Accidental Healer-Chapter 135 - 49 - Bridling Passions

When I finally left town hall, it was still sometime in the night, the rain now just a light drizzle.

Norso was waiting for me on the steps, sitting with his forehead resting in his hands, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. A dark cloak concealed the chestplate armor beneath. The portico of our townhall protected Norso from the falling rain, the only part of him that was wet were his boots.

The door clicked shut behind me and Norso sat up. I stepped past him without a word and he shot to his feet following me into the rain. Even this late at night it was rare for the streets of Layton Mischief Township to be empty, but tonight seemed to be an exception. I peered up into the rain and felt the cool droplets run down my face.

Dark clouds rolled overhead, and thin wisps of mist hovered above the treeline.

"Was it like this in your world?" I asked, head still slightly tilted back, rain droplets falling across my lips.

"What?"

I turned to the dark elf. "You know. The system, normal people fighting, dying, to things you only ever saw in nightmares."

"Well, there are of course monsters and people die everyday. But to answer your question—no. It was not like this in my world, not like here."

"What was it like on—wherever you're from?"

"Malakor."

"Okay, Malakor, what was it like on Malakor when the system arrived?"

"There was a lot more death."

"More death?"

Norso studied me, and then sighed. "Our world cannibalizes itself. Wars and ambition consume Malakor and tribes devour each other."

"If that's true—shouldn't you be stronger than me? Or at least a higher level?"

"You would ask that." Norso laughed but there was an edge to it. "Not everyone is quite as strong as the people in your faction. Some of us get left behind."

"Ellison told me something similar. But his world is so much older than yours, he was born into a broken system."

"You might say it was the same for me." Norso shrugged, rain sliding off his cloak in rivulets.

"The strong understood immediately what levels and experience meant, those that had it hoarded it. Those that didn't schemed for it." He looked past me, into the dark. "Warlords rose and fell. "Like drowning men, they would latch onto anyone who came too close. Soon only a handful of the truly powerful remained, leaving the rest of us with nothing."

Norso smiled bitterly. "But the truth is, our planet is lost."

"Lost?"

"Soon, all that is left of our people will be swept away or enslaved by foreign nations."

"I–I'm sorry. Enora never told us."

Norso wiped away my words with a flick of his hand. "What do you have to be sorry for? It was our own doing."

I frowned, feeling the weight of his revelation settle on me. Norso's fate, the struggles of his people, their eventual downfall…could that be where earth was headed?

"You said our world was different?"

"I can't speak for your world." He paused, listening to the rolling thunder rumble across the mountains. "But your faction. You…"

The drizzle thickened again, fat droplets striking the ground.

"You should go home." I whispered. "Get some rest."

I turned away, taking a few steps.

"Layton."

I froze.

"Thank you."

The words hung in the air between us. Torrential rain hammered a percussive white noise washing away all other sound.

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"Get some rest." I repeated. "You can thank me once we both survive this trial."

***

One week later.

Durkil closed his eyes and enjoyed the familiar sensation of his liberator armor fitting itself perfectly over his well muscled frame. Months later he still couldn't believe Layton allowed him to keep the set. It still seemed like a dream.

He opened his status screen to remind himself of just how far he'd already come.

Level 42.

He blinked and an axe appeared in his left hand, a mace in his right. Ellison thought he was a fool for using both, and maybe he was. But so far he hadn't earned any skillbooks for using either and until he did, he saw no harm in duel wielding.

Besides, he thought, glaring across a field of tar like viscera and matted grass. These fiends deserved all the fury he could lay to bear for even daring to threaten the world his people were building with Faction LM.

A horde of chaos spawn champions or "Gremtaurs" as Layton called them, shook the earth as they charged full speed toward New Ulm.

Durkil Raised his mace high above his head, activating Champion's Aura boosting the strength and agility stat of every Guildian within a mile radius. The effect would stay active for the duration of the fight, but he would need to allow it to cool down for several hours after.

Suddenly, the air beside Durkil began to crackle. Within his helmet he pursed his lips. Daevon thought he was so special, harnessing the power of the heavens in his fingertips. Durkil refused to even peek in his direction.

Honestly, he could be so vain, it really wasn't even that—

BOOM!

White swallowed the world, then shredded away into gray smoke. The first Gremtaur disintegrated and lightning leapt—hungry—into the next. Then the next. By the fourth jump it was already waning, but not enough to spare the sixth, which detonated in a spray of molten flesh.

In seconds, six Gremtaur were exited from the fight. Durkil could almost sense the smug grin planted on his friend's face. And he had to admit, although he'd never tell Daevon, his power was truly impressive.

Durkil shifted his feet restlessly.

"You have no patience, Durkil." Ellison had to shout to be heard over the cacophony of spells and skills being unleashed upon the oncoming Gremtaurs.

Durkil turned to the older Guildian. Ellison waited, stoic as ever, thin longsword at his waist. The bronze buckles on his full polished leather armor gleamed. In short, he exuded the air of a curated diplomat.

Despite his elegant appearance Durkil was well aware Ellison was gradually becoming a dangerous and capable combatant in his own right.

"I have patience, what would you call this?" He asked, gesturing at himself. "Waiting my turn just like you asked."

"Do you really want to be out there?" Ellison pointed with his head as another bolt of lightning vaporized a half dozen Gremtaurs. "Besides, I wasn't talking about that."

Durkil raised an eyebrow under his helmet. "No?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"You don't reach level 500 in a day. A tree shouldn't outgrow its roots."

"I'm not a tree, Ellison."

"That's true. I'd say you're more like a seed." Durkil felt more than he saw Ellison's playful smile. "But maybe one day."

The Guildians were doing an admirable job stemming the flow of the incoming charge of enemies, but it wasn't enough. Durkil adjusted the grip on his mace. What exactly was Ellison trying to say? Was he outgrowing his roots?

In the back of his mind an image of Layton appeared. His brown hair tousled, a broad smile stretching across his face. Grey healer robes hung loose over his thin frame, spirit weapon resting patient at his hip.

Would Ellison give the same advice to the boy Durkil now beheld in his mind's eye? The young man that was hardly more than a few years his elder?

Maybe.

Strangely, whenever Ellison challenged him it was Layton who he thought of. He admired his love of life, his meekness and willingness to recognize his faults, his quiet desire to help others, and the kindness he showed to even the lowliest member of his faction. Were these the roots that Ellison was talking about?

What were his roots then?

By now, Durkil could feel the ground shaking. The Guildians, the ones more suited for ranged volleys, retreated.

He looked down at his weapons, one in each hand. The axe disappeared and Durkil clasped the mace in both hands.

His roots.

Loyalty, passion, brutality, focus, desire all swirled about in his head and he realized, they all defined him. And yet—they weren't him.

And then it clicked.

He swung his mace forward. The blow connected with bone-shattering force, heavy steel met with dense muscle and sinew.

Steel won.

The Gremtaur's chest exploded, its body contorting at an unnatural angle. Durkil hopped the ruined body, another monster waiting on the other side. He used his momentum and the weight of his body in armor to deliver another haymaker into an exposed face. It split like a rotten melon.

Through the rain of crimson, Durkil realized something, it wasn't his definitions that were his roots, it was how he harnessed them.

An ethereal mace materialized, extending for fifteen feet, hammering to the earth. The two Gremtaur unlucky enough to be within the range of his skill were flattened into the ground, legs splayed to all sides.

Body by body Durkil carved his way through the enemy. Killing was never something that Durkil struggled with. It came naturally. Even when he had no experience, he'd bridged the gap with unbridled desire and fury. It's who he'd needed to be—for his people.

The mace faded into his storage. He wrapped his long arms around a champion's torso, flexing. Bones creaked, then cracked collapsing in on themselves.

Now though, he needed to be something greater.

He swept the forelegs out from another Gremtaur, finishing it with a backswing through its throat.

A strange peace descended on Durkil. Like a falling leaf floating on the breeze.

A new order has been born. Would you like to add your name to a list of applicants within faction Layton Mischief?