Player Chapter 11. Lone Healer
He walked beside her again, closer now. "And you believed that was normal?"
"I…" she started, then stopped.
'Did I?'
The Empire had approved it. The generals had praised their courage. The Temple elders had insisted the Empress was that cruel. Everyone repeated the same line.
It was like a script.
She had questioned it. She had argued once. Softly. Then stopped.
Because Saints don't argue.
"They told me it was necessary," she said finally.
"And you trusted them," he replied.
It wasn't accusation. It was observation.
She felt something in her chest twist.
He doesn't even belong to this world and he sees the flaw immediately.
He exhaled quietly. "That's the biggest red flag I've ever encountered."
She blinked. "Red… flag?"
"Means something's wrong," he translated calmly. "Very wrong."
Her fingers tightened slightly in her sleeves.
She had felt it too. Every failed raid. Every team that fractured before reaching the boss chamber.
Some disliked each other. Some chased fame. Some flirted mid-dungeon like it was a dating sim. Some tried to kill teammates for rare loot.
The cracks were always there.
She had waited.
Because the game required five heroes. She knew that. In her old world, the final raid required a full composition. Tank. Archer. Mage. Rogue. Healer.
Without that balance, the Empress' mechanics overwhelmed everything.
And now? She was alone.
A healer.
She could fight, yes. Holy magic wasn't weak. But alone against the last boss?
She had wiped more times than she could count. Sometimes not even reaching the throne room.
She resurrected adventurers. Stayed at the Temple. Waited for the right party to find her. The party that lacked a healer. The party that would come looking. She played this game before and finished it. She knew the heroes, the ones who were supposed to be her party when she see ones. And maybe… they were also transmigrators too. Just like her.
But it never came.
And she couldn't explain any of that to him.
NPCs don't understand raid compositions.
He walked in silence for a few steps, then suddenly reached out and grabbed her hand.
Her brain stopped functioning.
"My room," he said. "Let's go to my room. Show me where it is."
It wasn't romantic. It wasn't flirtatious. It was decisive.
But her heart absolutely did not care about context.
'He's holding my hand.'
His grip wasn't tight. Just firm enough to redirect her path slightly down the corridor she had almost missed while spiraling in thought.
She followed automatically.
'Oh my god. Calm down. This is not a romance route. This is a war arc.'
But his hand was warm. Steady. Grounded.
And for the first time in a year…
She didn't feel alone in this chaotic narrative.
She glanced sideways at him.
He wasn't looking at her. He was thinking. Strategizing. Probably dismantling the political structure of her entire war in his head.
And yet he had reached for her instinctively.
She swallowed.
Maybe…
Maybe this wasn't about being rescued.
Maybe this was about rewriting the raid entirely.
Her pulse softened slightly.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
Because if he stayed…
If he fought differently…
If he questioned loudly…
Then maybe the Empress wasn't the only thing that needed to fall.
And that thought?
Terrified her.
And thrilled her.
They reached the guest wing at the far end of the inner Temple halls, where marble gave way to polished oak floors and the stained glass glow softened into warm lanternlight.
Elena slowed just a fraction before the final door on the right. This one. The best one. Spacious, high ceiling, private balcony overlooking the inner courtyard fountain. The room reserved for dignitaries and high-ranking clergy. Or visiting imperial nobles. Or, apparently, suspiciously handsome wildcard adventurers who made her nervous in new and exciting ways.
She pushed the door open.
She stopped.
Because he didn't walk in casually.
He stepped in like he was entering a contested zone.
Riven's gaze moved across the room once, twice. Windows. Corners. Curtains. The bed canopy. The fireplace mantle. The ceiling beams. The rug. The small writing desk by the wall.
[Predator Instinct Activated]
His shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. His eyes sharpened.
"This…" she began again, trying to explain the room layout, the private bath access, the bell for attendants.
The door shut behind her with a solid click.
Her heart jumped into her throat.
He didn't slam it. He just closed it firmly. Deliberately.
"Riven?"
He removed his gauntlets slowly, placing them on the table beside the door. The metal clinked softly. Controlled. Quiet.
He turned toward her.
Oh.
That look again.
Not playful. Not gentle. Focused.
He stepped closer.
She instinctively stepped back. Once. Twice.
"R-Riven?" she stammered, and immediately hated herself for it. She had stood before generals without flinching. Faced undead hordes without trembling. Why was she backing away like a startled extra in a romance drama?
Because he felt dangerous.
Not violent. Just… intense.
Like a pro player in finals mode. The aura of someone who doesn't waste moves.
He stopped a step away.
"Don't move," he said quietly.
Her brain froze.
Excuse me?
Her heart began pounding so loudly she was convinced the bells in the Temple would start ringing in sympathy.
She opened her mouth to protest…
And he summoned a throwing knife.
The blade formed from condensed mana midair, sleek and sharp.
He flicked his wrist.
The knife sliced upward toward the ceiling corner.
-Thunk!
Something shimmered.
Then crackled.
Then materialized.
A small, translucent sigil embedded near the ceiling beam. A ward. Human-make. Surveillance enchantment.
Her eyes widened.
That… wasn't Temple magic.
The knife pinned it in place long enough for the enchantment to destabilize and dissolve into sparks.
He exhaled softly. "I don't like bugs in my room."
Her stomach dropped.
He glanced back at her with the faintest smirk. "Seems like your place isn't really safe, Your Holiness."
Her mind raced.
A ward. In the Saint's guest wing. Watching this room.
Watching who?
Guests? Nobles?
Or her?