Chapter Three: Healing Arts and Saga

Link was uncertain whether the system had brought over items from the knockoff game. If it had, then this wasn’t a pitfall, but a pleasant surprise. Despite their hodgepodge nature, those items would be treasures in this world. With them in hand, greatness would be inevitable.

With that thought, Link hurriedly asked, “System, are the prizes in the lottery the same as those from the knockoff web game?”

No response. “Maybe I’m not asking the right question? System, what possible prizes are there in the lottery?” he tried again.

Still nothing.

“System, earlier today you claimed to be a True God System. What exactly is a True God System?”

The system remained silent, answering none of his questions. Frustration welled up in Link; this wretched system was beyond unhelpful—there wasn’t even a user manual. It seemed he would have to figure things out on his own.

He fixed his gaze on the lottery wheel and recited, “Start the lottery.” Instantly, the pointer spun at a speed almost invisible to the naked eye, and Link’s heartbeat sped up in tandem.

As the pointer gradually slowed, passing over the options of herbs, equipment, and buildings, it finally approached the “Divine Arts” section. Link couldn’t help but break into a grin of wild delight. Of all the options, Divine Arts were the most coveted in the game. They contained the most formidable and awe-inspiring techniques; classics like the “Nine Yang Divine Skill” or “Muscle-Tendon Transformation Classic” were considered mediocre, while true cultivation methods were the real treasures. With one in hand, Link could become a superhuman overnight—in the game, simply winning such a prize meant instant mastery.

Although Link couldn’t be certain that the True God System would replicate these convenient features in reality, he was nonetheless filled with excitement and anticipation.

But disappointment quickly followed. At the last moment, the pointer slipped past “Divine Arts” and landed on “Skills.”

In a flash, Link felt something new imprint itself in his mind—a spell etched clearly into his consciousness.

“Healing Technique? Well, it’s not bad. Not a combat spell, but useful for developing followers.” Link smiled wryly, though he wasn’t too disheartened. The system’s earlier words had made it clear: even if he were lucky enough to win a Divine Art, it would be of poor quality, as his own abilities were still too weak.

“It seems that even with a cheat like the True God System, I’ll need to work hard to truly unlock its power. Just as those web novels say, in another world, true strength is the only way to thrive.” Link mused, feeling a surge of motivation before shaking his head with a bitter smile. “What’s the use of dreaming now? If I can’t find a way to make money in half a month, I’ll lose even my house. What dreams can I chase then?”

As he finished, the lottery wheel faded away, and the system’s voice sounded again.

“Ten days left? So I’ve already been here for half a month.” Link counted silently, feeling a tinge of emotion. Like Earth, the world of Solacon had twelve months a year, each with a fixed thirty days. It was March now; Link had crossed over on the twentieth of last month, spending fifteen days adapting to his new life and identity. Today was March 5th.

Half a month was hardly enough to fully adapt, but at least the initial confusion and anxiety had subsided. Perhaps, given a little more time, he might completely settle in.

This was largely thanks to having merged with Neil’s memories; otherwise, just learning the local language would have been a daunting ordeal.

The next day, Link set out early to seek a source of income.

The church had fallen into complete decline; not a single believer had come for two months, all having been poached by the other three churches. Link knew better than to hope for a miracle.

Like a typical medieval European town, Kinco was marked by stark divisions between rich and poor. Due to religious chaos, the nobles seldom believed in the gods, and those who did had already been won over by the other three churches. Converting them would be no simple task.

Knowing this, Link had no intention of taking the high road. Instead, he headed for the eastern slums, hoping to develop his following there.

In any era, in any world, the poor are always the easiest to sway. Oppressed and exploited, they constantly yearn for spiritual solace, some hope to cling to. This provided an opening for preachers.

At least, that was the theory. In practice, Link’s hopes were dashed. The religious chaos had bred ruthless competition and underhanded tactics among the various faiths, all of which prioritized wealthy followers. The poor suffered most, and had become deeply distrustful of religion.

To them, preachers were little better than swindlers. Link’s attempts to preach under the banner of the Father God Church—an upstart faith—were met with skepticism and suspicion. Without real results, words alone wouldn’t win him a single convert.

Most people asked just two questions: “If we believe in your so-called Father God, will you feed us? Can you lift us out of poverty?”

Blunt, pragmatic questions that weighed heavily on Link. He was destitute himself—how could he possibly help others? He had hoped to convince them with his healing abilities, but these people, long accustomed to hardship, were deeply wary of doctors. They assumed that any mention of healing was a ploy to swindle money, refusing to believe Link could cure anyone, and not even granting him the chance to try.

By the end of the morning, his throat was hoarse, but he hadn’t gained a single follower.

Faced with such circumstances, Link was disheartened. These days, even being a charlatan was no easy task.

Just as he was about to try his luck elsewhere, a blue-haired youth appeared before him, looking at him with a complex expression.

The youth was about one meter seventy, sixteen or seventeen years old. Though dressed in rags, his bearing was striking, and a pair of emerald green eyes shone with a sharpness beyond his years. It was hard to believe he was a child of the slums.

After sizing up the boy—who was about the same age as his current body—Link smiled warmly and said, “In the name of the Father, greetings. How may I help you?”

The blue-haired youth hesitated, then asked, his voice tinged with both nerves and hope, “Father, I heard from others that you know medicine. So I want to ask: if I believe in your faith, will you cure my sister?”

Link’s eyes lit up at his words, and he shook his head with a gentle smile. “No, it’s not that I’ll help you just because you believe in the Father. Rather, if you ask me for help, I will assist you freely. Child, the Father does not barter for faith; he has no need of our belief. It is we, the lost lambs, who need faith in the Father.”

The blue-haired boy looked confused, as if he did not quite understand.

Link, with the practiced air of a preacher, smiled and said, “You don’t need to understand now—just remember these words. In time, their meaning will become clear. Now, take me to your sister. While my skills are no match for famous physicians, most common ailments should be within my ability.”

The boy nodded, half-understanding, and quickly led the way. His face showed both anxiety and hope.

As they walked, the boy introduced himself as Saga, sharing a name with the Gemini Saint from Saint Seiya.

This surprised Link, but only mildly. What truly astonished him was that Saga was only thirteen years old. Already one meter seventy at that age—his development made Link feel inferior; in neither his past nor present life had he reached one meter seventy-five.

They reached the most remote corner of the slum, where a thatched hut stood. Saga opened the door, and the scent of medicine drifted out. Despite its poverty, the place was tidy, clearly kept clean.

Still, poverty was poverty, and compared to commoners, their home was in dire straits. Saga looked embarrassed and said, “I’m sorry, Father. Our home is old and shabby. If it’s too much trouble, I can bring my sister out for you to examine.”

He finished anxiously, afraid Link would turn away in disgust, as many priests from other churches showed open contempt for the poor.

As a transmigrant, Link cared nothing for such things. Smiling, he walked straight in while Saga, momentarily stunned, hurried to catch up and pointed to the only bedroom. “Father, my sister is inside. Please come with me.”

He opened the door, and a stronger scent of medicine filled the air. Link frowned slightly and looked inside, where a girl lay sleeping on the bed.

She was a blue-haired girl, at most ten years old, her face sallow and her body frail. Yet even in illness, her beauty was evident—like a delicate porcelain doll, pitiful and lovable. If healthy, she would be even more charming.

“She’s my sister, Yuna. She’s suffering from a rare and severe disease. The doctors and priests I’ve consulted couldn’t cure her, and she’s tried many medicines to no effect. Father, can you heal her?” Saga explained, hope shining in his eyes. Then, agitated, he added, “Father, my family can’t afford any fees, but I’ll do anything you ask—just please, save my sister.”