The radio crackled.
"All units, convoy Alpha inbound—ETA three minutes. Med team, prep evac protocol."
Sushruth tightened his gloves one finger at a time. His hands trembled anyway.
The truck bounced over gravel, packed with soldiers in full gear. Helmets down. Rifles tight. Silence settling in like fog.
It was his first deployment.
He had no medals. Half his trauma manual still unread.
But this was supposed to be day one.
He wasn't here to fight.
He was here to keep people breathing.
He gripped his first-aid kit like it was armor.
Then the sky ripped open.
Heat. Pressure. No warning.
The truck flipped.
And then—
Nothing.
There was no pain.
Only silence.
And a voice.
"You were meant to save lives, weren't you?"
Sushruth floated in a void of white and weightlessness. No shape. No form. Just memory and regret.
"You never got the chance."
He tried to speak. Couldn't. The truth bled out anyway.
No.
"What do you want now?"
His voice returned—quiet. Solid.
"I want to keep healing."
A pulse of approval. Or maybe pity.
"Then so be it."
Though… we apologize. There may have been a mismatch in your file.
Before he could react—
The world blinked.
—
Somewhere in the Bureau of Post-Mortal Reallocation—Desk Cluster HUMANOID—chaos had erupted.
"HE PICKED HEALER?!"
Scrolls burst into flame. Ink sloshed across celestial parchment.
An intern orb named Orivelle hovered nervously.
"I flagged him Combat Grade because of the army thing, but also Support-Medical because of the healing intent, and—"
"You gave him two tags?!" another orb barked.
"I thought the system would auto-sort it!"
"It did! It panicked!"
A third orb floated in, reviewing the logs.
SOUL INTAKE: #391A-ET
☑ Army Medic
☑ Died Before First Save
☑ Unused Healing Karma
☑ Request: 'I want to keep healing.'
Flagged For: Support-Class
Override: Combat-Capable
Mana Circuit: 0.9m/sec
Outcome: Assign Healer. Rank: F. Affinity: Unknown.
A door opened. A god walked in, half-robed and holding a steaming bowl of divine noodles.
"What's the issue?"
"Sir! The soul with elite stats was misfiled into F-Rank Healer!"
The god slurped a noodle. Skimmed the file.
Strength: A
Endurance: A
Magic: F
Chosen Class: Healer
"Looks balanced to me."
He stamped it. Walked off.
A sticky note fluttered behind him:
Check back in 100 chapters. If he's still alive, upgrade.
—
Sushruth gasped awake.
Grass. Blue sky. Two suns. One gold. One blue. Both drifting like they had nowhere better to be.
His clothes were foreign but familiar—canvas shirt, dark trousers, light boots. Not army. Not Earth.
No burns. No wounds. No scars.
Just the echo of a scream that hadn't finished.
He turned slowly. The world was too clean. Too quiet.
A wooden sign sat up the road.
← Cradelmere – Adventurer's Guild Registration
He adjusted his belt.
And walked.
—
The trail wound through silver-barked trees and pulsing moss.
After an hour, he met them—three adventurers on the road.
One woman in leather armor. A tattooed man. A boy scribbling on a floating scroll.
"You a Drifter?" the woman asked.
Sushruth gave a non-answer. "Just heading to Cradelmere."
"Newblood, then," the boy muttered. "Unmarked. Weird posture. Not glowing. Huh."
"They'll test your stats," the man said. "Assign your class."
"Go now before it gets dark," the archer added. "The woods don't like confused people."
They passed him without waiting.
He kept walking.
—
Cradelmere pulsed with life.
Stone towers, runed lanterns, potion carts, and fruit stands selling stat boosts. Runes shimmered in the gutters. Blacksmiths shouted louder than mages.
The Adventurer's Guild stood at the center of it all.
He stepped inside.
No trumpets. No music.
Just wood floors. Crystal lights. A bored clerk behind a glowing desk.
"Name?"
"Sushruth."
"Affiliation?"
"None."
"Place your hand. Don't flinch."
He obeyed.
The pedestal lit up.
🟥 Strength – A
🟨 Endurance – A
🟩 Dexterity – B+
🟫 Charisma – B
🟦 Magic – F
The clerk actually looked up.
"Three A-ranks?"
People noticed.
Whispers. A quiet whistle.
"You could go Tank-Warden. Or Brawler-Knight. Hell, some nobles don't have stats like this."
Sushruth just stared at the final line.
Magic: F.
"I want to register as a Healer."
The clerk blinked. "What?"
"You heard me."
"You'll never cast a spell. You'll be bottom tier. They'll treat you like a bandage with legs."
"I know."
"You've got the stats to crush warlords."
"I didn't come here to crush anyone."
The clerk sighed. Tapped a glyph.
[CLASS SELECTED: HEALER]
[MAGIC TYPE: UNSTABLE – FLAGGED FOR REVIEW]
[FILE NOTE: Error A105 – Manual Review Pending]
[INITIAL RANK: F]
A dull tin badge slid into the tray.
He picked it up. Clipped it to his jacket.
"You'll regret it," someone muttered behind him.
He didn't answer.
He stepped outside.
—
A post board cracked with new quest scrolls.
"Rotwell Marsh patrol—bleeding out—scouts down!"
The same clerk leaned out the window.
"Hey, Tin Badge! Still breathing?"
He looked at his hands.
Not glowing.
But steady.
"Good," the clerk said. "Because they're not."
Sushruth stepped forward.
Point me toward the ones who can't stand.