“Stand here,” he said quietly, motioning to the circle of grass just outside Greenhaven’s southern gate. “Now imagine the tank pulls left and the caster gets clipped by a fire trap. What do you do?”

One of the newer healers hesitated. “Minor Heal?”

“Good. Fast and targeted,” Rourke said. “You don’t have the range to save everyone at once, so prioritize. Then reposition—don’t waste time chasing the front line.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t overexplain.

But they listened.

Greenhaven hadn’t seen a raid in three days, but everyone knew it was coming. The rhythm was too consistent now—waves of enemies, followed by quiet. And Rourke had learned not to waste that quiet.

So he spent his downtime like this: walking new players through positioning drills, cast timing, mana pacing. He watched their hands shake. Saw their nerves. Knew exactly how it felt.

He didn’t call it teaching. He just stayed until they stopped hesitating and started anticipating.

One of them, a girl with a blue healer’s sash and hands too small for her staff, glanced at him mid-drill. “Did you have someone show you all this?”

“No,” Rourke said, adjusting her stance slightly. “I learned it the hard way.”

She nodded, and for the first time, didn’t flinch when the next simulation began.

By sunset, the rhythm had settled.

The new healers weren’t confident, not yet. But they were steadier. Rourke watched one of them time her cast just right—stepping to line-of-sight without being told. The result wasn’t flashy. Just clean. Controlled.

That was the goal.

He packed up his kit and started walking back toward the village when Quinn caught up beside him.

“You’re turning into a drill sergeant,” she said, nudging him with her elbow.

“I’m not shouting enough for that.”

“True. But they listen to you.” She paused. “We all do, now.”

Rourke didn’t know what to say to that, so he just kept walking.

Back in town, the defenders gathered near the well for evening rotation. A few familiar faces nodded as he passed. The atmosphere had changed. People weren’t tense—they were ready. They trusted the plan. Trusted each other.

Rourke was halfway through restocking his pouch when a sharp whistle rang out.

One of the scouts sprinted in from the north ridge, breathless. “They’re coming,” she gasped. “Forty-plus. Coordinated spread. Shields up front, firecasters in the rear.”

The tone shifted immediately.

Not panic. Movement.

Steel on stone. Boots on grass. A quiet, practiced urgency.

Rourke slung his staff across his back and jogged to his assigned post without needing to be called. The line was already forming.

This time, they were ready.

The enemy hit fast.

Shields slammed against the frontline, sending shockwaves through the cobbled ground. Firecasters launched from behind cover—arcs of flame meant to scatter and isolate. But the defenders didn’t break. The formation held.

Rourke moved between the lines, scanning health bars with practiced focus. A defender took a spear to the thigh—Rourke was already casting. Minor Heal flared, clean and efficient. No delay. No wasted mana.

He pivoted. The left flank buckled under pressure, but instead of scrambling, the fighters rotated—just like they’d drilled. Rourke dropped low behind the second row, hand outstretched.

“Here,” he called. “Hold position.”

A healer behind him responded immediately, sliding into place. They overlapped coverage, weaving casts in a rhythm that didn’t need words.

Then the moment came.

The backline ignited—three players hit at once, burning and bleeding. Rourke didn’t think. He raised his staff, summoned everything he had, and let the magic go.

Mass Heal surged outward.

The pulse was stronger than usual. Tighter. Like it had locked onto them—not just casting, but synchronizing with their need.

A second later, the fires went out. Health bars spiked. The line held.

He felt it in his chest—like the spell had clicked into place.

[System Notification: Skill Usage Threshold Reached.]

[Mass Heal Resonance Achieved.]

It wasn’t dramatic. No explosion of light. Just a quiet system line and a deeper certainty in his bones.

He was getting better.

Not by accident. Not by hidden power.

By doing the job, again and again.

And now the spell was doing it with him.

The raid lasted another twelve minutes.

When it ended, the ground was scorched, bloodied—but the village stood untouched. No defenders down. No villagers lost.

It was the cleanest win they’d had yet.

Someone let out a low whistle. Another dropped to sit on the grass, laughing breathlessly.

Rourke didn’t laugh. He just sat down slowly, leaning against the stone lip of the well, chest still rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Quinn approached from the side, wiping soot from her arm. “I saw that cast.”

He looked up. “Which one?”

“The one that felt like we’d already won.”

He gave a small, tired smile. “Felt that too?”

She nodded. “You hit something, Rourke. You leveled up without leveling.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Not really. The system message still hovered at the back of his vision, half-faded. But what mattered wasn’t the message.

It was the silence that followed the fight.

Not because there was nothing to say—but because there was no need to say it.

He’d done his job.

And they’d all walked away.