Chapter 166: Luck or a Miracle?
Pulling a prank is always fun.
Dealing with the consequences afterward?
Not so much.
Youth really was a wonderful thing.
Not only did young people have the stamina for it, but even their methods of self-destruction seemed remarkably innovative.
After the previous night's imaginary "all-out battle," Ethan had thoroughly experienced both versions of Max:
The younger Max.
And the mature, utterly ruthless Max.
The two of them had revisited one of their classic activities from years ago—finding a random movie and attempting to "study" it scene by scene.
The process had been... educational.
Full of surprises.
At one point, even Max couldn't hold back anymore.
Staring at the screen, she blurted out:
"Where the hell do you even find movies like this?!"
Heh.
Scared now, aren't you?
Just a few carefully chosen search terms and a ".com" at the end.
"You think I'd back down?"
Max turned and looked at him.
Her expression clearly said:
Do you even know who you're talking to?
With complete seriousness, she tied her hair back.
There were things she'd sworn to protect.
And once Max decided to protect something—
She'd defend it with her life.
A promise was a promise.
That was Max's ninja way.
---
The next morning.
Ethan slowly opened his eyes while lying flat on his back.
For a brief moment, he thought the ceiling was spinning.
In fact, he could practically feel the Earth rotating beneath him.
His back and waist felt as though someone had disassembled them overnight and reassembled them incorrectly.
And whoever had done it had definitely forgotten to tighten the screws.
Every breath carried a very specific message from his body:
You were way too confident yesterday.
He tried to sit up.
Bad idea.
Any movement involving his lower back now required careful planning and risk assessment.
Closing his eyes, Ethan made a professional diagnosis.
Not an injury.
Not a strain.
And certainly not some cliché case of "excessive indulgence."
It was simply the result of intense physical exertion combined with prolonged nervous excitement.
His body hadn't been given enough time to recover before being forced back online.
The accumulated fatigue and soreness had finally arrived all at once.
In short:
He wasn't weak.
He was tired.
Or, to put it another way...
He really needed to exercise more.
Just as he was trying to negotiate a peace treaty with his own body, the woman who had supposedly been "betting her life" the previous night walked into the room looking completely refreshed.
"Still alive, Doctor?"
Max sipped from a straw.
Her voice overflowed with undisguised satisfaction.
"Need me to call an ambulance?"
She paused.
Then grinned.
"Oh, right."
"You're the doctor."
"So what do we do now?"
"Can you operate on yourself?"
Ethan couldn't even be bothered opening his eyes fully.
He simply raised one hand and instinctively made a rude gesture.
Then his survival instincts kicked in.
Realizing that was a catastrophically dangerous move, he quickly extended a second finger.
"...Victory? Peace?" Max raised an eyebrow.
Looking down at him, she smirked.
"Is this your way of surrendering?"
Ethan lowered his hand.
Complete surrender it was.
For the first time in his life, Max had given him a truly concrete understanding of the phrase perpetual motion machine.
A machine that never stopped.
Never needed recharging.
Ignored the laws of science.
And somehow kept unlocking new features.
"Seriously..."
His voice sounded like it was falling apart.
"How do you do it?"
"Don't you ever get tired?"
Max considered the question.
Then shrugged.
"Maybe years of struggling at the bottom of society forced my body and mind to evolve."
Ethan:
"..."
Silently, he made a resolution.
Never prank fate again.
At the very least...
Next time he'd schedule two recovery days in advance.
---
It was a surprisingly pleasant morning.
Both Max and Caroline were home.
The two of them had lunch plans with Sophie, their upstairs neighbor.
So the three of them shared breakfast together.
The new mixer looked incredibly high-end.
Combined with the oven Ethan had bought earlier, the upgraded equipment had noticeably improved the quality of Max's cupcakes.
The breakfast scene was oddly wholesome.
Max looked radiant.
Caroline looked equal parts envious and teasing.
And Ethan...
Ethan looked exhausted.
Despite being both a healer and a doctor, he had somehow failed to gain any meaningful advantage.
As a transmigrator, he felt like a complete disappointment.
Why were both of his classes focused on healing and life extension?
Couldn't one of them provide buffs?
Carrying a box of cupcakes, he got out of the car and headed toward the clinic while silently complaining.
At least his mental state had improved.
He no longer looked like a corpse.
His body wasn't stronger.
It had simply...
Adapted.
After changing clothes and entering the treatment room, he prepared to start the day's work.
Then he froze.
Staring at the medicine cabinet.
The next second—
"Holy crap."
A realization hit him.
He'd been thinking about this completely wrong.
After all...
His class had one thing in abundance.
Health points.
And whether in games or reality, there had always been countless methods that traded health for explosive performance.
Warlocks had Life Tap.
Warriors had berserker abilities.
Reality had its own assortment of questionable performance enhancers.
Lose health?
Damage the body?
Unhealthy?
Since when were those problems for a priest?
He'd spent years complaining that priests lacked burst abilities.
Only now did he realize—
If you weren't afraid of losing health, burst options were everywhere.
Good Lord.
What had he been missing all these years?!
Fortunately, discovering the answer late was still better than never discovering it at all.
Ethan immediately perked up.
Next time...
Max was going to experience firsthand—
The explosive power of Holy Light.
---
Overall, Ethan's condition that day was neither particularly good nor particularly bad.
As a result, he didn't rely on Holy Light very often.
While reviewing the appointment schedule, one name caught his attention.
It wasn't someone who visited the clinic regularly.
A very ordinary name.
Female.
Thirty-two years old.
The reason for the visit was written in a single, brief line:
Chronic neuropathic pain. Long-term history of prescription pain management.
In other words, she was only there for a refill.
Many powerful painkillers required a prescription, and prescriptions came with strict regulations—time limits, dosage restrictions, and clear physician accountability.
Even a routine renewal required a face-to-face consultation.
This was her first visit to Rayne Clinic.
When she entered, she was leaning on an old cane.
There was none of the awkwardness of someone newly dependent on it. Instead, she moved with the practiced familiarity of someone who had spent years relying on it.
The cane wasn't an accessory.
It had become part of her life.
Inside the examination room, she placed a thick stack of medical records on Ethan's desk and calmly began recounting her condition, as though she were talking about someone else's life.
"Seven years ago, I was in a car accident."
"The diagnosis was spinal cord trauma. It wasn't completely severed, but there was irreversible nerve damage."
"The doctors told me that the fact I could still stand and walk at all meant I was lucky."
She paused.
"Recently, my doctor suggested I transfer my prescriptions to another clinic."
"He said long-term medication management would be better handled somewhere else."
When she finished, she looked at Ethan without the slightest change in expression.
Ethan frowned.
What kind of nonsense reason was that?
He said nothing and simply began the examination.
Neurological reflexes.
Muscle responses.
Pain conduction tests.
The nerves weren't completely dead.
They still responded.
But they seemed trapped beneath a thick layer of distorted signals that had existed for years.
In medical terms, it was a kind of functional disconnection.
Ethan then asked about her current medication regimen.
When she listed the dosage, his eyes lifted from the chart to her face.
The amount she was taking had long since exceeded normal safety thresholds.
It was essentially a form of dependency.
Not addiction in the sense of craving drugs.
Rather, a dependency where life itself could no longer function without them.
Over time, the nervous system adapted to suppression.
The same dosage relieved pain for shorter and shorter periods.
Eventually, a person's entire life revolved around medication.
Work.
Socializing.
Sleep.
Everything had to fit inside the window of the drug's effectiveness.
Ethan asked,
"So you're here for a follow-up and prescription renewal?"
The woman nodded.
At that point, he completely understood the previous doctor's recommendation.
For physicians, maintaining someone on high-dose painkillers indefinitely was like walking a tightening tightrope.
Addiction risks.
Legal risks.
Ethical pressure.
Layer upon layer.
Eventually, only two options remained:
Reduce the dosage.
Or stop taking responsibility for the case altogether.
For patients suffering from chronic neuropathic pain, the outcome was rarely recovery or deterioration.
Instead, it was a lifelong search for a balance between pain and side effects.
The most common ending was simply maintenance.
The pain never disappeared.
The medication never stopped.
The dosage might stabilize, but it almost never truly decreased.
Life shrank into a tiny radius defined by prescription dates, medication cycles, work limitations, and social compromises.
They survived.
But their lives became a slow, ongoing act of endurance.
In medicine, this was called:
Successful management.
Ethan finished reviewing the records and set them aside.
Then he gestured toward the examination bed.
"Lie down."
The woman looked confused but complied.
As she slowly rose, she couldn't help asking,
"Doctor, don't I just need an adjustment to my medication?"
"Do I really need treatment?"
"I was told treatment doesn't have any meaning anymore."
While pulling on a pair of gloves, Ethan answered calmly.
"Relax."
"I'm just checking whether there might be another possibility."
He paused before adding:
"Sometimes the body changes on its own over time."
"You can call it a miracle."
"Or you can call it luck."
"Really?"
She had clearly experienced disappointment too many times to truly believe it.
"At this point, I only hope my medication keeps working."
"If one dose lets me sleep through the night, that's enough for me."
"That doesn't sound too difficult," Ethan replied.
"Let's try."
"It can't get any worse."
He had her lie face down and slowly moved his hands along either side of her spine.
The pressure was feather-light.
Barely more than a touch.
After a moment, his hands came to rest naturally on her back.
Then he cast a healing spell.
The lingering traces of Holy Light spread quietly.
No one else would have noticed.
When it entered her body, there were no dramatic reactions.
The entire treatment lasted only a short time.
The woman merely felt a growing warmth spreading through her back.
Comfortable.
Yet accompanied by a deep, unfamiliar exhaustion.
It felt as though her body had been tired for years without realizing it.
Only now were the signals finally being heard.
The fatigue she had ignored for so long suddenly became visible.
Drowsiness crashed over her.
Within minutes, she fell asleep.
Ethan withdrew his hand and returned to his chair.
Then he waited.
Not long afterward, she woke up.
Looking embarrassed, she sat up.
"Sorry, Doctor."
"I actually fell asleep."
"That's normal."
Ethan's tone remained calm and professional.
"The fact that your body can still respond is good news."
He motioned for her to sit across from him.
"Your primary issue is still pain management."
"I've adjusted your medication plan."
"The dosage will be much lower, and the side effects should decrease significantly."
"The beginning may be uncomfortable."
"But once your body adapts, things should improve."
The woman nodded.
When she stood, she still reached for her cane.
Her gait looked completely unchanged.
After thanking him, she left.
Ethan watched her go.
The treatment had already cleared most of the blockage.
What remained was simply a matter of her body adapting, reconnecting, and rebuilding pathways.
In theory, changes would begin within days.
Of course, it might take months.
---
One month later.
On an ordinary morning.
The woman was carrying a stack of freshly folded laundry from the balcony toward the living room.
Over the past month, she had gradually reduced her pain medication according to Ethan's instructions.
The beginning had been difficult.
But afterward...
Nothing much seemed to change.
No major side effects.
Life appeared to continue as normal.
The doctor had even told her that once she finished her current prescription, she wouldn't need another refill.
She had never quite believed him.
Yesterday had been her final dose.
She had now gone twenty-four full hours without taking any medication.
All day she had been preparing herself.
If the pain returned, she'd immediately go back to the clinic.
But until now...
Nothing.
No discomfort.
Lost in thought, she continued sorting laundry.
Then suddenly, she froze.
Not because of pain.
But because she realized something.
Her other hand wasn't holding the cane.
She looked down.
The cane was leaning against the wall.
At least ten feet away.
She was standing there.
Perfectly steady.
She cautiously took a step.
Then another.
There was none of the familiar tension.
No careful calculation of balance.
No preparation before every movement.
Slowly, she walked to the wall and picked up the cane.
Not for support.
Just to confirm it was real.
Then she set it down again.
She walked around the room.
Then another lap.
And another.
Afraid to stop.
As though the miracle might vanish the moment she did.
Eventually, exhaustion forced her onto the couch.
A few moments later, she stood up again.
The thing she feared never happened.
The tears came without warning.
She didn't know who to thank.
Or how to explain what had happened.
Then she remembered the young doctor's words:
"Sometimes the body changes on its own over time."
"Maybe it's a miracle."
"Maybe it's luck."
Perhaps...
A miracle had truly happened.