Like he'd been pinned under something massive and barely dragged out. It took five full spells to repair the damage. When I was done, the man's breathing had steadied, and the tension in his jaw eased. He let out a low groan of relief, eyes fluttering open. He blinked up at me and gave a slow, tired nod.

"Thanks," he muttered as someone stepped in to help him to his feet. He swayed, unsteady, so I placed a hand on his shoulder and cast Fortify Life Force. That did the trick. A moment later, he straightened up, looking noticeably steadier.

He gave me another nod of thanks, this time with more clarity, and walked off without needing support.

I sat back down beside the older man.

"And you've been here since?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Nowhere else to go. And someone has to hold things together down here. I know what it's like to lose everything. Figured I'd be useful."

We sat in silence for a few breaths as more people trickled in. Cries of pain mixed with shouted names and hurried footsteps.

I glanced at him. "The attack yesterday—what was that about? Do you know?"

"Ah. Civil war. Kind of." He scratched his mustache. "See, the old Emperor died years ago. Left two sons behind. Instead of working it out like grown men, they fought. Split the empire in two. Then, in a stroke of genius, both of them named their half the Masarwaso Empire."

"Not very original," I said with a smile.

"Yep." He smirked. "Now, every few months, one of them decides they want to be the only Masarwaso Empire and sends soldiers to prove a point."

"Sounds... unstable."

"Very," he said flatly. "It's usually the western one. They like to go after outposts and border zones, enough to make people nervous, remind everyone they're still out there."

He paused, scanning the smoke curling above the rooftops.

"But this time, they hit the capital. Bold move. Maybe they're trying to send a bigger message, or maybe they're just getting desperate. Either way, it's not their usual way of doing things."

More wounded were coming into the square. I stood up again, already scanning the crowd.

He didn't stop me. Just nodded once. "Go on, Healer. We'll keep sending them."

I set up a proper treatment area in the middle of the square, nothing fancy, just my table, supplies, and a cleared patch of ground. People came in waves. Sometimes one or two, sometimes ten at a time, and I treated them as quickly as I could without cutting corners. Burns, broken bones, infections, exhaustion, whatever they brought, I did my best.

Between waves, I sat on the crate beside the one-legged man and finally remembered to introduce myself. He gave me a nod and said his name was Rony.

As the hours passed, I learned a lot from him. About the people who lived here. Most were orphans, widows with children, or people too old, sick, or injured to work. This world didn't have anything like pensions, disability, or social security. Once you couldn't pull your weight, you were kicked out. Period. If you had family to take you in, great. If not, you ended up here, scraping by, surviving hand to mouth.

But they hadn't given up. Rony explained how the slum worked more like a single organism than a collection of outcasts. The kids went out to beg on the streets, and the money they brought back was pooled together to buy food for everyone. They fished in the river when they could, bartered when they couldn't. Some of the younger widows worked in the brothels by choice or necessity, sending coin back to feed the rest.

As the square gradually emptied and the last of the wounded were either resting nearby or being helped away by children, I finally turned my attention back to Rony. He was still sitting on the crate, exactly where I'd left him, posture straight despite the long day. His eyes followed me with that same steady, unreadable expression he'd worn since morning.

I walked over and handed him a stack of pemmican strips and five bottles of water from my Storage. "Eat. Drink. You'll need the strength."

He looked down at the food, then back up at me, one brow slightly raised. His fingers hovered over the first strip, hesitant.

"You're going on the table next," I said simply.

That settled it. He gave a small nod and started chewing without a word.

When he finished the last bite and drained the last bottle of water, I nodded toward the treatment table. "Your turn."

His eyes narrowed slightly, like he wasn't sure whether I was serious or just messing with him. He didn't speak, but after a long moment, he reached under the crate and pulled out a cane. The end had a worn metal cup welded to it, shaped to fit over the stump of his leg. He secured it with a strip of cloth. With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet and limped toward the table in silence, not looking at me until he reached the edge and stopped. His eyes met mine again, still guarded, but he didn't turn away.

I just smiled and patted the surface. "Up."

He climbed on with a grunt and lay back stiffly. I cast Anesthesia, and the tension left his shoulders as he drifted into sleep.

The Diagnose spell showed me a map of slow decay. In addition to the missing leg, he had early-stage joint degeneration, worn cartilage in the knees, chronic fatigue, muscle loss, low bone density, and several deficiencies—iron, magnesium, vitamin D, and a dozen others.

I started with the easy fixes. Restored bone density. Repaired tissue damage. Stabilized his joints. Cleared up the scarring in his lungs. Then I moved on to the hard part—regrowing the leg.

He lasted longer than I expected. But eventually, his reserves gave out.

I stopped the Anesthesia. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused, and the moment I offered him food, he hesitated only a second before grabbing it. This time, there was no polite pacing. He devoured it like he hadn't eaten in days. The soup, bread, and water I gave him vanished in minutes. He didn't stop until he couldn't fit in another crumb or drop of water.

Then, without a word, he set the empty bowl aside and leaned back with a groan.

I put him under again.

Back to work.

It took hours. Cycles of healing, waking, feeding, and more healing. The leg developed slowly, growing tissue, nerves, bone, and skin. Inch by inch, wave by wave. Finally, around four in the morning, I let the last spell settle, stopped the Anesthesia, and brushed a hand over his shoulder.

"Hey," I said softly. "All done."

He stirred, blinked, then sat up slowly. His eyes went straight to his leg. Both legs. He didn't speak, just stared at the new limb, then reached out and touched it with a shaking hand. A breath hitched in his throat. Then, without warning, he pulled me into a tight, unsteady hug.

And he cried.

I almost cried too, but held it in. My throat tightened, and for a moment, all I could do was stand there, caught in the moment.

That was when I understood.

Not like a sudden bolt of realization. More like something quiet and solid settling into place. Maybe I had run from Earth. Maybe I left instead of staying and helping. I couldn't deny that. It was cowardice. At least partly. But standing there, holding Rony, feeling him shake with silent sobs, I realized something else. The help I gave out here, across strange skies and unfamiliar lands, still mattered. It mattered just as much. The fact that these people weren't from my world didn't make their pain any less real. Didn't make their lives any less worth saving.

It wasn't about where I was or who I was supposed to help. That had always been the wrong question. People are people, no matter the world they come from. If someone needs help, and I can help, that's the only thing that matters.

That's the only thing that ever mattered.

I felt the familiar clenching and unclenching ripple through my entire being, like my existence was being squeezed and released all at once. A wave of energy surged through me a moment later, washing over every nerve, leaving a faint hum in its wake.

Mana: 1,800/14,000

It jumped by 600 points.

I sighed. Mahya is going to kill me.