Chapter 86: The Healers’ Summit

Chapter 86: Chapter 86: The Healers’ Summit

Felix stood before the full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of his suit, then smoothing down the lapels of the jacket.

Plain black formal suit, crisp black shirt, tailored trousers, and polished leather shoes. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to coax some order out of it before giving up. It remained as untamed as ever.

"Good enough," he muttered.

He picked up his gold-trimmed Hero Association identification card from the dresser, clipped it to the magnetic lanyard at his lapel, and took one last glance.

A formal summons wasn’t something he minded, especially when it happened only once a year.

It was a rare chance to step away from containment wards and blood-soaked mud to see how the rest of the continent’s life-support backbone was holding up.

He grabbed his overcoat and headed downstairs.

An Association vehicle waited outside his building: a heavy, matte-black armored sedan with tinted glass and silver crests on the passenger panels. The driver stepped forward, nodding respectfully.

"Good evening, Mr. Valerius."

"Evening," Felix said, returning the nod as the driver held the rear door open. He slid inside, settled into the leather seat, and watched the private transport pull smoothly into the evening traffic.

Through the glass, the skyline of Valemont gave way to high-speed transit lanes. Ordinary life carried on beneath the glow of holographic banners: office workers hurrying to transit hubs, off-duty hunters sharing drinks on terrace patios, families lingering outside diners.

After months of smelling sulfur and swamp rot, the ordinary hum of the city was a welcome rhythm.

The car bypassed the civilian districts entirely, taking the restricted Association bypass toward the military airfield where a heavy supersonic transport stood waiting under the floodlights.

Within minutes of boarding, the jet climbed past the storm barrier, cutting across the continent toward the Federation’s administrative core: Aurelia City.

By the time the transport touched down on the private tarmac at Continental Headquarters, the city was illuminated under massive ambient light arrays.

Aurelia was the beating heart of the Association, a sprawling metropolis of towering granite spires and glass monoliths where continental strategy was drafted and enforced.

A brief shuttle ride brought him to the eastern wing of the Grand Assembly Hall. Over the broad stone entrance, glowing gold letters arched across the facade:

CONTINENTAL HEALERS’ SUMMIT

Two security personnel flanked the heavy brass doors. As Felix approached, the guard on the left scanned the lanyard at his chest. The scanner beeped green, and the guard’s spine immediately snapped straight.

"Doctor Valerius, sir." The guard offered a crisp bow, stepping aside to pull the brass handle.

"Welcome. Allow me to escort you into the main hall."

"Thanks," Felix replied, stepping past the threshold.

The ballroom beyond was grand, lit by suspended crystal chandeliers and filled with the low murmur of quiet conversation.

There were barely thirty-five people scattered across the expansive floor. In a continent housing thousands of active strike teams, the entire gathering of high-tier healers couldn’t even fill a small lecture hall.

A middle-aged healer standing near the entrance caught sight of Felix taking in the room and offered a wry smile. "Sparse crowd, isn’t it?"

"Smaller than I expected," Felix admitted.

"That’s just reality," the man said, swirling a glass of sparkling water. "Every strike force wants a healer on the roster, but barely one in a thousand Awakened carries the affinity, and even fewer survive past B-rank. You’re looking at the entire continental reserve right here."

Felix nodded slowly. The scarcity made sense. When an S-rank gate cracked open, a vanguard could be replaced by half a dozen heavy hitters, but an injured squad with no high-tier healer died in the dirt.

He walked over to the buffet, placing a few light pastries and fresh fruit onto a small plate. He had barely taken a bite when a hesitant voice spoke from his right.

"Excuse me... Felix?"

He turned. A young man, likely early twenties, stood there with an Association badge marking him as a B-rank awakened. His posture was rigid, eyes wide with poorly concealed reverence.

"Yes?" Felix asked easily.

"I’m sorry to interrupt," the young man said quickly, bowing his head. "I’m Aaron. I just received my field certification last month. I... I wanted to ask about the transition into Ultra-level healing. How did you break through the threshold to Ultra III?"

Felix finished his bite and set the small plate down on a high table. "The core expansion or the resonance control?"

The question drew the attention of two nearby healers, both young women wearing A-rank insignia, who immediately stepped closer to listen.

"Both," Aaron admitted. "Every manual says healing affinity hits a natural ceiling at High I. They claim pushing past that without destroying your own mana circuits is practically impossible."

"The manuals are written for people trying to force output through brute will," Felix said, his tone turning grounded and practical. "Healing mana isn’t fire or lightning. You don’t push it; you guide the tissue to accept it. The moment you treat someone else’s wound like a hostile force, the mana rebounds and blows your own circuits."

"Is it true you stabilized an entire ruptured lung while engaged with an A-rank beast?" one of the women asked, stepping forward.

"And how does your regeneration handle severed limbs?" the other added. "The cellular decay usually sets in before the mana can knit the marrow."

"One at a time," Felix chuckled, holding up a hand.

He broke down the mechanics simply, how he paced his circulation during frontline combat, the exact way he layered cellular stabilization before attempting full tissue regeneration, and how he avoided the mental exhaustion that usually paralyzed support personnel during extended raids.

"You’re the fourth person in recorded history to reach Ultra-tier healing," the young woman noted, her voice full of genuine awe. "And the youngest on record."

Felix rubbed the back of his neck, smiling faintly. "Being young just means I had fewer bad habits to unlearn."

"Don’t sell yourself short," Aaron said earnestly.

"Most of us were told we’d spend our entire careers huddled behind three layers of vanguard shields. Seeing you fight on the front lines changed how the academies look at our entire discipline."

Felix looked at the small circle of junior healers. To the Association directors, he was a political headache who refused to toe the line. To these kids, he was living proof that a healer didn’t have to be a fragile liability waiting to be protected.

Before he could answer, the ambient noise in the ballroom died down entirely.

The change in pressure was instantaneous. Conversations cut off mid-sentence, glasses were set down, and nearly every healer in the room straightened their posture, turning toward the double doors at the far end of the hall.

Three figures walked in. Two senior regional directors in formal Association attire flanked an elderly man walking at their center.

He was tall, broad-shouldered despite his years, with neatly combed silver hair and an impeccably tailored dark green frock coat.

He walked without a cane, his posture straight as an iron pillar, carrying the effortless calm of someone who had stood over thousands of battlefields and outlived every catastrophe thrown his way.

Alistair Rowan.

SS-rank. Ultra I proficiency. Over forty years of active service, and the acknowledged pinnacle of continental medicine.

Felix narrowed his eyes, feeling the ambient mana in the room shift.

Alistair’s aura wasn’t aggressive. It held none of the violent, crackling heat of Garrick Draven or the sharp frost of Aria.

It felt like standing at the edge of a deep, endless lake: vast, still, and so dense it pressed against Felix’s skin like cool water.

Felix evaluated him out of sheer instinct. Physically, the old man was around peak A-rank; in an outright brawl, Felix knew he held a massive advantage in pure combat. But the healing core inside Alistair was monumental.

That was Ultra I: a realm where cellular repair transitioned into something approaching genuine miracle-working, blurring the boundary between critical mortality and sustained life.

So that’s Ultra I, Felix thought, his respect deepening.

Alistair’s gaze swept across the hall, acknowledging the bowed heads of the senior healers with a small, courteous nod. Then his pale blue eyes locked directly onto Felix.

A warm, grandfatherly smile creased the old man’s weathered face.

Alistair walked straight toward the refreshment tables, the two directors trailing in his wake while the rest of the room parted like water. He stopped a pace in front of Felix, looking him over from head to toe.

"Felix," Alistair said, his voice deep and resonant.

"Elder Rowan," Felix greeted, inclining his head respectfully.

"None of that ’elder’ nonsense tonight," Alistair laughed, stepping in and pulling Felix into a brief, firm embrace before patting his shoulder with a heavy hand. "Look at you. Twenty-eight and already anchoring Ultra III."

Felix cleared his throat slightly, aware of the thirty pairs of eyes glued to them. "Just keeping pace with the work, sir."

"Colleague, my boy. Tonight, we are colleagues." Alistair turned toward the center of the hall, addressing the gathering while keeping one hand rested on Felix’s shoulder. "Most of you know Doctor Valerius by reputation alone. Fourth in history to step into the Ultra realm, and the only one among us reckless enough to trade punches with S-rank beasts while keeping his squad alive."

A ripple of quiet laughter went through the room.

A director stepped forward, offering a low-profile wireless microphone toward Alistair, but the old master smoothly waved it away, redirecting it straight toward Felix’s chest.

Felix glanced at the mic, then at Alistair. "What’s this for?"

"A few words from our rising vanguard," Alistair said, eyes crinkling with amusement. "They’ve heard enough dry lectures from me over the last thirty years."

Felix took the mic, looking out over the room. The faces staring back held genuine curiosity: young apprentices, seasoned veterans, and Association brass all waiting for some profound philosophy on the sanctity of life.

Felix paused, letting the silence settle.

"Well," he started, keeping his voice dry. "I’m told this should be inspiring."

He took a slow breath, nodding once with absolute solemnity.

"Rule number one of combat medicine: don’t die."

The ballroom went completely still. A junior healer near the back blinked, caught entirely off guard.

"Because if you die, your team follows you five minutes later," Felix continued smoothly. "And if you find yourself in a spot where you really can’t avoid it, make sure you’ve trained someone behind you who’s stubborn enough to pick up the slack." He offered a faint smirk.

The silence held for half a second before Alistair barked a booming laugh, slapping his knee. The rest of the room followed suit, breaking into easy chuckles and polite applause as the tension in the hall vanished.

The senior director immediately stepped forward, carefully sliding the microphone out of Felix’s hand with a polite, strained smile. "Thank you, Doctor Valerius. That concludes the formal remarks for the opening hour."

Felix stepped off the platform, muttering quietly, "I had two more points."

"And the Association thanks you for keeping them private," the director murmured back dryly, stepping past.

Alistair chuckled, shaking his head. "Pragmatic to the bone. I like it."

---

As the gathering resumed its natural flow: soft orchestral music filtering through the speakers, servers weaving between clusters with trays of wine and appetizers: the three junior healers immediately circled back to Felix’s side.

"That was your inspiring speech?" the young woman laughed.

"Short, clear, and keeps you breathing," Felix replied, picking his plate back up. "You won’t forget it on a raid."

"Can’t argue with that," Aaron admitted, grinning.

Across the banquet floor, Alistair Rowan stood beside an arched window, sipping his tea while watching the group. His expression had settled into something quiet and deeply contemplative.

It wasn’t just the boy’s rank or his physical combat prowess that caught his eye. It was the rhythm of his circulation.

Felix’s healing mana didn’t just mend, it resonated with an unnatural, stubborn vitality that Alistair had never encountered in four decades of practice.

He hasn’t even scratched the surface of what that affinity can do, Alistair thought, the corners of his mouth curving into an intrigued smile.

The gathering continued late into the evening.

And for one night in the capital, Felix was simply a healer among his own kind.