I returned to cracking rocks with my pickaxe, but that was short-lived. Now that I had proved that I could infuse more than a light stone, Dorian no longer bothered providing larger rocks to break. I quickly became relegated to shoveling debris into buckets and moving them out of the tunnel he was creating. He moved fast, far faster than I thought possible. A regular Paul Bunyan.

  My shoveling was simple but satisfying. It had none of the challenge of channeling, but I…appreciated the sense of accomplishment.

  I gritted my teeth at the sight of an ?ttar with the bandage walking back into the other shaft. The wounded had multiplied in the intervening hours, but by night’s fall, there would not be one. Potions and [Healers]…

  I dropped my loaded buckets next to a cart. I was doing something, right? I was helping—

  I scowled as I lifted a bucket and dumped it into the cart. I used to save people’s lives.

  Why had I been ready to throw it all away?

  Because the grass is always greener on the other side, except that wasn’t all of it. Seeing the tangible effects of my actions had an intoxicating quality. If I could heal lacerations, could I cure other diseases like Alzheimer’s or Parkinson's—if they even had those here. But they would have something. Yet, all I did now was help move dirt.

  But what else could I do? Nothing but keeping at it.

  Despite the fair amount of ground stone at the bottom, not a speck of dust billowed upward. The next bucket was no different, just like all the previous buckets I had used to fill two carts to the brim. I shook my head. [Dust Suppression]. It had to be.

  No wonder nobody wears masks. Except, then why are they still coughing?

  “Daniel, come over here.”

  I put down the buckets and moved down the tunnel. It was no more than fifty feet, but that had once been solid stone.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I am going to need you to take over a bit. I need some time to check on these walls.“

  The tunnel was far from regular. He had moved forward quickly, following the natural contours of the stone. Large protrusions pushed into the tunnel, though he had, in most cases, enlarged it enough to let an ?ttar pass through without ducking.

  “You want me to keep working on the far wall while you do that?” There was plenty of loose stone on the floor to move.

  “Yeah, the walls might need bracing. The way the vibrations from your strikes spread will help me get a feel of this tunnel’s stability.”

  “A skill for that too?” I hadn’t noticed it before, but despite the ample supply of lumber, I had not run into a single beam used to support a tunnel.

  He made a so-so gesture. “It’s gonna take me a few minutes. So go ahead and start. I will tell you when to stop.”

  I raised my pickaxe but stopped. “This won’t bring the whole tunnel down?”

  “Nah. Feel free to go as hard as possible.”

  As hard as possible?

  Something twisted in my stomach. I stared at the wall, an obstacle that could be removed. With a yell, I brought the pick down towards the dark stone face. A rage that I hadn’t known existed uncoiled mid-swing, driving Energy into my body and tool. My muscles thrummed. The Energy hit the junction and slowed, only for the torrent to crash past it, sweeping into the pick heedless of the lack of channels.

  My muscles jerked, and the point slammed into the surface. I barely closed my eyes in time to avoid flecks of stones exploding outward. My hands dropped, suddenly weak, but my pick still stuck in the wall. I sucked in air. Something warmed dripped onto my cheek. I dabbed it between two fingers. The warm liquid quickly became tacky. I followed a warm line to the drops’ origins, touching my forehead and my upper cheeks. Each spot elicited pinpricks of fire.

  I had nearly blinded myself. Stupid. Or was it?

  I flexed my fingers, and they responded without delay. I had overdone it, but not by too much. I grabbed my pickaxe and hefted it for another swing. I had yet to see a single person with an eyepatch, which implied that a [Healer] could fix ocular trauma.

  I drove another heavy strike in the wall, and my face bore the brunt of another hail of stones.

  How did I get stuck with such a useless class? What was the point of being a physician—[Physician]—when there was magical healing?

  I wailed on the wall. Eye closed, streaks of fire crisscrossed my face, and warm rivulets dripped from my chin. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. And yet, I never missed. I couldn’t see the wall, but I knew where it was. I keep hitting it with strike after strike. When my muscles ached, I poured in Energy. When my Mark failed to keep up, I sucked in Aether. My lungs burned, but all the fatigue disappeared.

  I would have continued until I had gone mad with Aether toxicity if I hadn’t punched completely through the wall.

  I fell forward onto my knees as my pickaxe broke through a hollow. I opened my eyes, blinking away the amalgamation of sweat, blood, and tears. Through blurriness, small red dots appeared.

  Small crystals?

  Then the dots shifted, and I scrambled to my feet, bringing my pickaxe with me. I didn’t need Energy to move to get my body to move. Adrenaline sufficed.

  “Terrorvoles!” I shouted.

  I brought the burning red point onto the first shadow that came out of the hole. The shape gave out a loud set of clicks rather than a squeal when my point punched into the center of mass. However, I was already preparing another swing because, behind it, shadows swarmed over shadows.

  I backed up as more of the dark shapes moved from the crevice in the stone. As they did, they resolved into an oblong, spiculated mass with multiple segmented legs extending from it. The reason and source of the clicking quickly became apparent: these things weren’t terrorvoles.

  Crab-like monsters with large claws pushed from the opening. I swung my pickaxe, trying to keep them at bay and backing up with each swing. I loathed giving up the choke point, but I needed all the power I could muster. Their shells were harder than stone. Even coated with Energy, the point barely punched into one. Thankfully, the force of my blow carried. Piled as they were, each hit still worked on those under the one I struck, stunning, even killing a few when stacked.

  They still swarmed past into the tunnel and over the strewn rock I had created in my mad flailing. They weren’t fast, but with their multiple legs, they easily skittered over debris in a relentless swarm. Loud clicks echoed along the hard rock as they opened and closed their pincers. They weren’t large, but that meant nothing in this world. I didn’t dare risk finding out how much force those blades could produce.

  My strikes slowed as I had to interweave between each blow a hard stomp to stop those that got too close. I inhaled the Aether. My vision reddened. My heart thundered. My muscles sang. I found a new speed to my strikes…and a new thrill to the carnage I wrought. But it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t going to be able to stop them all. A darker thought unfurled. Would there be more?

  I took a step back when a red line appeared in the gash of blackness.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Terrorvoles? Something worse?

  The thrum of the bloodlust dampened as my fear spiked. I took a step backward. I almost took another one, but there was no need. As quickly as the surge had come, it had stopped. The pinpricks of red disappeared. Something inside screamed in disappointment, screamed to push into the breach.

  What was wrong with me?

  I did the only thing I could think of. I pushed out the accumulated Aether in a large exhale. With the Aether and the Energy it generated purged from my body, I collapsed to the ground in exhaustion and relief.

  “You done making a mess?” Dorian asked, moving past my heaving form and crushing a twitching crab with the hard sole of his boot.

  Of the tunnel or myself?

  I looked up at what I had wrought. Loose rock lay in a pile around the small crevice that the crab-like creatures poured from. From its edges, a spider web of cracks radiated outward to form a circular lip. A crater. I had hit the rock hard enough to form a crater, and the left animal parts strewn around it as if in homage.

  What had I done?

  I wasn’t a killer. I—

  I vented every remaining bit of Aether. I had to be done with it. My muscles screamed as I could no longer provide the Energy they demanded. A drop fell into my eye and burned. I lifted my arm, and it collapsed next to me. I tried again, this time managing to wipe it across my forehead, igniting a thin blaze as my reward. I muttered through the pain, “I think so.”

  “A wall and a pick aren’t a bad combination when you want to vent some frustration, but drawing on Aether like that…”

  Was stupid. He didn’t have to say it for it to be obvious.

  “I know. I got scared, but I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t touch it again. I can’t lose control like that.”

  I started to take a deep breath but stopped at the idiocy of my actions. It didn’t take much down here to lose my lucidity. I would have to learn another way to calm myself. I had never had so little control—at least not mentally.

  Out of reflex, my eyes dropped to my hands. While they didn’t betray my anxiety like before, I could still make out a slight tremble. Still, a marked improvement.

  At least one good thing has come out of being here. Though what a trade—giving up the loss of control over my hands for a chance at losing my mind…

  “Good. I didn’t want to have to knock you out.” He opened a pouch at his waist and pulled out a bottle with red liquid. “You will want to use it unless you favor a scar.” Without hesitation, I reached for it, but he pulled it back. “You sure? Might make you look tougher, which you could use, you know, to help you with the women.”

  I shook my head at his shit-eating grin. “Just give it to me. Do you have any water too?”

  “Why?”

  “Clean the wound and prevent infection.” I suppressed a sigh of frustration. “To make sure there aren’t any complications with healing.”

  “Eh, it is a fresh wound.”

  “It’s trivial to do it and good practice. I can’t be sure the Vísir would help if the wound”—I sighed—“festered.”

  He nodded in agreement. “It is by the cart.”

  “Thanks.” I pointed at the hole in the wall. “You’ll be good here?”

  He snorted as if the question was both elementary and insulting. “That hole will just be a pocket. The stone crabs don’t create a nest if there is easy access. You killed enough to scare them off.”

  “Okay, I will be right back.”

  I headed out of the short tunnel. Compared to when we had first started, the walls had a smoother cast, smooth enough that light could now reflect off the tunnel’s walls. I couldn’t resist the urge to touch the walls. Skills or magic. Either way, they had the power here to reshape stone.

  I bent down and picked out a canteen out of a pack. I poured some of the clean water into my hand, and the pool in my palm turned to a sooty slurry. Water slipped through my rubbing hands and fell onto the stone. I scowled at the mess. It which only deepened after the realization that I had no towel. My clothes certainly wouldn’t do.

  I brought a clean finger to my forehead, suppressing a wince with each touch of the tacky surface. Note to self. Dorian’s suppression skill only works on dust.

  I made a cup out of one of my hands. My forehead burned when I dunked it in the pool I made with my palm, but at least I would be clean. What I would have given for a mirror, but I made do with touch.

  I took a dab of the healing potion. Now that I knew what to look for, its Energy was obvious. However, the Energy had a flavor to it. I couldn’t put it into words. Perhaps more energetic or primed? I swiped some of the red liquid across my forehead. The magic tried to escape, leaking into other parts of my body to find any other nick or scrape to regenerate, but I walled in the Energy, holding it in my face.

  I pushed on the smooth, unbroken skin. Not a hint of pain. That was easier, far easier than with Dorian earlier. Two of the tiniest dabs were all it took.

  When the last traces of the healing potion’s energy faded, words reverberated in my head.

  [Skill Gained: Enhance Medicinal]

  I almost dropped the bottle in shock. Instead, I rushed down the tunnel.

  “Dorian, tell me you have a cut or scrape.” He turned around, head cocked in confusion. “I just got my level 2 skill…I think.”

  “You think?” He rested the head of the pick on the ground, but he couldn’t hide his beaming smile.

  I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice as I told him the story. “Fine. It was pretty clear that I got something. [Enhance Medicinal]. I have a guess what it does, but I need a wound to test it.”

  “Well, if that is all you need.” He pulled out a knife from his boot, and before I could stop him, he sliced his palm without a flinch of pain.

  “Are you insane? What is with all you people and self-mutilation.” I shouted before grabbing his palm. A pool of dark red blood had already formed. I didn’t need a thorough exam to know it was deep. “Do you know how much damage you could have done?” He could have cut a tendon at the minimum.

  “If it wasn’t deep, how would you know it was enhanced.”

  “At least pick something that couldn’t impact your function,” I grumbled while pulling out the potion. “How much would you typically use?

  “Typically, I would need to pour at least a quarter.”

  Did I need that much? Only one way to find out.

  I took a dab, but not a small one. A drop of the red liquid fell from the tip. I internally cringed at my lack of gloves as I ran it across the wound.

  “It is working.”

  The potion was, but I hadn’t activated my skill. My breath caught. How do I do that? I did the only thing I could think of. I copied the actions that earned me the skill in the first place. However, with Dorian, I had less control than with my own body. With each passing second, the potion’s magic seeped away.

  Stop!

  Then it did. The walls I wanted popped up. The liquid remained concentrated, the tendency to diffuse uselessly into the rest of his body, gone. But there was more. I wouldn’t have noticed if not for my practice with the pickaxe. Though the potion was a liquid, a channel of sorts, not unlike the pickaxe, waited to be filled with Energy. Out of curiosity, I pulled my finger back, touching just the surface of the slurry of blood and magic. My sense of the channel weakened.

  I took the next step, pushing my Energy through it. With only minimal contact with the surface, I hit resistance, but slightly submerging my finger, or perhaps bringing my finger closer to the wound, eased the difficulty with transference.

  My forehead went cold as a channeled energy. I slowed the rate of infusion, and it still had the desired effect. The faint tingling along my finger lingered far longer than it should have.

  “Are you going apply another?” He hadn’t moved his hand. His laceration was still covered in a crimson coat.

  I let out the breath I didn’t realize it was holding. I had been so close. I actually felt—no sensed—the wound knitting. “I don’t think I need to.”

  “What?” He snatched his hand from mine and then stretched it without a hint of pain. Then, as if not truly believing, he ran his finger across the palm. “I’ll be...”

  “Why are you so surprised? This seems trivial compared to what [Healers] can do.”

  “True, but you don’t seem to realize that most people don’t have access or can afford a [Healer]. You could easily save somebody a week’s pay, and that is here.”

  Right. High-grade healing potions were cheap here but nearly non-existent elsewhere.

  He rubbed the blood off his hand on the wall. “You could potentially make some friends with this skill, though hopefully you will find a cheaper way to level in the future.” He went to grab his pickaxe but stopped. “You sure you aren’t a [Healer].”

  “No. I couldn’t do that without the potion. It was…it was like with the pickaxe. I could push my Energy into the potion and, by proximity, the wound.” I hadn’t tried manipulating his injury, but deep down, I knew I couldn’t. A wall, much stronger than the one I had erected to corral the potion’s effects, existed around his cells. Even this close, I didn’t have the power to punch through it.

  “Still useful.” He picked up his pickaxe and walked back towards his work.

  Useful. I stood staring at his back as the word sank in. Useful. I sniffed with a bit of disbelief, but I couldn’t deny it. Hope wormed into a hole deep inside, finding a home and kindling…something.

  I could “heal” with potion. Fitting. Doctors at home didn’t heal wounds with magic. They used their knowledge of the body and medicines. Dorian had said classes adhered to archetypes. Was it, therefore, unreasonable for me to expect a [Physician] to behave in a fundamentally different manner than a physician?

  I shook my head. This world needs an instruction manual.

  It certainly didn’t change anything right now. Dorian was going to make a mess, and I would need to clear it. I walked back to the cart and grabbed my shovel and my canteen. I needed to clean off the remaining blood on his hand, but before I made it back to Dorian, he had already wiped his bloody palm on the damn wall.

  I scowled. First off, no way he got it all off. Worse, he'd left blood—a biohazard—smeared on the wall where anyone could touch it.

  Infection control—hell, we were lightyears from that—basic hygiene was atrocious here.