The Ultimate Healer
It didn't give way.
He crushed the bison's flank with a punch, and whenever it tried to charge, he shoved the underground dweller forward as a shield. With no way to counterattack, the bison gradually turned into scrap metal.
"Deliberately keeping it barely alive without finishing it off. That's a solid method too."
Allen listened intently to Taylor's explanation while glancing back at the leopard and the box trailing close behind him. He'd inputted Star Letters into these kids too, so they wouldn't attack him.
If I screw up, I could end up as a shield like that. Need to research some improvements.
The ideal scenario was Allen hanging back and unleashing firepower, but when had the world ever gone exactly to plan? Thanks to Shiba, he'd spotted the unexpected variable and needed to prepare.
"They mostly bounce around to compensate for those short legs. But damn, it's satisfying to watch."
After finishing off the underground dweller and the bison, Shiba swung another underground dweller's sword around wildly to dodge. His erratic movements were just like a drunkard's.
"If he'd been under me back in my instructor days, I'd have whipped him into shape hard."
"You mentioned being an instructor before. What was that like?"
Allen shot a sidelong glance at Sion, who was spectating with arms crossed. Her ears seemed to perk up just a bit.
"Started taking her into the labyrinth at age eight."
"Genius training from childhood? That's way too early even for early education."
"At that age, she could handle upper-layer automatons. Terrifying talent with the sword—nothing left for me to teach. So I dragged her along to build labyrinth experience."
Terrifying talent—Sion's head snapped around at that. Her ears pointed precisely this way.
"How was life as an instructor?"
"Not a good memory for me."
Sion whipped her head back at those words. Her slightly dazed eyes widened a fraction.
"Wasn't the companion; the problem was me. Folks who can't delve deeper in the labyrinth get shunted to instructor roles. Means a lack of talent and potential."
"Ah, got it. I'll mod you up real nice."
"Mod? I get the upgrade part, but the wording's a bit off..."
"How about that titan up top? Human-sized but titan-strong."
"Now that's appealing. Magitech..."
Taylor trailed off mid-word, finally clocking Sion and clamping his mouth shut.
"That's in the plan too, right?"
"Necessary...?"
"We're both guys—put some empathy to work. That came off creepy instead of playful this time."
Taylor grinned and wrapped up the chat. Shiba approached, brushing his hands clean after mopping up two underground dwellers and two automatons.
"I have liberated the suffering souls. May they find rest in Mother's embrace..."
"Suffering?"
Allen recalled the underground dweller hanging on by a thread. Being tossed around in Shiba's grip like that—that had to hurt. He shook his head to clear the thought.
"Isn't it risky charging the front lines yourself?"
"I'm the healer—if I get hurt, I heal up. Way better than letting someone else take the hit."
Sion cut in, having listened quietly till now. Her sword gleamed spotless—no blood, no oil—despite recovering the mana stones and soul stones.
"Masochist...?"
"Sister. I am not that kind of man."
"Francois said folks who like getting hit just right are perverts—steer clear."
"Oh... busted. ...Kidding, so drop the weird looks. To settle the front-lines question, we gotta rethink the healer's role."
Shiba eyed Taylor first.
"You read the battlefield and drop recovery spells at the perfect moment."
"Not 'recovery spell'—holy art, if you please."
"Right, holy art..."
Next, Allen.
"You keep 'em breathing till proper treatment kicks in."
"Sometimes that's the best play. Holy power ain't infinite, and the labyrinth runs deep."
Sion's turn, but she glowered at Allen with a pout, like he'd stolen her line.
Shiba clasped his hands together.
"You three... yes, all opinions noted. Every take assumes injuries for the monk's duties. Then one day, it hit me."
Shiba balled his fist. His voice burned with passion, emotions surging. For the first time, he truly seemed like a cleric.
"If no one gets hurt, no need for holy arts. So eliminate the root cause fast. No enemies, no injuries. That's the ultimate healer."
"Physical therapist?"
Taylor's quip hushed the group. Allen fiddled with the leopard's rune letters; Sion polished her pristine sword once more.
Shiba turned slowly, beaming with paternal warmth.
"A jest from sensing my age. Good intentions to spark a little joy for juniors worn out from these stuffy depths."
"Cut it out..."
"I'll cherish that beautiful sentiment."
"Not being sarcastic?"
"Perish the thought. Saving it for elder seniors or patients. Peers'll love it. No teasing intended—don't get the wrong idea."
"Shiba, you little shit..."
"Hear it so often, it's downright fond now. Heh heh heh."
No fights meant blistering pace. Aside from the odd ambush from cave walls, they met zero resistance.
Allen pegged Sion—the guide—as the reason. Eyes shut again, yet she never slipped on the jagged floor.
Mana waves?
That faint hum he'd sensed since meeting her, fanning out from her core—subtle unless you focused.
Probing her ability outright would be rude, so he filed it away, mulling a chat with Taylor—
"Hmph."
A soft snort. Sion's eyes cracked open, fixed on Allen. No accusation—just smug confidence, maybe a touch of cockiness.
Only then did Allen realize he'd been staring at her face. Pure curiosity on his end, but she might read it different.
In the clearing, Allen and Shiba sat by the mana stone lamp, chatting.
"What sparked your exploring, Shiba?"
"Drop the honorific. Meant to guard the hospital, but the high priest brother shipped me down."
"Straight shooter."
"Why taint my mouth with lies? Couldn't figure why he warned me not to corrupt the other brothers."
Taylor chimed in.
"Know thyself. Ring a bell?"
"Where's a pious monk like me fitting that?"
"Way you say it, sounds like you know damn well."
Taylor cackled, savoring the hit at last. Talk rolled on till the mine came up.
"For real? Huh..."
"Called 'em slaves, but bet the overseers had 'em sign contracts before shipping down. Those types are anal about that shit. Break the law themselves, lose their minds if you do."
"I'll see the truth with my own eyes. Lend a hand?"
Taylor glanced at Allen. Elder with miles of experience, yet decisions stayed Allen's call.
"Let's check it out."
"Knew you'd say that. Genius sword lady—what's your play? Org beef could get messy."
Three pairs of eyes on Sion; she nodded briskly, like she'd been waiting.
Fucking labyrinth. Fucking company. Fucking assholes.
The curses echoed only in his head. Spitting them out loud? Guardian explorer—aka overseer—would beat his ass. Truth was, his overworked body craved fresh air too bad to risk it anyway.
"Huff... huff... huff..."
Ragged breaths exploded out. Lungs might burst, but oxygen came first. Lanterns everywhere made the rock dust and grit all too visible, but he couldn't shut up.
The man—midway between middle-aged and young—hoisted his pickaxe high, then slammed it down. The sharp tip hit stone and shattered in a spray of shards.
Skilled technique? Then why was he grubbing in a mine?
Nah. A metal filament snaked from the pick head down the handle, past his hand to his forearm.
More precisely, a needle pierced his skin. The pickaxe guzzled his mana, applying [Excavation] locally—a magitech tool.
Mana heart? Lucky him. Otherwise, it swapped life force for mana. No wonder exhaustion etched his face.
"Fucking hell. Gonna die."
He startled, whipping around. Overseers missed the curse amid the din, thank god.
Damn it, got duped.
Contract said done after clearing a section—but impossible from the jump.
Labyrinth mana stone mines regenerated paths and rock in days. Like arterial plaque reforming.
Knew the grind, still had to smash—for access, for mining.
He glared at the shattered rubble, scanning meticulously for misses.
Please, mana stone...
Mining offered no guarantees. Regrown rock was fickle as Schrödinger's cat. Quota loomed regardless—smash through tears.
"Hassan! Slacking off now?"
"No, sir. Checking for mana stones."
"Quota short? Your fuckup, not mine. Watch your step."
Illegal entrants, rock-bottom lives, or big-money bait. Started lured by "easy" cash; now, pure survival mining.
Dust-caked energy bars tasting like mud; musty bunks you couldn't date; rags barely qualifying as clothes.
All on the daily wage. No quota met? No pay, naturally.
Regret? Pointless. Proof it was too late.
Dying crossed his mind plenty, but life's stubborn grip...
Underground dweller vibes from the wall? Instinct kicked in—bolt to the overseers. In this ant-nest mine, they were the sole lifeline.
"It's coming! Run!"
Miners bolted as one. Overseers charged the bulging wall.
Among the retreating pack: wry chuckles, relieved sighs, grins. Fight meant break time. Quota still waited, though—classic fool's gold.
Lax watch during blocks? No runners. Camp hemmed the mine; surface even if lucky? Good fucking luck.
Came to Saldos Federation chasing freedom, Maze City for riches. Found jack shit they craved.
Party hit layer 19 with battles topping one per floor.
Allen was dead certain Sion caused the eerie calm. Her body pulsed mana waves like ultrasound—sniffing enemies, plotting optimal dodges.
They called it peak qi sense for elite warriors. Any way to replicate?
Sion tied to Breaker, tough for long hauls. Allen researched mimicking her trick. Banked the spark, dove into fresh designs.
Meant close observation, but her sharp senses? She'd clock every stare.
Tried easing off if she hated it—shoulders hiked higher than start, but otherwise? Eyes locked higher each clash.
Animals deliberately puff up their bod