Chapter 8: I Got a Divine Revelation... and Got VIP Treatment?!

Chapter 8: I Got a Divine Revelation... and Got VIP Treatment?!

Someone asked him, “So, Garrett, what now?”

A crowd of eyes turned to him, all waiting for his word.

Garrett looked left. Then right. And then the realization struck him—

His position had changed.

He was a healer. A spellcaster. Someone blessed by the God of Nature.

In this world, casters always outranked warriors. Especially when the captain was lying half-dead in the dirt, it only made sense for him—the blessed one—to take charge.

Wait, what?

He was just a teenager! No experience, no knowledge, barely understood what the heck was going on!

But… wasn’t that what “divine revelations” were for?

The God of Nature didn’t just give out vague dreams—He supposedly injected you with divine wisdom or something! Like plugging a USB into your brain and clicking “install.”

Garrett wanted to cry.

Forget divine revelations—the whole thing was fake! He’d faked it! Lied through his teeth! He’d only just transmigrated here and hadn’t even finished sorting through the original owner’s memories!

And now they were asking him whether they should advance or retreat?

He didn’t know either, okay?!

Caught in the expectant gazes of his teammates, Garrett seriously began to question life.

The holy trinity of a transmigrator’s soul-searching echoed in his mind:

Who am I? Where am I? What the hell just happened?

So far, he’d only managed to answer the first one.

As for the second and third… he just saved someone’s life, could they please give him a moment to process?

But reality had other plans. Brother Raymond—good man, dependable muscles—was already speaking again in his usual anxious voice:

“We’re part of the City Guard. Technically, we’re supposed to finish our patrol before heading back. But with the captain down and this whole mess…”

He gestured with a large, calloused hand.

Garrett followed his gaze.

Blood-splattered mud, trampled ground, claw marks carved into dirt and wood—the signs of their earlier fight were still painfully fresh.

Without thinking, Garrett blurted,

“…What exactly happened just now?”

“You don’t know?!” Raymond stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

Crap.

That was the wrong question.

Garrett immediately cried out, “Agh—!” and clutched his head.

“I-It hurts… my head…”

The pain on his face wasn’t even faked. He pressed lightly against the bump on the back of his skull and felt a bolt of agony shoot through his nerves, his features scrunching in real pain.

“Hit my head… can’t remember… urgh…”

He collapsed into a squat, curling up into himself.

Raymond rushed forward to support him, but Garrett stayed on the ground, eyes shut tight.

Fragments of someone else’s memories were crashing through his skull like a runaway horse cart.

They had left the city to patrol. After a day and a half of walking, they’d arrived at this farmhouse. Before they could even get close, they saw chaos outside—two wild dogs gnawing at something.

Captain Karen led the charge to drive the beasts off and entered the house to investigate.

Almost immediately, screams erupted from within.

Then something black—a blur—burst out the door like a missile.

The “original” Garrett had tried to stop it.

And got launched like a ragdoll. Smashed into something hard. Everything went black.

“…What was it?” Garrett asked, his voice shaky. “The thing that hurt the captain… what was it?”

“Didn’t get a good look,” Raymond said, squatting down beside him. “Too fast. But it was on all fours. Definitely an animal. Black.”

“…I see…”

The others chimed in.

“Big. Real big. About waist-high, I’d say.”

“Like a cat?”

“Come on, a cat? That big? Maybe a panther. Or a black leopard?”

“Still looked like a cat though!”

“Yeah… that thing… got me with its claws…” came a weak groan.

It was Captain Karen, barely able to speak but still alive. That was something.

Garrett nodded silently, still curled on the ground as his brain raced.

A feline, huh…

He remembered the slash across Karen’s stomach. A deep, diagonal wound—precise, not ragged. Cat-like, indeed.

Honestly? That was kind of a relief.

Cats were way better than dogs.

Wild dogs carried a high risk of rabies. And in a world like this, without vaccines or modern medicine? One bite and you could be left gambling with death.

If it really was some sort of big cat?

Well, that was still terrifying… but at least it was the cleaner kind of terrifying.

And anyway, since the enemy was just a wild animal, there was no real point in hunting it down.

The priority right now?

Find shelter. Let the wounded rest.

But… where?

Garrett looked around, then slowly forced himself to his feet. Off to the side, he spotted a small thatched hut and decided to investigate. Maybe—just maybe—it could serve as a recovery point.

He walked over, pushed open the door—if you could even call it a door. It was basically four sticks lashed into a frame, with a bunch of twigs woven into something vaguely flat.
He bent down—because the doorway was way too short—and poked his head inside.

And instantly jerked back out.

What the actual hell?!

He should’ve known. Shouldn’t have expected anything from a hut made of sticks and prayer.

Garrett’s face scrunched up like a crumpled scroll. The roof was so low you’d have to crawl inside. Okay, fine, he’d mentally prepared for that. And sure, it looked tiny from the outside—maybe 20 square meters at most.

But this?

This place didn’t even have a bed.

In the center of the room was a pit dug into the muddy floor, ringed with stones. A campfire smoldered inside, logs crackling and snapping. Smoke coiled up in thick white plumes, heading straight for Garrett’s face and immediately stinging his eyes.

To the left: a few pitchforks leaning against the wall and some lumpy sacks—one half-collapsed, the other stuffed full of who-knows-what.

To the right: a dirt platform stacked with scrappy-looking hides and rough cloths.

Was that the bed? Seriously?

This wasn’t a sick room—it was a biohazard.

Leave. They had to leave. Immediately.

Garrett stumbled back out and took a few deep breaths to clear the smoke from his lungs.

Then he turned to his teammates and called out, “Get the captain on a stretcher. We’re leaving!”

“No need! I can walk just fine!” Captain Karen groaned, trying to rise.

Garrett lunged and pushed him back down.

“Uncle Karen, please! Stay down!”

He turned to the others.

“Grab a spear. And find a sturdy branch. We’re making a stretcher!”

The team sprang into action.

As seasoned warriors, making an emergency stretcher was child’s play. One long spear was volunteered on the spot. They chopped down a small tree nearby, lashed it all together with grass rope, and gently laid the captain on top. Torn armor, ripped shirts—whatever they could find—they tossed over him for warmth. Then they lifted him up and got moving.

Garrett stepped forward, trying to help carry it—

Only to be bodily shoulder-checked out of the way.

It was the red-haired archer, Tom, grinning from ear to ear.

“Little Garrett. We’ve got this. You just follow along behind, okay?”

Garrett: “…”

Oh, right.

I remember now.

You’re the bastard who tackled the original body into a tree! That’s how I got isekai’d in the first place!

And just now—if he hadn’t steadied himself fast enough—he might’ve needed another round of transmigration.

Still, he swallowed the grumble.

All around, the rest of the squad was laughing at Tom’s antics.

“Yeah, Garrett, heavy lifting’s not for you anymore!”

“You’re a healer now!”

“Tsk tsk, give it a few more days and we’ll be calling you Lord Garrett!”

Raymond clapped him hard on the shoulder, snatched the short sword from his belt, and casually tucked it into his own.

Tom and Raymond took front and back on the stretcher.

Vali nabbed Garrett’s bag and slung it over his own back without a second thought.

By the time Garrett realized what was happening, he was already walking in the middle of the group, completely empty-handed.

No weapons. No gear. No responsibility.

Just strolling peacefully alongside the junior priest, following the team back to the city.

Honestly, Garrett had the sneaking suspicion that if he twisted his ankle or even pretended he couldn’t walk, these guys would chop up some vines and make him a back-basket to carry him in.

…So, this is what being a spellcaster felt like?

VIP treatment unlocked.