The reason Sylvie could sustain such overwhelming healing time and intensity was simple, last night, she had finally finished distributing her long-hoarded stat points.

Her stats now read:

Unallocated Stat Points: 40 → 0

Base Stats:

Strength: 1.5 → 2.5

Vitality: 3.5 → 6.5

Constitution: 5.0 → 7.0

Agility: 1.5 → 5.5

Stamina: 3.0 → 15.0

Intelligence: 8.0 → 16.0

Mana: 12.5 → 22.5

The surge of mana, stamina, and intellect came naturally—her body and mind seemed to drink it in like parched earth after rain. The more physical attributes had been trickier. And the way she had managed to adapt was by clinging to Ethan the night before, even when she released her full power, it wouldn't harm Ethan. So while she grabbed him with her full strenght and tried controlling her new strenght she slowly got used to it. As for her stamina... Ethan pounded her mercilessly until she used all of it and passed out.

Even so, after healing for so long, Sylvie eventually began to falter. Her golden aura flickered, her breathing grew shallow, and her small frame swayed on her feet. By now, however, no mortal wounds remained. Nearly half of the wounded guild had been restored—more than anyone had hope for

Ethan watched her stumble, then shook his head. She clearly was trying to be of some use and use her newfound powers. "That's enough. You've done more than anyone else here hoped for."

Instead of offering another potion, he summoned Seloria. The air shimmered, and the massive wolf emerged. Seloria sniffed once, then padded straight toward Sylvie, lowering her body so the girl could lean.

Sylvie collapsed gratefully into her guardian's warmth. Her fingers instinctively sank into Seloria's soft fur as the wolf curled against her side to let her lie in comfortable position. Within seconds, the rhythm of her breaths evened out into sleep.

Murmurs rippled through the hall. Adventurers who had dared edge closer, perhaps hoping to thank or establish connection with the healer, immediately froze at the sight of the wolf. Seloria's golden pupils swept across the room like knives, and every man and woman caught in that gaze instinctively stepped back.

Recognition spread like sparks in dry grass. Whispers turned to wide-eyed stares. So this was the man tied to those whispers—the one who rode a black wolf previously.

Ethan ignored them all. His attention shifted to the receptionist, who was still crouched over a man with shallow cuts, tying off a bandage. He stepped closer, his shadow falling across her.

"Alright," he said flatly. "Enough of this chaos. Tell me—what the hell happened here?"

The receptionist quickly finished bandaging the man.

She stood and opened her mouth, hesitating for only a heartbeat—she couldn't refuse to answer. When the man standing before her was not just an A-rank adventurer, but also a guild VIP.

She carefully spoke

"The truth is… once word spread that the crack was dungeon-type, dozens of adventurers formed different groups and set out to find it. They wanted to claim the treasure first. Dungeons don't respawn loot like monsters, so—whoever gets it first keeps it."

Ethan's brow lifted urging her to continue.

She swallowed and continued.

"One group did find it, but they rushed in recklessly. Almost all of them were wiped out. Only one survivor managed to escape. He came running here, bleeding and half out of his mind, but before he reached us he was cornered by other adventurers demanding answers. Once they heard his story, nearly all of them stormed off to the location he gave. The first team was D to F rank… the newcomers thought they would fare better. But—"

"That's enough," Ethan cut her off. "Let me guess. They got their asses handed too, right?"

The receptionist gave a faint nod.

A chair scraped violently against the floor. The man whose arm she had just finished bandaging shot to his feet, his face red with rage.

"You bastard!" His voice cracked with fury. "Who the hell do you think you are, huh? If you had the guts, why didn't you go yourself instead of standing here mocking us? Acting like you're above everyone else!" His voice broke, spittle flying. "You don't know the pain of watching a comrade die, asshole!"

The receptionist froze, cold sweat prickling down her neck. She knew Ethan was above him. An A-rank VIP. And yet… anyone looking at him would never believe it. His clean noble features and unscarred body—he looked nothing like the weathered warriors most adventurers associated with high rank. To a wounded, grieving man, Ethan must have seemed like an arrogant upstart.

Ethan's head turned, slowly. The weight of his glare hit the man like a physical blow. His irritation burned beneath the surface, restrained but unmistakable.

"You talk as if I sent your friend to his death." His words were low, sharp enough to cut. "But it wasn't me who dragged him into that crack—it was your own greed. You want sympathy for someone who died chasing treasure he wasn't strong enough to claim? Don't insult me. Unless…" His lips curved into something between a sneer and a smirk. "…he threw himself in front of a monster to save your sorry ass. Did he?"

The C-rank's face twisted, but no words came out. His throat worked soundlessly.

Before the air could split further, the receptionist darted between them, her hands wringing together.

"P-please, Sir Ethan!" she stammered. "He's only lashing out because of his grief. Forgive him—he is your junior after all. He doesn't understand."

But before Ethan could answer the receptionist's trembling plea, another voice sliced through the guild hall like a blade.

"Whose mutt is lounging so casually among the severely injured? And what's this—" the words dripped with venom, rising louder with each syllable, "—a fucking maid sprawled out here like some jungle princess on display?"

The hall went still. Heads turned. Even the groans of the wounded seemed to hush under the weight of the insult.

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