A small smile played on Icariel's lips, razor-thin and weary. "Guess I should pick up the axe again and run my arms through hell, huh?"
"Unfortunately," the voice replied flatly—cold as dead stone.
A while later, he returned to the forest's training grounds, axe in hand—its edge dulled by time and effort, a shadow of its former self. The morning mist still clung to the air like a memory refusing to fade. Without hesitation, he brought the blade to his flesh.
A shallow cut. Deliberate. Necessary.
"Tchh—"
Blood welled, dark and warm, carving its way down his forearm like a serpent looking for soil. It spattered on the grass, each drop soaking into the earth like whispered offerings.
"Now what..." he muttered, his voice barely louder than the rustling leaves.
The voice answered, unwavering and eternal.
"Today marks the final day of your one-month training," it said. "You've already mastered three elemental spells. If you can learn healing today, it'll become one of the best cards for your case… but don't expect it to be easy. The girl explained it surprisingly well. Do as she said—place your hand over the wound. Close your eyes. Calm. Desire. Sacrifice."
Icariel nodded once, sat cross-legged, and laid his hand over the bleeding wound. The warmth of his own blood seeped through his palm.
"Calm... Desire... Sacrifice," he whispered like an invocation to gods he didn't believe in.
His eyes closed.
He waited.
But nothing stirred. No flicker of light, no answering pulse of power. The mana remained still—silent as a grave.
He exhaled, slow and heavy.
"It didn't work."
"Don't expect it to," the voice replied. "Like the elf girl mentioned, it can take hundreds of tries. Thousands, even. And many still fail. This spell doesn't bend to control. It must answer you."
"I have to learn it," Icariel muttered. "I must."
"Then try again."
And so he did.
Again.
And again.
Time passed like blood through a wound—slow and irreversible. The forest warmed under the rising sun, but Icariel's focus was steel, unmoving. By midday, his body was still, but his mind blistered with frustration.
"Ahhh—! I'm going crazy!" he snapped, dragging his fingers through sweat-matted hair. "What is this nonsense? Mana has ears now? It can hear my feelings?"
His voice cracked like bark in flame.
He gritted his teeth, a tremor crawling beneath his skin.
Then: soft footfalls against the grass.
The elf girl reappeared, chewing the last of a leaf lazily. "Ahh, I'm full," she said, wiping her mouth. She glanced at his arm, then tilted her head. "Oh. I guess that means… you didn't succeed."
"Not even close," Icariel muttered.
"I figured." She smirked with a bite of mischief. "This just proves it—you don't have the Infinity Body either. If you did, you'd have already learned it by now."
"I told you before," Icariel growled, tone sharp with fatigue. "That whole 'ruler of the world' thing has nothing to do with me."
Her laugh was soft and cruel, like thorns hidden in velvet. She stretched, light on her feet.
"Well, I'm gonna sleep. My stamina's drained from using healing magic on a wound like that," she yawned, waving lazily as she turned back toward the cave.
"Try again." The voice echoed in his skull, constant as gravity.
Icariel barely paused. He ate the last of the rabbit—dry, flavorless—and returned to position. Legs crossed. Blood crusting. Hands steady.
Again.Again.Again.
The sun bent low, staining the forest in molten gold. Leaves burned in orange light as the shadows stretched long and lean like waiting predators. He sat unmoving, his lips cracked, his skin pale. Every breath was measured, pulled from a shrinking reservoir.
Nearby, the elf girl lay on her back, staring at the clouds like they were old gods whispering secrets.
"I quit," Icariel muttered. "I'll continue tomorrow."
The voice returned, low and unwavering. "You never know what tomorrow has promised. Do it again. Now."
Silence. Then—
He sat still. Eyes haunted and sunken. But inside, his thoughts churned like storm tides against cliff walls.
"This voice—the same one that's guided me since I was born—must have had a reason for giving me this one-month training. Before, it told me nothing would appear in the forest near me—no danger, no dungeon, no monsters, nothing. But then… right before the training started, it changed its answer to maybe."
"Is there something the voice knows and is not telling me?"
Still, his fists clenched. His breath burned in his chest. The air tasted like iron and old leaves.
"I should continue…" And so he did.
An hour passed. Stars stitched themselves across the sky like wounds in the heavens, watching silently.
Then footsteps again—soft and hesitant.
The elf girl approached, arms crossed, silver eyes dulled with exhaustion. "You should come back to the cave," she said. "It's no use right now. You can try again tomorrow."
"Go first," Icariel replied, not even opening his eyes. "I'll come later."
"Fine, as you wish," she shrugged. Then paused. "But… could you come light the fire inside before that? I couldn't find anything to light a fire."
"What? Why can't you do it yourself?" Icariel asked, confused.
"Huh, I thought you knew already," she said, raising an eyebrow. "I don't know any spells—except for earth, trees… and healing."
He blinked. "Really?"
"Yes, really," she sighed. "Only special-case elves get trained in other spells and become proper mages. I'm not one of them."
"Good to know," he muttered, pushing to his feet. Then after a breath, turned back. "By the way… I've been meaning to ask. How do you even see and feel mana? Do you… possess something like a spirit zone or what?"
She tilted her head. A small smile danced on her lips."What? No. Of course not. We elves—since we're born—our eyes are... enhanced. Blessed by nature, you could say. We see mana as part of our vision. It's like… always there. In everything. But only elves are born with that insight."
"Interesting…" Icariel murmured, his thoughts drifting inward. "Voice, do they possess something like White Sense?"
"Nope," the voice replied instantly. "Not even close. Just in terms of seeing mana, it's somewhat similar—but weaker. Elves are born with that natural perception. The White Sense? That's something else entirely. What you have… goes beyond."
He nodded faintly, filing it away in the part of his mind reserved for dangerous truths. They walked back to the cave in silence, leaves crunching underfoot.
The elf girl had already prepared a neat stack of dry wood.
Icariel knelt, summoned a flame with a flick of his wrist, and lit the fire.
He smirked. "You've gathered wood and even asked me to burn it—just in two days and you're already changing."
"You jerk, they were already fallen on the ground by themselves! I didn't cut them like you..."
"Sure, sure," Icariel said, brushing past her.
At the cave's mouth, he paused. "Good night."
"Good night," she whispered back.
The midnight hour passed.
And again, he sat—alone, haunted, his hand over the blood-slicked wound.
Still nothing.
No glow. No shift. No warmth. Just the cold indifference of the void.
Then the voice returned, quieter than usual.
"To be honest… I thought you'd learn it faster."
"What?" Icariel rasped, his voice dust-dry. Dark circles framed his eyes like bruises from sleepless nights.
"Because of your fear of death," the voice went on. "I thought your desire to live would've made it easier. But it's taking far too long."
"Then what?" he whispered.
"I have a suggestion," it said. "But I don't know if you'll accept it."
"I'll accept it," Icariel answered instantly.
No pause. No hesitation. Maybe he was past caring. Maybe this was what belief looked like after it rotted into obsession.
"Do you see that stone?" the voice said. "Near your left side—a thin, sharp one."
He turned. There it was—half-buried, shaped like a hunter's tooth. Jagged on one side, sleek and cruel on the other.
"Grab it," the voice said. "And stab your leg. As many times as needed."
He froze.
"It won't risk your life. But the pain, the damage—it'll be bad. Still… it might be what you need. The greater the wound, the greater the desire. The desire to survive will roar inside you. It may be the only thing that finally allows the healing spell to answer."
"Will you do it?"
"Yes… I'll do it," Icariel whispered, the stone cold in his grip. "You're sure it's not risking my life, right?"
"Always," the voice replied.
"Then it's worth it. If I can gain healing… if I can recover from any injury—any danger—it'll be like a dream."
He rose barefoot on the forest floor, the stone gleaming faintly under moonlight like a sacrificial blade.
His breath came slow and deliberate.
He pointed the jagged edge at his thigh.
One second.
Then two.
The night pulsed around him like a living thing. His vision swam—sleep-deprived, pain-hollowed.
Then his knees buckled. The stone slipped from his intended aim.
It plunged above the hip.
Pain exploded through him like wildfire in dry bone—fast, brutal, consuming.
He fell to one knee, hand clutched to the wound.
The scream never escaped.
The forest heard nothing except for what he muttered "I fucked up"