Chapter 8 – Did I Just Get Promoted Because of My Fake Divine Revetion?

  Someone had asked him what to do next.

  A whole group of people, waiting for him to make the call.

  Gret looked left, looked right… and finally understood something very important:

  His status had changed.

  He was the healer. The spellcaster. The one who’d received divine revetion from the God of Nature.

  And spellcasters always outranked warriors—especially when the actual squad captain was lying half-dead.

  Of course he was now the one calling the shots. It was only "logical."

  So what if he was just a teenager with zero experience? Didn’t know jack about the mission? Could barely tell left from right?

  That’s what divine revetion was for, wasn’t it?! Gods didn’t just bless you with magic—they uploaded wisdom, too!

  Gret felt like crying.

  Let’s not even get into the fact that this “divine revetion” was completely fake. The real problem was, he’d literally just transmigrated, and the original owner's memories were still a half-mixed bowl of alphabet soup.

  And now they wanted him to choose? Advance or retreat? Push forward or head back?

  He. Had. No. Idea.

  He stared bnkly at his teammates' hopeful faces, on the verge of an existential crisis.

  Transmigrator’s cssic three questions:

  Who am I? ?

  Where am I? ?

  What the hell just happened? ???

  He'd only managed to answer the first one so far.

  Couldn’t they just give him five minutes to organize his thoughts after performing a high-stakes emergency surgery?!

  Apparently not.

  Raymond was already speaking again, fast and anxious:

  “We’re technically city guards—we’re supposed to complete the patrol before heading back. But now the Captain’s injured, and there’s been an incident here—”

  He gestured outward with one muscur arm.

  Gret followed the gesture and looked around. Muddy, trampled ground. Spatters of blood. Traces of the earlier struggle everywhere.

  He blurted out: “What… exactly happened just now?”

  “You don’t remember?!”

  Raymond looked stunned. Crap.

  Gret’s heart skipped a beat. He spped a hand to his head.

  “Ugh—I… my head…”

  The pained expression on his face didn’t even need acting. He pressed his fingers against the swollen lump on the back of his skull and instantly winced, his face contorting.

  “It’s… it’s all fuzzy. I hit my head. I can’t remember…”

  Raymond rushed over to help him. Gret squatted down and curled up on the ground, squeezing his eyes shut.

  Inside his head, jumbled memories surged like floodwater, making the headache even worse.

  They’d set out on patrol, spent a day and a half on the road, and finally reached this farmhouse.

  But before they could even get close, they spotted chaos outside—two wild dogs gnawing at something.

  Captain Karen drove the dogs off and led them inside to investigate. Almost immediately, they heard fighting and screams.

  A bck blur shot out through the doorway.

  The original “Gret” tried to intercept it—only to get knocked flying into something hard. Then everything went dark.

  He asked in a low, pained voice: “…The thing that hurt the Captain… what was it?”

  Raymond tried to pull him upright, but gave up after two tugs. Instead, he crouched beside him and spoke softly into his ear:

  “No one got a clear look—it was too fast. But it was some kind of four-legged beast. Bck.”

  “…I see…”

  Gret murmured. The others began chiming in one after another:

  “Yeah! Big and fierce. It was about… up to my waist!”

  “Looked like a cat?”

  “Don’t joke—what kind of cat gets that big?! It had to be a panther. A bck panther!”

  “But it really did look like a cat!”

  “…Yeah. That beast… cwed me right here…”

  Captain Karen’s weak voice came from the stretcher.

  Gret nodded, still crouched on the ground, thinking hard.

  Maybe it really was some kind of feline.

  He thought back to the long, diagonal tear across Karen’s abdomen and sighed in relief. Cats—well, cat-like animals—were at least better than dogs. Less chance of rabies. That was important. There wasn’t exactly a rabies vaccine floating around in this world. If you got infected out here?

  That was it. Game over.

  And if it was just a wild animal, there was no need to chase it down.

  Top priority now: find somewhere safe for Karen to recover.

  But where?

  Gret scanned the area, pushed himself up with effort, and limped over to the nearby thatch-roofed hut to check if it was suitable for treating wounds.

  He pushed open the door—if you could call it that. It was literally a bundle of sticks, tied together with branches to form a kind of frame. He bent low and poked his head inside.

  One gnce—and he pulled back out immediately.

  What the hell?!

  Why did I even think this pce might be decent?

  Gret’s face scrunched in horror. The hut was too short to stand in. Fine, he’d expected that.

  It was tiny—less than 20 square meters. Also expected.

  But no bed?! Not even a raised ptform?

  In the center of the room, a ring of stones marked a fire pit. Fresh smoke curled upward—someone had recently lit a fire to boil water. The burning twigs crackled as they fred up, smoke punching him in the face and stinging his eyes.

  On the left side, some kind of pitchforks leaned against the wall. A couple bags sat in the corner—one half-colpsed, the other still full. On the right, there was a lumpy dirt ptform, piled high with furs and rags that looked like… maybe a sleeping area?

  This pce wasn’t for healing. It was for dying.

  Gret backed out of the doorway and took a deep breath, then turned to his companions.

  “Lift the Captain. We’re leaving.”

  “I can walk just fine!”

  Captain Karen immediately tried to get up. Gret pounced and pushed him down.

  “Uncle Karen, you stay down! Don’t move!”

  “Get that spear! And grab a good, straight branch—we’re making a stretcher! We’ll carry him!”

  Everyone sprang into action.

  Fortunately, as trained soldiers, they knew how to improvise a stretcher. They offered up a long spear, chopped down a sapling, tied a few thick grass ropes between the poles, and carefully lifted Captain Karen onto it. The shredded armor and torn clothing were draped over him to keep him warm, and then—

  They were ready to go.

  Gret tried to help carry it, but the second he stepped forward—

  BAM!

  Red-haired archer Ton shoulder-checked him aside like it was nothing, gripping one end of the spear in one hand and the branch in the other. He turned, fshing a grin:

  “Don’t worry about it, Little Gret! We’ll carry the stretcher—you just walk with us.”

  Gret: “…”

  I remember now—you’re the one who tackled the original me. Smmed me into a tree. Knocked me out cold so hard I ended up transmigrating.

  And just now, if I hadn’t been paying attention and braced myself, you would’ve triggered a second soul transfer!

  Still, Gret swallowed the grumbling.

  The rest of the squad was already ughing, chiming in:

  “That’s right, Little Gret—no heavy lifting for you!”

  “You’re our spellcaster now!”

  “Tsk tsk… Give it a few days and we’ll be calling you ‘Master Gret’!”

  Raymond the spearman gave him a hearty cp on the shoulder—and casually snatched his belt knife while he was at it. Ton and Raymond took the front and back of the stretcher. Wally, the shieldbearer, slung Gret’s pack over his own shoulder.

  By the time Gret realized what was happening…

  His hands were completely empty.

  No weapons. No bags. No responsibilities.

  Just strolling along in the middle of the group, nice and easy, side by side with freckle-face John the little cleric.

  He was even starting to wonder…

  If he twisted his ankle right now, or cimed he couldn’t walk… would they chop up some vines and build him a carrying harness?

  Wait a minute. Is this what it’s like to be a spellcaster?