Chapter 12: The Architect of Survival
Cherion had always thought how deeply unfair it was that Cherion didn’t last very long in the novel.
Middle of the story. Not even a dramatic midpoint, either. No soaring redemption, no hidden legacy revealed in a blaze of glory. Just... gone. Written out like a footnote the author got bored of explaining. Discarded, executed, no one mourned him for that because he had no family or friends.
Still, Cherion had kept reading.
His motto had always been simple, if you start something, you finish the whole damn thing. No matter how many plot holes or cringeworthy dialogue choices the author threw at him, he drove through to the bitter end. He’d digested the epilogue, went through the extra stuff at the end, and even scoured the author’s post-finale Q&A. And it was there, tucked away in a tiny paragraph about "wasted potential," where the author admitted a secret.
Novel-Cherion, apparently, had possessed a rare Omega healing ability. Not the flashy kind with glowing wings and choirs of angels. No. Something quieter. Skin-to-skin healing. Pheromone-assisted regeneration. The sort of power that worked best in private moments, in desperate ones. He could heal himself and others.
Readers had gone feral in the comments.
Why didn’t you explore this more?
Why kill him off so early then?
What a waste.
Cherion had agreed with every single complaint.
Which meant, standing here now, bleeding finger still stinging, a cursed war hero watching him like a coiled blade, that maybe, just maybe, he was currently sitting on a goldmine of survival potential.
Maybe it was his.
Zarius raised an eyebrow, clearly interested.
"And what," he said, "do you mean by that?"
Cherion swallowed. He didn’t actually know if this would work. That was the fun part. Or the terrifying part. Hard to tell. Plans had a habit of abandoning him lately, like rats fleeing a sinking ship, so he went with the only thing he had.
"I know what happened to you," Cherion said.
Zarius’s gaze sharpened.
In the novel, Zarius’s condition had been summarized in the laziest way imaginable. Cursed, weak, doomed. That was it. No exploration. No symptoms worth naming. Just a vague implication that he was always ill, always declining, always one bad day away from collapse.
But the man in front of him?
He looked... fine.
More than fine. Solid. Breathing evenly. No tremor in his hands. No hollow look beneath the eyes. No cough scraping at his chest like a rusty hinge. None of the things Cherion had expected based on the book.
Which meant the book hadn’t laid out the whole truth.
"What exactly do you think is happening to me, Omega?" Zarius asked.
"Well, first off," Cherion said, gesturing vaguely at the weapon still in Zarius’s hand, "let’s put that away. I’d really prefer it if you didn’t accidentally poke my eye out."
A pause.
Then, with a faint click of annoyance, Zarius lowered the blade and dropped it to the ground.
"Continue," he said.
Cherion exhaled. "You were sick during the day," he said, words coming easier now. "Weak. Coughing like an old man who insists he doesn’t need medicine. But at night, you were fine. Strong, fully functional. More than that, actually."
Zarius didn’t interrupt.
"That’s not a disease," Cherion went on, confidence creeping into his voice. "That’s a curse. A time-bound one. Something designed to limit you, not kill you outright."
Of course he sounded confident. He’d read the whole thing. Cover to cover. Twice, if he counted the late-night reread fueled by spite and snacks.
Zarius studied him for a long moment, but the silence from Elios and Flio told Cherion he’d hit the bullseye.
Then Cherion’s attention dropped to his own hand.
The cut was small. Embarrassingly small. Still bleeding, though, a thin red line across his finger where the sword had kissed it without permission. He stared at it, feeling something odd stir in his chest.
"And you think you can fix that?" Zarius asked, his voice low.
"I don’t just think so. I’m betting my life on it." Cherion looked down at his bleeding finger. The cut was deep enough to sting with every pulse of his heart.
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. Work, you stupid plot device. Work. He touched the wound with his other hand, pressing down. He didn’t have a manual. He just tried to imagine the warmth he’d felt earlier, and directed it toward the pain. And prayed. Just a frantic, internal pleasepleaseplease aimed at whatever higher power might be listening, preferably the incompetent God who’d dropped him into this mess in the first place.
Then, the air in the room seemed to vibrate.
A light, so blindingly white and pure it made the torchlight look dull, erupted from his fingertips. Cherion jumped, his heart leaping into his throat. He hadn’t expected it to be so... flashy. Flio actually took a step back, and Elios let out a muffled oath of shock.
When the light faded, Cherion slowly pulled his hand away.
The skin on his finger was perfect. No blood or even scar left.
𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢
Holy shit, it worked. Inside, he was screaming a victory anthem and doing a mental high-five with the universe.
"See?!" Cherion blurted out, thrusting his finger toward Zarius with the excitement of a toddler showing off a drawing. "My cut is gone! Completely healed! I told you!"
Zarius took his hand.
Just like that. Fingers closing around Cherion’s wrist, turning it slightly, inspecting it with the careful focus of a man who had learned not to believe miracles at first glance.
Cherion watched him watch. It felt strangely intimate. Like being seen twice over.
"You look surprised," Zarius observed, his eyes darting to Cherion’s face. "If this is your power, why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?"
"I...ah," Cherion cleared his throat, suddenly aware that this might look suspiciously convenient. "I only discovered this power a while ago. It still surprises me every time. You know how it is. Magic. Very temperamental"
"So you’re saying," he said, "that you can heal others."
"Yes."
Elios stepped forward, his hand still on the hilt of his spare dagger. "My Lord, you cannot seriously believe this. It could be an illusion. A trick of the light or some alchemy meant to gain your trust. An Omega with healing pheromones is rare enough, but this? This is... unheard of."
"Hey!" Cherion snapped, turning to the knight. "You saw it with your own two eyes! What more do you want, a signed affidavit from the gods?"
Zarius raised a hand, a silent command that instantly silenced the room. He let go of Cherion’s hand, but he didn’t move away.
"A rare ability indeed," Zarius murmured. He looked toward Flio and Elios. "Clean this mess. Get the bodies out of my sight."
He then turned back to Cherion. "As for you," Zarius said, his gaze lingering on Cherion’s lips for a fraction of a second too long. "I think it’s time I had more... private conversation with my fiancé. We have a great deal to discuss regarding this ’intriguing proposal’ of yours."