SSS-Ranked Surgeon In Another World: The Healer Is Actually OP! Chapter 331: Memories Of The Trial

The adventurers around them whistled loudly.

"Easy there!"

"That’s the third already!"

Jean ignored them completely.

She simply reached forward and poured herself another glass.

Bruce watched the exchange quietly.

Duke, anwhile, looked like he was having the ti of his life.

He leaned back comfortably in his chair, one boot hooked lazily around the leg of the table as he laughed loudly while pouring yet another round.

"Now this," he declared proudly, gesturing grandly with the bottle, "is what a proper guild gathering should look like!"

Brakk slamd his empty glass down hard enough to rattle the table.

"Another!"

The drinking continued.

Minutes slipped by.

Then nearly an hour.

The guild hall slowly grew warr as voices rose louder and laughter spread through the room. Lantern light flickered across flushed faces and half empty bottles.

Several adventurers had already begun leaning heavily against the table, their earlier confidence steadily lting beneath the relentless assault of Ashen Gin.

Kelvin attempted to stand twice.

Both attempts failed.

He slid slowly back down into his chair like a defeated warrior returning from a lost battle.

Torren had begun telling increasingly exaggerated hunting stories, gesturing wildly with his mug as he spoke.

"And then the beast roared like THIS!"

"You were running away," Lyra corrected dryly.

"That’s a tactical retreat!"

More laughter erupted.

One of the younger adventurers nearly fell off his chair laughing.

Even a few of the nearby guild staff had begun lingering close enough to listen, unable to resist the chaotic energy spreading across the hall.

Bruce remained seated quietly among them.

Watching.

Listening.

The warmth of the liquor still lingered faintly in his chest.

Across the table Jean poured herself another glass, her expression calm despite the growing chaos around them.

For a brief mont.

Her eyes t Bruce’s again.

And sothing unspoken passed quietly between them.

A mory.

A battlefield long behind them.

Then she raised her glass slightly toward him.

Not quite a toast.

Not quite a challenge.

Just a silent acknowledgent.

Bruce lifted his own glass in response.

And drank.

Bruce continued drinking steadily.

Glass after glass.

Bottle after bottle.

Yet no matter how much he drank.

Nothing changed.

The warmth of the liquor flowed through his chest each ti the amber liquid slid down his throat, spreading briefly through his body before fading into nothing. His breathing remained steady. His thoughts remained clear. His vision remained sharp.

There was no haze.

No dulling of his senses.

No sluggishness creeping into his limbs.

Bruce slowly rotated the glass in his fingers, watching the faint lantern light ripple through the remaining droplets clinging to the thick crystal.

He frowned slightly.

Across the table Duke and Jean were keeping pace with each other.

And neither showed any signs of slowing.

Duke poured another glass with the ease of soone who had clearly spent decades perfecting the art of drinking without consequence. He slid the filled glass across the table toward Jean with an approving nod.

"Impressive," he said, genuine approval slipping into his voice. "You’ve built up quite the tolerance."

Jean shrugged casually.

"Occupational necessity."

She lifted the glass.

Drank it in one smooth swallow.

Set it down.

And poured another.

The movent had beco almost chanical by now.

Lift.

Drink.

Pour.

Repeat.

Bruce noticed sothing.

Each ti her eyes drifted toward him.

Sothing shifted.

It was subtle.

Almost imperceptible.

A faint tightening around the corners of her eyes. A brief hesitation in her breathing. A mont where her fingers paused just a fraction longer on the bottle before pouring the next glass.

Then she would imdiately drink again.

Another glass.

Another gulp.

Ashen Gin burned its way down her throat again and again.

The warmth of the alcohol spread slowly through her body.

But it wasn’t warmth she was looking for.

It was silence.

Because every ti her gaze drifted back toward Bruce.

The mories returned.

Uninvited.

Unavoidable.

The trial.

The simulated battlefield.

The artificial forest stretching endlessly beneath a gray sky.

The sound of boots moving quietly through leaves.

The suffocating realization that sothing was hunting them.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the glass.

She could still rember the mont clearly.

Too clearly.

The way the group had begun falling apart one by one. The confident bravado of the other trainees slowly dissolving into confusion, then panic, then fear.

No one understood what was happening.

No one saw him coming.

They only saw the aftermath.

Another teammate disappearing.

Another signal vanishing from the map.

Another silent removal from the simulation.

Until the realization slowly began to spread through the survivors.

They were being hunted.

Not by monsters.

Not by the environnt.

But by soone else taking the trial.

Her jaw tightened faintly.

She rembered the mont she had finally understood.

The forest had gone quiet.

Too quiet.

Even the simulated wind had seed to pause.

And then.

He appeared.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just suddenly.

Behind her.

Close enough that she had felt the faint disturbance of air before she even realized soone was there.

The pressure of a hand.

A precise strike.

Efficient.

Controlled.

There had been no struggle.

No chance to react.

Only the cold, terrifying certainty that escape had never been an option to begin with.

And then.

Darkness.

Jean poured another glass.

The liquid splashed softly into the crystal.

She lifted it.

Drank.

Ashen Gin burned down her throat again.

Across from her Bruce calmly lifted another glass.

Unbothered.

Unchanged.

Still the sa.

His movents were steady. His posture relaxed. His eyes clear and focused despite the absurd amount of alcohol he had consud.

He looked exactly the sa as he had during that trial.

Quiet.

Composed.

Unshaken.

Jean looked away.

Then poured another glass.

Duke noticed none of this.

He was currently leaning halfway across the table, passionately explaining sothing to Brakk while pointing dramatically at the bottle like a professor delivering an important lecture.

"I’m telling you," Duke insisted with absolute conviction, "the flavor profile cos from the mutant oak ferntation stage."

"That’s not how ferntation works," Kelvin slurred weakly from sowhere beneath the table.