Thanks for the nightmare fuel.

I guess the rest of the party will learn the value of being humble from this day on.

Good work.

There was a different Manga (not Redo of a Healer) whose name escapes me, but it turns out that healers are extremely rare and insanely powerful soldiers because they can just heal themselves after strenuous training and keep going. Basically a decade of hardcore training in 6-12 months.

But it's stressed that Healers are not supposed to fight on the battlefield. Sure, one healer could take on 1000 enemies by themselves... but by rescuing injured soldiers on the battlefield using their super stats, they can have the soldiers re-enter the battle as reinforcements, and keep the army going strong after the fight, allowing the army to continue marching the next day with little delay.

> your own body might betray you one day.”

Always nice to see a fledgling devotee of the Omnissiah.

NEVER. fuck. with the white mage.

I dunno. There's a few animes that did similar. I'd have to find it, but there was one that was called something like "battle healer" who, at one point, started throwing punches infused with healing energy, just so he could beat them up some more, lol

Amy was a great character and also underwhelming in her impact. Sure she's a walking mcguffin but she could have been more of a character.

“Hey, Rosemary! I fell into poison ivy again, can you heal me up?”

“Rosemary! My child scratched her knee on the playground and now because she’s injured, I can’t go on the expedition. Can you please heal her so I can go? I could get so much XP from that.”

“Yo, Rosie! I’m freezing and I might lose some health. Make the healing quick, okay?”

I sighed. I was on the verge of shutting my clinic down early, but there were so many people relying on me as the sole healer of Little Quelet that I had to continue my work.

Even though they needed a healer to prevent the population from dying out, they never truly acknowledged me as anything other than one. They didn’t even call me by my title, just “Rosemary”. Work was never done, even when I wanted to return to the only ones I truly cared about; my family. I lost my love for others long ago.

Two days later, the government put me on an expedition to Northern Iodine. Bandits were outside the city walls and they were threatening to break them down to take whatever they could. As an ally to their city, of course they had to help.

We reached Northern Iodine on horseback, carrying our bows, swords, shields, potions and guns. Seeing the bandits, we did a five-way ambush. Alex would use his jetpack to launch him into the sky and slam onto the bandits with his mighty Shadow Shield, Lydia would strike from below with her shovel then spray the bandits with her blinding and vulnerability potions, which allowed Joey to fill the bandits full of arrows from the left and Terry to stab and slice out a gory scene from the right, leaving me at the back occasionally healing someone, boosting their damage, and resurrecting someone if things got ugly, which was basically my daily life. I had to stay on the sidelines not being noticed or respected, only taken for granted. The arrogant “heroes” who fought “beside” me thought their sudden strength came from them alone.

The bandits quickly outnumbered and outfought my party, and all that was left was the mousy, unassuming healer with a useless shotgun. I felt like all that disrespect was right. I couldn’t even keep my team alive in a dangerous situation. I was only treating little scrapes, how could I have the right to say I was a victim here? “Who’ll res you after you die?” mocked the leader of the bandits. No. I couldn’t die here. I had to stand strong, for my family. I drilled holes into the leader’s eyes. Literally. Her skull turned to paste after I shot her in the face, point blank.

“It’s not me who will die.” I quickly turned my attention to the rest of the bandits. I pistol whipped several bandits in an artery, in the solar plexus, any pressure point or vulnerable point I knew could kill someone, I hit with a fist or my gun. Today, I was the sword.

Once the area was clear, I resurrected my teammates. “Rosemary, did you really do all that?” asked Trey, surveying the bloody bandits. “Yeah. Tell your friends, family all about this. Remember, I am not just your healer.”

"See, the art of healing mainly focuses on choice and balance."

All I recieved was a gurgle in reply.

"Yeah we use aspects of growth magic and a whole lot of divination, but it's all about keeping things as close to optimum as possible. The ancients called it 'Homeostasis'."

No gurgles this time. Just a silent plea from eyes filled with horror.

"And, when it comes down to it, there's always an implicit assumption that the thing we help heal, to grow, is the patient, the human body. Which requires a lot of training so that we don't accidentally heal or grow the organisms that feed on human flesh."

Silence finally as the ex-bandit finishes rotting alive.

"Ever hear of bacteria?"

"How- What-?" he stammered."Magic, and magic." I replied reaching out and placing the index finger of my left hand over his heart.

​

As I touched him, he stopped trying vainly to crawl away and the color drained from his face. I could practically smell the terror coming from him now. Unfortunately, the fear in him would probably not be enough to get me the answers I wanted, so I began to speak.

​

"Did you know that with less effort than it takes to move a finger, a single blood vessel in the brain can be pinched off? Death is nearly instantaneous, and the magic is so subtle that blocking it requires full body warding."

​

The bandit swallowed hard, and I could feel his body tensing as he prepared to run, I could almost see the electrical impulses travel along his nerves to his muscles. The look of confused fear on his face when he didn't take a swing at me and run would have been comical if I was the type of person who enjoyed killing.

​

"I'm sure that you were never taught this in whatever school of hard knocks you attended." I said softly. "But the human body runs off electricity, which is the same stuff that lightning bolts are made of, only much much weaker. A very simple spell can disrupt the signals coming from your brain to your muscles, you can tell yourself to punch me in the face all you want, but your fist will never hear the message while you are in my power."

​

The faint smell of urine touched my nostrils. Great, well, that was probably the cue to start asking questions.

​

"Who are you after?" I asked quietly enough that no one could overhear, not that anyone from the caravan was likely to willingly come near me now.

​

The bandit swallowed again, looking queasy. "We was supposed to git this fancy bird-" I held back a grimace at the butchery the man was making of the language. "'is some sort'a lordling, what is supposed to inherit or summtin'."

​

Parsing that sentence took me a second, their target was likely a noble heir, probably female, though that was less certain. I was pretty sure that Carvallian inheritance laws allowed for daughters to inherit, though there was some stipulations that I couldn't bring to mind at the moment. In my defense, I had intended NOT to get involved with the nobility during my stay here.

​

Oh well, in for a Pent... or however that saying went. I was certain that I would not get an answer to my next question, but I had to ask it anyway. "Who hired you?" I asked, again, keeping my voice low.

​

The man's jaw slammed shut with such force that I'm sure he would have cracked teeth if he had any remaining. With the magic circulating through my eyes, I could make out the Geas swirling around his neck, breaking that spell was well outside of my expertise.

​

I sighed and tapped him lightly on the chest, his eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped backwards, unconscious.

​

As I turned to tend to the caravan master, I gestured at the bandit while addressing the two guards, who had recovered their weapons from the ground.

​

"Bind him securely and load him on one of the wagons." I said curtly, "I'm sure that someone in the capital would like to question him."

​

As the two men jumped to obey, my eyes found two of the merchants who had joined this caravan, a man and a woman, the man was covertly stowing something distinctly sword-shaped under his robe, and the woman was looking at me with the kind of hard eyed look I associated with nobility.

​

Well, that wasn't hard to figure out.

​

I ignored the noblewoman and her guard as I knelt next to the caravan master, whose name I still couldn't remember. Luckily the sword hadn't hit the heart, or the man would have been dead before I could do anything.

​

Instead the blade had only pierced a lung, the wound was clean enough, in the sense that it was a single cut that wasn't particularly ragged. I doubted the bandit's sword was particularly sanitary.

​

Stitching the wound was a matter of a few minutes concentration, and cleansing any potential infection took another couple of seconds.

​

In that time the patrol of guards I had been half expecting rode up and demanded to know what had happened. The guards were no doubt there to "discover" the dead noblewoman so that whoever wanted her dead could capitalize on it right away. But finding a distinctly not dead caravan threw a wrench into the plan.

​

I'm not the best at reading people, but I was pretty sure that the leader of the patrol was the only one who expected to find us, the rest of the group seemed to react normally.

As we set off under the protection of the patrol, I could practically feel the eyes of the noblewoman fixed on me the entire way into the capitol.

So much for staying out of politics I guess.

The leader of this bandit group had the most unfortunate face I had ever seen, it looked like he had made a habit of running headlong into every wall he came across since childhood. His face was strangely flattened, and he had more scars than teeth, and I could only see two scars.

​

He laughed heartily as the pair of 'guards' hired by the caravan master dropped their weapons and raised their hands. They both looked to have no more battle experience than the merchant who had let me ride on the back of his cart.

​

I sighed and carefully marked my place in the book I had been reading and prepared to be shaken down... again.

​

Luckily, my most valuable possessions weren't valuable to anyone aside from myself. The group of bandits were unlikely to want my few books, and my staff didn't look like much more than a stick. I had spent the last of my money paying for my spot on this caravan. I was hoping to make it to the university in the rather pompously named Imperial City, where my healing magic would be valued rather more than it was out among the unwashed masses.

​

By all rights, the caravan master should have been paying me twice what he was paying his guards to accompany his wagons, and even then he would be getting a fantastic bargain. But anything aside from martial strength or flashy offensive magic was looked down on in the Carvallian Empire. Which was unfortunate as the Carvallian Imperial University was widely regarded as one of the greatest centers of magical knowledge in the world, rivaling even the fabled libraries of the long dead Aaragean people.

​

A scream of pain pulled me from my contemplation. I looked up just in time to see the fat caravan master fall to the ground. The bandit leader pulled his sword free and grinned evilly at the rest of us. He made a gesture to his men and they started forward, death in their eyes.

I frowned deeply, robbing caravans this close to the Imperial City was brazen enough, but murdering the entire group? Either these men had a death wish or...

​

I sighed, pulling my staff from the back of my belt. In its current form it appeared to be a simple foot long stick, one that might have been taken from the branch of any of the hundreds of trees that lined the road. The only difference was that this particular stick had been polished and oiled to a rich brown.

​

I ran a trickle of magic through the stick and it instantly expanded in my hand to a six foot long pole, richly engraved with arcane symbols inlaid with silver. These symbols began to glow faintly as I pointed the staff at the nearest bandit, a scrawny man whom I could smell from six feet away. The man jerked slightly, as though he had been stung by an insect, and fell forward onto his face. Dead.

​

I don't think any of the next six bandits even registered me as a threat. They had all fallen to the ground, unmarked but also unmoving, when the leader finally noticed the small woman, apparently barely out of her teens, waving a staff at his men, and those men falling inexplicably dead to the ground.

​

This bandit leader was apparently ready for magical resistance, he shouted at a black robed figure who had been standing back from the road. This figure also produced a staff and started towards me.

​

The mage was undoubtedly warded against all sorts of magical effects, fire, ice, and lightning would be unlikely to do more than ruffle his clothes, and he would be prepared with active wards if any large objects were thrown at him. Mage duels tended to be flashy showy things with the winner decided by the mage with a larger magic reserve.

​

The bandit mage fell dead as easily as the rest of his crew. Seeing their trump card fall with apparently no effort put the fear of God, or rather, the fear of Me into them. The three survivors turned and fled, while the leader stumbled and tried to run, but found his legs wouldn't work properly, jerking and twitching, sending him sprawling to the ground.

​

I stalked forward, pausing to place a hand over the wound in the caravan master's chest, which immediately stopped bleeding. A quick fix to be sure, but it would keep the poor fool from dying while I dealt with the bandit.

​

The bandit, who I was pretty sure was actually an assassin of some sort, was blubbering and nearly crying as I stepped carefully over his dropped sword and crouched down next to him.

Healers talk to Karoun.

No one really thinks about that, the implications of talking to Death. Healers talking to Death. Those who do rationalize it as a battle, a fight. A metaphysical conflict with sword and shield against the Hydra of Death.

The terrible truth is that it isn't. It never was. Healers talk to Karoun because she loves them. It's a gift - healing, that is - you're born with it or you aren't. A connection that it seems no one has made is the presence of death at the precise moment of the birth. A cat, the mother, anything - as long as the precise moment of death is at the precise moment of birth, the stronger the death, the farther away the baby can be and have a possibility of becoming a healer.

The truth of healing is Karoun lending out favors. A gift to a beloved pet, a token to a loyal servant, Karoun withholding from the subject, pulling back her creeping tendrils. A healer loyal enough and beloved enough can convince her to strain herself (miniscule though the strain is) to pull a creature into her grasp early. Saneqil was such a healer.

Mother dead at childbirth while her father killed himself at the exact same moment, just as the loyal pet greyhound died a peaceful death on the couch. A shocking collection of events that led Saneqil into Karoun's embrace. To Karoun, Saneqil wasn't just beloved - she was a child, a daughter in tragic death. Almost as tragic as the death in front of her now. The skin of the brutish dragon that had felled Awain, Collise, and Fraugh was burning. Not literally, of course, but it was running a fever. A fatal one.

The dragon bellowed in agony as it wasted away. Saneqil watched it happen - the least she could do. She sighed as she watched it draw a final breath.

Karoun was a good mother.

Excellent.

Your own immune system is unaware of your eyes. Once it is, there's no way to prevent eventual, total blindness.

Oh, very lovely! I would love to see this healer in more stories.

This is a prompt that they have used before, big fan of it though.

Or anyone who hangs out with too many medical folks. Aortic rupture across an entire enemy army would be instant mass casualty.

Just like that, a part of seven shrunk into a lonely one.

Amber flipped through her medic handbook for spells she knew wouldn't appear. The bloody bodies on the ground were past saving. She'd have to go back twenty thousand years to find the last healer who could bring back the dead. Her efforts were better spent on current events, such as the Minotaur in front of her, separated by only fifty meters of open field.

The Minotaur roared and the wind howled in fear slapping her with blood-drenched gusts. The stench was unbearable and brought her back to her childhood, watching helplessly as a house once home burned to the ground, with her family inside. The active imagination of a five-year-old wouldn't allow her to forget the sight of those charred bodies she called family. The bodies at her feet were less gruesome than those of a decade past, but the anger burned just as intensely.

She was tired of it. Death. Healing. Being a medic. All of it. She lacked the offensive talent to fight, so she joined the medical field, hoping it would fill the hole inside her with noble acts. If she healed people, she could be happy again, like she was before that day.

But that wasn't the case. She hated healing and helping others. Her skin crawled when she brought them back from the brink of death, and they thanked her with a smile. She resented only saving people she didn't care for and never being useful to the ones she did.

The Minotaur took a step forward, tested the elasticity of the damp ground, and torpedoed toward her. A devilish thought crept to her as she watched. She should just die here. Everyone else had, so why not stand her ground and fight? She lacked offensive talent, but her understanding of medicine was second only to Daniella's. Her hands glowed that familiar amber and green, the colors twisting into spirals as they did before every medical operation.

Another roar and another torrent of wind pelted her as she extended the base of her legs and thrust one palm toward the speeding monster, still halfway away.

The wind at this point was earth quaking, and she stood in a field of chaos, the only stationary being amongst groaning oak trees and flippant grass. All smells were gone, just a burning sting as the echoes of fierce wind stole her hearing, reducing the world to a faint buzz. The creature was within its striking distance now, and pulled back an arm of pure muscle to attack.

A heartbeat pounded for an escape as she focused on the Minotaurs neck.

It swung.

She dodged left quick enough to avoid death. Splashes of blood and tattered clothing entered her peripheral as the buzz of the wind intensified.

The neck. Her eyes stayed locked on that neck.

There's a reason humans flinch at the thought of being strangled or having their necks sliced open, even more so than head injuries. It may be the most critical and vulnerable part of the body. The brain keeps animals on high alert to anticipate any threats that may arise, no matter how unlikely.

In that narrow pillar, the carotid arteries, responsible for blood flow to the brain, coexist alongside the origin of the spine: the C7 vertebrae, thyroids, the jugular, so many essential but small parts in tight packaging.

One doesn't need much power to cause permanent damage if they have access to the neck.

Amber didn't blink in that small eternity. She condensed every ounce of magic she had into a shape no bigger than a coin in her palm and struct the Minotaur just to the left of the adam's apple. The snap of cartilage and arteries popped under the force, and the Minotaur flew by her.

It stood there and faced her. She stood there, mouth open and full of her hair, unable to consider her next attack. The creature took five steps her way, whined, and crumpled to the ground.

She'd never killed anything before, on purpose at least. It felt vile, and her hand shook with a sense of defilement. She stared at them as if they leaked black sludge. One by one, she curled her fingers and stared. Her hands appeared further from her than they had before. Her whole body felt different.

And she liked it.

She looted the bodies of her fallen comrades, unable to do anything to help them, and ventured to the east, opposite the way back to the Flowa Kingdom. The place no longer interested her.

She'd avenged her party, her new family, already. Now, she desired to avenge her old family.

100% no way it's not

Good take! Anime title: That time the ER Doctor was isekied into a warrior world..

Hand on wrist, pull...strike shoulder blade, the sequence flowed untroubled and unforced in his mind as thought and reality moved together.

A sharp pop followed by a short scream.

Hemlish felt detached. Calm. The world moved by him and nothing he thought seemed...anything to him. He saw something happening and just followed with it. The only oddity that touched his thoughts was the way he could look around even while focused on the current foe.

He seemed to be behind and above himself. Watching as things developed.

This also meant he could see what had happened to his group, his party troupe, his team...His friends.

Tam was split in half. A club or hammer had caught his head and a blade had cleaved him in half. The brute must have fought hard to draw the attention of such a massive native of these lands that could kill him.

Off to the right, Shyl'ee was dismembered with parts missing. Only the dead-eyed look in her eyes matching what they had been in life. Her bow, broken and ruined, with an arrow still tangled in it was still in her hand.

And great Oirl the wizard. His body was surrounded by the Kings troops but all were dead, burnt back in an expanding circle of fiery death that must have marked Oirl's last spell as the power he could wield consumed him as its cost.

Turn right, drop...closed fist to neck front, he commented internally as he watched the next one fall. The crunch of cartilage snapping allowed Hemlish to move on. Following his awareness on to the next threat.

Hemlish flashed on Tam and the memory that had suddenly occurred to him.

"Ya, Healer...still haven't learned a real weapon?" they had all laughed at Tam's comment. Hemlish had laughed too but it was something he wondered about. While a healer was a must have in an adventuring party they still got the smallest cut, usually were ignored when in a fight, and were the first to die when a fight broke out.

But still those three had meant everything to Hemlish. They had been his world. His friends.

And they were dead.

He had broken inside as Shyl'ee died. It had hurt him...so much...so...

Step back, grab...twist forward under chin. A sharp crack of bone breaking fills the air cutting off a brief shout of pain.

...Then he was here.

Healing was an art.

The body was constructed for a task. The task of being us, me, I. But it is a machine. Moving parts. Component after component of systems supporting each other. Allowing the I that was a person to be a person.

And Healers knew them all very well.

Slide left, push...release and kick forward. A loud grunt punctuated the spear passing into the second warrior who had been so unlucky as to be behind the warrior Hemlish had first stabbed. He had this spear from a warrior...what? Two warriors back?

What should I call them? Kills?

Yes, Kills.

Had removed from the warrior two Kills ago.

Now that caught Hemlish's attention, How many have I Killed?

246 men of the King's Guard.

246 and counting...

all attacks had disadvantage lol

Well done! Basically, if I can control your body to heal, then I can also make it unhealthy...

META : reminds me of this quote from Dr. Watson!

Technically an improvised rapid surgical tool.