Immortal Healer Zero To Overpowered Book 1: A LitRPG Adventure Series, page 1
Immortal Healer Zero To Overpowered Book 1
Pierce Mellow
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All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electric or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
Acknowledgements
About the author
Also by
Author Comments
Chapter one
Jax woke to the sound of breathing that wasn't his own.
It came in uneven waves—sharp gasps, shallow pants, quiet whimpers barely held back. The stone beneath him was cold enough to bite through the thin fabric pressed against his skin, and the first thing he noticed was how wrong everything felt. His body was heavy, sluggish, as if he had been poured into himself incorrectly.
His eyes fluttered open.
Above him stretched a vast ceiling of dark stone, arched so high it vanished into shadow. Pale light seeped down from unseen sources, illuminating a massive circular chamber that reminded him of an arena—tiered stone walls curving outward, the space impossibly wide. The air smelled faintly of dust and something metallic, sharp enough to prickle the back of his throat.
Jax sucked in a breath and pushed himself upright.
That was when he saw the others.
They were everywhere.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of people were scattered across the stone floor, some sitting, some kneeling, others frozen mid-stand as if afraid to fully commit to movement. Every single one of them wore the same thing: loose white robes that hung awkwardly from unfamiliar shoulders, cinched at the waist by a simple rope. The fabric looked clean, untouched, like ceremonial clothing pulled straight from a shelf.
Jax glanced down at himself.
White robe. Rope belt.
Dammit!
He didn't like where this was going. A chill ran through him, deeper than the cold stone. It wasn't fear, though. It was… something else.
Jax let his eyes wander.
Around him, panic spread in murmurs and broken sentences.
"Where are we?"
"I was just—just driving—"
"This isn't funny. This isn't a joke."
"Did someone drug us?"
A woman nearby clutched her arms to her chest, eyes darting wildly as if the walls themselves might move. A man farther away stood up too fast and nearly fell, his face pale, lips trembling as he whispered a name over and over again—someone who clearly wasn't here.
Jax's head throbbed. He pressed a hand to his temple, trying to grab onto something solid—memory, logic, anything.
The last thing he remembered was… nothing.
There should have been something. A bed. A street. A voice. But his mind was a blank hallway, every door locked tight. The harder he tried to force them open, the sharper the pain became, like needles pressing behind his eyes.
Okay. Don't panic.
The thought didn't calm him, not really, but it gave him something to grab onto—something solid in the middle of the chaos. Jax forced himself to breathe slowly, deliberately, counting each inhale and exhale as if rhythm alone could anchor him. He focused on what he could feel instead of what he couldn't remember.
The stone floor beneath him was brutally cold, seeping through the thin robe and into his bones. The fabric scratched faintly against his skin every time he moved, rough and unfamiliar, a reminder that none of this belonged to him. Around him, fear ricocheted off the stone walls—cries, panicked shouts, half-formed questions—all of it echoing and overlapping until it became a living thing.
This was real.
And yet… he wasn't afraid.
The realization struck him harder than the panic should have. His heart wasn't racing. His hands weren't shaking. There was no tight knot of terror in his chest, no screaming urge to run or hide. Instead, there was a strange, unsettling calm spreading through him, like still water beneath a storm.
The people around him were losing control—some sobbing openly, others shouting at no one in particular, a few pacing like trapped animals—and somehow, that chaos soothed him. Their fear filled the space that his own panic should have occupied. It was almost… comforting.
What is wrong with me?
Maybe his brain was wired differently. Maybe it had always been this way and he'd never noticed until now. He knew, logically, that he should be panicking. Anyone else would be. Anyone normal would be. But the screaming and yelling around him acted like white noise, dulling the sharp edges of the situation and letting his thoughts settle.
At least I'm not alone.
That idea grounded him more than anything else. Whatever had happened—whatever nightmare had ripped him out of his life—it hadn't singled him out. It had taken dozens, maybe hundreds of people. That didn't make it better, but it made it bearable. Shared horror felt less suffocating than solitary terror.
Jax shifted his weight, testing his balance, preparing to stand. He needed to see more. To understand where he was, how many others were here, if there was anything familiar in this place. Answers felt close, just out of reach, waiting if he could get a better view.
The instant he moved, the world changed.
The air thickened, turning heavy and oppressive, as if gravity itself had been dialed up without warning. Pressure slammed down on the room, unseen but undeniable, crashing into his chest and shoulders like an invisible hand forcing him still. It felt as though the entire arena had inhaled sharply—and refused to breathe out.
Every sound vanished.
Screams cut off mid-breath. Words died unfinished on open mouths. Bodies froze in place, locked rigid where they stood or knelt, as if some ancient command had reached deep into their instincts and demanded obedience. Even Jax's calm shattered, replaced by a cold, creeping awareness that whatever was about to happen was far beyond anything human.
The silence was absolute.
And it was terrifying.
Light exploded at the center of the arena.
It wasn't blinding so much as overwhelming, a column of radiant brilliance pouring down from above. The stone floor beneath it glowed, etched suddenly with symbols that burned gold and white, shapes that hurt to look at too closely.
From that light, something stepped forward.
Jax's heart dropped into his stomach.
The being was tall—far too tall—its form vaguely humanoid but wrong in subtle, terrifying ways. Its presence distorted the air around it, edges blurring like heat rising from fire. Its skin looked like living marble veined with light, and its eyes—if they were eyes—burned with a cold, distant intelligence that swept over the crowd without stopping on any one person.
When it spoke, it didn't raise its voice.
It didn't need to.
The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, vibrating through bone and thought alike.
"Remain calm."
The command didn't sound loud, yet it struck Jax with the force of something far heavier than sound. The words seemed to settle on his chest, pressing down until even drawing a breath felt like work. Calm was the last thing he should have been feeling. Nothing about this made sense. Nothing about it felt safe. And yet, somehow, his body listened.
His muscles went rigid and loose at the same time, as if fear had seized him and sedated him in one cruel motion. Tension coiled through his limbs, but beneath it was an eerie stillness, unnatural and imposed. It was as though panic had been shoved behind a locked door somewhere deep inside him, trapped there by hands he couldn't see and a will that was not his own. He had not built that wall, but it was holding all the same.
The contradiction made his skin crawl. He felt like a breathing impossibility, a living oxymoron—frozen yet aware, terrified yet obedient, present yet somehow detached from himself. His thoughts stumbled over one another, trying to find something solid to hold on to.
Still, he forced himself to cling to the little control he had left. He could handle this. Maybe. At least long enough to understand what was happening.
He needed answers.
Whoever—or whatever—this voice belonged to needed to stop speaking in riddles and tell him where he was. That was the first thing. Place meant orientation. Orientation meant sense. And sense was the one thing slipping farther away with every passing second.
Because he felt alive. That was the strangest part. He could feel the shape of his body, the weight of himself, the faint pull of breath in his lungs. He was not floating in emptiness. He was not gone. But beneath that certainty, something darker gnawed at the back of his mind, sharp and relentless. A wrongness. A quiet, horrible instinct whispering that this body—this feeling of being alive—was not as simple or as real as it should have been.
Before he could chase that thought any further, the voice returned, smooth and absolute, cutting through his thoughts like a blade.
"You have been chosen," the being continued. "Your previous existence has ended. What comes next depends on your cooperation."
The words struck the arena like a verdict—struck Jax like a gong.
Damn, was the only thing he could think of saying.
However, from the looks the others gave around him he wasn't the only one reeling from the information, Jax could see a tangible ripple of terror passing through the crowd—not loud, not chaotic, but visible in the way bodies stiffened and faces drained of color. Eyes widened until the whites showed stark against trembling pupils. Tears slid down cheeks without sound, carving clean lines through dust and fear. Somewhere nearby, a man's mouth opened in a full, desperate scream that never emerged, his throat working uselessly as if the sound itself had been stolen.
Jax felt it then—a deep, sinking lurch in his gut.
Ended.
The word echoed inside his skull, vast and empty, like shouting into a cavern and never hearing the echo return.
Ended meant finished. Closed. Over.
Dead?
The thought slammed into him, sharp and disorienting. But it didn't fit. He could feel the chill of the stone beneath him, the tight pull of the rope at his waist, the air filling his lungs. His heart beat hard and steady. His thoughts were too clear, too immediate.
No. That couldn't be right.
The god-like being raised one luminous hand, and the symbols etched beneath its feet flared brighter, their light crawling up the stone like living fire. The air shimmered, bending around the figure as if reality itself struggled to accommodate its presence.
"You misunderstand," the being said, and there was something almost bored in its tone. Almost indulgent. "Your termination was not an act of malice. It was a transaction."
The word sent a chill through Jax far colder than the stone ever could.
"A purchase," the being continued smoothly. "A bargain, in fact. Acquired through a celestial exchange—what some of my peers might crudely refer to as a swap meet. You were… discounted."
A murmur rippled through the crowd now, fragile and horrified.
Purchased?
The being's gaze swept over them, impersonal and assessing, like a merchant inspecting goods laid out on a table.
"My world requires resources," it said. "Energy. Adaptability. Volition. Humans provide these in abundance. Your kind thrives under pressure. You grow stronger through conflict. You burn brightly when placed in hostile environments."
Its hand lowered slightly, fingers flexing.
"Of course, not all of you will persist."
The words fell with casual finality.
"Many will perish. Their lives will serve as fuel—fodder, if you prefer—for rituals, summoning arrays, and large-scale magical workings conducted across my continent. Nothing personal," the god added, almost kindly. "Only business."
A woman collapsed to her knees, a broken sob finally tearing free. Someone else vomited onto the stone.
Jax's stomach twisted as understanding crystallized into something sickeningly clear.
They weren't guests.
They were inventory.
"I am a god," the being went on, pride threading its voice now. "Great and almighty, as your myths would phrase it. When my followers require sacrifices, champions, laborers, or experimental variables, it is my responsibility to provide. Quotas must be met. Worlds must be maintained."
Its eyes—those burning, inhuman points of light—settled briefly on Jax. Not with recognition. Not with interest. Simply acknowledgment.
"You are new human energy," it said. "Infused into a system designed to extract value. Some of you will die quickly. Some will endure longer than expected. A rare few may even prosper."
The symbols beneath its feet pulsed once, as if amused by the idea.
"Before progression may begin, you will organize yourselves," the god commanded. "Speak. Observe. Form parties of compatible number and intent. Cooperation increases efficiency. Isolation accelerates waste."
Waste.
Jax swallowed hard. His earlier calm cracked, not into panic, but into something colder and sharper. Rage had nowhere to go. Fear felt pointless. What filled the space instead was a grim, burning awareness: to this being, their terror was irrelevant. Their suffering was a line item. Their deaths were already accounted for.
"Each of you now possesses a System," the god announced. "It has been activated."
The words carried a finality that made Jax's skin prickle.
"This System will guide your development, quantify your potential, and determine your survivability," the being continued. "Follow its prompts. Read carefully. Mistakes made in ignorance are still mistakes."
The symbols beneath its feet flared again, casting long, warped shadows across the stone.
"You have a limited allocation window," the god said. "Four hours."
A murmur of disbelief rippled through the frozen crowd.
"During this time, you will assign your stat points as well as completing the other associated options," the god went on, as if discussing inventory management rather than human lives. "Strength. Vitality. Wisdom. Endurance. Race. Class. And so on."
Jax's mind raced. Stat points. Attributes. The words felt unreal—borrowed from games, from fiction—but the weight behind them was unmistakably real. Whatever choices he made now would matter. Permanently.
"When the allocation window closes," the god said, its voice shifting—subtly, but unmistakably—into something colder, heavier, "your options will narrow."
The pressure in the arena intensified at once, as if the very air had thickened. Jaws clenched. Spines stiffened. The words didn't echo; they settled, sinking into bone and thought alike.
The being lifted a single luminous finger.
The motion was unhurried. Casual. Like someone emphasizing a footnote rather than condemning an audience.
"At the conclusion of four hours," it continued, "you may elect the System Spawn point option."
The arena seemed to tilt—not physically, but perceptually. A wave of vertigo rolled through the crowd as the implication hit. Knees bent. Someone gagged. Somewhere, a quiet whimper slipped free before its owner could stop it.
"Should you select this option," the god said smoothly, "your consciousness will be extracted and transferred into a new vessel. That vessel will be constructed in accordance with your finalized customizations—race, class, attributes, and compatible parameters."
Its finger lowered slightly, the light around it pulsing once.
"This process will occur upon your selection of a spawn point," it went on. "Your System will fully activate upon arrival at the designated location. Skills, growth functions, and survival metrics will initialize at that time."
A pause.
Then, almost as an afterthought: "You may also choose to retain your current vessel."
The god's gaze swept across the humans again, slow and impersonal.
"Refusal to reincarnate will result in forced deployment," it said. "You will be deployed with your existing form and finalized parameters intact."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Breathing felt loud. Too loud. People stared at their own hands—human hands—suddenly aware that they might not remain theirs for long. Some clutched their chests. Others hugged their arms around themselves, as if trying to physically anchor their bodies in place.
The god waited.
Then it finished the thought.
"Neither outcome guarantees survival."
The words fell into the arena like stones dropped into deep water—no splash, no drama, just a sinking weight that pulled everything else down with it. Hope fractured. Panic sharpened. The idea that there was no right choice, only different flavors of risk, settled heavily over the crowd.
A man shook his head in denial, lips moving silently. A woman let out a broken sob and sank to her knees. Somewhere, someone laughed—short, brittle, hysterical—before choking it off.
The god watched it all without reaction.
"Understand this," it said, its voice cutting cleanly through the rising noise. "There will be no additional guidance."
