SSS-Ranked Surgeon In Another World: The Healer Is Actually OP! - Chapter 277: Empress Isolde!
Chapter 277: Empress Isolde!
[…Does your ability have restrictions I should know about?]
’Life Glance carried no limits. No cooldown. No concealment could deceive it…’
’Don’t worry,’ he thought quietly. ’I’ll keep it active.’
His eyes lifted, sweeping across the palace grounds, the guards, the walls, every living presence layered before him in quiet clarity.
“No Invader soul inhabiting a body will be able to hide from me,” he continued evenly. “As long as things don’t spiral too far, as long as things aren’t too complicated, we’ll get this under control.”
The snow fell. The guards stood rigid.
And somewhere deep within the palace, something ancient waited.
Vaelith’s presence tightened around Bruce’s consciousness, no longer calm, alert. It was subtle but unmistakable, like a coiled force drawing taut.
[The reason I am telling you all this…] Vaelith said slowly, [is so you remain vigilant when you meet this Empress.]
Bruce did not move. His gaze remained forward, posture unchanged, as if nothing had shifted at all.
[There is a portion of her memory I cannot assess.]
That single line carried more weight than any shouted warning.
[…I suspect she is already possessed by an Invader.]
Bruce’s eyes narrowed by a fraction, the change almost imperceptible.
[The shield protecting Velmora can withstand direct pressure from SSS-ranked entities,] Vaelith continued, voice measured, [but if Invaders at EX-rank or above take this world seriously… it would not be difficult for them to shatter it.]
A faint chill traced through Bruce, not fear, but calculation.
[Doing so would damage my core.]
[And destroy Velmora entirely.]
Snow slid from a nearby ledge, breaking softly against the stone below, the sound oddly final.
[The only saving grace is intent.] Vaelith steadied. [Invaders want to claim this world, not annihilate it. That is why brute force has not been used.]
The pieces aligned.
[Instead, they relied on underhanded methods, splitting souls, embedding fragments long before I evolved to SSS.]
Bruce understood now, the quiet urgency beneath every word.
[But once every invading soul within Velmora is cleared,] Vaelith warned, [they will have no reason to hold back.]
The implication was unavoidable.
Time was limited.
[This world must evolve to EX, quickly.]
[Only then will I stand a chance of protecting its inhabitants.]
Bruce exhaled slowly, steadying his thoughts.
Before he could respond, footsteps echoed across the terrace, measured, heavy, familiar. With his senses sharpened and Life Glance active, Bruce felt the approach instantly.
Orrin.
The Head Guard emerged from the palace doors, expression controlled, eyes sharp, though a thread of tension lingered beneath his composure.
“Follow me,” Orrin said curtly. “Her Majesty will see you.”
The guards shifted as one, parting to form a clear path.
Bruce and Duke stepped forward.
The moment they crossed into the palace, the air changed. The cold deepened, not the biting chill of snow, but a regal frost, refined and absolute, pressing against the skin with quiet authority.
The interior was vast. Pillars of white stone rose toward a ceiling veined with translucent ice, mana flowing through it like frozen rivers. The floor gleamed, polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting torchlight that burned blue instead of gold.
At the far end stood a throne carved entirely of ice. Mist rolled lazily from its edges, frost spreading across the floor in slow, deliberate patterns.
And upon it, she sat.
White hair cascaded down her shoulders like fresh snowfall, framing a face of striking beauty, sharp, composed, untouchable. Her eyes were pale and impossibly deep, as though winter itself had learned how to observe.
The Empress of Eiskar.
Isolde.
Her gaze swept over them the instant they entered. Pressure descended, not explosive, not violent, but oppressive, the kind that reminded every soul present that this was her domain.
Orrin dropped to one knee at once.
Duke did not. Bruce did not. The pressure were not directed at them both.
Isolde’s lips curved faintly, not in amusement, but in acknowledgment.
“So,” she said, her voice smooth and chilled, echoing through the hall, “the palace welcomes guests once more.”
She lifted a hand slightly. “Attend to them.”
At once, maids emerged from the side corridors, heads lowered, movements silent and precise. Tables of polished ice were drawn forth, seating arranged with immaculate care. Warm drinks that steamed faintly were placed down alongside delicacies shaped like crystalline art.
Only after everything was set did Isolde look back to Duke.
Her gaze lingered.
“…Long time no see,” she said.
Duke smiled, but not his usual grin. Something sharper surfaced instead. “Oh, you still remember,” he replied casually. “I almost thought you’d force my hand again, like you did last time.”
The temperature dropped another degree. Frost crept outward from the throne, ice cracking faintly along the floor.
Isolde’s eyes narrowed. “And yet,” she said calmly, “you still came. I never expected you to return after all this while…”
Bruce remained silent.
But Life Glance was active.
And as his gaze brushed over the Empress, something else stared back.
It wasn’t visible to the eye, no distortion in the air, no fluctuation of mana, no sign that anything was amiss. But to Bruce, the moment his senses brushed against the Empress, it was unmistakable. A pressure that didn’t belong. A presence that felt wrong in a way that went beyond hostility or power. It was the quiet certainty that something foreign had already sunk its roots deep.
Soft footsteps echoed across the frozen hall as the maids approached. Their movements were practiced to perfection, refined to the point of near invisibility. Pale uniforms trimmed with silver thread flowed around slender forms, heads bowed low, eyes fixed firmly on the marble floor. Not one of them so much as glanced toward the throne. Each step was measured. Each breath controlled. Servants who had learned, long ago, how to exist without being seen.
One maid placed a porcelain saucer upon the ice-crafted table with delicate care. Another followed, setting a cup of steaming coffee atop it so gently that the dark surface within didn’t ripple in the slightest.
The aroma rose immediately, rich and bitter, warm and grounding, cutting cleanly through the cold that saturated the hall. Steam curled upward in slow, lazy spirals, briefly catching the pale light before fading into nothing.
Another saucer. Another cup.
