Harold awoke to silence.
The kind of silence that pressed into his ears, heavy and wrong.
He blinked, rolling over onto his back with a groan.
His body protested every motion—arms trembling, shoulders sore, knees stiff from the stone floor.
His mouth tasted of dust and iron.
The first thing he noticed was that the bed was empty.
For a moment, panic gripped him.
He scrambled upright, eyes darting to the slab of stone where the lizardman had been laid out, wrapped and bound in layers of plaster and stitches.
Gone.
Not even a blood smear left.
Harold's breath caught.
No, no, no, not after all that work.
Don't tell me he died and the system just… erased the body.
Or worse, someone dragged him off while I was out cold.
He staggered closer, scanning the space.
The room was clean again—just like before, all traces of the gore scrubbed away as if the system itself refused to tolerate mess.
But something was different.
Atop the bed, where his patient had lain, sat a simple clay bowl.
Inside, piled nearly to the rim, were berries.
Plump, deep red, glistening faintly with dew.
Harold froze.
Payment.
That was what it looked like, at least.
He let out a dry laugh, halfway between relief and disbelief.
"You've got to be kidding me. I patch you back together from death's doorstep and you give me… fruit?"
His laughter cracked, breaking into a tired grin.
Then his stomach rumbled.
Loudly.
"...Okay. Fair enough."
He plucked a berry from the bowl and popped it into his mouth.
Sweet, tart juice burst across his tongue.
His body all but sang in gratitude.
Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was the fact he hadn't eaten since yesterday, but right now, these were the best berries he'd ever tasted.
Chewing thoughtfully, Harold sank onto the edge of the bed.
He stared at the empty space where the lizardman had been, shaking his head.
"Payment, huh? Guess the fact I'm still breathing is payment enough."
Because truthfully, if the warrior had woken violent, Harold wouldn't have been able to stop him.
He'd been too drained, too out of it.
One clawed hand, one strike of a blade, and he would've been gone.
But instead, the stranger had left him alive.
With berries.
As he finished the bowl, Harold finally dragged open his status screen.
He had put it off yesterday, too busy not letting someone bleed out on his table.
Now the glowing letters filled the air, neat and cold against the cave's rough stone:
Skills
Stitching [Level 3]
Dressing [Level 3]
Diagnosis [Level 2]
Debridement [Level 2]
Splinting [Level 2]
Suction [Level 2]
Acupressure [Level 1]
Casting [Level 2]
Harold whistled low.
"Damn. No wonder I feel like I got hit by a truck. The system went nuts."
He summoned a Stitching kit, curious.
Instead of the bent iron sliver and fraying thread he'd been using, a proper—though still basic—needle materialized in his palm.
Smooth, straight, with a sharp point that gleamed faintly.
The thread was plain, but even to his untrained eye, stronger and more even than before.
He set it down and tried Dressing next.
A roll of grey bandages appeared, neat if somewhat rough.
They smelled faintly of ash, but not of decay, not of old blood.
"Fresh," Harold muttered. "Well… 'fresh enough.' at least their no longer soiled or used goods."
Then Suction.
He summoned the tool—and blinked.
The reed and bulb were larger now, sturdier.
When he thought about it again, another object shimmered into being: a squat little device with a foot pedal and a clear tube coiled on its side.
He turned it over in his hands.
"...A suction machine? Seriously? Level three and im getting medical machines already?"
It looked like something out of a 19th-century hospital, crude but functional.
Like someone took a peddle powered sewing machine and instead hooked it up to a sort of bellows and tubes allowing for close to automated suction.
His mind spun with the possibilities.
With this, he wouldn't have to rely on speed alone to keep cavities clear during surgery.
Finally, Debridement.
His tweezers had changed too—no longer rusty, but iron, their tips aligned properly.
Basic, but reliable.
One by one, his tools were becoming… real.
Still primitive, but edging toward professionalism.
The only laggard was Acupressure, stuck at level one, though he couldnt recall having done anything to actually level that one up in the first place.
'Oh well, i'll just have to grind that one up next time i get a chance.'
He rubbed his eyes, exhaustion threatening to drag him down again.
Still, pride simmered beneath it.
He was stronger now.
Better equipped.
the system wasn't just throwing scraps at him anymore—it was handing him the beginnings of a surgeon's kit.
And all he had to do was keep pushing.
For a long while, Harold just sat there, fiddling with the new tools.
His fingers traced the needle's smooth shaft, tested the bandage's tension, pumped the suction pedal to hear the faint whoosh of air.
It was almost meditative, grounding him after the storm of last night.
But his thoughts kept circling back to the empty bed.
The alein.
Gone.
Alive, maybe.
But most likely as injured as it was death had sought it out at last.
But the berries said otherwise.
They said his patient had walked away under his own power—or at least been carried by someone who valued the work done.
They said he'd been acknowledged, in the simplest, most primitive way possible.
Food for life.
Payment for salvation.
And Harold found he could live with that.
"Guess that makes me a real healer now," he muttered. "First patient walks away. Second one… leaves me lunch."
A grin tugged at his lips despite the bone-deep fatigue.
He leaned back on the bed, folding his hands behind his head.
For once, he let himself just breathe.
Outside, sunlight spilled across the cave mouth, pale gold on stone.
Somewhere in the forest, birds called, their songs sharp and wild.
Inside, Harold lay with a full stomach, a heavier toolset, and the faintest spark of something he hadn't felt since he'd woken in this strange world.
Hope.