Michael walked out of the infirmary just as the sun was coming up. He’d managed to get a few more hours of sleep before waking up and finding some water to give himself a quick whore bath. After that he changed his clothes and shaved. He checked his head and the rest of his face, but aside from the small patch of hair on his chin, and a few strands of hair there wasn’t any white anywhere else. He saw no other signs of aging on himself. No wrinkles aside from some smile lines and the beginning of some crows feet on the sides of his eyes. He looked to be a man in his mid-twenties from what he could tell. Ollie looked younger though, as had Marcus, Davi, and Pyotr. He’d been feeling some stiffness recently, but with the amount of fighting he’d been doing that wasn’t a surprise. If he was aging quickly, he wasn’t sure why, particularly why it seemed to be affecting him, but not the others. Was the dose of cursed wellwater he’d been given off? Or was it something to do with his physiology? Could it be an effect of how constantly he exerted himself? Whatever the case, he didn’t have a good solution. He wasn’t going to stop healing everyone he could and helping wherever he was able. It wasn’t like he hadn’t already been old once before.

  Outside the clinic the streets were stirring. Michael hadn’t gotten a headcount exactly, but he could tell that it was a sizable city. As he started walking he realized… he had no idea where he was. Since he’d arrived in the city in the middle of the battle he’d been in a fog of constant healing, helping, and conversations. He hadn’t exactly taken the time to get the lay of the land.

  He activated his Eyes of Love ability and looked at the cords. He could see the ones leading to Lance and Ollie very clearly, as well as fainter ones that led to Laird and Blake. He could also see some very faint threads connecting to him that he was unable to recognize. Was he forming a bond he didn’t realize? Or were old friends closing in on him? He tried to focus on them, but before he could give them his full attention he was interrupted.

  “Excuse me,” said a young woman a few feet in front of him.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you the healer? The follower of the divine?”

  “I am. Do you need help?”

  The woman rushed forward and wrapped him in an embrace.

  “Thank you. Thank you for healing my mother and brother. They said you collapsed from exhaustion after healing them, but were up moments after to heal more people.”

  Michael pushed her away gently, smiling. “I was happy to help. It’s my duty, and my honor to have saved them.”

  A small group started to gather around him.

  “You kept me fighting even with a spear through my gut,” said a man in a soldier’s uniform. “Made me feel damned near invincible.”

  “It was all thanks to the divine,” he said, taking a few steps toward where he sensed Ollie.

  A middle-aged man stepped in front of him. “I had a dream last night. A man with a craftsman’s hands was handing me bricks and mortar and pointing me at the ruins of my home. Helping me to rebuild it piece by piece. Was that a god?”

  “It sounds like it was Bruntus, Lord of Diligence.”

  “Would you bless my child ser?” asked a woman, using her heavyset toddler as a ram to get to him.

  “Of course I will,” he laid a hand gently on the boy's head. “Seras, grant this boy your protection.”

  “Could you bless me as well?”

  “Could you bless my dog?”

  “Have you any marriage prospects?”

  Michael took a deep breath and smiled. “Yes, yes, and I’m not interested in marriage at this time.”

  The press of bodies continued to grow.

  …

  It had been nearly two hours before Ollie found Michael surrounded by a massive throng of Lataxians asking him questions about the gods, requesting blessings, or thanking him for what he’d done for them. An enterprising man with a food cart that had somehow survived both rationing and the battle had set up shop nearby and was making a killing by slinging some kind of sausages on a stick.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Michael was leading a man in a prayer for his friend that had died in the fighting when Ollie pushed his way through to the front of the line, his long limbs letting him part them easily. Lance was a short way behind him in full armor, as was his custom, and when they started to complain at Ollie, they stopped the moment they noticed Lance.

  “Oi, Michael!”

  He looked at them. “Ollie, Lance, I was just on my way to find you both.”

  “Got a little distracted, eh?”

  “Not really a distraction. This is just as important as everything else we’ve been doing. Fostering faith in the divine strengthens the barrier that protects this world.”

  “Fair point,” said Lance. “But we need to prepare to travel to the capital.”

  “I thought we had two weeks?” asked Michael.

  Ollie and Lance exchanged glances.

  “It’s already been eight days, mate,” said Ollie. “You were healing, fighting, and working for six days straight and then you collapsed for two days.”

  Michael took a moment to absorb that information. His internal clock was a mess. He wondered why he hadn’t been hungrier and thirstier, but flashes of Ollie and Lance bringing him food along with Blake and Laird doing so occasionally popped into his mind.

  He looked out at the crowd that was shuffling about still, trying to get closer to him. “I apologize everyone, but I must go and confer with my fellow knights. Blessings of the divine upon you. Stay safe and well.”

  There were some annoyed mumbles, but for the most part the people that had gathered took it well as they dispersed. Michael fell in line behind Lance and Ollie as they began to walk through the streets and alleys. The trio drew a lot of attention, and not all of it was aimed at Michael. Children asked Ollie to perform magic and he threw glowing birds of myriad colors from his hands that exploded in puffs of light at their request making them laugh. Lance received salutes from every knight and soldier they passed, and more than a few young maids whose clothes indicated high status asked him to carry their favor. He did his best to politely decline, but failed every time and had handkerchiefs of dozens of colors tied all the way down his sword’s scabbard. They were seen as heroes, and Michael was proud of them. He half-considered giving Lance a handkerchief himself.

  “Do you both know what happened to my armor?” he asked as they walked. “I remember taking it off at one point, but not what happened after that.”

  Lance looked at him. “I took it to a smith. He was having some trouble with it though. It’s on the way, so we can stop inside.”

  After they walked a bit longer, Michael began to smell smoke and hear the banging of hammers on anvils. There had been a sign above the smithy, but it had been damaged beyond repair during the fighting, as had a corner of the shop, and three houses nearby. There were three smiths working the forges, repairing shields, armor, weapons. They moved efficiently, but not quickly, dancing around one another as they went about their work.

  “Hail Brom,” said Lance raising a hand.

  One of the smiths, a man wearing just an apron and some dark pants squinted at him through the smoke of the forge, handing off the spearhead he’d been working to another of the smiths and walking out of the forge. He took his gloves off and tossed them to the ground before pounding his fist into his chest in salute. His skin tone and features were too heavily obscured by black soot for Michael to tell what he looked like aside from broad shoulders and pale eyes.

  “Hail Ser Lance,” he said before dropping his fist. “We’re almost done with Ser Blake’s sword and shield.”

  “That’s good, but I’m actually here about my friend’s armor,” he said, gesturing to Michael.

  The man deflated a bit as he saw Michael. “I’m sorry Sers. I haven’t been able to work it. The armor is scorched and melted in places. Your shield also fell to pieces from some kind of corrosion. The odd thing about the armor though is I cannot manipulate it at all. Couldn’t melt it down, or break pieces away with my hammer.”

  Michael nodded. He’d been channeling smite into his armor and shield for almost the entire fight. Rend and Ruin could handle it as a titled item, but before he’d gotten that he’d had a serious problem burning through swords. He’d hoped the defensive nature of the rest of his equipment would’ve made up for it though. He frowned.

  “Can I see the armor?” he asked.

  Brom nodded and walked him into the smithy to an area where armor, weapons, and shields had all been piled up. He recognized his armor immediately. It had been scorched completely black, but he recognized the patchwork fixes that crisscrossed it. He also saw some golden lettering floating around it.

  Armor of the Restored

  This armor benefits from the user’s Recovery and Durability and mends itself as if it were flesh. It can seal itself to its bearer at the expression of their will.

  Michael smiled and placed a hand on what remained of his chestplate, sending his will through it. The armor shot toward him, like an overeager dog excited to see its owner return home, and each piece of it snapped in place across him. As it did so the armor began to fix itself, the blackness across it burning away as the tears and rents that were across it sealed. When the armor finished mending itself, the patches and repairs that had been visible across it were gone and all that was left behind was a perfect suit of gleaming silver. It didn’t seem the same style as the Stent armor from before. It had more intersecting plates that allowed for better movement and it felt much lighter, but it also felt comfortable on him, familiar.

  “Can he do that to the rest of this shite and save us a few weeks' work?” asked one of the other smiths from deeper in the forge.