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

Chapter 223: You Don’t Get To Leave Yet!

Nothing left to resist. The Labyrinth’s will was gone…

That was when Zhorvak moved.

The will that had remained still until now descended upon Bruce with full force.

This was different.

This was no collective consciousness. This was a Sovereign will, multiple times stronger than the Labyrinth’s, denser, heavier, carrying an authority that bent existence itself.

CRACK!

Bruce took it head-on.

His will buckled, just for a moment. Pressure crashed down on him from all directions, crushing, tearing, overwhelming. For the first time since the clash began, Bruce felt true strain. He knew, another second or two, and he would be completely crushed.

He sighed. ’In a way… this counts as damage, right?’

This was Plan B.

Heal.

He wouldn’t have come here without confidence.

And curiosity.

At the perfect moment, he willed it.

’Heal.’

[You’ve healed.]

[You’ve gained immunity to Zhorvak’s will.]

The shift was instant.

Zhorvak felt it.

Something was wrong. A strange unease crept into his perception, something unnatural, something that defied all logic. Alarmed, he went all out, pouring everything he had into suppression, but Bruce’s will didn’t shake. Not even slightly.

Why isn’t he going down…?

Zhorvak’s thoughts churned.

’My will is clearly stronger… why does it have no effect?!’

A stronger will was supposed to be thicker. Larger. Denser. An ocean compared to a lake. The larger will should suppress and devour the smaller one effortlessly.

Yet what unfolded before him defied all reason.

Zhorvak’s will was vast, like an endless ocean.

But Bruce’s will, That small, quiet lake, Remained unmoved.

Unshaken.

And worse…

Somehow, it was suppressing him. It was suppressing Zorvak’s will.

The realization struck him with the wrongness of a fractured law, like watching gravity reverse itself. How was it possible that something so small, so quiet, could push back an endless ocean? How could a mere lake stand against the pressure of a sovereign tide?

“…Impossible.”

The word cracked through Zorvak’s consciousness like glass under strain.

He pushed harder.

His will surged again, flaring violently, fed by rage and disbelief. Authority poured outward in vast, crushing layers, burning hot and domineering, carrying the accumulated weight of a Sovereign existence, one that had conquered worlds, broken races, and reduced countless beings to kneeling husks. He was Zorvak. A demon lord. A conqueror. A being who stood near the ceiling of existence itself. There was no scenario, none, where this should be happening.

Yet the pressure he unleashed met something utterly unmoved.

Bruce’s will did not resist violently. It did not crash forward like a competing wave or flare upward in defiance. It simply existed, calm and present, and in that presence Zorvak felt something deeply unsettling. His will was not being repelled. It was not being shattered.

It was being pushed.

Like an ocean meeting a shoreline that refused to erode, no matter how long the tide battered against it.

“No,” Zorvak snarled internally. “No, this is wrong.”

He gathered more, compressing his will further, condensing it until it became thick and suffocating, layered upon itself again and again. He forced it forward with everything he had, pouring arrogance, fury, dominance, and killing intent into the surge. The darkness around them trembled under the weight of his authority, reality itself creaking as if pressured by an overwhelming presence.

And then. Something changed.

Zorvak felt it before he understood it. The pressure on him increased, not from outside, but from within the clash itself. His will… was shrinking.

Not all at once. Not catastrophically. Just enough to notice.

Bruce’s will, the quiet lake, touched the edge of his vast ocean.

And drank.

There was no tearing sensation, no violent ripping, no explosive backlash. Just loss. A small portion of Zorvak’s will vanished, stripped away as cleanly as breath leaving a lung.

“What…?” Zorvak faltered.

Bruce said nothing. He didn’t need to.

His will expanded slightly, its surface broadening, its presence deepening. It was still smaller than Zorvak’s, still quieter, still almost unassuming, but it was growing, and Zorvak felt it feeding.

“No… no no no—”

Desperation crept into the edges of his rage as he surged again, abandoning refinement and control, attempting to overwhelm through sheer magnitude.

’I am a Sovereign!’ he roared internally. ’An inhabitant of this world with a class lower than Ex cannot defeat me! There’s no way, no way!’

His fury fueled his will. It grew thicker, heavier, and for a fleeting moment the pressure spiked sharply.

But Bruce’s will did not flinch. It did not even acknowledge the increase. It was as if Zorvak’s will was a mere ant. It pressed forward again and devoured another portion.

Zorvak screamed, not aloud, but deep within the core of his consciousness, as something fundamental cracked. Another chunk of his will was consumed, his vast ocean receding unnaturally fast, its edges eroding as if the very concept of loss had turned against him. Every surge only exposed more of himself. Every act of resistance became an offering.

Bruce felt none of Zorvak’s panic, none of his fury or disbelief. To him, this had already been decided. The moment immunity had been gained, the outcome was fixed. This was no longer a battle.

It was harvesting.

Zorvak realized it far too late. His will was being eaten, not by something larger, but by something that did not obey the rules he understood. A will that did not compete in size, but in permanence. A will that had learned how to endure.

“How… how is this possible…?” his thoughts spiraled as his authority thinned and his dominance frayed. Rage no longer fueled him, it betrayed him, spreading him thinner, exposing more surface area to be consumed.

Bruce’s will grew slowly, steadily, calmly. The lake expanded into a vast basin, deepening and widening, its surface still smooth, still quiet. It did not churn like Zorvak’s ocean. It did not rage.

It simply absorbed.

Panic struck Zorvak then, sharp and undeniable. He tried to retreat, to disengage, to sever the connection entirely. He couldn’t. The moment he attempted withdrawal, Bruce’s will tightened, not aggressively, but absolutely, anchoring him in place.

’You don’t get to leave yet.’