Touch of Healing

Its purity had risen? Did that mean the numbers themselves hadn't changed? The question nagged at him, so he opened his status window. The Healing stat he had just gained stood at a staggering 250. Merely possessing the single skill Touch of Healing had multiplied the previous figure fivefold.

Can't complain about that.

There had also been a message that Healing's purity had increased, and he knew well enough that it didn't simply mean the number had gone up.

It means I can draw out power beyond the raw figure, doesn't it?

The result was deeply satisfying. Honestly, even a twofold increase would have counted as good luck. Fivefold went without saying.

"Dad, you got a good result! Congratulations!"

"Thanks. But I haven't even properly started yet."

He had used only a single item so far. Next he drew out Yomer's Specialization Fruit, an item whose effect raised every special stat a player possessed by 500 percent. He didn't bother savoring the moment. He bit in and chewed.

A sharp, pungent aroma rose at first, and then, as his teeth sank into the flesh, sweet juice flooded his mouth. Yujun lingered over that heavenly taste and waited for the change that was sure to follow. No system message appeared. He decided to open the status window and take a quiet look at the numbers alone.

"……."

He wasn't incapable of arithmetic, so the figures were exactly what he had expected. Still, seeing them and merely predicting them were very different things.

Higher than the other close-combat stats...

Of course, the status window couldn't be taken at face value. Effects that raised every stat by a percentage weren't applied to what it displayed, and his actual physical stats already numbered in the tens of thousands. On figures alone, they stood incomparably higher than the special stats. Even so, every special stat breaking into four digits carried real weight.

The contribution points really pulled their weight.

How much hardship had he endured just to step into the Peace Contribution Shop? Even Yujun had been forced to meet conditions finicky enough to make him click his tongue. Coming through all of that to arrive here had been worth it. The two items he had just used were already satisfying enough, but he had no intention of hoarding the rest.

This time he took out a shining experience talisman, the sort affixed to a weapon. Kill an enemy with that weapon, and you gained an additional 50 percent experience. The higher one's level climbed, the more a single level came to mean, so the importance of an experience item needed no long-winded explanation. He stuck it to the Planet Destroyer's Sword, and the talisman vanished without a trace.

Startled, he examined the blade from every angle and found a strange pattern engraved along its face. He had no idea what it signified. The thing was simply too grotesque.

Well, how it looks isn't what matters.

So long as the effect was solid, he didn't care. What else had there been? Right—the Transcendent Stones. He had bought three of them.

Somehow I've already ended up with five.

They were items you couldn't obtain even when you wanted them, so he had never expected them to pile up like this. He saw no immediate use. He could have raised a few accessories to Transcendence Grade, but that would have been a waste—unless No-Pay Casual Gamer happened to transfer accessories bound by a high level requirement. On the off chance that such a thing occurred, he meant to keep the Transcendent Stones buried deep in his inventory.

Last of all, only the Memory Crystal remained, an expensive item purchased for 450,000 contribution. Before he poured his overflowing magic into it without restraint—

"Hey."

"Uh—yeah?"

Manuela, who had still been gawking at the items, answered with a start.

"Give me a blessing."

"You ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠need luck?"

"Yeah."

"All right."

As always, the effect was tremendous. With Manuela's blessing upon him, there was no way left to raise his luck any further. This time he truly injected magic into the Memory Crystal. Its color shifted through red, blue, purple, and black, and once it had gone black it returned to transparency. The same phenomenon repeated again and again until, at a certain moment, the Memory Crystal slowly crumbled into powder and vanished.

Yujun's eyes were closed. A flood of memory overflowed him, and he couldn't gather his wits. Clinging to himself by a thread, he didn't try to shut the memories out. He took them in as they came. If his luck were truly rotten, some stranger's memories might pack themselves in and leave him with a filthy experience, but there was no sign of that yet.

The memories began in someone's childhood: the ordinary recollection of a child who looked three or four at most, growing up in a harmonious home. They felt as vivid as if he were living them himself. When Yujun realized the current of memory wasn't moving very quickly, unease stirred in him.

This is going to take a while.

These weren't even a human's memories. They belonged to an elf, a race famous for its long life. If that brightly smiling young elf had lived a thousand years, then no matter how quickly the memories were transferred, no small amount of time would be consumed. Even so, he couldn't stop. He had the feeling that if the flow broke off midway, he wouldn't be able to enjoy the item's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠effect in full.

Lesyef had been raised as an only child by a close-knit elf couple. From an early age he had received a great deal of love from his parents, yet he simply could not get along with the children of the village. The environment wasn't the problem. Lesyef's temperament was a little peculiar. His capacity for empathy fell short of that of children his age, and the shortfall was rather severe. There were any number of other anecdotes as well.

Once, a neighborhood child took Lesyef's wooden toy. The child gave it back almost at once, insisting it had been a joke, but Lesyef punched him in the jaw and knocked him out on the spot. He didn't stop there. He kept beating the child, who had fainted and wasn't moving at all. It wasn't something one could wave away as the sort of thing that happens when a child hasn't been taught better. Lesyef's behavior didn't end with a single incident. Children who played with him were always badly hurt, and there were countless times they nearly died. Naturally, Lesyef had no choice but to become an outcast in the village.

Lesyef wasn't sad. He actually liked being at home—more precisely, he liked swinging a sword in the yard out front. Elves were ordinarily adept at magic and archery, but Lesyef had no interest in either, and in truth he wasn't especially talented at them. Swordsmanship was different. His parents recognized that he possessed an innate gift for the blade and began teaching him while he was still young. Even as they taught him, though, they stressed that a sword must never be swung lightly. This was the same Lesyef who had beaten the neighborhood children, and they had no idea what disaster might follow if he also had a sword in hand.

Lesyef was clever. He understood that if he caused an accident with a sword here, he would never be allowed to learn it again, and he wouldn't even be given the chance to swing one. He made a promise to his parents, and for ten years he was able to hone his swordsmanship without causing a single bit of trouble. Reading the memories of a Lesyef whose entire day consisted of eating vegetables and swinging a sword, Yujun was left speechless.

This guy is genuinely insane about the sword.

To Yujun, who possessed Swordsmanship of GX+ rank, Lesyef's skill was still pathetic. In the village, however, there was no elf who could match him. Even elves in their prime failed to last more than fifteen exchanges before losing to him. Despite having no rival, Lesyef never neglected his training. Rain or snow, he swung his sword without rest.

Is there no concept of levels here?

Not once had levels been mentioned. Lesyef had hunted the monsters of the forest no small number of times, yet a system message had never appeared. There was another strange point as well. He realized it from a history book Lesyef had read: three races—the elves, the orcs, and the Darem—had been waging war for hundreds of years. That war continued even while Lesyef spent his days in peace.

He wasn't an elf of the Infinite Tower Continent, was he?

Yujun knew the broad flow of the Infinite Tower Continent's history, if only roughly. Among the history he knew, there was none in which a war had dragged on for hundreds of years.

So I can obtain memories from other dimensions too?

He sensed at once that Lesyef's life would be turbulent. A world the system had never touched, where war had gone on for centuries... Of course he couldn't be certain. The Infinite Tower might hold history he simply didn't know. If this was a tale from before the Primordial Player appeared, it was entirely possible.

Contrary to Yujun's expectation of a stormy life, Lesyef spent thirty years swinging a sword, tempering his body, and living peacefully in the village.

Swordsmanship... that's not how you do it.

Watching Lesyef doggedly swing his blade through the days, Yujun itched to offer advice, but of course he couldn't interfere. He didn't even know whether Lesyef was alive. If some other interesting situation had come along it might have been different, but the elf did nothing but swing a sword day and night in the village, and the boredom was unbearable. Had there been something worth learning, he might at least have watched closely. The level was so low that merely looking was an ordeal.

Ah, seriously, that's not how you do it.

Whenever Lesyef swung from a wrong stance in particular, the urge to correct him seized Yujun's mind.

Aigoo. You don't twist your waist there. This is stressful.

Fortunately for Yujun, a conscription order came down for Lesyef. After a war that had lasted hundreds of years, the minimum age of conscription had been dropping as time went on, and Lesyef had enlisted at a considerably late age. Whether that ought to be called good luck was another matter. The wars breaking out across the continent were so fierce that people said death itself was discharge.

They could just as well sign a peace accord... How does the war keep going without a single truce?

Even when a lull came, it lasted a year at most.

It's almost strange that Lesyef's village is peaceful.

Perhaps it was because the place he had been born was a village that forged and supplied military equipment. Even before his parents, who broke down in sobs when the conscription order arrived, Lesyef was calm. No—more precisely, he was glad. At last he would be able to display, to his heart's content, the swordsmanship he had honed for decades.

Time flowed swiftly. Lesyef joined a unit that operated mainly along the sector border. Compared with the other elves being conscripted, he was quite old, so the posting was only natural. He drew attention from the very start. Elves who knew nothing but the sword were rare, and in his first engagement he produced results that stood out. The orcs he cut down numbered fully seventy. Everyone in the unit couldn't help but be astonished that an elf ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠experiencing war for the first time had performed like that. Outstanding magic might have made it possible enough, but killing seventy orcs in close combat with a sword was another matter entirely.

Afterward Lesyef continued to distinguish himself without suffering a major wound, and he returned victorious from every engagement he joined. Producing such results on the front line, he naturally caught a commander's eye. Not the supreme commander, but a high elf of outstanding ability, as befitted the officer in charge of the front. Having properly left his mark on that commander, Lesyef rose without pause until he occupied a fairly high post. Even then he never grew complacent. He always stood at the vanguard, slaughtering orcs, and in the end came back with victory.

Over five years he succeeded twice in driving the orcs from their fortresses and occupying them. Lesyef, who had piled up brilliant merit, climbed the ranks at a steady clip and became the most famous figure in the unit. Hardship found him all the same. The once-vigorous Lesyef clashed with a general-class orc and had one arm severed. Wanting to heap humiliation on him, the orc general cut the arm away and then crushed the site so the wound could not be regenerated with a potion. Then he spat and let Lesyef live. He knew that was the act which would inflict the greatest insult, and just as he expected, Lesyef—carried off by his subordinates—could not forget the shame.

At that point Yujun let out a sigh.

Doesn't seem like an age that even has elixirs. This is bad.

Scene after poignant scene followed, bitter enough that he wondered whether he really had to keep watching. Of course, the memories weren't entirely without use. If Yujun lacked anything, it was experience of combat and war, and Lesyef's memories satisfied that lack to a gratifying degree. Where swordsmanship was concerned he remained pitifully insignificant, but his mindset and his way of fighting when many enemies stood before him were not bad at all. Not merely not bad—there was a great deal to learn. Watching battle in a world where items rarely intervened and no player system existed, he found no shortage of nourishment.

If you consider that he's getting no help from the system, Lesyef's growth might actually be remarkably fast.

What if he himself had been placed in that situation? One thing was certain: he was in no position to laugh at Lesyef. From then on, Yujun began to watch the elf's life in earnest.

Lesyef, defeated by the orc general. It was his first defeat, and the shock was immense. What marked him even more deeply than the loss itself was becoming a one-armed swordsman. A mage might have been different, but for Lesyef, who had grown up as nothing but a swordsman, losing an arm was fatal. The gazes around him changed. The difference between an elf gripping a sword and an orc gripping a sword was vast. Orcs already held a greater physical advantage, and Lesyef felt the limit of it. Until then he had cut orcs down with ease on the strength of overwhelming talent, but the moment he met an orc of similar talent, or even slightly lesser, he ran into a wall. And in that moment he lost the right arm he chiefly used. The sense of loss couldn't help but be enormous. Yujun, receiving the memories, felt that ache in full.

Lesyef, however, was no ordinary elf. He had lost an arm and met a wall, yet he did not give up. Before the pain in the severed arm had even faded, he burst out of the barracks and began to swing a sword. With one arm gone his balance no longer held, but through repetition he gradually set it right again, as if starting over from the beginning. At first Yujun pitied him. As time passed, that pity turned to awe.

His will is no joke.

It wasn't as if he had the help of a trait like Equanimity. With nothing but the single ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠resolve to reclaim his former martial prowess, Lesyef tempered himself. Then he took part in one engagement and failed to distinguish himself. The limits of a one-armed swordsman were certainly plain. In that fashion, ten years slipped by before he knew it.

No matter how he struggled, Lesyef could not display his old majesty. He had adapted to fighting with a sword in one hand, but the constraints were too great. To begin with, an elf body meeting orcs in close combat was itself remarkable. Even after he became one-armed, the mere fact that he did not lose ground to them was worthy of praise.

One day the commander proposed that Lesyef take charge as a field commander. Lesyef refused in a single breath, though the one asking was the commander himself. He looked as though he would never yield. The commander clicked his tongue and left the room, and Lesyef paid him no mind.

The days that followed seemed ready to drift on no differently, until another matter erupted. Before Lesyef lost his arm, he and his unit had pushed the orcs only halfway, and because of it the orcs were thoroughly enraged. The number committed to the sector border grew and grew. A food shortage had slowed their breeding below what it once had been, yet the newly replenished orcs were still staggering in number. They threw their strength in bulk at retaking the fortress they had lost, and in the end the elves—who had advanced beyond the sector border for the first time—had no choice but to retreat. Lesyef's exploits were rendered meaningless. They were back where they had started.

Through all of it, he never neglected the honing of his sword. The problem, if there was one, was that he trained nothing else. Even when his comrades told him it would be more effective to weave magic in alongside the blade, Lesyef would not bend. Sword. Sword. Sword. Devoted to the sword alone, he attained enlightenment at a certain moment—and Yujun attained it with him.

It was absurd. But an enlightenment that intuited the very essence of swordsmanship had come upon him, and he couldn't simply sit there dazed. Yujun strained to take Lesyef's enlightenment into his mind as fully as he could.