The phone buzzed on the table, and I stalled before answering. The lawyer’s name flashed on the screen, a reminder of all the loose ends still needing to be tied up. Finally, I swiped and held the phone close.


    “Good afternoon,” he said in a businesslike tone. “I’m calling to let you know that Liberty Mutual has released the life insurance funds. I’ll be transferring them to your account shortly.”


    I opened my mouth to respond, but he continued before I could get a word out.


    “There’s… another matter,” he said, a slight hesitation in his tone. “Your in-laws have filed a lawsuit. They’re attempting to gain control of your wife’s trust fund.”


    Eyes closed, I released a slow breath. “Figured they might try something like this.”


    “We anticipated it, yes,” he confirmed, reassuring. “Your wife had the foresight to make her intentions clear. We’ve put measures in place, but I wanted to inform you immediately.”


    I leaned back, nodding even though he couldn’t see me. “Thanks. I’m ready for whatever they throw my way.”


    “Good,” he replied, his tone firm. “We’re prepared.”


    I kept the phone pressed to my ear long after the line went dead, the silence as heavy as the weight of the lawyer’s words. I stared at the ceiling. Memories of Sophie filled the silence, each a mix of warmth and sorrow. Her parents’ faces came to mind, but not in any supportive way. No, I remembered their visits during her last days, how they’d talked about money as if Sophie were some cold financial transaction rather than a person.


    How could they have looked at her like that?


    Each time they left, Sophie would cry quietly, her strength draining, her tears soaking into my shoulder. It wasn’t about the money. I couldn’t care less about it—but watching her suffer from their cruelty, seeing her heart broken by her own family… my hands shook just thinking about it.


    I drew a deep, shuddering breath. They hadn’t cared about her illness or her pain. Just the money and jewelry. I’d begged her, again and again, to give in to their demands just to buy herself some peace. But Sophie was stubborn. Sometimes, she got something into her head, and nothing could change her mind. No pleading, cajoling, or asking could help. She dug her heels in, and that was that. She’d simply shake her head, looking up at me with those stubborn eyes, and say, “They’re not getting anything.”


    After a while, the anger cooled, leaving a kind of clarity in its wake. There were things I needed to do—plans I needed to make if I was going to start fresh. So, I turned my focus to my preparations for the journey ahead.


    One of the first decisions was about weapons. That demanded some thinking. I combed through articles and LitRPG books, treating them as manuals, looking for ideas and suggestions. Swords and knives, though popular choices, didn’t strike a chord with me. If I was honest, they made me uneasy. I’d handled scalpels with confidence, but wielding a weapon in a fight? Different story.


    The staff seemed to have potential, and there was always the classic bow and arrows. After some consideration, I settled on those two and signed up for training.


    In the evening of the first day of training, I hobbled into my hotel room, every step a fresh reminder of my terrible decision-making. Two Staff-Fighting classes in one day—what had I been thinking?


    After the first class, my muscles ached, but it felt like the kind of soreness I could shake off. By the end of the second, though, I practically limped. My legs were noodles, and my arms were dead weight. Even raising a hand to grab the door handle was a heroic feat.


    Climbing out of bed the following day was a survival challenge. As I eased one leg over the side, a wave of pain shot through my thighs, like someone had swapped out my muscles for lava. With a groan, I stumbled toward the bathroom, clinging to the walls for balance, every muscle protesting like it had been personally betrayed. By the time I reached the sink, I could’ve sworn my face looked paler just from the effort of walking five steps.


    I scowled at my reflection. “Well, that was genius, wasn’t it?” I mumbled, practically whimpering as I turned around. The ache lanced through my legs with every step, reminding me how long it had been since I’d done any serious physical activity. Not since my university days had I pushed my body like this—back when jogging around campus once a week was my most significant effort. Now, my body was paying the price for years of neglect.


    Archery was on the schedule that afternoon, but the thought of lifting a bow, let alone drawing it, felt laughable. With a sigh, I shot off a quick email to cancel, then spent the rest of the day sprawled on the couch, every tiny shift of my body a fresh reminder that maybe, just maybe, I should’ve stretched… or started with something a little less intense than two hour-long back-to-back Staff-Fighting classes.


    The Minor Heal spell hovered on my screen, its icon practically winking at me, begging to be tapped. Just a quick press, and I could undo all the self-inflicted misery from my overenthusiastic training spree. The thought was tempting—my muscles felt like they were staging a full-scale revolt, each fiber screaming for mercy. Relief was literally at my fingertips.


    Yet something held me back. Sure, my body ached, every shift a reminder of my poor decisions, but was I really going to rely on a spell for this? After all the endless waffling, the back-and-forth in my mind, healing felt like an easy way out—too easy, almost like cheating. I couldn’t help but feel my professional pride kick in. I was a doctor, after all. Shouldn’t I be able to manage my pain?


    I wanted to slap myself for the ridiculousness of it all. Here I was, almost scoffing at the notion of using a spell to heal, as if my pride in the medical profession was at stake. It was absurd, and yet, I felt it. The only reason I didn’t give myself that much-deserved slap upside the head was because my arm hurt too much to lift it.


    In truth, part of me knew that holding out was more about pride than logic. Giving in to the spell after all this internal debating felt like admitting defeat. A quick fix wouldn’t teach me anything; it wouldn’t strengthen me, just sweep the pain under the rug. So, I clenched my fists—gently, because even that stung—and resolved to endure the aches a little longer. Maybe I’d learn something valuable about myself in the process, or at least, next time, I’d remember to start with stretching.


    You’re a doctor, I reminded myself, fingers hovering over the buy button. If anyone can figure out how to heal without relying on some pre-packaged spell, it should be you.


    Still, pride alone didn’t dull the pain, and after an hour of drifting between self-pity and stubbornness, the idea struck me out of nowhere. I’d learned how to sense my mana system, to see it in some strange, internal way—the flow of energy, the channels, the pulsing cores. It took time, but I’d managed it.


    What if I could look inside my body in the same way? My medical training kicked in, sketching out the possibilities in my mind. From skin to sinew, muscle to bone, I knew the anatomy of each layer. I just needed to figure out how to see it.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    With my eyes closed, I mentally pictured my body like an MRI, carefully tracing through each layer. I tried to “look” at the tissue under my skin like I viewed the mana flow, focusing, reaching deeper. But as hard as I concentrated, it felt like a blank, an endless wall of nothing. No magic sight activated, no sudden awareness of the flesh beneath my skin.


    Okay, maybe not that simple.


    But I knew I could do this; I just needed to approach it with patience. I tried again, digging into the muscles layer by layer, focusing harder, pressing my awareness along the aching lines of pain that were practically begging for attention.


    Still nothing.


    I clenched my fists.


    Ouch.


    That was a mistake with aching muscles.


    Not giving up. You’re not giving up.


    Shifting my focus to the most painful spots—the knots in my shoulders, the raw ache in my calves—I tried to breathe through it, slower this time. I didn’t just picture them. I thought of the actual fibers, how they’d likely torn under the stress, tiny rips my body would naturally heal over time if I let it.


    Gradually, as I sank deeper into focus, a strange sensation flickered through me. I couldn’t see the tears exactly, but there was something. A faint awareness, like a shadowed outline, tracing each sore line. The sensation was barely perceptible, like trying to see faint stars at the edge of my vision.


    Getting somewhere.


    Bit by bit, I sensed those damaged fibers, like a faint whisper.


    Alright. Now what?


    I mapped the sensation along the lines of pain, feeling out each section until I could pinpoint the areas where the damage felt the worst, a dull throb that resonated in my bones.


    With focused effort, I pictured those muscle fibers knitting back together, coaxing each tiny micro-tear to close up. I tried to will the pain away and smooth over each torn fiber with sheer mental effort. The ache stayed, stubbornly ignoring my attempts.


    Maybe I missed something.


    Healing in the books always involved mana, after all. I knew it powered spells; maybe it was the missing key. If mana could flow through channels, maybe it could reach the muscles, too. Worth a shot, right?


    Drawing mana from my core, I guided it toward the nearest muscle, trying to ease it into the fibers. A sharp, electric pain shot through my arm, almost like someone had jabbed me with a live wire. I let out a strangled shout, instantly recoiling.


    Okay, that’s a hard no!


    I clenched my teeth, feeling the sting from channeling mana still vibrating through my arm. Alright, think, I told myself, giving my shoulder a rub. You’re a doctor, not a masochist. There’s got to be a gentler way.


    I took a steady breath and tried again, channeling mana through my hands, directing its flow carefully. It’s like applying a bandage from the outside, I thought, guiding my hands over the sore spots and resting them lightly on my shoulders. Focusing intently, I coaxed the mana to stream from my hands and into the aching muscles beneath, willing it to seep into the tissue and soothe the pain.


    There was a faint warmth as I focused, the mana slipping from my hands and sinking into the muscles beneath. But the ache held its ground, stubborn as ever. It was like pouring water onto a rock and expecting it to soak in.


    Fine, I thought, unwilling to back down. I experimented again, returning to the faint awareness of the damaged fibers. I concentrated on each micro-tear, picturing it as vividly as possible, imagining the fibers knitting back together in minute detail. This time, I didn’t just let the mana flow freely—I nudged it, giving precise instructions and visualizing the healing down to each muscle fiber.


    And then… it happened. A warm, subtle pulse spread through my muscles, the pain lifting just enough to make me feel like I’d accomplished something. Not entirely gone, but manageable. I straightened, shoulders loosening as a wave of relief washed over me.


    It worked. I allowed myself a small, triumphant smile. It actually worked.


    <table>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td width="575">


    You have learned the spell [Heal Muscles]


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    YES!!!


    I healed myself a few more times until I felt fine. I regretted canceling the Archery but didn’t want to call back and seem weird. Instead, I started looking for a good hand-to-hand discipline. After checking out different options and watching several YouTube videos, I decided on Krav Maga. It made the most sense since it focused on practical, real-world defense. The techniques were straightforward and designed to be used in actual self-defense situations, making it perfect for someone who wanted to get effective results without spending years training. I called and signed up for classes.


    Three months had blurred into a rhythm, each day structured around a grueling schedule. Mornings started with Krav Maga at a dojo across town, my muscles still stiff as I went through the defensive drills. By noon, I’d head to another center for staff training. Each strike and block left my arms aching but feeling stronger. A quick lunch, a quick healing spell, and I’d be back on my feet, heading to my next lesson.


    My trainers kept complimenting me, calling me a natural.


    It’s not talent, I thought, suppressing a smirk. Just a little help from my skills.


    My Staff-Fighting reached level 5, my Krav Maga reached level 5, and my Archery reached level 3. I moved to a different city and trained in various centers as an advanced student. I didn’t want to raise suspicion with too fast progress.


    My healing spell had eventually reached level 12. After hitting level 10, I noticed a significant shift—it cast faster, felt smoother, and used less mana, dropping from 10 to 8. The improvement felt almost instinctual, a milestone that took me by surprise. Encouraged, I set my sights on bringing all my skills to that level.


    Over the next two months, I trained relentlessly. Krav Maga and Staff-Fighting reached level 10 sooner than expected, thanks to a fresh start in a new city where I signed up as an “advanced student” to blend in. Progress came steadily, but one skill lagged stubbornly behind.


    I frowned at the status screen, frustrated as Archery stayed fixed at a stubborn “7.” Despite hours at the range and practice at three different centers, I hadn’t pushed it even a fraction higher.


    Alright, back to the drawing board.


    I turned to my collection of LitRPG books, searching for tips and techniques on Archery. Three titles caught my eye, each featuring a character with serious bow skills. I spent the next few days immersed, hunting for tips between plot twists and power-ups.


    The idea of Archery in motion stood out—shooting while moving, something dynamic. I searched online, hoping to find a center that trained archers on the go, but the closest I got was a video. On the screen, a guy in full hiking gear demonstrated his skills, switching smoothly from walking to jogging to sprinting, all while nocking and releasing arrows with alarming precision.


    That might work.


    Within hours, I’d loaded up with enough arrows to outfit a small battalion, camping gear, food, and water, and set out for the mountains, eager to try the method on rough terrain. Over the next three weeks, I trained relentlessly, finding a rhythm in the crunch of gravel beneath my boots, the snap of the bowstring, and the soft thud of arrows hitting targets—or occasionally missing them and vanishing into the underbrush.


    I switched between running, walking, jumping over rocks, and ducking under low branches, gradually feeling the movement become more natural. Each practice left my muscles sore, but seeing progress kept me going.


    By the end of the third week, I rechecked my status screen. A grin spread across my face as I saw the numbers shift—Archery, finally, at level 10. And just below it was an unexpected bonus: my agility had ticked by one.


    Guess all that running and dodging paid off, too.


    Something nagged at the back of my mind—a vague memory of two spells I’d bought ages ago and promptly forgotten. Embarrassed at the oversight, I winced but resolved to train them immediately.


    The first spell, Mana Shield, seemed simple enough. I closed my eyes, focused, and cast. I felt a sort of force field flickered around me and envelop my body. It stayed for about seven or eight minutes and then dissipated. I cast it again, each time expecting some change, some sense of progress.


    But nothing. No improvement, no strengthening—just the same faint, fading shimmer. Frustrated, I cast it again, counting each attempt. No matter what I tried, the spell didn’t progress at all. The only thing on my profile was the name, with no number beside it. By the thirtieth cast, I felt a strange feeling of emptiness and a bit lightheaded. Curious, I checked my mana.


    750 out of 3000.


    I stared, blinking in disbelief. “Wow,” I muttered, rubbing my neck. That’s not good. I cast it again, watching my mana drop by another 50. I already discovered that my mana regenerated about ten units a day. Now I understood how slow it was.


    No wonder the Traveler complained about low mana regeneration.


    The only solution I could think of was going to a Gate to regenerate. I looked on the map of Germany online and saw that Frankfurt was closer than “my” Gate in the Black Forest. But to actually locate the Gate, I had to buy the Travelers’ Map ability. Thank God I still had two ability points. The Frankfurt Gate mentioned in the World Information was indeed very close to the city. Decision made, I grabbed my gear, determined to head there first.