Seeking aid - Part 2

With Mira leading the way, the group made their way through Silivia’s quieter streets, heading toward what she assumed to be Sans’ house.

Upon arrival, Mira knocked firmly on the door.

A pause. Silence.

Then, without hesitation, she gripped the handle and pushed it open.

"Seems like he’s here, but busy? The door was unlocked."

Garek, standing behind her with Dylan still in his arms, narrowed his eyes.

"We don’t have time to debate whether we should or shouldn’t. Let’s go."

With that, he stepped inside, carefully maneuvering Dylan’s weight, while Venn and Mira followed close behind.

As soon as they closed the door behind them, the simple exterior of the house became a stark contrast to the luxurious interior.

The walls shimmered with gold and silver accents, and the furniture was lavishly designed, adorned with precious gemstones and intricate craftsmanship.

Even the cabinets and bookshelves were lined with jewelry and rare artifacts.

Venn’s jaw dropped.

"Wow! Who would’ve thought that a guy dressed like a low-rank soldier of a dead clan actually lives like a king?!"

Mira remained neutral, giving only a few glances at the lavish surroundings.

"Yes, he does live better than the kings… but it’s all earned through his own effort."

Venn continued staring, while Garek moved deeper into the house, scanning for any sign of Sans.

Then—

"Over here! I think I hear something!" Garek called out.

Venn immediately rushed toward him, while Mira simply walked behind them at her usual measured pace.

They soon peered down a staircase.

Venn’s eyes lit up. "A basement? Oh, this is getting intense!"

Mira sighed, unimpressed.

"We are in the house of the most important adventurer in Silivia. Try to have some proper respect."

Venn straightened awkwardly. "Oh, right… sorry…"

Garek, ignoring their conversation, descended first, followed by Venn, with Mira taking up the rear.

The deeper they went, the clearer the sounds became—the rhythmic clang of metal striking metal, the unmistakable ring of a hammer against an anvil.

The luxury of the house above vanished.

Down here, the basement was nothing but raw function—workbenches cluttered with tools, weapons propped against the walls, shelves stacked with metal ingots, and crates overflowing with minerals and materials.

Every single item was perfectly organized, divided by type and function.

At the center of it all, standing before an anvil, was a man dressed in the same low-rank Phoenix Alliance outfit.

A hammer gripped in his right hand.

A half-forged sword resting before him.

Venn stepped forward. "Excuse us… are you Mister Sans?"

The man stopped, turning his head instantly to look at them.

His curious gaze swept over them, calculating but calm.

Then, he spoke.

"Yes? Yeah, I’m UltSans. How did you enter?"

Venn rubbed the back of his head. "Uh… Sorry, sir. You left the door unlocked, and we really need your help."

UltSans blinked. "Oh… yeah, that happens all the time. Alright then—what do you need?"

Garek stepped forward, gently placing Dylan down on the stone floor.

"Can you treat him?"

UltSans stared at Dylan, watching his chest rise and fall in rapid, strained gasps.

Then, he spoke bluntly.

"I need a closer look. But if he can’t breathe, it’s probably his lungs. Get him *out* of here and upstairs—this is my blacksmith, and the air here will only make him worse."

Without hesitation, Garek lifted Dylan again, and they all headed back upstairs.

Once upstairs, Garek gently placed Dylan on a couch in the lavishly decorated living room.

UltSans knelt beside him, checking his condition.

Venn, hovering nearby, asked, "So… Mister Sans? Sir Sans? What exactly is wrong with him?"

UltSans sighed. "Just Sans. Everyone in Silivia calls me Sans."

Then, after another moment of observing Dylan, he continued.

"It’s nothing too severe yet. But it’s draining his HP like a slow-acting poison and applying a debuff—Airless."

Venn frowned. "Mister Sans… what does any of that mean?"

Sans paused, as if remembering that Venn wasn’t an adventurer.

"Right… Well, in simpler terms—He’s been hit with a magical poison that slowly drains his HP over time… but instead of just hurting him, it’s also affecting his lungs directly."

Venn’s face paled. "Can you do anything?"

UltSans exhaled slowly.

"No."

The room fell silent.

UltSans continued, his tone steady. "This is the first time I’ve seen something like this. I’m not a doctor—I know healing, but not how to treat illnesses."

Venn’s hands curled into fists. "Then… what can we do, Mister Sans?"

Sans leaned back slightly. "For starters… if we do nothing, he’ll die—slowly, suffocating to death."

Venn swallowed hard.

"But…" UltSans murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I think I just got an idea."

Venn leaned forward. "What is it?"

Instead of answering immediately, Sans looked down at the floor.

Then, he moved his right hand, as if touching or tracing something unseen.

His eyes followed an invisible pattern, his fingers shifting slightly as if interacting with something no one else could see.

Something about the way he moved felt off.

But no one said a word.

Then—out of nowhere—objects appeared in his hands.

Herbs, a potion bottle, a blade wreathed in flames.

Before anyone could react, Sans turned to Dylan and—

—drove the blade into his chest.

Twice.

The flaming blade seared through flesh effortlessly, but before anyone could move—

Sans immediately pressed the herbs onto the wounds, then poured the red potion over them.

In an instant, the herbs dissolved, and where there should have been burnt, stabbed flesh—

Only healed skin remained.

Dylan’s body tensed, his back arching slightly—his breathing still rapid, but no longer as violent.

Each second, his breath became lighter.

Less strained.

Less desperate.

Venn’s eyes were wide with shock. "What… what did you do, Mister Sans?!"

UltSans leaned back, wiping his hands.

"Break and fix."

Venn blinked. "What?!"

UltSans shrugged casually. "I burned his lungs—then fixed them. Now they’re brand new. I told you—I know healing.

If something’s broken beyond repair…"

His fingers snapped, and the flaming blade vanished from existence.

"…Then break it even more. And fix it properly."

Venn took a shaky breath, still processing what had just happened. "And… Mister Sans… how exactly did you fix him?"

UltSans shrugged, his tone casual, as if he hadn’t just stabbed someone in the chest and brought them back like it was nothing.

"I just healed him."

Garek’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Wouldn’t stabbing him like that have *killed* him instantly?"

UltSans nodded. "Yes. Normally, it would have."

Venn twitched. "Would have?! What do you mean would have?!"

UltSans continued calmly, as if explaining something completely ordinary. "But I aimed very precisely—and even then, it was nearly impossible to avoid actually killing him. I had to… adjust the damage."

Garek frowned. "Adjust? How?"

UltSans hesitated for a moment.

Then, he simply said—"You wouldn’t understand."

Silence followed.

Dylan, still recovering, forced himself to speak, his voice weak.

"How… old are you…?"

Everyone turned toward him.

Dylan took a shaky breath and continued, "I’ve heard… a lot about you… but only about how *important* you are. No one ever talks about who you actually are."

UltSans tilted his head slightly, as if the question had never really occurred to him.

"Huh… I think I’m around… 452 years old? Maybe? I’m not sure…"

The room froze.

Venn’s eyes widened to the extreme. "FOUR HUNDRED AND FIFTY-TWO YEARS OLD?! How can you not be sure?!"

UltSans shrugged. "I didn’t keep track. But I can estimate an approximate."

Mira, who had remained*mostly neutral, now seemed slightly more interested.

"Are you, in any case, an immortal being? Your appearance remains *young*, yet everything else about you compares you to the **Kings** in terms of lineage and time…"

UltSans blinked.

Then, after a moment, he let out a small laugh.

"That… is a very refined and complicated way of calling me old, honestly."

He chuckled to himself for a moment before continuing.

"But yeah… Elisabeth has known me for a *long* time. Since I first arrived in Silivia. Back when I wasn’t even part of the Phoenix Alliance yet, and I was maybe… Level 10. Or something close to that."

Mira’s eyes flickered slightly. "And what is your current Level?"

UltSans tilted his head. "Let me check real quick."

Then—it happened again.

His eyes shifted, losing focus as if staring at something invisible in the air.

His right hand moved, fingers subtly tracing and interacting with something unseen.

Venn and Dylan exchanged glances. This wasn’t normal.

Dylan’s mind raced. Was he hallucinating? Was he seeing something they couldn’t? Or… was there actually something there?

Garek, though skeptical, remained silent out of respect.

Mira, however, was unbothered. She had already heard far too much about Sans from the Elite Guards, the Kings, and the highest-ranking warriors. Whatever he was doing, she believed in it, whether she understood it or not.

After a brief pause, UltSans spoke.

"Alright… I’m currently… Level 1,112."

Silence.

Dylan and Venn immediately froze.

Their brains completely shut down.

Not Level 200.

Not Level 500.

Not even Level 1,000.

LEVEL 1,112.

Venn’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.

Dylan couldn’t even process the number.

Garek, though visibly surprised, seemed to have expected something absurd—after all, he had always suspected Sans was the true powerhouse of Silivia.

Meanwhile, Mira simply… smirked.

She wasn’t impressed.

She wasn’t shocked.

She had expected something exactly like this.

For her, it was obvious.

Silivia depended entirely on Sans.

If he falls, then Silivia falls too.