Ren smashed through the nearest window without ceremony. Glass cracked, then collapsed under his shoulder with a dry pop as he tumbled through into the dark. The floor caught him with a wet slap, and for a second, he lay there breathing hard, hands pressed to the pulsing surface. It wasn't wood. It wasn't tile. It throbbed faintly, like an infection trying to pretend it was architecture.

  He pushed himself up slowly and looked around.

  The building was larger on the inside than the outside had suggested. Its layout twisted in ways that made no spatial sense. Hallways looped into each other, staircases bending in half and vanishing into fleshy walls. He recognized the signs. This place had been assimilated. Not just corrupted. Absorbed.

  Something nearby made a high, sharp noise.

  Ren moved on instinct, following the sound down a narrow corridor that pulsed like a throat. The walls were warm under his hand when he steadied himself. They contracted slightly, pushing back against his palm. He emerged into what might have once been a cafeteria. Long tables now fused into the walls, chairs melted like wax. In the corner, something cried.

  A child-shaped creature. No older than five, at a glance. Skin pale and rubbery. Its limbs were mostly intact, though its back was fused halfway into the wall, red tendrils already crawling up its spine like vines. One arm flailed weakly.

  It sobbed, a sharp, garbled sound like wet lungs trying to imitate human grief.

  Ren stepped forward, his boots squelching against the floor. His eyes scanned for the veinlines, tracing where the tendrils connected. The assimilation hadn't reached the head yet. That was good. That meant there was still something to save. He reached into his coat and pulled out the anesthetic, fingers tightening around the syringe as he approached.

  "Hey," he muttered. His voice sounded hoarse. "You're not dead yet. That's good news."

  The child turned slightly. No recognition. No words. But it didn't scream.

  He jabbed the injection just below the ribcage. The fluid hissed as it took effect, and the child's body went slack. The tendrils reacted violently, pulling tight like retracting nerves. Ren didn't wait. He summoned the tentacles.

  They burst from his back with a wet sound, each one lunging forward with surgical precision. One held the torso steady, wrapping around the small frame carefully. Another slid the scalpel from his inventory and placed it in his hand. The other two grabbed and cut, working to separate flesh from wall without rupturing tissue.

  It took thirty seconds. Not clean, but fast. The child collapsed forward, limp and free.

  Ren caught them with one arm, his muscles straining under the weight. He checked the vitals quickly, fingers pressing against the neck. Shallow breath, erratic pulse, but alive. He laid them gently away from the wall, arranging the small body carefully on the floor, then straightened and looked up.

  Dozens of eyes were watching him.

  The far end of the room had collapsed inward, forming a concave space where walls had folded back. At least a hundred people were crammed into the recess. Civilians. Maybe. Or what was left of them.

  He stepped closer, his breath coming steady despite the tightness in his chest.

  Some looked human. Most didn't. One man had a horn curling from his temple like an antler, the bone yellowish and cracked. A woman crouched nearby, clutching her stomach, intestines coiled like rope in her lap. She rocked back and forth, humming tunelessly. Another figure sat motionless, face blackened and melted, eyelids sealed shut. The air smelled like rot and antiseptic, a combination that made his eyes water.

  A voice echoed in his skull.

  [Trial Update: Mid-Stage Objective Initiated]

  Objective: Provide medical assistance to the Plague-Affected Civilians.

  He exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Of course it's a side quest," he muttered.

  He didn't ask who needed help first. He already knew.

  All of them.

  The number had to be over a hundred.

  And every single one looked at him the same way. Like he was either salvation or something worse. Like they couldn't decide if they should beg him for help or run.

  Ren walked forward, rolling his shoulders. The tentacles retracted slightly, hovering behind him like waiting hands.

  "Alright," he said. His voice was tired but clear. "Here's the deal. If you're still breathing, you qualify as a patient. If you're not breathing, congrats. You're on the waitlist."

  No one laughed.

  A woman with a partially fused jaw raised her hand slowly. The movement was stiff, painful. Her jaw hung at an odd angle, the lower half melted into her neck.

  Ren rolled his neck, feeling the vertebrae pop. "Fine. You're first."

  .

  .

  .

  The next ten hours blurred.

  Not because they passed quickly, but because they passed loudly. Very loudly.

  The room echoed with screams. People writhed against the floor, their bodies arching in pain. Nerves snapped audibly when he cut too close to the spine, making sharp cracking sounds. Guts spilled and were shoved back in. One man vomited for what felt like forty straight minutes, his body convulsing with each heave. Another had a seizure mid-reconstruction, thrashing so violently that Ren had to hold him down with two tentacles while he worked. The man nearly bit off his own tongue.

  The worst was the sound of tearing flesh when Ren had to slice mutated limbs off before they assimilated into the floor. The tissue resisted, clinging like wet paper. One patient started praying halfway through, whispering pleas to gods that weren't listening. Another tried to offer him a finger as payment, holding up a trembling hand. Ren accepted it. Not because he needed the finger. He just wanted the man to stop talking.

  His tentacles worked nonstop, shifting between triage and surgery without rest. They moved independently, anticipating what he needed before he asked. The Whisper of Anatomy handled diagnostics, sliding into chests, sinuses, and spinal tracts like it belonged there. The tiny tongues tasted blood and bile and infection, feeding him information he didn't want but needed. The Outer God scalpel cut through everything. Bone. Tumor. Fabricated growths shaped like tumors but filled with teeth that clattered when they hit the floor.

  He didn't speak much.

  Just muttered instructions. "Hold still." "This is going to hurt." "Don't look down." Injected anesthesia. Cut. Sewed. Cut again.

  And through it all, the screams didn't stop.

  Which, according to the System, meant excellent progress.

  [Fear Points Gained: +58]

  [Fear Points Gained: +44]

  [Fear Points Gained: +73]

  He stopped counting after five hundred.

  The blood coated his coat, stiff and dark. His boots squelched with every step. His face was smeared with it, dried and cracking on his cheeks. His hands were raw by the end, skin scalded from repeated exposure to infected tissue. His shoulders ached from maintaining tentacle posture for so long, the muscles burning with fatigue. His eyes felt dry, like he hadn't blinked in hours.

  Because he hadn't.

  But he was still standing.

  And more importantly, so were they.

  Not all. Some had died screaming, their bodies going limp in his hands. A few had tried to escape mid-surgery, panicking and tearing themselves free, bleeding out before he could stop them. One exploded. He still wasn't sure why. The body had just ruptured, spraying the walls with something black and viscous.

  But most lived.

  The mutated man with the horn? His bone growth had been stabilized, neural tension rerouted. He could walk again, stumbling but upright.

  The woman with the intestines? Reassembled and functional. She was sitting against the wall now, crying quietly, her hands pressed to her stomach.

  The child he'd saved from the wall?

  Still asleep. Still breathing. Chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

  Ren sat down against the far wall. His body slumped but didn't fall. His coat was stiff with dried blood, the fabric crackling when he moved. His hands wouldn't stop shaking now that he'd stopped working. They trembled in his lap, fingers twitching.

  He watched the room, now filled with groaning, half-conscious survivors. Dozens of people who had seen the inside of his twisted, accidental medicine and hadn't died from it. Dozens of people who would carry the memory of his hands inside them for the rest of their lives.

  Someone nearby coughed wetly, the sound rattling in their chest.

  Another sobbed, the sound raw and broken.

  A third just stared at the ceiling, breathing slowly, eyes unfocused.

  The woman with the fused jaw sat up slowly, testing her movement. She touched her face carefully, feeling the repaired tissue.

  The man who'd offered him a finger was asleep, curled on his side.

  Ren let his head fall back against the meat wall behind him. It pulsed faintly against his skull, warm and alive.

  "First, do no harm," he whispered to no one in particular.

  He closed his eyes. His breathing slowed. His hands stopped shaking.

  "Unless you have to."

  The room grew quieter. The screams had faded to whimpers, then to silence broken only by occasional coughs and shifting bodies.

  For the first time in ten hours, Ren let himself rest.

  His mind went blank. Not peaceful. Just empty. Too tired to think. Too tired to process what he'd just done.

  The System pinged once more, but he ignored it.

  Whatever it wanted could wait.

  Right now, he just needed to sit. To breathe. To exist without moving.

  The child nearby stirred slightly, making a small sound.

  Ren opened one eye, watching. The chest continued its steady rhythm.

  He closed his eye again.

  "You're welcome," he muttered.