Reincarnated as a Healer : Why are my powers so filthy?
Chapter 37: Three of us

Chapter 37: Three of us

"Three of us. One of him," Leon said, his eyes locked on the beast at the throne’s heart.

"Let’s end this."

The shattered bones of the throne chamber crunched beneath their boots as the battle began, the air thick with the stench of blood and corrupted magic.

Varnyx stood tall, his obsidian flesh gleaming with sweat and heat, four arms unfurling from his torso—each gripping a different weapon: a jagged sword, a serrated hook, a spiked chain, and a twisted staff pulsing with crimson light.

His molten gold eyes locked onto them with predatory calm, his torn parchment wings casting jagged shadows across the bone-tiled floor.

"You’ve come far," he said, his voice deep enough to vibrate through the obsidian walls, a mocking rumble.

"But you’re bleeding, broken. Tired."

Leon stood behind Saria and Terya, his chest rising, heart pounding, the taste of copper thick in his mouth.

His black and crimson tunic was shredded, his magic a faint flicker—fire and wind barely pulsing through the bonds in his chest.

"I’m still standing," he said, his voice raw but defiant, his hands clenching into fists.

Varnyx grinned, his sharp teeth glinting. "For now."

Saria charged first, her sword bursting into flame, a streak of fire as she clashed with Varnyx head-on.

Her strikes were fast, furious, controlled, each blow sparking against his jagged sword, steel screaming in the crimson-lit hall.

Terya darted along the edge, her wind-enhanced daggers dancing, slicing shallow wounds across Varnyx’s side, her torn leather top clinging to her sweat-soaked curves, blood seeping from a cut on her arm.

She was fast—but not untouchable.

Leon stayed at mid-range, his hands raised, summoning a Scorch Spiral—a tight coil of wind-laced flame that hissed through the air, striking Varnyx’s back with a concussive blast.

The demon lord staggered half a step, more irritated than wounded, his gold eyes flicking to Leon.

"Stormbrand..." Leon muttered, the name he’d given his hybrid fire-wind powers, not a spell but the essence of his magic, raw and untamed.

Varnyx’s amusement deepened, his voice a low growl. "A healer throwing sparks. Bold. But not enough."

Behind them, the last dozen soldiers held their formation, their mismatched armor clanking, spears and swords raised.

Then the hook lashed out, a blur of serrated metal.

A man screamed as it tore through his chest, yanking him into Varnyx’s claws, his body crumpling like paper.

Another tried to shield him, only to be sliced open from shoulder to hip by the spiked chain, blood spraying the bone tiles.

"Hold the line!" a commander shouted, but panic was seeping in, voices cracking.

They were outmatched, their numbers dwindling.

Tila dragged a bleeding soldier behind a broken column, her hands trembling as she whispered weak healing spells, her shortbow discarded in the ash.

Saria fought like a woman possessed, her blade arcing, sweat flying, her dark eyes burning with defiance.

She blocked the sword, dodged the chain, her movements a blur of fire and steel.

But she didn’t see the staff.

Its jagged end slammed into her ribs with a sickening crunch, sending her flying backward.

Her body hit the floor hard, rolling once, twice, then stopping—arms limp, her blade clattering beside her, blood pooling beneath her torn robe.

"Saria!" Leon screamed, his voice raw, his heart lurching.

He ran, past another soldier falling, past Terya shouting for him to wait, his boots slipping on the slick tiles.

He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands shaking, his breath ragged.

Her eyes were shut, blood staining her lips, her armor cracked and buckled inward, her ribs broken.

A deep gash spilled red across her side, soaking her robe, a shred of fabric barely covering one pale pink nipple.

Leon’s hands hovered over her, his magic a dying ember, his chest tight with panic. He had nothing left—no reserves, no arousal, no room for hesitation.

"Come on," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Please."

He slammed both palms onto her chest, pressing hard, willing his magic to spark. A faint golden light flickered—weak, stuttering—then flared with a sudden, violent surge, drawn from somewhere deep, a desperate pull on his bonds with Saria and Terya.

His nose bled, his head throbbed, his vision blurring, but he clenched his teeth and poured it all in, the light stitching her ribs, sealing the gash, her blood slowing.

Her body arched, shuddered, then stilled.

Her chest rose—once, then again. Her dark eyes fluttered open, hazy but alive, her breath shallow.

"You’re glowing again," she murmured, her voice weak, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Leon coughed, falling against her, his body trembling, his magic drained to nothing.

"You’re welcome," he said, his voice rough, a shaky grin breaking through his exhaustion.

She smiled, her hand brushing his arm.

"Took you long enough."

Leon smiled back, exhausted, as he looked at her figure marching back into the fight.

And.

Leon collapsed, unable to move, his fingers twitching, his vision blurring, the hall’s crimson light pulsing in time with his fading heartbeat.

Vraxus loomed over the battlefield, his obsidian flesh glistening, his molten gold eyes narrowing with annoyance.

Terya stood alone between him and Leon, her daggers raised, blood dripping from a fresh gash on her thigh, soaking the strap of her torn leather pants.

Her chest wound from earlier, barely healed, seeped red, her breaths shallow but defiant.

"You want him?" she growled, her green eyes blazing. "You’re going through me."

The Demon Lord smiled, his sharp teeth glinting, and advanced, his four arms flexing—jagged sword, serrated hook, spiked chain, and twisted staff ready, their cursed energy crackling in the crimson-lit throne hall.

Saria coughed, one arm pressed over her cracked ribs, the other gripping her sword’s hilt, her torn robe fluttering.

Her breaths came in hard gasps, each one a stab of pain, but her dark eyes—sharp, fire-colored—were clear, burning with rage.

She looked at Leon for a heartbeat longer, sprawled beside her, his cheeks pale, dried blood under his nose, barely conscious.

She pushed herself upright, her movements slow, her body screaming in protest. She was alive.

And she was angry.