The radiance pulsed softly—and before Icariel's eyes, the blood vanished, torn flesh reknit, and the deep gash faded—until it was as if the wound had never dared to exist.
"Amazing…" Icariel murmured, eyes wide, voice distant.
But what captured him more than the wound's reversal was the quiet devastation unfolding in the air—where the floating orbs of mana were vanishing one by one.
"Did you notice?"the voice asked in his mind, low and deliberate.
"Yes," Icariel replied. "The mana… it's dissolving. Why?"
"With your White Sense, you see what most never will," the voice said. "That's what makes healing rare. It doesn't construct. It devours."
Icariel narrowed his eyes. Orbs of light collapsed around them like dew melting under flame, fading with no resistance.
"Healing consumes both what's within and what surrounds," the voice continued. "Just like your blood circle—the sacrifice isn't metaphorical. The world pays in fragments of itself to stitch flesh back together."
"Hah…" Icariel exhaled a bitter breath. "Funny how elves worship nature like it's holy—and yet drain its essence like parasites. So much for their 'gods' and 'gifts.'"
"Of course. Because life isn't cheap, Icariel—it has to be bought."
He said nothing—just watched, silent and hollow, as the last glow faded. The elf girl stood, rolling her shoulder. No scar. No mark. No memory.
"So how do I learn it? All I know is how to mix mana and brand it into my body."
"I'll explain later. It's different—but it still feeds on your foundation. Refinement. Sacrifice. Intent."
"Should we grab that last herb?" she asked, stretching like the pain had never touched her.
"After you," Icariel replied.
They moved quietly through the night-lit forest. She found the last herb—a red-berried thing crouched beneath a crooked tree—and plucked it with reverence.
"Can we go now?" Icariel muttered, rubbing his eyes. "I'm exhausted. My body's still screaming from training."
"Yeah, yeah, crybaby," she said. "I'm done too."
As they headed toward the cave, she stopped abruptly and looked up at him.
"Thank you," she said softly. "It all happened so fast… I didn't get to say it before. But really—thank you. For saving me. And helping me."
Icariel glanced her way with a faint, lazy smile. "Don't mention it. Though if I'd known you were twenty, I might've left you there. That child-sized body fooled my instincts."
"Jerk," she muttered—but smiled.
Back inside, Icariel handed her the bundle of herbs. "So… how are you planning to eat these?"
She paused. "I was going to cook them. Do you have a pot?"
Icariel gestured vaguely to his cave setup—three sticks, one skewering meat above the flames, the others supporting it. "Does it look like I own a kitchen? I've got rocks for pillows and sticks for utensils."
She sighed. "Ugh, you're impossible."
"Then what are you going to do?"
"I'll eat them raw, like nature intended," she declared, already chewing a bitter leaf. "That's why I gathered so many. It takes a lot to feel full."
Icariel gave her a flat look. "Weird."
As she munched on the greenery, Icariel summoned a soft flame on the cave floor. The flickering glow swelled, casting long shadows against stone.
"This should last till morning," he murmured, lying down, a nearby rock cradling his head.
Silence stretched, heavy and calm.
Then—
"…Are you a mage?" she asked suddenly.
His eyes barely widened, caught off guard by the shift.
"What makes you think that?" Icariel replied, eyes on the fire.
"We elves… we're woven into mana more deeply than humans. We feel it. Especially when it's pure. And yours—it's strange."
"Strange?"
"Not in a bad way. It's too pure. I've never felt anything like it. Not even from the adults in my village. You don't have much… but it's clearer than anything I've known. And I'm sure of one thing." She met his gaze. "It's grown since I woke up."
He didn't speak.
"You cast spells," she said. "And back in the forest—the shattered stones, the burned trees, the field—all signs of advanced spellwork. Then earlier, when I healed myself, you said you could sense if anything approached. Only mages with a developed Spirit Zone can do that. That kind of awareness isn't human."
She tilted her head slightly. "It only makes sense if you're a mage. Right?"
"…I'm not a mage," Icariel said softly, gaze still locked on the flame. "And I've never met one. So I wouldn't know what makes someone a mage."
"Then how?"
"I trained on my own. That's it," he answered flatly.
In his mind, a quiet whisper: "She doesn't need to know about the presence inside me… No one should. And if they did, who would trust me?"
"You're lying," she said, narrowing her eyes.
"I'm not," Icariel replied, turning toward her. "I just learned… the only way I could."
Their eyes locked—a quiet duel held between them.
"…Strange," she muttered. "We elves were given a gift. One of many. We can sense truth… when we truly want to. And you—"
She stopped.
"You're telling the truth." Her confusion deepened. "Tomorrow… can I watch how you train?"
Icariel stared. "Who said you could stay here that long? You're healed."
"You jerk!" she snapped. "Where would I go? I don't even know where I am! Or where my parents are! I should stay here—a little longer—I'm alone!"
Her voice cracked on the last word.
He looked at her a moment, then exhaled.
"…If you teach me healing magic, then fine."
"I can try," she muttered. "But it'll be too hard for you."
"That's enough," Icariel said, pointing to a flat stone rising slightly from the cave floor. "You can sleep there. It's not too cold. The flame should hold."
"…Good night," he added, eyes closing.
"Good night," she whispered, curling atop the stone.
The elf girl turned once to glance at him—his breathing already slow.
"What an odd human," she thought with a faint smile, as sleep gently pulled her under.
Morning came like a sigh. Pale light slipped through the cave mouth, brushing over stone and skin in quiet gold.
She stirred. Her small body ached from sleeping on cold rock. She stretched, silver hair falling messily over her face.
She blinked—expecting to see him.
But Icariel was gone.
In his place, beside her, sat a large green leaf—cupped like a bowl—filled with clear water. She stared.
Where is he…?
Then came the sound. Rhythmic. Sharp. Violent. Ripping the stillness apart.
Drawn by instinct, she stepped outside.
The air was cool, the grass wet beneath her bare feet.
And there he was.
Icariel—shirtless, his lean frame moving with lethal grace. In the center of his training field—scars from yesterday still raw—he moved like a blade in wind. His black hair whipped behind him as he raised an arm and released Wind Slash spells.
Two slashes carved through the air—one elegant, the other feral.
Fwoosh—THWACK!
They struck the same tree.
The first cut it cleanly. The second shattered it entirely.
The trunk exploded into pieces.
She froze.
A deep flush overtook her face—but it was the disbelief in her eyes that lingered longer than her blush.
"…How are you using magic like that?" she breathed, the wind catching her voice.