"All urgent treatment is finished."
The middle-aged man let out a long breath as he spoke, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. Even after channeling divine power, he looked more like an overworked field medic than a holy servant of a goddess.
The underworld was a strange mixture of people.
Refugees who had nowhere else to go.
Beggars who had long abandoned pride.
Mercenaries who sold their blades to the highest bidder.
Even fallen or "managing" nobles who preferred shadows to scrutiny.
If they had one thing in common, it was this:
Here, money was power.
With enough coin, you could buy
information.
Protection.
Silence.
And, apparently—
A priest.
’But why is a genuine priest here?’
His robe looked plain at first glance, dust-stained from travel and patched at the hem. But the faint golden embroidery circling the cuffs gave him away.
A sunburst motif.
Subtle. Refined.
Recognizable.
And when my status window flickered—
[High Priest Robe]
[Ceremonial vestments bestowed upon those who serve the goddess Ilyana]
That confirmed it.
I hadn’t misseen.
This wasn’t some back-alley healer dabbling in imitation miracles.
This was the real thing.
"It’s unexpected to meet someone this skilled in the underworld," I said carefully. "For a moment, I thought I was watching priests at work."
The man’s lips curved into a knowing smile.
"Haha. Brother seems to be wondering why I am here."
Oh.
...Did my face give it away?
Priests were chosen by the divine. Their lives were meant to be spent in sanctuaries filled with incense and hymns—not in damp hideouts that smelled faintly of rust and old blood.
It would be far more comfortable to establish a small chapel, tend to the sick, and accept offerings from grateful believers.
So why here?
"God’s hand reaches places where human hands do not," he replied gently. "Location and status do not matter to Her."
"...So you’re volunteering?"
He chuckled.
"I assure you, I am not that saintly."
The answer came too quickly to be modesty.
"I receive compensation," he added. "Quite generously, at times."
I raised an eyebrow.
"So you’re a mercenary priest."
"That sounds far more dramatic than reality," he said lightly. "Let’s say... I go where I am needed. And where I am paid."
Fair enough.
Even faith had to eat.
Still, something didn’t add up.
The underworld wasn’t merely dangerous—it was politically messy. Churches tended to avoid entanglements here unless they had an agenda.
"You’re doing good work," I said.
He tilted his head.
"And you, young master? You show kindness to strangers in an alley most nobles pretend does not exist."
That one pricked.
I looked away.
"I’m not doing this out of kindness."
That wasn’t entirely a lie.
Joe was valuable.
In the game, he was a tank-class origin character—high defense, absurd vitality, late-game scaling that bordered on broken.
If he died here, it would be a waste.
A terrible waste.
The priest studied me for a moment, then smiled again—not mocking, not judgmental. Just... observant.
"Motives are rarely pure," he said softly. "Results matter more."
I didn’t respond.
Instead, I turned toward the makeshift bed where Joe lay unconscious, thick bandages wrapped around his torso and shoulder.
"How is his condition?"
The priest stepped beside me.
"At first glance, I thought there was no hope," he admitted. "His blood loss was severe. Internal damage. Several fractured ribs." He paused. "But his vitality is extraordinary."
Joe’s chest rose and fell steadily now.
The faint golden afterglow of healing magic still lingered around the wounds.
"With rest and nourishment," the priest continued, "he should recover faster than most trained soldiers."
Good.
That aligned with the game’s settings.
His passive durability was absurd.
"I strengthened his life force rather than fully restoring him," the priest added. "Complete regeneration would have drawn too much attention."
That made me glance at him sharply.
"...Attention?"
He gave a small shrug.
"Miracles leave traces. Especially large ones."
So he was careful.
Not just skilled.
"You’re used to working quietly," I observed.
He met my gaze directly this time.
"In places like this, subtlety is often the difference between continuing one’s work... and disappearing."
A warning?
Or simple truth?
Joe let out a faint groan, his fingers twitching against the sheets.
Both of us immediately looked down at him.
"The response is good," the priest said calmly, one hand still hovering above Joe’s chest as soft divine light faded from his palm. "His body has accepted the healing. He may wake at any moment."
Almost as if on cue, Joe’s eyelids fluttered.
A soft inhale.
A slight frown.
Then—
"...Mm."
His eyes slowly opened, unfocused at first, scanning the unfamiliar ceiling.
"Where... is this...?"
His voice was hoarse.
The priest gave a satisfied nod. "Ah, perfect timing. You’ve regained consciousness. That alone proves the worst has passed. My role here is finished."
He gathered his robes with efficient grace.
"If there are any lingering complications, call for the infirmary. But he should recover naturally from here."
And just like that, he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence settled over the room.
The kind that isn’t hostile—
but isn’t comfortable either.
Joe pushed himself up slightly against the pillows. His movements were slow, cautious, as if testing whether his body still belonged to him.
Then his eyes met mine.
He just... stared.
White hair slightly disheveled.
Face paler than usual.
But those blue eyes were clear.
Too clear.
Is this really the cheerful Joe from the original story?
There was no immediate grin.
No awkward joke.
No sheepish scratch of the cheek.
Just quiet observation.
"...How are you feeling?" I asked.
When in doubt, let the healthy one start the conversation.
Joe blinked.
"...Who are you?"
Straight to the point.
"I’m the one who carried you here when you collapsed," I replied. "And made sure you received treatment."
The moment the words left my mouth—
I felt a weight press down on my foot.
I glanced down.
Verren was calmly stepping on the tip of my shoe, eyes looking up at me with accusation.
Ah.
Right.
The promised "nutritious reward."
"Hold on a second," I muttered. "Don’t interrupt."
Verren pressed harder.
"...Go away for now."
I tossed a strip of monster jerky toward the hallway.
In less than a blink, Verren vanished after it with supernatural speed.
I got up, closed the door, and shook my head.
"His appetite is the real monster around here."
When I turned back, Joe was still watching me.
But something had changed.
The tension in his gaze had eased.
"...Thank you," he said quietly. "For saving me."
"It wasn’t a big deal," I replied with a shrug. "Anyone nearby would’ve done the same."
That wasn’t entirely true.
But modesty fits better than bragging.
Joe slowly swung his legs off the bed. His balance wavered for a second before he steadied himself.
Then—
He bowed his head.
Deeply.
"I will not forget this debt."
...Debt?
That word felt heavy.
Too heavy.
I scratched the back of my neck.
"You make it sound like I pulled you out of a dragon’s stomach."
"You saved me," Joe said calmly. "I remember... fragments."
His brows knit together slightly.
His voice remained steady, but his grip tightened.
This wasn’t the bright, slightly clumsy Joe people adored.