SSS-Ranked Surgeon In Another World: The Healer Is Actually OP! - Chapter 284: Reclaimed!

Chapter 284: Reclaimed!

Bruce’s mana had already embedded itself deep within the entity’s core. Soul Shatter was not a strike that ended at impact. It was a detonation seeded at the center of existence itself.

The escaping fragments were still connected. Still burning in pain. Still caught.

The elven soul twisted mid-air, its features contorting in horror as realization dawned. Its once-composed face warped into something feral and terrified, elegant lines dissolving into panic.

’What is this skill?! How?!’ The thought never finished.

Bruce didn’t blink. He didn’t hesitate. His expression remained steady, eyes cold and focused as a surgeon closing in on malignant tissue.

He pushed more mana through his palm. The cracks widened. Infusing more mana to keep soul shatter active.

Light burst from the fractures, not radiant and holy, but violent and precise, like fault lines splitting under unbearable pressure. The entity’s outline destabilized, its edges fragmenting into shards of translucent crimson.

Then the soul imploded. It shattered.

Fragments scattered like crystalline dust, dissolving into nothingness under the relentless pressure of sustained annihilation. The scream cut off mid-pitch, severed as though reality itself had grown tired of hearing it.

Silence crashed down.

Duke exhaled slowly, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He couldn’t see the soul. Couldn’t see the destruction unfolding on a plane beyond his vision. But he felt the release. The oppressive undertone that had subtly weighed on the throne hall for years, like a faint hum beneath consciousness, vanished.

And then—

Isolde’s body jerked.

The frost aura surrounding her flickered violently, sputtering like a storm deprived of its eye. Her knees buckled, strength draining from her limbs all at once. The suppressed soul within her surged upward violently, desperately reclaiming space that had not been hers in years.

Isolde gasped.

A raw, ragged inhale tore from her throat, the sound harsh and unrefined, like someone surfacing after drowning for years beneath frozen water.

Bruce caught Duke’s eye and gave a subtle glance.

Duke understood instantly.

The Spatial Lock dissolved.

Time resumed.

The guards staggered forward mid-step, confusion flashing across their faces as momentum returned without context. One nearly tripped as his halted stride completed itself. A maid’s tray wobbled violently as her frozen muscles regained motion. Frost suspended in the air fell like shattered glass, tinkling softly against marble before melting into harmless mist.

Realization sinked to the guards as they moved to act, but Duke smirked spatial locked them specifically.

As for Isold, she collapsed to her knees.

The frost aura that had trapped Bruce moments earlier cracked and splintered like fragile ice under sudden heat, shattering outward and dissolving into nothing. Her hands trembled against the floor. Her breathing came uneven and shallow.

Bruce stepped closer.

He observed her soul carefully.

And what he saw made him sigh.

The Invader had not simply possessed her.

It had crushed her.

Her soul was dim, flickering like a dying flame in a storm. Where once there had been vibrant sovereign authority, there was now frayed structure, weakened cohesion, spiritual exhaustion. The Invader had deliberately kept her at the brink of collapse, alive enough to maintain bodily stability, strong enough to serve as a vessel, weak enough to never fully resist.

Even now, with the Invader gone, her soul was unraveling.

If left untreated, she would die.

Minutes.

Maybe less.

Bruce lifted his palm.

Isolde’s eyes widened.

She saw it.

That same hand.

The same palm that had just obliterated something powerful enough to dominate her for years. Fear flickered through her gaze, not the cold calculation of a monarch, but the raw instinct of someone who had just regained herself only to face another unknown.

If he meant to kill her—

She wouldn’t survive.

Her body tried to move. Tried to summon frost. Tried to stand.

But she was too weak. Too drained. Too broken.

Not like this…

Bruce stepped forward and placed his palm gently against her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

Warmth flowed.

Not violent.

Not destructive.

Just healing.

Pure golden mana seeped into her body, into her soul, wrapping around the frayed edges of her essence and stabilizing them with careful precision. The flickering flame steadied. The cracks threading through her spiritual structure began to mend, slowly knitting under controlled output.

Bruce adjusted the flow with clinical focus, mindful not to overwhelm her fragile state. Too much mana at once would rupture weakened pathways. Too little would allow collapse.

He had been a doctor once.

He knew trauma when he saw it.

And this, this wasn’t just physical damage.

It was prolonged violation. Long-term suppression of the soul. Identity distortion. Years of consciousness trapped beneath another will. Even SSS-ranked beings were not immune to psychological scars.

He kept his voice low, steady, grounding.

“You’re safe.”

Her breathing gradually slowed. The rigid tension in her shoulders eased by degrees. Her eyes remained distant, expression unreadable, but beneath that mask Bruce saw the tremor. Saw the strain. Saw the weight of years pressing inward all at once.

Duke watched from the side, arms loosely crossed.

He let out a quiet sigh.

’This guy…’

He replayed what he had just felt. A healer. Directly annihilating an Invader soul. A being probably of Ex Class, no less. No ritual. No preparation. Just contact and execution.

’How did he even get his hands on something like that…’ Duke’s lips curved faintly.

’An anomaly.’

That was the only word that fit.

He had once been called that too. In his youth. A rule-breaker. A limit-pusher. The one who did things others claimed were impossible.

But compared to what Bruce had just displayed, he was ordinary.

Duke glanced at the shattered remnants of frost melting across the throne hall, at the guards still trying to piece together what had just occurred, at the maids trembling as they clutched their trays.

The next generation…

They were different.

Stronger.

More extreme.

Less restrained by common sense.

Maybe, just maybe—

This was the era.

The one Velmora had been waiting for.

The generation that might finally shatter the world’s ceiling.

Duke exhaled slowly, gaze settling back on Bruce.

“…You really don’t do things halfway, do you?” he muttered.