Reincarnated as a Healer : Why are my powers so filthy?
Chapter 45: Far from the firelight

Chapter 45: Far from the firelight

Far from the firelight, near the village gates, a woman stumbled forward.

She was tall—muscular, broad-shouldered, her arms wrapped in blood-stained bandages.

Her legs bore strange, glowing curse marks, pulsing faint red beneath torn armor.

A massive axe was strapped to her back, its blade dragging in the dirt.

Her breathing was ragged, her face smudged with dirt and dried blood, but her eyes burned with purpose.

She passed the outer sentries, her steps heavy but unyielding.

One guard stepped forward, startled, his spear raised. "Who the hell are you?"

She didn’t answer, her gaze scanning the celebration in the distance, the lanterns and laughter a world away from her grim determination.

"Where is he?" she rasped, her voice low, cracked with exhaustion.

"The healer. The one who was summoned."

Then she collapsed to her knees.

_________

The music in Eldwood’s square pulsed like a heartbeat with no signs of calming down anytime soon, the lute’s strums and drunken laughter weaving through the torchlit night.

Lanterns swayed overhead, casting golden light across dancing villagers, their mugs clinking, their voices rising in joy.

A bard, half-drunk, sang the wrong verse again, but no one cared—the night was celebration, the pain of Vraxus’s war melting into warmth, the scent of roasted meat and honey-wine thick in the air.

Inside the storage room behind the inn, it was hotter still, the air heavy with the musk of sweat and desire.

Leon lay flat on his back across scattered grain sacks, his breath ragged, his chest rising and falling beneath a sheen of sweat, his linen shirt discarded.

Saria straddled his thighs, her toned body naked save for a loose wrap slipping from one shoulder, revealing the curve of her full breast, her nipple flushed in the candlelight.

Her lips pressed against his neck, slow and tender—a rare affection from a woman usually forged in flame, her breath warm with wine.

Terya lounged beside him, her head propped on one hand, her blonde hair splayed, her other hand lazily tracing circles across Leon’s stomach, her touch teasing, lingering.

"You’re gonna have to dance with me once you catch your breath, hero," she murmured, her voice smoky with afterglow, her green eyes glinting with mischief.

Tila curled under Leon’s other arm, her cheeks still pink, her brown hair messy, her thighs twitching with the aftershocks of their frenzy.

She tried not to look at the sticky mess on her stomach or the slick shine between her legs, her shy smile betraying her embarrassment.

"We should... probably rejoin the party," she whispered, her voice soft, her body clearly not ready to move.

"Party’s right here," Terya grinned, her fingers brushing Tila’s arm, drawing a soft giggle.

Saria hummed, dragging her teeth gently along Leon’s collarbone, her touch slow, intimate, her usual stoic mask melted by the wine and the night’s joy.

"Let them celebrate," she murmured, her voice warm. "We’re allowed this."

Leon chuckled, exhausted but glowing, his body heavy but his heart light.

"I think I’m dead," he said, his voice rough, a grin tugging at his lips.

"Not yet," Terya purred, leaning closer, her breath hot against his ear. "We’ve got more rounds in us. You’ll live."

"Barely," Leon mumbled, his hand brushing Saria’s thigh, earning a soft moan.

And then—

Bang.

The door slammed open, the wooden frame rattling.

All four jumped, their tangled bodies tensing.

A guard stood in the doorway, red-faced, panting, his eyes darting between their naked, glistening forms, his expression cycling through shock, confusion, and the unmistakable realization he’d walked in on something he shouldn’t have.

"S-sorry!" he stammered, his spear nearly slipping from his hand.

"There’s—there’s a situation! At the gates!"

Leon blinked, his face flushing, his voice dry.

"You couldn’t have knocked?"

The guard looked ready to bolt, his cheeks burning brighter.

"A strange woman," he said, his voice cracking. "She collapsed. Her skin’s... glowing. There’s something wrong. The villagers are gathering—talking about demons. You need to see this."

The moment snapped like a taut rope.

Saria pulled off Leon, her expression hardening, the tender lover gone, the warrior returning in an instant.

She reached for her discarded armor, her movements swift, her voice sharp. "Let’s move."

Terya sat up, stretching lazily, her breasts bouncing as she tugged her shirt over her head, only half-buttoning it, her smirk unbothered.

"We really have to stop meeting like this," she said to Leon, winking as she stood, her leather pants creaking.

Tila scrambled to her feet, fumbling with her tunic, nearly tripping on her underclothes, her cheeks flaming as she dressed, her shy demeanor clashing with the boldness she’d shown moments before.

Leon groaned, standing on wobbly legs, adjusting his trousers, his skin still sticky, his magic buzzing low—a faint pulse of fire and wind from his bonds with Saria and Terya, fogged by the haze of wine and pleasure.

"Do I have anything on my face?" he muttered, wiping his mouth.

"Just pride," Terya said, smacking his ass as she passed, her laugh light but teasing.

The streets of Eldwood were alive with confusion now, the celebration fracturing into murmurs and hurried footsteps.

Villagers gathered, lanterns bobbing, guards running, their voices overlapping in a rising tide of worry.

"She just collapsed!"

"There’s markings on her skin!"

"Is it a curse?"

"A demon?"

"No, no—look at her eyes!"

Leon moved through the crowd, Saria and Terya flanking him, their presence a steady anchor, Tila clutching his sleeve like a nervous bird, her brown eyes wide.

Saria strode tall, her armor hastily fastened, her hair tied back, her stoic mask firmly in place.

Terya kept tugging her shirt down, hiding the fact she hadn’t fully buttoned it, her smirk fading into focus.

They reached the front, the crowd parting like water.

A woman knelt in the dust at the village gate, one hand braced on the dirt, the other gripping the wooden edge like it was her lifeline.

She was tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, her silver hair clinging to her sweat-soaked forehead, her cracked leathers mismatched, stained with blood and dirt.

A massive axe was strapped to her back, its blade dragging in the dirt, heavy and scarred.

Her bare legs were streaked with dried blood, and red glyphs—spirals and jagged lines—pulsed faintly along her thigh, crawling up her hip like living coals beneath her skin.

They looked old, weathered, but alive, throbbing with a faint, menacing glow.