As Gut walked toward Serie, he called softly,
"Teacher."
"Hmm?"
Serie turned her gaze slightly to her approaching disciple, her eyes showing no desire to move whatsoever.
When Gut reached her, he knelt down, lowering himself so their eyes were level.
"Thank you, Teacher, for helping me maintain that rapid magic growth state. As a token of gratitude, please allow your student to do something for you."
"…And what exactly do you want to do?"
Serie looked at him, puzzled.
Gut didn't answer. Instead, he sat beside her on the long bench. Looking at her bare feet, he gently placed his hands on them.
"Hmm???"
Even a slow-reacting elf like Serie turned to look at her disciple in surprise.
"Don't move, Teacher. Let me do all the work."
As he spoke, Gut moved his hands up slightly, holding Serie's ankle and pulling her leg toward him until her calf rested fully on his thigh.
Then, Gut exhaled warm breath into his palms and began rubbing them together rapidly.
Thanks to his martial arts training, Gut's blood circulation was vigorous to begin with. After this brief warm-up, his hands quickly heated up.
When he placed his palms on her calf—
"Mm~"
Serie let out a reflexive hum of comfort, her previously tense body relaxing at the sudden warmth.
As his palms brushed across her smooth, fair skin and felt the muscles beneath slowly loosen, Gut sighed in relief. A touch of nostalgia and confidence flashed in his eyes.
This massage technique—he hadn't used it in a long time.
It was called Golden Lotus Classical Massage, a heritage therapy from his previous world's, developed by a blend of legendary physician and martial artist. It was a fusion of martial arts application and traditional wellness—a method ideal for relaxing tendons and activating meridians.
It couldn't be more perfect for someone like Teacher Serie right now.
As for how a modern-day college student like Gut had mastered such an ancient craft? That… came from a very real-life story.
In his senior year of university, the school required all students to complete an internship off-campus for the entire semester. But Gut wasn't exactly thrilled about starting the 9-to-5 grind so soon. So instead, he rented a place off campus under the guise of fulfilling the requirement and spent his days living like a king—lounging in bed, playing games, and binge-watching shows.
One morning, after a long night of gaming, Gut stretched lazily and promptly tweaked his neck. Groaning in pain, he hailed a cab to the nearest massage clinic.
That clinic, modest and tucked into the corner of a quiet street, would end up changing his life.
An old therapist there, Master Wu, took him in. Their conversation during the session was surprisingly pleasant, and the two hit it off. As the session ended, the old man looked at Gut and asked, "So what do you do these days, kid?"
The next day, the clinic welcomed a new intern.
At first, it was chaos.
Gut had the strength, thanks to his years of martial arts training, but zero finesse. One unfortunate client who came in with a light muscle strain ended up leaving with full-blown spasms and almost passed out mid-session.
Master Wu's face when that happened could've turned milk sour.
Luckily, the client had used a discount coupon. The refund wasn't too painful.
"Kid," Master Wu sighed after reviving the poor guy and undoing the damage, "you're lucky this is the modern age. Back in my day, you'd have been massaged into the floor for making a client scream like that."
But to his credit, Gut learned.
He shadowed Master Wu, absorbing every detail—the subtle finger pressure, the rhythm of kneading, the flow of energy along the body's channels. He practiced daily, messed up often, and took each scolding with humility. Slowly, painfully, he got better.
Somehow, the clinic's online rating even went up.
By the time his internship was complete, Gut had transformed from a clueless college slacker to a certified miracle-worker of a masseur. His hands carried strength, but also patience. Precision. Presence.
He planned to return to the clinic after graduation, maybe even work there full-time.
Then fate struck.
After passing his thesis defense, Gut decided to celebrate with a long Overwatch marathon. A comeback update had just dropped, and he dove in with all the energy of someone who'd never felt neck pain in his life.
Six matches in, he lost his cool, shouted at a widowmaker who whiffed every shot—and got isekai'd.
Back to the present.
Gut's fingers traced the precise pathways along Serie's calf, identifying pressure points with instinctual accuracy. He adjusted his touch automatically—sometimes gentle, sometimes deep—using strokes passed down through decades of healing practice. His thumbs rotated in firm circles, releasing knots; his palms slid in warm, controlled motions that drew out the stiffness in her joints.
"Ease up on that brute strength. And get the angle right, or you'll bruise the tissue."
He could almost hear Master Wu's grumbling in his ear.
Gut chuckled softly and corrected his form. "Got it, Master."
"Hm?" Serie made a soft questioning sound, lifting her head slightly. She thought he was talking to her.
But the moment passed. A particularly deep press melted her back into the seat again.
Her fingers curled instinctively around the leather of the bench as a breathy hum escaped her lips, involuntary and surprised. The relaxing warmth spreading through her leg was simply undeniable.
Outside, the carriage bumped steadily along the trail. The old driver, catching faint sounds from within, sighed into the wind.
"Kids these days..." he muttered, half-smiling.
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Powerstones?
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