Chapter 9: Swift recovery

"Fuuuhoaa…" Charlie inhaled deeply, throwing his head back in an arc, water drenched his hair and torso as it dripped down onto the now soaked bedsheet. His face reddened from over exertion and his breath ragged.

"Fr-Frieda… I'll actually die… I will die from this!!! This is absurd!"

Sister Frieda smiled tenderly, her black priestess outfit also damp, her sleeves rolled to her shoulders, exposing a pair of ivory white arms. "Come now, mister adventurer. You said you want to have a rapid recovery so doctor Peftís has allowed me to help you. It's only been two days, you can't give up now."

"I never… thought…" Charlie choked in between his sentences as his lungs gasped for air "...breathing practice would mean… you trying to drown me!"

"Drown? I would never! We spent so much time nursing you back to health! There's no chance I would waste all the effort and resources of the palace, you know that, mister adventurer." Frieda the priestess smiled as she gently held on Charlie's cheek. Her pointy ears pressed against her head.

His expression grayed, yet before he could react, Frieda forcefully clamped onto his head and pushed it entirely into a brass basin full of water and held him down with her entire body weight while simultaneously keeping count of the time.

They have repeated this "exercise" for two days from when Charlie could move around as easily as he could before. He expressed his wish to be let go from the palace, for he felt he had recovered fully. He still had many things to attend to - catching up with his fellow adventurers, dealing with Immith's vampire situation and of course, gathering intel about his so-called "boon."

But the elf doctor did not have any of his nonsense. He was denied right of passage immediately as the doctor cited that his muscle and lungs performance was still subpar from the surgery and the long bedridden period.

And Peftís challenged Charlie to blow out a row of 50 candles to prove that he was up to health. 50. That, to Charlie, was an ungodly amount. He tried his best, but he couldn't even go half way. Charlie thought he could not even do it when he was still perfectly healthy, how the hell could he do it then?

"You imbecile adventurers, always in a hurry, always eager to return to Myrkul." Peftís said, not looking away from his quill and paper "Your lungs can not provide your muscles with enough oxygen. I believe you know what that is? Yes. Without them, your muscles slowly break down, unrecoverable, irreplaceable. Do not be a fool, you were saved by lady Murnyethera and I have the obligation to nurse you back to health. I intend to keep my words with the grand magus, if you will. Frieda, take this man back to his station."

After that day, he followed a regiment, an exercise plan of sorts, that he and Frieda came up with. After a light but nutritious breakfast (mostly wild berries with slow cooked oats and honey), he would run three rounds around the palace. He made friends with the other patients, some elves and humans, and surprisingly, one single dwarf. 

Most of the patients were saved by Peftís himself as he traveled to pick medicinal herbs or similar to Charlie, teleported in by Peftís acquaintances. Some were permanent tenants of the palace for their wounds were grievous and would immediately kill them if they did not receive constant care. Those with strong will but incurable injuries have chosen to let go, and were buried under trees - to give back to the forest that hid the palace of rejuvenation. Some, like Charlie's new friends, were still recovering or did not have the courage to let go. They repaid Peftís and the palace by allowing experimental medicine to be used on them - an act, according to Frieda, so important that it could save hundreds of lives. 

After the run, Charlie trained his muscles with metal weights as well as exercises his flexibility with Frieda's help. Then he showered under a waterfall before joining many other patients on the mid day praying ritual. Charlie was not religious by any means, so were some of the tenants, and the existence of gods in this fantasy world did not change his mind.

But the Palace of Rejuvenation served under a lesser god, a god that originated from another existence plane. He had many names, some call him "The Healer", "The Farshooter" or "The Archer God". But his deity name, the original name that was passed down among the many doctors and healers alike, were Apollo Acesius and Phoebus Apollo.

His statue was casted of pure gold, depicting a muscular god with a golden lyre on his left hand and a silver longbow on his right. The statue stood proudly in the middle of a pond with colorful petals blanketing the entire water surface.

The praying ritual was simple. Those who wished to say a word of prayer could sit or kneel down onto a clean mat and say their prayer of choice. No one pressured anyone into joining, but the patients, with the utmost respect for doctor Peftís and the priests and priestesses, would gather and join them at the same time everyday.

Charlie thanked the god of healing for keeping him alive and allowed him a chance to recover. He wished that Apollo would bless his allies with good health and wished for a swift recovery so that he could rejoin his party. Finally, he wished that he would not die from the breathing exercise he had to partake in after lunch.

And so far, he hasn't died. Yet. 

Charlie frantically reached for Frieda's hand and tapped it repeatedly to announce that he had run out of breath and would likely pass out. And he could have sworn that Frieda kept increasing the time he had to hold his breath every time they exercised.

But…

He was amazed by the result of less than a week of excruciating exercise. He could then blow out three quarters of the candles, which were lined up and lit up in the courtyard, where all his fellow patients cheered him on. Frieda let him know that no one had recovered as fast as him from such a dangerous surgery, and that his lung capacity had exceeded that of a normal human.

In fact, he felt much better. His body was light, but it was much stronger. He could lift two giant millstones at the same time and help the priests install them into the palace's windmill. He could climb trees with ease, and he could run continuously for more than an hour without getting completely exhausted.

Was it the "breathing exercise"? Was it the daily routine that he kept? Or was it the medicine given to him? He did not know, but he knew he was in greater shape than that of before he went into the dungeon two weeks ago. 

===

And it finally was the day that he could leave the palace of rejuvenation.

Day 15 from whence he was severely injured. 

The only obstacle standing before him and his adventuring lifestyle was a man. An elf whose age he could not determine, for the elf's face was hidden behind a white tagelmust. 

Doctor Peftís stood before the double doors that had stayed closed for the entire time Charlie was recovering, a wooden recurve bow in his right hand and a strange, modified arrow on the left.

"Well well well, mister adventurer. Honestly, I had underestimated your ability. I never thought you could complete the challenge. For that… I apologize. I will keep my promise, you are free to go. However, I fear that I must challenge you once more, to gauge your ability. I cannot allow the knowledge about the existence of this place to fall into the wrong hands. Brandish your weapon, O' adventurer, you needn't do much, just hit me once before the candle melts beyond this line. Succeed and you are free to go, with the memory of the palace intact, or suffer utter defeat and I'll encourage your brain to forget this place. Now. Let us begin."

A cold sweat fell from Charlie's brow.

He gripped his gun tightly, eyes trained on the lithe figure before him.

He was in adventuring gear already, cloth cape, armor and all.

Hit him once - as easy as that might sound, Charlie had a terrible feeling. The man before him was not just a doctor who never raised a weapon in his life. The way he slowly steps to the side while simultaneously waiting for Charlie's mishaps was similar to the way a tiger hunts. Peftís was definitely a man with combat experience, perhaps much more than Charlie.

But Charlie did not want to forfeit the people who helped nurse him back to health: Frieda and the priests and priestesses. He did not want to forget the friends he had made and the experience he had surviving lethal injuries. 

The ranger raised his gun, and as the wick on the candle burst into flame, Charlie let loose two bullets before immediately dashing forward. He was not going to underestimate his opponent and go soft on him. 

And he was right. Peftís swung his bow in an arc as he jumped backward, creating a burst of embers when he caught the impossibly fast bullets mid-air. It was a feeling, a slight twinge of pain behind Charlie's neck, almost like goosebump but much sharper, that allowed him to react in time, to pull his head to the side as a flat head arrow sliced the air barely next to his ear. 

No… it was not even reactable for Charlie. He had evaded the arrow on pure instinct.

He was surprised, and so was his opponent. But the elf said, unfazed: "What a loud and barbaric weapon. No doubt a crude invention of a dwarf."

Charlie flung his gun in a horizontal arc to confuse the elf doctor before launching a dagger with his left arm with a precision he had never seen before. Although the dagger did not find a purchase on Peftís, it had allowed Charlie an opportunity to move even closer to him.

The closer Charlie could get the better, for the bow will be at a disadvantage in close combat and the pistol will not.

Charlie stopped short before his opponent and tried to jam his pistol in between the bow string and the limb but was unsuccessful. Peftís swiftly dispelled Charlie's action with a hefty kick to his right thigh as the elf nocked another arrow and pulled the string taut.

It's now or never!

Charlie gritted his teeth and fired his last shot from the bullet before concentrating power to his leg to pounce to the side. The bullet caught the baggy sleeve of Peftís' gown, but the elf did not flinch. The experience gap was as apparent as daylight.

The flat head arrow struck Charlie fair and square right on his throat as he collapsed onto the ground, released his weapon and writhed in pain. The flat head did not break skin, but the bruise it left was nasty.

"Time is almost over. Just save yourself from further embarrassment and surrender." The elf doctor prepared another shot trained on Charlie. "There will be no pain, and I will make sure you reach your party as soon as possible."

Was it pity or disappointment in his voice? Which expression did he wear on his face? Charlie will never know. All he knew was that he had another dagger concealed as he fell to the ground. Charlie slowly got up, he did not bother with the pistol but kept his left hand on his throat and extended his right hand to motion that he surrender.

He was waiting for the right moment, and the moment came.

Frantic footsteps, crushed leaves and shifting gravel.

The priests and priestesses rushed to the front courtyard where Charlie and Peftís dueled. A familiar voice called out.

"Doctor! Charlie! What are you two doing?"

Charlie flung his wrist as hard as he could and launched his whole body forward. It was a desperate attempt before a lethal threat. He knew it was foolish against such an experienced opponent, but he was unwilling to let his fate be decided by any other. If his memory was to be pried from him, he would make sure they had to fight tooth and nail for it.

The dagger was parried easily with just a flick of a palm, and Peftís, caught surprised by the ranger's bold tackle, threw his elbow forward and slammed it to the middle of the human's solar plexus. It was a violent defense, but the elf did not have time to react any other way. 

Peftís felt the ranger's diaphragm deflated and all the air leaving his lungs, but he also felt… a sting on his thigh.

What? 

The elf's brows furrowed as he saw the victorious grin ridiculously blooming on the young humans' face.

A hidden dagger, sloppily jammed into the ranger's boot by the strings, made a small cut on Peftís leg as Charlie crashed onto the ground and coughed violently. The elf arms relaxed as he sighed.

"Sister Frieda. Heal him up and send him on his way."

"R-Right away!" the priestess immediately rushed towards the ranger "What have you done, young man?"

She seemed so concerned that she might have tried to cast a healing spell on the ranger without permission from the doctor.

  "And… human… Daggers are effective, but… your fighting style would be complimented greatly with this." Peftís unbuckled a thin darkened leather sheath, hidden under his baggy gown and tossed it before Charlie. "You earned it. Go on and rush head first into Myrkul's embrace."

Saying his piece, Peftís walked back into the palace and disbanded the crowd before stopping in his tracks by the ranger's voice, exerted and breathy:

"Y-Yeah… us adventurers are fools. But we will do anything to achieve what we want!"

Peftís turned around and smiled behind his cloth face cover.

"Don't die, Charleston Fogsorrow. And hold on to that truth." He then switched to elvish "I do not wish for another requiem to be written."

Charlie couldn't help it but replied, for the first time in two weeks, with elvish: "Very well. I can't promise but I'll try my best so that people will sing songs of praise and not a funeral hymn."

And for the first time, the ranger could see the doctor's eyes slightly, but surely, smiled.