The Healer Who Defies Death

Chapter 9: A Promise Misheard

The monster's corpse still twitched, split cleanly from crown to spine. A green ichor hissed as it spilled over the broken ground, acrid steam curling upward with a pungent SSHHHSSKHHK!

Lith staggered back, chest heaving. His eyes darted to the figure standing over the beast's carcass.

"...N-Nyx," Lith's voice crackled, disbelief tightening his throat.

Her violet eyes glowed faintly in the mist, cold and sharp as polished amethyst. One boot pressed against the slain creature's chest, the other planted firmly on the stone path, anchoring her like an obsidian statue. In her hand gleamed a weapon that did not belong to this world—A black blade.

It pulsed with a sinister life of its own, shadows writing like living steel over one another. The edge caught the wan sunlight and gleamed unnaturally, drinking the light rather than reflect it. Every shimmer whispered of something ancient, something predatory.

Lith's throat locked. A...sword? No...that's—

The severed head of the monster rolled near his feet with a wet THUUD! He stared at it, then at Nyx, then back at the sword in her grip.

"Master, is being reckless again." Her voice was devoid of heat, calm yet carrying the weight of accusation.

Lith's lips parted his voice breaking. "N-Nyx...that...that weapon."

Nyx tilted her head slightly. Then, before his eyes, the blade unraveled. The blade unraveled into black most, folding back into her palm until nothing remained. Silence fell, broken only by the drip...drip...drip of monster blood pooling beneath her heel.

"Mine," Nyx interrupted simply. "Forged from me, you need not concern yourself." Her eyes lingered on him for a moment. Too long. Too sharp. Then, without another word, she looked past him, past the streaming corpse, toward the cluster of villagers gathering near the ruined square.

And Lith realized the silence wasn't silence at all.

——

Later, in the town hall was cramped, its wooden beams groaning with the weight of too many fearful bodies pressed inside. Smoke from half-burnt torches clouded the rafters, and the faces below were pale, hollow-eyed, every gaze locked on the young priest who sat hunched at the table.

The village elder stepped forward—an old man with a bent back, his voice trembling like a reed in wind. "Please...help us. More will come to us, we don't have anyone else left."

Lith's hands clenched atop the table, faint tremors running though his fingers. His eyes swept across the villagers—faces full of sorrow, but also something sharper, something that cut him deeper than their pleading. He remembered the way they had changed the subject last night, the way silence had swallowed his questions. His voice came low, strained, but firm: "Before that, be honest with us. What is truly happening in this town?"

Silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the crackle of the torches. At last, the elder lowered his head, his voice gravel-thin. "...Every two mornings, the Fiend-Tongues return.

The word felt wrong in his ears, like something that should never be spoken aloud.

Fiend-Tongues? Is he talking to the monster who attack them?

Name itself seemed to curdle the air. Murmurs rippled through the villagers—feae threaded with resignation, as through the word alone was poison they had long learned to swallow. "They come to feed," the elder went on, each syllable weighted with dread. "Flesh. Blood. Whatever they desire, we cannot fight them. We cannot flee. So we endure, and each visit leaves fewer of us to endure the next."

Lith's chest tightened, his breath faltering. He could already smell that rancid stench again, hear the screams echoing in his skull. His gift burned faintly in his veins, but his body knew the truth—he was spent, brittle from overuse. He was healer, not a warrior. And every passing hour remained him how quickly he was breaking.

Lith swallowed hard, forcing out the question that trembled on his tongue. "F-forgive me, but...is there truly no one here with higher gifts? No one left to defend this town?"

Words fell like stones into a still pond. The villagers shifted uneasily, glancing at one another. Some lowered their heads, others bit their lips to keep from weeping. Finally, a trembled voice broke the hush. "...There were. Once. Strong ones—defenders. But...they were taken."

Lith's breath caught. "Taken?"

The speaker nodded, shame pulling at their features. "Those with the highest gift were taken. By the Sanctum. The rest of us were left to feed the dark." The elder's voice cracked. "We who remain...we are only what was unwanted. The weak, the wasted, and failed gifts. Those too ordinary to chosen, those who tried to stand, to fight for their kin...they are gone. Dead. And still the Fiend-Tongues come."

Lith felt the words strike deep, sharp and familiar. Memories clawed up from the past—the other orphans, taken from the temple halls because their gifts were deemed worthy. And he, left behind. A child branded useless. A failure.

Weight pressed harder in his chest. His throat ached with the truth of it. The. Nyx's voice cut through the gloom, sharp as a blade of ice. "So that was your plan. Keep us here until morning. Let my master pour out what little life he has to mend your wounds—while you watch him bleed himself dry for your sake."

The words fell like iron. Every villager froze. Faces turned, not toward her, but to Lith—waiting, judging, silently demanding. "Nyx..." Lith voice came soft, almost pleading. A warning wrapped in weariness.

She fell silent—not because her conviction faltered, but because asked it for her.

Lith looked out at the gathered villagers, their faces weighed down with sorrow and expectation. His voice broke the silence, low and firm: "You're mistaken. I-I'm not strong. I can only heal... nothing more."

A ripple of disbelief spread through the crowd.

Lith kept speaking, his head bowed, hands clenched atop the wooden table. His voice wavered, yet he forced the words out before the fearful villagers. "You're wrong about me. And the truth is..." He lifted his gaze, meeting their eyes, and let the bitter confession fall. "I am nothing more than a failed gift too."

For a heartbeat, silence gripped the room. Then the murmurs began—disbelief, scorn, anger.

"I-I'm possible. A priest that weak? Lies!"

"If you can't fight, then what good are you?"

"He's a failed priest!"

"A failed gift!"

One voice cut sharper than the rest: "What about the woman with him? Some of us saw her cut off the head of that fiend!"

"Yes, that woman beside him—let her fight for us instead!"

"That's right!"

Lith's eyes widened. "No..." His protest drew every gaze toward him. His words came haltingly, but with desperate conviction.

"I won't let Nyx be thrown to danger so carelessly. Yes, she defeated one—but if more come, she cannot stand alone. And more importantly... Nyx is not bound by my command." His voice faltered as the crowd erupted.

"What are you saying? Should we just wait to be slaughtered?"

"Where is your conscience as a priest?"

"A priest should think of others before himself, yet you sound selfish!"

Lith tried again, hands trembled. "N-no, that's not what I meant—"

But they shouted him down, until other voices rose to his defense.

"Please, don't condemn the young priest!"

"Don't forget—without him, your loved ones would already be dead by now!"

"He saved my daughter!"

Mob split—half accusing, half pleading. Lith bowed his head, swallowing their words.

They're right. I am a failure, a failed gift, pretending to be their shield.

Lith stayed silent as the villagers' voices grew louder, some still defending him, others turning fury and fear into insults. The air thickened—heat, breath, anger, and despair all pressing in.

Among them, Nyx's patience finally snapped.

Air thickened. A soundless quake rippled through the hall—chairs groaned, torches bent, and every heartbeat stuttered beneath her will.

Those who hurled words against Lith suddenly froze. A crushing weight descended—invisible yet suffocating. One by one, the villagers fell to their knees before the young priest, foreheads pressed against the dirt, trembling. The air itself seemed to bow.

Then came the others—waves of them—until nearly everyone knelt, their bodies shaking, their faces pale with terror.

Lith's eyes widened in horror. "Wh-what's happening?"

He didn't understand. Guilt, pity, and disbelief all warred inside him.

Nyx stepped forward, her presence cold and sharp as drawn blade.

"Do you see now, Master?" She said softly, her tone cutting through the stillness. "This is what humans are. The moment you can't serve their needs, they'll discard you like trash. But bleed for them—suffer for them—and they'll kneel." Her violet eyes glower faintly, luminous and cruel. She tilted her head, her next words meant for him alone. "If you keep wasting yourself like this, you really will die. And when you do, they own mourn you. They'll simply look for another savior to use."

It was then Lith realized what was happen. This—this overwhelming force that bent the villagers to their knees—came from her. Nyx's mana pulsed in the air, thick as storm pressure. Those who had spoken I'll of Lith gasped for breath, unable to move, while those who had defended him stared in shock and fear, untouched but trembling.

Lith turned to her, stunned by the sheer weight of her power. Even earlier that morning, when he had been healing the villagers, he'd felt his mana drain slower that usual—Nyx had been quietly sustaining him. "Nyx, that's enough. Please, stop." His voice was soft, pleading, but she didn't move. Her gaze remained fixed on the people writhing under her aura.

Lith tried again, steeping closer. "Nyx, I said enough!"

This time his tone cut through, sharp and commanding. The pressure broke in an instant, and Nyx blinked, as if waking from a trance. Her expression didn't change, but her voice softened. "Forgive me, Master."

Lith sighed, running a hand down his face. Around them, the villagers panted weakly, fear still written in their eyes. He looked at them with quiet remorse. "Please forgive her. But I can't blame her for what she did." His voice steadied. "And I never said we wouldn't help. I only said I wouldn't allow her to face those monsters alone. I know I'm not strong. I'm a failed gift, after all. But even failure can still choose to help." He bowed deeply before them. "So please, trust me."

For a moment, no one spoke. Then came the whispers—uncertain, bitter, afraid.

"How can we trust failed priest?",

"He was cast out of the Church, wasn't he?"

"I heard the orphans there were taken by nobles—only those with real power. The failures, the Giftless—they vanished. Isn't that right?"

But the last speaker faltered when Nyx gaze met his—those cold, violet eyes gleaming faintly from behind Lith's shoulder. Her presence alone silenced the room.

A hush fell. Then, a small, trembling voice rose from the crowd.

"I...I trust you, Big Brother."

Lith turned. It was the little girl he'd save, clutching her mother's hand.

"I do too," said the woman besiuher, her eyes bring with tears. "You save us. We believe in you."

And old tailor—the one who had sewn Nyx's cloak—lifted her head. "You have my trust as well, young healer."

One by one, others followed. Even those who had cursed him moments before bowed their heads in shame.

Lith's chest ached. He lowered his gaze, whispering, "Thank you..." But before he could continue, Nyx's voice cut through the air again—calm, cold and loyal to the core.

"Master, are those creatures troubling you?" She asked, tone steady as steel. "If they are, then I shall end them. Now. Just say the word."

Lith looker at her—the calm intensity in her voice, the unwavering devotion. It almost startled him. He smiled faintly, weary yet sincere. "If only it were that simple, Nyx..." And when he turned back to the villagers—she was gone.

Vanished like mist in sunlight."Nyx?" Lith called, scanning the empty space behind him. "Nyx—where are you?" But, no answer. Then, realization struck him. He remembered her last words—"just say the word." And his own reply. "If only it were that simple..."

"Oh no..." He pressed a hand to his forehead. "She took that as permission."