SSS-Ranked Surgeon In Another World: The Healer Is Actually OP!

“It is a siege. But those beasts will be an important force for Eiskar’s future, which is why I must take the risk. If I can gain control of them, we do not just neutralize a threat. We gain an army.”

Upon hearing Isolde, Bruce’s mind raced.

An unstable Labyrinth the size of a small territory. A volatile Core. Thousands of empowered beasts tearing at one another in the dark. And at the center of it all, a queen who intended to walk straight into the heart of the chaos and bend it to her will.

If she failed, the northern border would collapse under a tidal wave of mana infused monstrosities. Eiskar would burn.

Duke glanced at Bruce, faint amusement threading through the gravity.

Bruce did not smile, but looked back at Isolde. “When do we leave?”

Her gaze hardened, not like that of a victim or of a tyrant, but it hardened like the eyes of a warrior. “Immediately.”

Outside the palace walls, Eiskar remained unaware. Citizens walked snow dusted streets.

Merchants argued over prices. Guards rotated shifts along the battlements, breath fogging in the cold.

But far to the north, deep within an unnaturally vast Labyrinth, beasts were already tearing at each other. Claws against scale. Fang against bone.

Roars echoing through expanding caverns that had once been orderly, now descending into primal chaos.

And at the center, a Core trembled.

The leash that had bound them was gone. The ground beneath Velmora was shifting.

And the next battlefield would not be fought in silence.

The frost along the throne hall floor pulsed faintly, rhythmic as a slow heartbeat, as if the palace itself acknowledged the inevitability of what was coming. The air felt charged now, not chaotic, not unstable, but aligned. Like iron filings drawn toward a magnet they could not see.

A decision had been made. A direction chosen. And every particle of mana in the room had quietly rearranged itself to match.

The chandeliers overhead had stopped flickering.

Before she took them to the Labyrinth portal, Isolde waited to clarify things first.

Isolde remained standing at the base of her throne, posture straight, gaze steady. The exhaustion that had dulled her presence in the early hours of the purge was gone. The tremor in her hands, invisible to most, but not to Bruce, had quieted. The faint dissonance that had clung to her mana signature like smoke after a fire had dissipated entirely, replaced by something clean.

What stood before them now was not a survivor of possession.

It was a monarch fully awake.

And the difference was not subtle.

She turned to Bruce first.

“You have agreed to aid me,” she said calmly. The words carried the weight of formality without the ornamentation. No flourish. No gratitude dressed in silk. Just fact laid bare. “In reclaiming the Labyrinth. In stabilizing the Core. In preventing catastrophe.”

Her eyes sharpened slightly, not cold, but precise. The gaze of someone who had spent years watching a parasite govern through her body, who had memorized how manipulation dressed itself in generosity, and who had resolved never to practice it herself.

“What do you want in return?”

The question carried no ornament. No ritual phrasing. No cushion of diplomatic ambiguity designed to give both parties room to retreat.

It was not courtesy. It was an agreement. And the distinction mattered.

Bruce sighed.

For a fleeting moment, brief enough that neither Duke nor Isolde would have noticed, his thoughts scattered into instinct and calculation. Not greed. Not ambition. Something older.

Something rooted in the part of him that had never stopped being a researcher, even after death, even after transmigration, even after becoming something the system itself could not properly classify.

The Labyrinth had devoured dungeon cores and probably other Labyrinth for years.

That meant hybridized species, creatures born from the violent merger of incompatible ecosystems, forced to adapt or perish in environments their original biology was never designed to survive. Mana mutated variants.

Organisms saturated in Core energy beyond natural thresholds, their cellular structures rewritten by exposure densities that should have killed them ten times over.

Scales altered by density compression. Claws reinforced by excess mana infusion.

Blood carrying aberrant resonance signatures that no bestiary on the continent had catalogued.

The scientist in him stirred, quietly, hungrily, with the particular intensity of a mind that recognized irreplaceable data the way a jeweler recognized uncut diamonds.

Once he saw those creatures he would definitely take note of them and use his mirrored surgeon skills on them.

The anomaly in him, the part that defied the system, that operated outside the boundaries the world’s own architecture imposed, considered what could be learned.

What could be replicated.

What could be surpassed.

But then he exhaled softly.

The hunger settled. The calculations folded themselves neatly into a corner of his mind and waited, patient as always.

He did not need to ask.

While restricting the beasts, while doing what he had already agreed to do, he could harvest what he required.

Discreetly. Efficiently.

Without altering the mission profile by a single degree.

It would happen naturally in the process of battle. A severed claw collected mid combat. A tissue sample preserved during a mercy kill. Blood drawn from a fallen beast before the mana in its veins destabilized and became useless.

To name it as payment felt wrong.

Not morally wrong. Strategically wrong.

Naming it would formalize it. Formalizing it would create expectations. Expectations would create restrictions, what he could take, how much, from which creatures, under whose oversight.

He would be doing it regardless. It was not a reward.

It was a byproduct. And byproducts did not require permission.

Bruce looked back at Isolde, expression composed. The faintest trace of calm amusement sat behind his eyes, not quite visible, but present, like light behind frosted glass.

“I’ll think about it,” he said quietly.

Isolde’s brow lifted just slightly. A micro expression so controlled it might have been rehearsed, except that the surprise behind it was real.

People did not leave monarchs in debt without naming a price.

It was, in the language of political maneuvering, either an act of extraordinary trust or extraordinary leverage.

“You leave the debt open?” she asked.

“Yes.”

The word sat in the air between them, simple and unadorned and heavier than it had any right to be.

Duke’s lips curved faintly at the corner. “Bold.”