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

The adventurers around them whistled loudly.

“Easy there!”

“That’s the third already!”

Jean ignored them completely.

She simply reached forward and poured herself another glass.

Bruce watched the exchange quietly.

Duke, meanwhile, looked like he was having the time of his life.

He leaned back comfortably in his chair, one boot hooked lazily around the leg of the table as he laughed loudly while pouring yet another round.

“Now this,” he declared proudly, gesturing grandly with the bottle, “is what a proper guild gathering should look like!”

Brakk slammed his empty glass down hard enough to rattle the table.

“Another!”

The drinking continued.

Minutes slipped by.

Then nearly an hour.

The guild hall slowly grew warmer as voices rose louder and laughter spread through the room. Lantern light flickered across flushed faces and half empty bottles.

Several adventurers had already begun leaning heavily against the table, their earlier confidence steadily melting beneath the relentless assault of Ashen Gin.

Kelvin attempted to stand twice.

Both attempts failed.

He slid slowly back down into his chair like a defeated warrior returning from a lost battle.

Torren had begun telling increasingly exaggerated hunting stories, gesturing wildly with his mug as he spoke.

“And then the beast roared like THIS!”

“You were running away,” Lyra corrected dryly.

“That’s a tactical retreat!”

More laughter erupted.

One of the younger adventurers nearly fell off his chair laughing.

Even a few of the nearby guild staff had begun lingering close enough to listen, unable to resist the chaotic energy spreading across the hall.

Bruce remained seated quietly among them.

Watching.

Listening.

The warmth of the liquor still lingered faintly in his chest.

Across the table Jean poured herself another glass, her expression calm despite the growing chaos around them.

For a brief moment.

Her eyes met Bruce’s again.

And something unspoken passed quietly between them.

A memory.

A battlefield long behind them.

Then she raised her glass slightly toward him.

Not quite a toast.

Not quite a challenge.

Just a silent acknowledgement.

Bruce lifted his own glass in response.

And drank.

Bruce continued drinking steadily.

Glass after glass.

Bottle after bottle.

Yet no matter how much he drank.

Nothing changed.

The warmth of the liquor flowed through his chest each time the amber liquid slid down his throat, spreading briefly through his body before fading into nothing. His breathing remained steady. His thoughts remained clear. His vision remained sharp.

There was no haze.

No dulling of his senses.

No sluggishness creeping into his limbs.

Bruce slowly rotated the glass in his fingers, watching the faint lantern light ripple through the remaining droplets clinging to the thick crystal.

He frowned slightly.

Across the table Duke and Jean were keeping pace with each other.

And neither showed any signs of slowing.

Duke poured another glass with the ease of someone who had clearly spent decades perfecting the art of drinking without consequence. He slid the filled glass across the table toward Jean with an approving nod.

“Impressive,” he said, genuine approval slipping into his voice. “You’ve built up quite the tolerance.”

Jean shrugged casually.

“Occupational necessity.”

She lifted the glass.

Drank it in one smooth swallow.

Set it down.

And poured another.

The movement had become almost mechanical by now.

Lift.

Drink.

Pour.

Repeat.

Bruce noticed something.

Each time her eyes drifted toward him.

Something shifted.

It was subtle.

Almost imperceptible.

A faint tightening around the corners of her eyes. A brief hesitation in her breathing. A moment where her fingers paused just a fraction longer on the bottle before pouring the next glass.

Then she would immediately drink again.

Another glass.

Another gulp.

Ashen Gin burned its way down her throat again and again.

The warmth of the alcohol spread slowly through her body.

But it wasn’t warmth she was looking for.

It was silence.

Because every time her gaze drifted back toward Bruce.

The memories returned.

Uninvited.

Unavoidable.

The trial.

The simulated battlefield.

The artificial forest stretching endlessly beneath a gray sky.

The sound of boots moving quietly through leaves.

The suffocating realization that something was hunting them.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the glass.

She could still remember the moment clearly.

Too clearly.

The way the group had begun falling apart one by one. The confident bravado of the other trainees slowly dissolving into confusion, then panic, then fear.

No one understood what was happening.

No one saw him coming.

They only saw the aftermath.

Another teammate disappearing.

Another signal vanishing from the map.

Another silent removal from the simulation.

Until the realization slowly began to spread through the survivors.

They were being hunted.

Not by monsters.

Not by the environment.

But by someone else taking the trial.

Her jaw tightened faintly.

She remembered the moment she had finally understood.

The forest had gone quiet.

Too quiet.

Even the simulated wind had seemed to pause.

And then.

He appeared.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just suddenly.

Behind her.

Close enough that she had felt the faint disturbance of air before she even realized someone was there.

The pressure of a hand.

A precise strike.

Efficient.

Controlled.

There had been no struggle.

No chance to react.

Only the cold, terrifying certainty that escape had never been an option to begin with.

And then.

Darkness.

Jean poured another glass.

The liquid splashed softly into the crystal.

She lifted it.

Drank.

Ashen Gin burned down her throat again.

Across from her Bruce calmly lifted another glass.

Unbothered.

Unchanged.

Still the same.

His movements were steady. His posture relaxed. His eyes clear and focused despite the absurd amount of alcohol he had consumed.

He looked exactly the same as he had during that trial.

Quiet.

Composed.

Unshaken.

Jean looked away.

Then poured another glass.

Duke noticed none of this.

He was currently leaning halfway across the table, passionately explaining something to Brakk while pointing dramatically at the bottle like a professor delivering an important lecture.

“I’m telling you,” Duke insisted with absolute conviction, “the flavor profile comes from the mutant oak fermentation stage.”

“That’s not how fermentation works,” Kelvin slurred weakly from somewhere beneath the table.