Icariel didn't answer her question. His gaze drifted past the elf girl, like a gust parting leaves with disinterest. He raised a single finger, slow and deliberate, pointing at the three figures standing behind her.
"Who are they?" he asked, voice quiet but lined with iron. "The mana they carry… it's overwhelming."
The elf girl glanced back. "My father and the warriors who came with him," she replied, brows furrowing. "But hey—I asked you first—"
Before she could finish, Icariel began walking.
His bare feet whispered through the crimson-muddied earth, the blood clinging to his soles like ghosts reluctant to let go. He stopped beside her, not meeting her gaze, and placed a hand gently on her shoulder—light, but final.
"Now that you've reunited with them… you'll be returning home," he said, his voice calm, too calm—like something hollowed out the warmth inside. "I'm happy for you. And… thank you for showing me."
Then he moved on.
Passed her father. Passed the armored elves.
He didn't glance back.
Something was different. The boy she had spoken with the last two days—the anxious, searching ember of a soul—was gone. In his place walked someone quieter. Darker. Still smoldering, but colder.
"Hey!" she called after him, her voice cracking in the twilight. "Stop! What happened to you? What happened here? That light—what was it?"
But Icariel said nothing.
He didn't stop.
The elf girl took a hesitant step, confusion stirring in her pupils like wind disturbing still water. But before her voice found breath again, her father stepped forward, the silver threads of his cloak catching the moonlight.
"Human boy," he said, firm and sharp, the kind of voice that didn't ask—it judged. "I have one question for you. And your answer… will determine whether I let you live or end your life right here."
Icariel halted.
"Father! What are you saying?!" the elf girl's voice wavered, disbelief cracking through it like lightning splitting bark.
"Don't interfere, my daughter," he said without turning. His tone wasn't cruel, but it was absolute—hardened by centuries of command.
Icariel turned slowly.
His face was pale. His eyes, rimmed in exhaustion, held no fear—only that quiet readiness of someone who'd already faced death, and still felt its teeth on his neck.
"What question?" he asked softly.
The elf pointed to the ground. The soaked blood pooled thick beneath the trees, yet Icariel stood untouched.
"That blood. You, standing there, with no wounds. And earlier… the light. That green light—it wasn't natural."
His eyes narrowed, honed like a blade.
"If my guess is correct… you used a healing spell. A high-level one, no less."
The elf girl gasped. Her breath caught. She stepped back as though the air itself betrayed her.
"But… but that's impossible! I only explained the theory to him today! Even if he tried, it should've been a basic one!"
Her father's gaze remained locked on Icariel, but his voice softened briefly—aimed at her.
"My dear… look closely where the boy stood."
She turned, slowly, confusion narrowing her brow. Then she saw it.
A silence.
A wound in the air itself.
There were no mana orbs.
None. Not a single glowing thread.
"What…?" she whispered, eyes widening. "That's… not possible."
Her father's voice sharpened once more, each word weighted with memory and war.
"When healing magic is used, mana sacrifices itself. It answers your desire to heal and vanishes. That's normal. But this—" he motioned, eyes cold. "Even a High-Class Elf spell wouldn't consume this much mana."
His gaze bored into Icariel like frost through marrow. "So I'll ask again… Human boy—what did you just do here?"
Inside Icariel's mind, the voice spoke—not gently, but with warning.
"You can't lie to him. His perception of mana… his ability to sense truth… far surpasses the girl's. You must answer. Truthfully."
Icariel's shoulder flinched. Barely.
"…What did I do?" he echoed, half to himself.
And then—
A memory.
"Calm down, Icariel. You can do this," the voice had urged, when the wound tore too deep.
But reason had drowned.
Panic.
Terror.
His old companion—his cruelest one—seized him with icy hands.
"No… no… no—I don't want to die—I won't die—please—I can't—I won't—I don't want to—don't take me—don't take me—don't take me!"
He muttered. Screamed. Begged. The words were not reason—they were instinct, primal, raw. The sobs of a boy clawing at the edge of a grave.
He pressed his hand to the wound—slick, hot, unbearable—but calm was a stranger.
Then—
Tears.
Not for when Grido died.
Not when Fin's body fell in two pieces before him.
Not for Irena, who tried to shield him despite her loss.
Not for Groon. Not even for his granddaughter, whose life was lost because she couldn't find a way to live on her own."
But for himself.
For his own fragile, gasping life.
He cried.
He begged the mana to let him stay.
Not to be strong. Not to win. Just to live.
And then—
His hand glowed.
Then his chest.
Then the air.
The mana—green, living, sacred—responded.
Not to mastery.
To fear.
Not to command.
To desperation.
It wrapped around him like a shroud of stars and sorrow.
It didn't burn—it consumed.
The trees, the sky, the very forest blinked in blinding green light.
And when it was gone—
He stood.
Whole.
The voice had whispered in awe:
"Never have I seen mana answer like that."
But Icariel hadn't heard it.
"Ah… I'm alive…" he breathed. "I… survived…"
Then White Sense rang in his mind. Four signatures.
The elf girl. And three more. Their mana—a storm.
"Not now…" he murmured. "I almost died."
Now, in the present—
Eyes on him.
The girl. Her father. The warriors.
And he still hadn't answered.
But the truth hung there already, like the scent of burned flesh after lightning.
His mind spun.
"He said he'd kill me depending on my answer…"
He glanced at the elf lord.
This wasn't a bluff.
"He didn't even listen to his daughter. If I try to run, he'll catch me."
He took a breath.
Closed his eyes.
Opened them.
Dark eyes met green.
"What did I do?" he repeated, slow and steady.
"I desired," he said, and the forest fell silent, moonlight clinging to his face like frost over a battlefield.
"…Huh?" the elf lord muttered.
"I desired to stay alive. That's all."
The air held its breath.
The warriors shifted.
"That doesn't answer my question," the elf pressed, but Icariel didn't stop.
"I asked your daughter to teach me healing magic. She explained the theory. She healed my arm to demonstrate."
He paused. Continued.
"I made small cuts. Nothing happened. I thought… maybe the wound wasn't serious enough. Maybe I didn't really want it. So… I tried something else."
He didn't flinch.
"I tried stabbing my leg. Something bad enough to make me fear. But I missed. My body was too tired. Too slow. The stone went into my stomach."
Silence.
"You idiot…" the elf girl whispered.
He glanced at her—just once.
Then back to the her father.
"I was dying. I panicked. And all I could think was—live. Beg for it. So I did. And then… the mana responded. I didn't force it. I didn't control it. It just… heard me. That's when you arrived. That's all I know."
His voice trailed off. Tired. Flat. Honest.
The green eyes elf stared.
"…You wounded yourself to increase your fear so mana would answer your desire?" he murmured.
His gaze narrowed.
"…What kind of twisted thinking is that for someone your age?"
The other elves exchanged looks, unsettled.
But the girl's father held up a hand.
"I sensed no lies."
He studied Icariel. For a long time.
Then—
A grin.
Small. But there.
"…Magnificent," he said.
The air shifted.
Lighter.
"And I apologize," the elf added. "If I sounded hostile… I had to stop you from leaving."
"No worries," Icariel said, voice dull with fatigue. "I need to go. I'm tired."
He turned.
The elf girl raised her hand.
Stopped.
Lowered it.
Her fingers curled in like dying leaves.
Then—
"Where do you think you're going?" her father said, voice calm but firm.
Icariel didn't flinch.
Didn't turn.
Didn't care.
The moon hung heavy in the sky.
And the forest watched.
Waiting.