Chapter 21: A Legal Alien in a Magical Land

We returned to the wilderness and, after an hour of walking, found a quiet clearing to set up camp. As I erected the tent, my hands began to shake while tying one of the poles.

I killed somebody today.

All my life, I’d worked to save people—not end their lives. And now… I didn’t know how to deal with that.

I killed somebody today. And helped the guard kill the other two.

I sat down hard, trembling, as I tried to process. Stretch came over and rested his head on my lap. I began petting him, letting the simple motion calm me. Every time I paused, caught in the spiral of my thoughts, he nudged my hand with his nose, gently but insistently, until I continued.

Smart wolf.

Eventually, I pulled myself together enough to make dinner, and we settled in for the night. I lay there, staring up at the stars. The archer’s face kept flashing in my mind, and the image of the two dead men stayed with me, lodged behind my eyes. I kept thinking about what I could have done differently, if there had been another way. The guilt was suffocating. I wanted to travel and see beautiful places, not kill people. I trained to protect myself, not to harm. It was wrong to kill people, no matter the reason, and I couldn’t shake the gnawing sense that I had crossed a line. But despite everything, and much to my surprise, I didn’t have nightmares.

The next morning, my mind felt clearer. Not fixed. Just... more objective. I sat with my coffee and let myself think it through properly for the first time.

The arrow had whizzed past my ear—I was the target. The archer had intended to kill me. If Stretch hadn’t run to protect me, the shots would’ve kept coming. He might have hit me. Might have killed me. They were bandits. That much was obvious. Not desperate travelers or some ragged group just trying to survive. They had weapons, a plan, an obvious target. And if they were bold enough to ambush a guarded carriage in broad daylight, it probably wasn’t their first time. It probably wouldn’t have been their last, either.

The archer with the knife—he hurt Stretch. And he would’ve done worse if I hadn’t stopped him. That wasn’t a choice. That was instinct. Fast and final. Still, I kept circling back to it. The way he dropped. The sound his neck made when it broke. The stillness after.

I’d spent my entire life trying to keep people alive. And now I’d taken a life. Three, really, if I counted helping the guard. It wasn’t a clean mental switch. I didn’t suddenly feel justified or heroic. Just ... unsettled.

But some of what I kept telling myself wasn’t just for comfort. The archer could’ve killed me. Could’ve killed others. He shot and almost killed the coachman. The other two had swords and charged. It wasn’t justice or vengeance. It was survival. Even the law made allowances for defense—either of self or of another.

Even so, we stayed in that clearing for two days while I figured out how to live with it.

Stretch didn’t mind. He caught up on sleep, sprawled in the sun. Every time I froze up, staring at nothing, he’d nudge me with his nose or flop against my legs until I reached down and scratched his ears.

That helped more than anything else.

The bison helped too, Stretch at least. Since I "harvested" it, Stretch was less than impressed with the goat meat. Every time I offered it, he sniffed it and gave me a side-eye. But the bison? That got tail wags and eager chomping. Apparently, now he had gourmet standards. Great.

Spoiled wolf.

After two days, I came to a decision: if I let that nasty noble change my plans, he’d win. I wasn’t about to give him that power over me. So, after packing up the camp, we headed back to the road.

Once we reached it, I stood there for a minute, looking down the long stretch of dirt and gravel. I really didn’t feel like walking again. So, I took out a bicycle.

I realized that I’d always had a Luck stat—it was simply hidden. When I bought my first bike and all the gear that came with it, the salesman insisted that I get a trailer. I refused at first. It felt unnecessary. But then he mentioned using it to haul groceries, and I thought, Okay, I could use it to carry shopping to a discreet location before storing it. So I bought it.

Now? I wanted to send that guy flowers. And chocolate. Maybe a fruit basket. The second I hooked up the trailer, Stretch hopped in as if it were the most natural thing. Sat down, tail wagging like a metronome on overdrive.

I checked the Map. The road stretched endlessly in both directions, dotted with occasional towns. Both ends led to a city with a crown icon—either a capital or a significant landmark. I picked north and started pedaling.

We rode like that for about three hours, the hum of the wheels and the steady rhythm of Stretch's breathing behind me setting a calm tempo to the morning. The road was smooth by wilderness standards—packed dirt with occasional gravel patches, wide enough for two wagons to pass, though barely. Grass grew wild along the edges, tall enough to brush against the wheels, and clusters of yellow wildflowers popped up now and then like scattered confetti.

Every couple of kilometers, I noticed narrow dirt tracks branching off the main road, weaving their way into the trees or rolling into the open fields beyond. Curiosity got the better of me, and I checked out the first one.

It led to a small farmstead tucked between low hills, just far enough from the main road to feel private but not isolated. A wooden fence bordered the fields, though a few boards leaned at odd angles, weathered and grey. Rows of leafy vegetables stretched in neat lines beside a patch of golden grain, swaying gently in the breeze. Plump gray birds pecked at the dirt near a crooked coop, and a fat, woolly animal with curled horns stared at me with suspicion. A squat farmhouse stood in the middle, made of pale stone and clay, its roof thatched with long reeds. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, carrying the faint scent of baked bread. No one came out to greet me, and I wasn’t planning to linger. I turned back and rolled on.

More dirt roads followed. Each one seemed to lead to another farm or cluster of buildings—some better maintained than others. I saw neatly painted fences and healthy cattle in one, while another had half-collapsed sheds and a field overrun with weeds. Some had laundry lines swaying with bright cloth, children running barefoot, laughter barely audible above the wind. Others sat silent, windows shuttered tight.

It was almost easy to forget I wasn’t on Earth anymore.

Somewhere between two overgrown fields and a bend in the road, something caught my eye—movement. A lot of it. Shapes in the distance. Wagons. People. Animals. A caravan.

The peaceful quiet of the ride shifted. My senses sharpened.

First came the jangle of harnesses, faint but distinct. The occasional shout followed the creak of wooden wheels. I couldn’t quite make out what they shouted. Dust hung in the air where the caravan had passed, kicked up by dozens of wheels and hooves. It drifted in lazy, light brown plumes, curling upward and trailing behind them like a fading trail of smoke.

I slowed down, narrowing my eyes as I tried to take it all in. Wagons moved in a loose formation, flanked by riders on horseback. The same mini-bison I hunted pulled the wagons, their hooves thudding steadily against the packed earth. Fabric awnings in every color fluttered in the breeze, strapped to the tops of the carts to shield passengers and goods from the sun. The air carried the mingled scents of sweat, leather, dust, and spices.

It didn’t look like a trade caravan. It looked more like traveling gypsies—at least based on movies.

And it looked like I was about to meet them.

I considered storing the bike. But then again... might as well see how people react to it. Their response would give me a good read for future encounters.

As I got closer, I realized this wasn’t just any caravan—it was huge. Over fifty carts, all shapes and sizes. Some were massive, two to three meters wide and at least five meters long, with eight wheels and four mini-bison pulling them in sync. Others were smaller, pulled by this world’s version of a horse. Same mane and tail, same long face, but the body was stockier, lower to the ground, and each had two small bull horns curling forward.

Many people walked alongside the carts—men, women, and a surprising number of children. They looked Middle Eastern, with light brown skin, dark eyes, and thick black hair tied back or covered in scarves.

As I passed, the kids waved. I waved back. Stretch was an instant hit. Judging by the excited shouts and pointing fingers, he might as well have been a celebrity. He seemed to know it, too—his tail smacked the trailer like an overexcited percussionist, soaking up every second of the attention.

When I arrived at the front of the caravan, a man on horseback veered toward me, dust trailing behind his mount. I stopped and waited. He pulled up beside me, kicked his leg over the saddle, and dismounted in one fluid motion. Stepping forward, he held out his hand.

“You’re a healer? Thank the spirits. How much do you charge? We’ve got sick and wounded.” His voice carried a mix of relief and awe, his eyes scanning me like he couldn’t quite believe I was real.

"No...
shit, how do you say fee?
… no need to pay."

He gave me a strange look—eyebrows pulled together but also halfway to his hairline, eyes wide.

How did he even know I was a healer?

Then it hit me, and I facepalmed. I was a complete idiot. I’d gotten the Identify ability and experimented with it for maybe an hour back on Earth. Got shit results, decided it was useless, and forgot it even existed. I’d read about MCs using it constantly, but it never once occurred to me to use it myself.

While I was realizing my stupidity, he shouted something to the caravan, and the wagons slowed. He beckoned me toward a cart. A man lay sprawled on a blanket, limbs twisted unnaturally, his muscles clenched in what looked like unbearable pain. As I got closer, the stench of sour sweat and festering illness hit me. One look was enough to suspect tetanus. His locked jaw, arched back, and stiff limbs were classic symptoms. I cast Diagnose and confirmed it.

Neutralizing the infection took three casts. Even after that, the damage left behind needed five casts of Healing Touch before his body relaxed. As the healing progressed, his cheeks hollowed, and his body lost mass—he looked almost starved.

I turned to the woman at his side, her eyes glossy with hope. “A lot food and water. When he feel better, tell me, I heal again.”

She leaned forward, clutching my hand. “Thank you. I didn’t think he’d make it. You’re a blessing.”

I nodded, acknowledging her words, then turned to my guide. “Take me another person.”

The next patient looked like a guard. He wore armor and a sword, maintaining a stiff posture—though his face was contorted with pain. A nasty cut on his upper arm had gone red and swollen.

“What happened?” I asked as I inspected it.

“Training accident,” he grunted, sucking in a breath when my fingers gently probed the wound.

Compared to tetanus, this was a walk in the park. I placed my hand over the injury and cast Healing Touch twice. The first cast cleared the infection. The second closed the wound itself, sealing the skin until only a faint pink mark remained.

“Eat, drink, rest,” I told him, meeting his gaze.

He flexed his arm, eyes wide. “Thank you,” he said, sounding relieved.

I turned back to my guide. “Next person?”

He nodded, already walking.

This time, it was a child. A cough rattled through his chest, shaking his whole body. I knelt and touched his shoulder lightly before casting Healing Touch. The ragged breaths smoothed out, and the wheeze faded. I diagnosed him and cast twice more to clear the illness altogether. Then I pulled out a lollipop. The moment he saw it, his eyes sparkled. He grabbed it like a treasure, grinning with a gap where his front teeth used to be.

“Next person?”

An elderly woman sat on a low stool, her face twisted in pain. Her leg was stretched out in front of her, wrapped in strips of cloth. I knelt and peeled them back gently. The bone had broken and healed wrong. If left like this, she’d be limping for the rest of her life.

“I need open leg, break the bone more time, and then heal it correct,” I explained, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “No cutting. No breaking. I will wait. It will heal.”

My guide stepped in, lowering his voice. “Can you wait a moment? I’ll speak to her.”

I nodded, stepping aside to give them space.

They spoke for a while, and he returned, looking troubled. “It’s not the healing that frightens her. It’s the pain—being cut open and having the bone broken again.”

I groaned and facepalmed, rubbing my forehead. I’m an idiot. To me, it was obvious the procedure would be done with anesthesia. She had no way of knowing that. It was my responsibility to explain.

I dropped my hand and looked up at him. “I speak with her and explain.”

I knelt beside her again. “You won’t feel pain,” I said gently. “I will put you to sleep with magic, fix your leg, and you wake up with good leg.”

She stared at me, her lips trembling. “You promise I won’t feel the pain?”

“I promise. You sleep, and wake with good leg.”

She looked into my face for a long moment, then finally nodded.

I pulled out the biggest table I had and covered it with a sheet. Another smaller table became my instrument stand. While setting everything up, I looked around.

“Do you know where my wolf is?” I asked the guide.

He blinked. “What wolf?”

“The one I had with me. You saw him,” I said, growing slightly concerned.

“I apologize, but that is not a wolf. It is a bushland dog,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips.

I stared. “Huh? What do you mean a dog? I found him in the forest.”

“Yes, wild dog,” he said, nodding. “But people do domesticate them if they can. If you manage to befriend one or raise it from a pup, they bond with you for life. Loyal to the end. Smart, too.”

I rubbed my chin. “Huh. Learn something new every day. And yeah, I noticed the smart part.”

He gave me another strange look but didn’t say anything.

“So... do you know where my dog is?”

He chuckled and pointed. “Playing with the children.”

I relaxed. “Oh, no problem then.”

We helped the woman onto the table. Her face was pale, her jaw clenched, but she didn’t resist. I cast Clean and Purify over the whole setup, including my hands and tools. Everything gleamed under the filtered sunlight.

The first time I partitioned my mind, I almost broke it. This time, I split it easily. Then I tried for a third—one to channel Anesthesia, one for Control Blood, and one for the healing. I failed the first five tries. Each time, it felt like my skull shattered into a million pieces and then got squeezed into a tiny tube.

Sixth time, it clicked.

It was hard. It was very hard. It was very, very, very hard.

But it worked.

With the scalpel in hand, I made a clean cut along the outer part of her leg. Blood welled up right away, but I held it back with the spell to keep the area clear. Bit by bit, I worked my way down until the bone was exposed, and yeah—it was definitely crooked.

I grabbed the tools I’d laid out earlier—a small chisel and a field mallet—lined up the chisel against the bone, right where the old break had fused together, and gave it a few careful taps with the mallet. Just enough to weaken the spot. Then, with one last, solid hit, I felt it give. The bone cracked with a dull snap. I flinched—thankful she couldn’t hear it.

I shifted the pieces gently, lining them up as they should have been in the first place. Once everything looked right, I cast Heal Bone. Mana poured into the leg, fusing the bone back together. It started deep—marrow first, then the bone itself—until it was one solid piece again. It took three casts of the spell, but the result was perfect. The bone looked like it had never been broken. As the last step, I cast Healing Touch twice. The muscles stitched themselves up, and the skin followed, closing over everything neatly and smoothly. The leg looked as if nothing had ever happened.

I woke her gently, her eyelids fluttering open. Confused at first, she sat up slowly and looked down at her leg. Her face lit up.

“Drink, eat, rest,” I told her, guiding her down from the table. She nodded, dazed but stable.

As I cleaned everything again, my guide stared, wide-eyed and speechless. Then he started calling me Grand Master Healer. I tried to correct him, but he just waved it off, eyes shining with admiration.

I was feeling woozy, so I checked my mana. 180/4200. Yikes.

Wiping the sweat from my brow, I let out a long breath. “I can't heal anybody else right now. Mana too low.”

He smiled, placing a warm hand on my shoulder. “That was the last person. Rest and regenerate. Thank you again, Grand Master Healer.”

I gave him a tired smile. “You’re welcome. I’ll check on the first patient later.”

I slumped onto a nearby rock, letting gravity do the work of getting me to sit down. My eyes drifted closed. I breathed in deeply, focusing on the gentle pull of mana trickling back into my cores.

Then it hit me—I hadn’t even thought twice about taking out or storing gear in front of my guide. He’d seen it. Twice. Maybe more. And hadn’t reacted at all. That was good. It meant this sort of magic was common.

I looked around and finally spotted Stretch. He was flat on his back, tail wagging furiously while three little girls rubbed his belly. The picture of canine bliss.

The boy I’d healed pointed at me, and the girls swarmed over, eyes gleaming.

“Are you the one who gave him candy?” one asked.

I nodded and instantly found myself surrounded by tiny outstretched hands and hopeful faces. It was a good thing I bought a lot of candy. Watching them squeal and laugh made me grin. Whether their parents liked the sugar rush wasn’t my problem.

I walked over to Stretch, who lifted his head and gave me a lazy tail thump.

“So you’re a dog, huh?” I said.

He looked up at me and wagged harder.

I cast Identify and got a big surprise.

STRETCH

Adult Bushland Dog
Progress to awakening 27%

?!?!?!?!?!?!

My mind was a complete blank—I didn’t even know where to start thinking.

As my guide approached, something clicked. I hadn’t asked his name. Hadn’t even introduced myself. My manners had apparently stayed behind in the wilderness with the rest of my brain.

Oops.

I straightened and held out a hand. “Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My name’s John. What’s your name?”

He gave me that same puzzled look as before, his brows knitting together and shooting up toward his hairline, like I’d just asked him to explain the color blue.

What am I missing here?

I tilted my head, watching him. "Why did you look at me like that when I told you my name and asked yours?"

“I know your name. When the Spirits of Old showed me you were a healer, they also revealed your name. Do you not know how to receive answers from the Spirits?”

I rubbed my neck in embarrassment. “I didn’t think to ask. My mistake.”

He shook his head with a chuckle, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That was not a mistake. It is not polite to ask about every person you meet. However, as the caravan leader, it is my responsibility to ensure you have good intentions. I thought healers asked the Spirits about everyone who requested their help. No?”

I bluffed, hoping my face didn’t give me away. “Yes, but... I was not healing you. I only asked about those who needed help.”

He gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “I understand. We will continue on the road now. It would be a great honor if you could join us at camp tonight so we can properly express our gratitude.”

I shrugged, keeping it casual. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m a healer. That’s just what I do.”

Now he gave me an even stranger look—like he was seeing an alien.

Oh well. I’m an alien. What did you expect?

The absurdity suddenly caught up to me and almost made me crack. I could feel laughter bubbling up in my chest, threatening to break loose. I had to get out of there before I started giggling like a lunatic in front of this very serious caravan leader. I turned on my heel and headed straight for Stretch. He was still lying on his back, tongue lolling, soaking up belly rubs like royalty. I dropped beside him, buried my face in his fur, and let out a muffled snort.

The ridiculousness was too much. I was an alien. I giggled uncontrollably into Stretch’s fur. The mental soundtrack kicked in, uninvited and perfect: “I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien, I’m an Englishman in New York...”

Stretch thumped his tail lazily, unaware of my existential identity crisis.

God, my life is so so strange.