Healing Skills

Chapter 6: Ivory Robe

Chapter 6: Ivory Robe

Kael lay on his new bed like a silk-clothed war god. The chair was a king-size cloud: ridiculously comfortable, and unfairly costly, and big enough to seat a family of aristocratic brats. The room was as though a nobleman flat, with marble floors, velvet curtains and a chandelier that would have been worth a museum of insolent luxury.

The sheets even whispered affluence. He smiled into the pillows.

Kael, with his arms extended, and his legs over-crossed like a waiter awaiting his supper, was thinking to himself, This bed costs more than some cities I have bombed.

It was a week since he had any training.

The voice of the System was breathing like a reproving breath through his ear-- dry, critical, irritatingly correct.

“And what of it?” Kael answered with a smirk. I would not see much growth at all. At this stage, statistics crawl slowly like snails.

You lose the fact that every point counts, and especially to a healer. When you were scraping your knees to Level 10, the muscle-for-brain damage dealers would be visiting you in months.

Kael twitched his brows. “Months? A bit quick, isn’t it? I labored a year. Bled over it. Nearly wept over it. Almost.”

Healing gave you experience. Others acquire it through whacking animals using metal sticks or letting them bang against something. It is a game and you are playing chess and everybody is stabbing Go boards.

And you say: healing, is a trashy subject?

“No. I mean life is harsh. You should know that more than anybody.

Kael laughed, acrimonious and shouty. “That I do, old friend. I do so.”

There was a knock on the door. Kael rolled himself out of the mattress like a man out of a lover, dragging his heels to open it.

Not Elira. Instead, a woman dressed like a maid from some noble's perverse fantasy handed him a box, then left without a word.

‘Brainwashed?’

No. Just a maid. That’s what they’re like.

Kael shrugged. He tossed the box onto his mattress and cracked it open. Inside lay a robe, white as bleached bone, etched with quiet runes that shimmered in low light. It hummed with restrained magic — like a blade wrapped in silk.

Put it on. It’s equipment.

Kael arched a brow. ‘We’re wearing fashion now?’

It’s functional fashion. Try not to drool.

As the robe settled across his shoulders, the world pulsed. The System's interface bloomed open like a holy script.

---

Ivory Robe [Uncommon]

+50 HP

+50 MP

+10 INT

Effect: Increases skill range by 10 meters

---

‘Holy fuck.’ Kael’s eyes widened. Equipment could do that?

He snapped open his status screen, watching the numbers tick upward like a slot machine hitting gold.

---

HP: 498 [↑50]

MP: 834 [↑50]

INT: 114 [↑10]

---

‘I feel like a cheat code.’ His grin widened.

Don't wet yourself. That robe is barely uncommon. It's the beginner tier of power dressing. Now check the note.

Kael blinked. Note?

He dug around the box and found it: a sticky scrap folded under the silk lining.

---

Hope you like this gift.

P.S. You never know what can go wrong during monster hunts. Be on guard. — Elira

---

Kael stared at the note. His heart softened against his will. ‘That’s... sweet.’

He crumpled it and tossed it back into the box like a guilty teenager trying to hide feelings. Another knock. Of course.

This time, it was Maren. Silent. Calm. Still brainwashed.

"Let's go," she said, turning away before he could say anything. Her footsteps echoed like a ticking clock as they left the academy.

Kael followed. He couldn’t help but feel weird, being escorted everywhere like a glorified errand boy. Which, to be fair, he technically still was.

The robe drew attention like a beacon. It wasn’t gaudy, but magic had its own gravity. Heads turned. Eyes lingered.

At the orphanage gate, Maren stopped. "Wait here. Someone will pick you up shortly."

Then she vanished back into the cafeteria. Like smoke.

Kael stood in silence for a moment, arms crossed. ‘This is ridiculous. I feel like I need a parental signature just to exist.’

A sleek black car pulled up moments later, the kind of sedan you’d only see in mafia films or bad decisions. A man stepped out, wearing a suit sharp enough to stab someone.

"I’m Ron. Your driver."

That was all he said. No emotion. No smile.

Kael blinked. ‘Are we assassinating someone or what?’

Don’t forget your chauffeur tip. Oh wait. You don’t get tips.

‘Shut up.’

The inside of the car was decadent. Like someone had skinned a rich man’s sofa and wrapped it around every surface. Kael sank into the seat with a noise of sinful comfort.

The drive stretched on. Ron said nothing. Not a word. A mute wraith in a black suit.

Kael didn’t mind. Talking was for people with energy. And friends.

His mind wandered. Back to his old life. To his military days. To the people he’d lost. To the silence that had followed.

‘Still kind of the same, huh?’ he mused aloud.

You have me.

Kael paused. Smiled. ‘That I do, you nosy little bastard.’

Eventually, the car slowed to a stop in a forest clearing full of black vehicles and white tension. Ron stepped out first and opened the door for Kael.

“We are here.”

Kael emerged and scanned the area. A checkpoint sat ahead, with suited officials checking IDs. A man held a clipboard and checked off names.

‘ID? I don’t have an ID! Fucking Elira forgot to—’

Relax. Walk up. Worst case, they call you an idiot.

‘Gee, thanks for the motivational speech.’

Kael approached the gate. "Hello. I don’t have an ID, but my name should be listed. Kael. Healer. Here for the hunt."

The man stared at him, professional mask slipping for a second.

"This isn’t a playground, kid."

Kael didn’t blink. "Just check the list. My team’s waiting."

It was a lie, of course. But lies are easier to believe when they're wrapped in confidence.

The man sighed, retreated to his booth, and scanned the clipboard. There it was:

---

Kael

Age: 9

Class: Healer

Affiliation: Amara Orphanage

---

"Here." He handed Kael a small note. "A-7. Go-on and locate the officer in charge.

Kael grumbled and stumbled forward. The wood appeared to bend round him, as though he had entered an illusion.

And all of a sudden there was an enormous base camp, swirling with motion--trucks, arms, tents, shouting--all controlled anarchy.

A gentleman brought him to the A-7 tent and disappeared without saying a word, possibly because of spatial magic.

'What are they hiding?'

The whole clearing is a veiled area--conspiratorial to the world, and dangerous.

'Protection from what? It is only a flight of level ones after goblins.'

At the center is a dungeon. The weak ones are even worth their weight in mana stones.

Kael shook and took up the tent.

In the tent itself there was nothing but a table and some chairs, probably intended to hold tactical conferences or for naps. One of the chairs was occupied by Kael, waiting.

Twenty minutes passed.

A strong, bristling fellow came in, carrying his shield on his back like an impregnable castle, and a short sword in his hand. He turned his back on Kael and sat back in a chair and yelled into a phone.

'The Tank.'

Two men with swords came in--old drinking buddies, talking like old drinking buddies. Then came an elf, blond, bearing a bow on her back, long graceful ears that looked like those of an opera in the forest.

'A... elf?' Kael blinked. 'Do we have dwarves too? Please say yes.'

Probably.

No fun, System.

As the elf sat the room appeared to change. There came a silence, and the breeze shifted, and Kael felt the hierarchy which had no tongue established.

The swordsmen spoke first.

"Nox, swordsman."

"Zane, swordsman."

His phone was raised, and he looked into the tank.

"Eric, tank."

The elf replied.

"Joanna, archer."

Then everyone looked at Kael, small and young and maybe too young, and wearing a gleaming robe, as though he had stolen it himself out of a bishop.

He smiled.

"Kael. Healer."

Silence.