The drip-drip-drip of water from a stalactite was the only clock I had. Each drop was a reminder of the HP I was losing. One point, every ten seconds. A slow bleed. The [Weakened] status was worse. It was a physical weight, a layer of thick, heavy mud coating my muscles. My movements felt sluggish, my thoughts were fuzzy. My efficiency was shot.
I had to stop. I backtracked through the silent tunnels, my [Detect Presence] skill a constant presence in the back of my mind, ensuring no patrols would stumble upon me. I found a small, dead-end alcove, easily defensible from a single chokepoint. Safe enough. I sat down on the cold stone, my back against the wall, and took a look at the problem.
The wound from the poison bolt was on my forearm. It was a pathetic little thing, a discolored patch of skin no bigger than a coin, slightly swollen and oozing a thin, greenish fluid. It wasn't the wound itself that was the problem; it was what it had injected into my system. The debuff.
My mind, the only real tool I had, started working. The System was built on a kind of internal logic. Focused, repeated action creates a skill. Action equals result. I had applied that logic to external forces: hitting things with a mace, throwing things with mana, sneaking. But what if the "action" was internal?
The theory was simple. Mana was just energy. I had learned to shape it into a destructive force, pushing it outwards. What if I could shape it into a restorative one, and push it inwards? If I could use my will to create [Mana Strike], couldn't I use it to create the opposite? A 'Mana Mend'?
I placed my free hand over the festering wound. I closed my eyes and reached for my mana pool. This time, I didn't try to gather it into a focused point for attack. I tried to coax it, to let a gentle stream flow down my arm and into the hand covering the wound.
My first attempt was a failure. The mana just pooled in my palm, warming the skin, before dissipating uselessly into the air. My HP ticked down by another point. Frustrating.
I tried again. This time, I focused my intent. The word wasn't "strike" or "destroy." It was "mend." It was "cleanse." I visualized the mana not as a bullet, but as a solvent. I pictured it seeping into my tissues, breaking down the goblin poison, neutralizing it molecule by molecule.
It was incredibly difficult. It was like trying to perform surgery with a sledgehammer. The mana was wild, chaotic. It didn't want to be gentle. It wanted to be a weapon. I pushed too hard, and my arm just felt hot and tingly. I was too gentle, and it did nothing at all. The headache I'd had from learning [Detect Presence] came roaring back. This was mentally exhausting.
But I kept at it. I was a grinder. This was just another progress bar to fill, another rep to complete. Push, focus on 'mending', fail. Push, focus on 'cleansing', fail. My mana bar slowly drained, and my HP continued its steady, infuriating decline.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
After what felt like an eternityâthe steady drip-drip of water suggesting it had been close to an hourâsomething shifted. For a split second, I felt it. A tiny flicker of coolness inside the wound, a brief respite from the festering heat. The poison had receded, just for a moment. I latched onto that feeling, that specific frequency of intent, and pushed again.
The result was a sound more beautiful than any symphony.
Ding.
[Through repeated action and focused intent on mending your own body with mana, a new skill has been created.]
[You have created the Active Skill: Minor Heal Lv. 1!]
My eyes shot open. Ecstasy, pure and undiluted, washed over me. I didn't hesitate. I focused on the new skill in my mind and activated it.
A soft, warm, green light bloomed from my palm, bathing my arm in its glow. It felt like sinking into a hot bath after a week of sleeping on the ground. The festering wound visibly stitched itself shut, the discolored skin returning to its normal tone. The sluggishness in my limbs evaporated, the heavy, muddy feeling lifting like a physical weight being removed from my shoulders. A new notification appeared.
[The status effect 'Poisoned' has been cured.]
[The status effect 'Weakened' has been cured.]
I flexed my hand, feeling the strength return to my arm. The system had provided. My own arrogance had created a problem, and my own persistence had forged the solution.
But I wasn't done. Level 1 was a proof of concept. I needed reliability. I needed power. I needed to level this thing up, now.
I looked around. There were no more goblins nearby to wound me. No traps. I had only one test subject available: myself. I unsheathed the crude, jagged-edged dagger I'd looted from a goblin scrapper. Without a moment's hesitation, I drew a shallow, clean cut across my other arm. It stung, and a thin line of red welled up.
Then, I placed my hand over it and cast [Minor Heal]. The green light glowed, and the cut sealed itself, leaving behind nothing but smooth skin.
It was beautifully efficient.
Cut. Heal.
Ding. [Your skill, Minor Heal, has reached Lv. 2!]
Cut. Heal.
Ding. [Your skill, Minor Heal, has reached Lv. 3!]
I repeated the process, methodical and detached. My body was just another system to be manipulated, another resource to be optimized. The pain was irrelevant, a temporary discomfort in the larger calculation of power.
After a dozen more repetitions, I stopped.
[Your skill, Minor Heal, has reached Lv. 5!]
I looked at my arms, both now completely unmarred. My HP was full. My mana was regenerating. I had stealth, awareness, offense, and now, self-sustain. I didn't need potions. I didn't need a party. I didn't need anything.
I was a completely self-sufficient grinding machine.