The welcome-back celebration was a roaring, joyous affair, a brief and precious island of light in a sea of darkness. I was swept up in it, playing my part as 'Jack the Weary Traveler,' sharing muted smiles and accepting hearty claps on the back. But beneath the facade, my mind was a whirlwind of calculations. Being back in Bastion after establishing the Ghost Road, I was seeing everything through a new, more capable lens. Every creaking joint in the palisade, every child with a hacking cough in the crowded common house, every hunting party heading into the woods with dented shields — each was no longer just an observation. It was a data point, a problem, a weakness that my Sanctum's vast resources could solve with terrifying efficiency. The temptation to just… fix everything, to use Leoric's genius to forge perfect armor for everyone, to have Jeeves reorganize their chaotic supply chains overnight, was a constant, siren song that I had to forcefully, painfully ignore. My power had to remain a secret. My help had to be measured, laundered, and delivered in a way that wouldn't shatter the fragile trust of this budding community.

The following days settled into a new, demanding routine. Lucas, true to his word, put my skills to immediate and constant use. I became the de facto head of the infirmary, a long, drafty tent that smelled perpetually of boiled water, antiseptic herbs, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. The two previous medics, a stern, older woman named Masha whose hands were gnarled with arthritis before the Confluence but were now impossibly steady, and a young, eager man named Finn whose textbook knowledge from some pre-Confluence life warred with his lack of practical experience, initially eyed me with a deep professional skepticism. My reputation as 'The Lucky Charm' who had miraculously saved the quarry team was a thing of fireside legend, but they were people who dealt in the harsh reality of bandages, broken bones, and festering wounds. I had to earn their respect not with stories, but with results.

My first real test, the one that would define my place here, came a few days after my return. A hunting party, led by a grim human warrior named Silas whose face seemed permanently carved into a scowl, stumbled back into the settlement just after dusk. They weren't carrying a fresh kill; they were carrying their wounded, and the air around them was thick with panic. Two of the hunters had been gored by a territorial Razorboar, their injuries severe but straightforward — brute force trauma that Masha and Finn could handle. The third, a Dweorg warrior named Grond whose strength was legendary in the shield wall, was the real problem.

He hadn't been gored. He had been bitten.

"He just… he just collapsed on the trail back," Silas explained, his voice ragged with a fear that his hardened exterior couldn't conceal as they laid the stout warrior on a cot. "He was fine one minute, cracking jokes about the boar's ugly face. The next, he started burning up."

Grond's condition was deteriorating at an alarming rate. He was shivering violently, his powerful body wracked with tremors that shook the entire cot, yet his skin was slick with a feverish sweat. His breathing was a series of shallow, rasping gasps. The bite mark on his forearm was small, almost insignificant, two neat puncture wounds. But the skin around it was turning a sickly, mottled purple that was visibly spreading as we watched. Masha rushed over, her face paling as she saw the wound.

"Feverfang," she breathed, her voice low and grave. "We lost three people to it last week. The S'skarr venom-masters say it's not a poison; it's a blight. It moves too fast. By the time the fever shows itself, it's already deep in the blood."

A wave of helpless panic began to ripple through the infirmary tent as others heard her diagnosis. It felt like a death sentence had been pronounced. I knelt beside Grond, my feigned healer's face a mask of intense concentration. Internally, I activated [True Sight]. The world resolved into its base energies, and I saw the Scourge immediately. It wasn't a venom or a toxin as they understood it; it was a microscopic, parasitic lifeform, a magical bacteria. It was a low-Tier 1 threat, but it replicated at an astonishing rate, devouring the host's ambient life energy like fire consuming dry tinder. A normal healer, using first aid or basic restorative magic, would be trying to fill a bucket with a massive hole in its base. You couldn't just heal the damage; you had to kill the parasite itself.

This was a delicate, intricate operation. I couldn't just unleash a wave of purifying Soulfire; that would be like using a flamethrower for brain surgery, and it would expose me instantly. I needed absolute precision, a level of control that was a performance in itself.

"Hold him down," I ordered, my voice sharp, cutting cleanly through the rising panic. Lucas and Silas immediately moved to restrain Grond's shivering form, their own faces tight with worry. I placed my hands on the Dweorg's chest, the heat radiating from him like a furnace. Once again, I let a faint, warm golden light seep through my skin, creating the illusion of immense effort.

But this time, my true work was entirely internal, invisible. I channeled my [Phoenix Pyre Mending] skill, but I didn't let the raw, healing power flood his system. Instead, I isolated a tiny, infinitesimally small thread of Soulfire from the torrent within me, refining it, compressing it with my will until it was as sharp and fine as a surgeon's scalpel, a single filament of pure, cleansing light. I threaded this invisible needle of holy fire directly into Grond's bloodstream. It was the most intricate and demanding work I had ever attempted, a microscopic war that required a level of sustained focus that pushed my Tier 4 Spirit attribute to its absolute limits.

I guided the Soulfire needle on a silent, relentless hunt. I could feel the cold, greedy, chaotic signatures of the parasites, and one by one, I touched them with my cleansing fire. Each touch was an act of micro-incineration, a pinpoint of pure energy that vaporized the parasite without harming the surrounding blood cells. To everyone else in the tent, I was simply pressing down hard on Grond's chest, my face beaded with sweat, my knuckles white with the strain of some unseen effort. The performance was just as exhausting as the magical operation itself, requiring me to consciously regulate my breathing and heart rate to match the perceived strain.

For ten agonizing, silent minutes, I hunted. Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath that was only half-feigned, I snuffed out the last of the parasites. I let a final, gentle wave of conventional healing energy flow from my hands to mend the damage they had done to his system. Grond's violent shivering subsided. His rasping gasps deepened into steady, even breaths. The sickly purple hue around the bite began to recede, returning to a normal, healthy pink before our very eyes.

I slumped back on my heels, breathing heavily, selling the exhaustion. "He'll sleep now," I managed, my voice hoarse. "But he'll live."

A collective, disbelieving sigh of relief swept through the infirmary. Masha stared at me, her initial skepticism completely erased, replaced by a profound, baffled awe. "How?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "The blight… it consumes healing energy. It should have just gotten stronger. How did you do that?"

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"The art I learned… it doesn't just mend flesh," I lied, constructing the mythology of 'Jack' as I went, adding another layer to my cover story. "It purifies. It finds the rot, the corruption, and burns it away. But it takes… it takes a lot out of me."

My performance had been flawless. I had saved Grond, elevated my status from 'lucky' to 'miraculous,' and further defined the perceived "limits" of my abilities, all without revealing a fraction of my true power. Lucas, who had been watching from the entrance with a worried intensity that never wavered, looked at me with an expression of pure, unadulterated reverence that was deeply unsettling.

The incident, however, highlighted a glaring, systemic problem. Bastion was entirely reactive. It was a settlement of brave warriors constantly trying to patch up grievous wounds rather than preventing them. It needed to be proactive. That evening, I sought out Lucas, finding him overseeing the tallying of rations at the main storehouse.

"The Feverfang," I said, getting straight to the point. "That's the fourth person bitten this week, according to Masha. We're losing too many good people to things we can't fight effectively with swords and shields."

Lucas' face hardened, the weight of his responsibility a visible thing on his shoulders. "I know, Jack. Every loss feels like a personal failure. But we don't have an answer. We don't know where they're coming from, we don't know how to cure the bite without you nearly killing yourself to do it."

"That's the problem," I countered, pressing the advantage gently. "We're bleeding fighters that we can't afford to lose. We need an Alchemical Workshop. A real one. We need people who can study these venoms, analyze these blights, and create antivenoms, tinctures, maybe even alchemical grenades effective against certain types of nests. We need intelligence and science, not just brute force and your shield."

He ran a weary hand through his hair, the gesture conveying a world of frustration. "I agree. A hundred percent. We have a few survivors from Nunamnir who were in the Artificer's Cog guild — Eliza is one, brilliant mind. They have the knowledge, rattling around in their heads. But they don't have the tools. A proper lab requires delicate glasswork for distillation, refined reagents, a controlled and stable heat source… things we can't just carve out of wood or smelt from bog iron. It's a dream, Jack."

Here was my opening. A way to leverage my Sanctum's power without ever leaving Bastion. A way to give them what they needed without them ever knowing the source.

I leaned in, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "Maybe not, Lucas. The Prime System… it works in strange ways, doesn't it? It gave us this settlement, it gives us challenges. It rewards progress. Maybe it provides other things, too."

He frowned, not understanding. "What are you getting at?"

"Think about it," I said, planting the seed. "This entire sector is new ground. Freshly integrated. There could be anything out there. Old caches from explorers who came before. Hidden System rewards meant to be found by those who venture out. The world is dangerous, yes, but it's also filled with opportunity. We just need to be smart about where we look." I paused, letting the idea sink in. "One of the hunters you sent out a few weeks ago mentioned a cluster of collapsed ruins in the Copper-Ash Canyons, about a day's journey west. He said they avoided it because it looked unstable. Places like that… they're exactly where a person, or the System itself, might hide something valuable. Something protected from the elements."

The new idea began to glow in Lucas' eyes, replacing the exhaustion with a flicker of strategic light. He wasn't just a warrior; he was a leader, and his mind was always working, always looking for an advantage.

"A System cache…" he mused, the words tasting foreign and full of promise. "Like the starter gear we all got. It's possible. It makes a strange kind of sense. Provide the problem, then provide a hidden solution for those resourceful enough to find it."

"Exactly," I affirmed. "You need to start sending out dedicated search parties, not just hunters. Squads equipped to explore, not just to fight. The quarry expedition proved we can handle a threat when we're organized. Maybe it's time we started looking for treasures instead of just fighting off monsters."

His face hardened with resolve. "You're right. We've been too focused on defense, on hunkering down. We need to be bolder." He looked at Silas, the hunting party leader who was standing nearby, having overheard our conversation. "Silas! Gather your team. Tomorrow at dawn, you're not hunting for Razorboar. You're going on an expedition. To the Copper-Ash Canyons. You'll be looking for anything that looks out of place, anything that looks like it was stashed away. Take your best trackers."

Silas, whose scowl had softened since I'd saved Grond, nodded curtly. "We'll find whatever's there, Lucas."

My part in the plan was set. All I had to do now was ensure they found something.

That night, while Bastion slept under the watchful eyes of its sentries, I slipped out of the settlement, a silent ghost cloaked in the Veil. My journey to Waystone Gamma, the closest relay point, was a swift and silent affair. The communication was instantaneous, a pure thought projected across the dark wilderness.

"Leoric," my mental voice was sharp and clear. "I need a pre-packaged, portable alchemist's starter kit. And it needs to look like it's been sitting in a cave for a few years."

His response was a cascade of excited mental images and text. "A kit, Master? Fascinating! For field analysis? Yes, yes! I have just the thing. A Tier 1 Field Distiller, several sets of reinforced borosilicate glassware, a catalytic heat-stone that maintains a perfect, stable temperature, and a basic assortment of primary reagents — purified saline, powdered silver, a universal catalyst… It shall be robust! Weathered, you say? I can encase it in a preservational resin wrap, which would naturally degrade over a few years, leaving a fine patina of dust and age! A brilliant deception!"

"Have it ready in six hours," I commanded. "And package it in a durable, non-descript, slightly rusted metal container. Jeeves, I need you to receive the package from Leoric via the Sanctum's internal translocation and prepare it for external transport to my location."

Jeeves' reply was, as always, immediate and concise. "It will be done, Master."

The rest of the night was a tense waiting game and then a blur of motion. I designated a hidden cave system within the Copper-Ash Canyons, one my [True Sight] told me was stable and dry. As promised, six hours later, Jeeves' cool voice entered my mind. "The package is ready for retrieval at Waystone Gamma."

The trip was a phantom run. I arrived at the relay, retrieved the heavy, artfully-weathered metal crate, and carried it back to the designated cave. My Tier 4 strength made a joke of its weight. I placed it deep within the cavern, behind a natural rockfall, making it discoverable but not obvious. It looked for all the world like a long-forgotten cache, left behind by some forward-thinking but long-dead pioneer. My work was done.

I was back in my tent, feigning sleep, hours before the sun rose over Bastion. I watched from the infirmary as Silas' party departed, their spirits high with a new kind of hope — the thrill of a treasure hunt.

Now, all I had to do was wait. I hadn't just healed a body. I had planted a seed of discovery that would give Bastion the tools it needed to heal itself, and hopefully, no one would ever know that their fortunate discovery was, in fact, a carefully orchestrated gift from an unseen hand in their midst.

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