The encounter with Elara and her mother had left a mark deeper than any monster's claw.
Arin had seen the raw, desperate need festering in the city's underbelly—a need the official Healer's Guild priced into oblivion. The helplessness in the guild hall, the broken bodies on the roadside… it churned inside him, grinding against Satoshi's careful logic.
But the boy's heart won.
"Lia," he said one evening, their tiny rented room lit by a single candle. "I want to open a clinic."
Lia, polishing her sword, didn't look up.
"I know."
"Just a small one. In the poor district. Where the guild never goes." He hesitated, then added, "I'll charge… one silver coin. For anything."
Now she looked up.
"One silver for a broken arm? For a fever that's killed three others?" Her eyes sharpened. "They'll think you're a fraud—or a fool. And the guild will notice."
"Then we'll be careful," Arin replied, quiet but firm. "We'll say it's part of my training as a D-rank. Practical experience."
Lia exhaled slowly. She could already see the storm this would summon.
But she also saw the light in his eyes—the same light that had mended Lysa's bones and erased Elara's tumor. She could no more extinguish it than stop the sunrise.
"Fine," she muttered, sheathing her sword with a definitive click.
"But I'm on guard. And at the first sign of real trouble—we run. Understood?"
He nodded, a small, grateful smile touching his lips.
That smile, as always, was her undoing.
They rented a cramped, one-room space in the Warrens—the poorest quarter of Silverford. The roof leaked. The floor was dirt. But it was theirs.
Arin hung a simple, hand-painted sign outside:
ALL-HEALING — 1 SILVER
The first days were lonely.
A few curious onlookers peeked inside, saw a young boy barely tall enough to reach the table, and shuffled away muttering about scams.
The breakthrough came from unlikely heralds.
Lysa Rowan, her copper hair blazing with enthusiasm, loudly praised the "miracle healer" in the guild's common room. Elara—healthy, strong, and working again—guided the desperate from the tenements toward the little clinic.
The first real patient was an old mason with a crushed foot.
"One silver? For this?" he grunted, pointing at the purple, swollen mess.
"One silver," Arin confirmed.
Fifteen minutes later, golden light filled the room.
The man watched in stunned silence as swelling receded, bones slid back into place with soft clicks, and bruised flesh turned healthy pink. He stood. Put weight on it.
Then jumped.
Tears spilled down his weathered face. He threw two silver coins onto the rickety table and ran out into the street, shouting praise to anyone who would listen.
Word spread like wildfire.
Soon, a line formed outside the clinic.
Lia stood guard at the door, arms crossed, presence unmistakable. Drunks and aggressors were turned away without discussion. No one argued.
Inside was a catalogue of suffering.
A young mother with a feverish infant—its cries fading to coos beneath Arin's gentle touch.
A woodcutter with a festering axe wound—cleansed in moments.
Then came the cases the guild had abandoned.
An old woman paralyzed on one side from a stroke years past.
A man coughing blood from a ruined lung.
For these, Arin went deeper.
He did not simply pour healing into them.
He mapped them.
Guided by Satoshi's knowledge and the principles from his book, he followed damaged pathways, felt blocked signals, and carefully rewrote what had gone wrong. Neurons were coaxed into reconnecting. Scarred tissue was replaced with clean, living cells.
His healing was not a blanket of light.
It was precise. Intelligent. Root-deep.
The clinic became a place of quiet miracles.
The name Arin was whispered with reverence.
They called her—
The One-Silver Healer.
Mornings were for adventuring.
Evenings were for the clinic.
It became a routine Arin clung to.
He trained his meager offensive magic with grim determination. His only attack spell was a simple mana pulse—a concussive blast released from his palms. At point-blank range, it could knock down a goblin.
At distance, it fizzled into nothing.
He could push threats away—but not strike them down.
The frustration lingered constantly.
He was a scalpel in a world that often demanded a hammer.
One evening, bone-tired after a long day, Elara intercepted them on the road home.
"Benefactor! Lia! Please—you must come for dinner. My mother insists. Just a small thanks."
Arin began to refuse, but Elara's eyes—wide, shimmering, pleading—were a weapon he had no defense against.
"…Alright."
The tenement was transformed.
Clean. Warm. Filled with the smell of stew instead of sickness.
Ashley was unrecognizable.
The skeletal wraith was gone. In her place stood a radiant, healthy woman with rosy cheeks and boundless energy.
"Arin! My little savior!" she cried, sweeping forward and scooping Arin into a crushing hug—lifting him clean off the ground.
"So small! yet So powerful! what an blessing you are!"
Arin's face turned beet red as he squeaked helplessly, smothered in perfumed softness.
Lia froze.
Protectiveness surged.
Annoyance flared.
And—unwillingly—a sharp spike of jealousy.
Why is she so… bouncy?
She cleared her throat loudly, hand twitching toward her sword.
Ashley finally released a dazed, blushing Arin. "Oh, I'm just happy!" she beamed, completely oblivious. "Now—eat!"
Dinner was hearty and loud—mostly thanks to Ashley.
Lia ate in stoic silence, shooting occasional glares. Arin discreetly checked Ashley's side.
Perfectly healthy. Strong. Alive.
As they prepared to leave, Elara pressed a heavy pouch into Arin's hands.
"Please. For my mother."
"The food was thanks enough," he said, pushing it back.
"Then for me," Elara insisted, tears welling. "You gave me my life back."
Arin sighed, then opened the pouch. He removed a single silver coin and returned the rest.
"My fee. One silver. The debt is paid."
Elara stared at the coin—then at him.
Understanding dawned.
She bowed deeply, unable to speak.