The wind was steady. Warm, with the scent of dust and cut grass. It came from the fields, reached the foot of the hill. Shifted direction. The leaves didn't rustle.
At the top of the hill stood a tree. Thick trunk, sprawling branches. Beneath them, in the trampled grass, lay a man.
In the distance a dot appeared—tiny, barely visible.
It drew nearer slowly, and with each moment the silhouette grew sharper.
A bird.
It flew high, almost without moving its wings. Caught the currents, glided above the field, as if remembering this place. Its feathers glinted in the sun, its breast moved lightly, without strain.
It descended smoothly, unhurried. The grass swayed, as if nudged. The bird landed: talons gripped the ground, wings folded. The beak twitched. It glanced sideways. Took a step.
The wind shifted the grass. At first barely—like something slipped by. The bird froze. Its body stiffened with tension. A faint rustle—on the other side. Something crept through, breaking not a single stalk.
Sh-sh-sh...
A small beast darted from the side.
From the direction it hadn't been watching. A leap, and it sank its teeth into the wing joint. The bird jerked, toppled. A cry burst out, short and sharp. It struggled—uselessly.
The little predator clung to its side, scratching, thrashing, trying to sink deeper. Feathers flew. The grass bent under their fight. A snap of the beak—into emptiness.
The noise of struggle caught his attention. He rose to his feet. Turned, stepped closer. Unhurried. The hood slipped back, his face revealed.
The strike came from the side.
He kicked it—sharp, precise, like a ball. The creature didn't have time to squeak or draw breath. It was flung aside, spun, its body thudding against the ground. It bolted into the grass and vanished, leaving no trace.
Rudeus stopped. Looked at the bird.
It was still alive.
Shaking. Its breast heaved up and down, as though its heart raced too fast and was about to give out. A wing bent the wrong way, feathers ruffled, blood beneath its claws. The outcome was already clear.
I sat down beside it. It didn't try to fly away. It couldn't. It didn't even lift its head.
"You should've flown higher," I said quietly.
I reached out my hand slowly. It flinched, but didn't pull away. Only something flickered in its eyes—fear, or just pain. I glanced at the wound. Its side was torn by claws. Small, sharp ones. A ferret, maybe. Or that nasty little beast with ears, the one Paul calls "rodents with ambition."
Doesn't matter. Not now.
I sat closer, legs tucked in. My hands trembled slightly. I knew: if I tried—this would be the first time. And if I didn't do it now, I might never manage later. Everything I'd been studying for.
I looked around.
The hill was empty. Wind from the field, the sound of leaves. No footsteps, no voices. Not a single gaze that might later ask:
"And how do you know that?"
I checked again. No one.
I placed my palms near the bird. Without touching. Fingers slightly bent. Tension coursed through my arms. My body prepared. I knew: one mistake, and I'd do harm.
"Sanatio per sanguinem…"
(Healing through blood...)
Exhale. Inhale.
Mana surged inside in a great tide. But now I knew how not to let it burst free.
"Sanatio per sanguinem, caro in ordinem redigatur…"
(Healing through blood, let flesh be restored to order...)
Each word tugged at a sinew. Difficult. Unnatural. Like a tongue not your own, yet you force yourself to speak it. Misplace the stress—and it all goes wrong.
I held the flow. Didn't let it slip loose. Didn't let it break free. Compressed it, steered it, gauged how much was needed—no more. The lessons with Roxy had borne fruit: sensing the line where it was enough. Where it wasn't yet too late, but already dangerous.
"Fibrae recompositae…"
(Fibers restored...)
The bird shuddered. Its breathing grew steadier. The bleeding had stopped. The wing trembled, but no longer in spasms. The feathers were still disheveled, but beneath them—no longer torn flesh, almost closed tissue.
"Animae flumen restituatur…"
(The flow of the soul restored...)
The moment I stopped, the light that had wrapped around it faded.
Exhale.
I closed my mouth. The flow receded on its own.
Exhaustion hit instantly. As if my body had been wrung out to the last drop. Like I'd run a marathon. My clothes were drenched with sweat. My heart pounded furiously, as though it wanted to break free from my chest.
I looked at the bird. Its eyes were open. Alive. But the wing still lay at an odd angle. The wound had closed, but not completely. Too deep. I had stopped too soon. Or maybe I just didn't have the strength...
I could have taken it home. Given it to Zenith, she'd heal it in an instant. But I didn't. Something inside held me back—an impulse. As if my own body asked: Once more?
Inhale.
It was already breathing evenly. The bleeding had stopped. Nothing threatened it anymore. Yet I still raised my hands. Slowly. With focus. And again I spoke the incantation...
"Sanatio per sanguinem… caro in ordinem redigatur…"
I felt the muscles in my fingers stiffen like stone. The words came harder than the first time.
"Fibrae… recompositae…"
The flow answered.
But slower.
With strain.
As if it resisted. As if you were tightening a string already on the verge of snapping.
I still tried to separate a small current of mana and guide it, but this time it was harder. The flow faltered. Wavered. Again. And—
Inside my head—it was like a glass sphere shattered. In an instant, everything went wrong. The mana rebelled. The inner ocean broke loose. The ripples became a storm. Mana no longer obeyed. It poured out in a torrent.
"Sanatio per sa—"
My voice broke.
The bird screamed.
I opened my eyes.
The wing—twisted. The wound that had closed—split open like torn paper. Pale, almost glowing from within, as if mana inside it had itself gone wild. Blood gushed in a spray, splattering the grass.
I tried to cut the flow off.
The incantation stuck in my throat like a bone. The current kept rushing, and I smothered it from within, choking.
The bird thrashed in agony. One last breath.
A convulsion.
Silence.
It lay there, eyes open. No sound. No breath.
"...fuck!"
***
At first it seemed good.
Hot, smelled right, the meat was soft, some fat in there, salt balanced. I even thought—yeah, this worked out. But then I started chewing and tasted onion. At first I didn't get it—just something extra. Then I figured it out.
Yes, definitely onion. Not raw, not fried, but that boiled-down kind, when it gives no flavor anymore, yet still clings, sticky. It doesn't exactly ruin it, but it leaves a film afterward.
And now I can't taste the meat. It's there, I'm eating it, but every bite ends with that aftertaste.
As if I'm not eating what I wanted.
I wonder why they put it in at all. Everything was already good—fat, juice, the meat's own aroma. The onion feels like inertia. Automatic. Maybe it's just the recipe. Or habit.
I don't like it. I keep eating, but I'm no longer thinking about food, just about that damned onion.
If I had cooked it myself, I wouldn't have added any. Although, maybe someone else would say it'd be bland without it. Maybe. But not for me.
I just wanted the taste of meat. Only meat.
I set the spoon down. Not because I was full—just tired of it. The flavor was gone anyway. Not food, just background noise.
My thoughts were elsewhere.
I was still thinking about the bird. More precisely, about what went wrong. The first time—it worked. Well, almost. Maybe not completely, but everything was under control. I knew what I was doing, I felt the line clearly. And then—like I forgot where it was.
I didn't notice right away when it started. Maybe from the first lesson. Or maybe later, when I stopped just listening to Roxy and began feeling what she meant. Mana—not as energy you summon, but as something always inside.
Like part of breathing.
Now it's already habit—to feel mana within me. As if it had always been there, only I never noticed. Or didn't know where to look. And now it's not just there. It grows.
Every day.
Slowly, but steadily.
And it should sound like a reason to be glad.
"Oh, look at that capacity you've got, what a reserve!"
But honestly—it's starting to get on my nerves.
I could barely manage with the usual amount. Sometimes it lashed out, sometimes collapsed, sometimes I'd start coughing mid-incantation because I forgot to breathe. And now there's this bonus surge, like clockwork.
Sometimes it feels like it's mocking me. Sitting somewhere in my liver, thinking:
"Let's add some volume today. Make the guy feel special."
Thanks, I felt it. Especially when I tried to heal a bird and ended up killing it. Not because I didn't know the spell. But because the mana surged like it decided:
"Here's how it's done. No asking."
I tried to hold it. To guide it. Did everything by the book. Inhale, focus, structure.
And then suddenly—snap.
It poured like from a broken barrel. At first I didn't even realize what had gone wrong. Only afterward, when everything around glowed, my heart raced, and the spell veered off somewhere. As if someone inside grabbed the wheel and said: now like this.
That's my learning progress. Last time it just hurt, now there are casualties.
And what if it hadn't been a bird. Not a creature you can pity, bury, and leave behind.
What if it had been a person sitting in front of me. Alive. With hands, eyes, breathing.
I would have laid my palm on his chest—and along with the spell, everything that refused to obey would have poured in. Unstoppable. He'd have jerked. Maybe screamed. Or maybe just stopped breathing.
A chill crept up my back. As if an icy wind passed over it. My throat clenched, and I had to suck in a sharp breath, even though there was enough air.
I wouldn't have been able to stop it. Not in that moment. Not now.
Fuck. I was learning healing, not a way to kill.
Zenith always said the same thing: any wrong move—and help turns into harm. I listened. I nodded. Thought it was just a warning. So I wouldn't slack off.
So that's what it meant.
It's not a textbook threat. Not some pretty phrase to scare novices. It's real. One shift of breath, one misplaced effort—and instead of saving, I destroy.
But what if it isn't a mistake in the words... what if I am the mistake. If this mana keeps growing only so that one day I put my hands on the wrong person and bury someone who trusted me.
Is that the lesson?
Sometimes it feels like I'm not practicing magic, but trying to tame a monster inside me.
Inhale.
My gaze drifted back to the onion.
"Why cook it like this?" I muttered at the plate. "The onion boiled to mush. It drowns everything out. There's flavor, and then—bam, onion. And nothing else. Like it's there just to ruin it..."
Inhale.
"Again with that face, like you just saved a kitten and immediately drowned it."
I flinched.
Roxy was in the doorway, eyes narrowed, a cup in her hands. Steam rose—she hadn't just wandered in, she came on a mission: to reclaim the kitchen. No hat, her hair sticking every which way, as if it fought the pillow and lost.
"I thought you were asleep."
"I thought so too, until you started talking to your porridge."
"I wasn't talking to porridge!"
"Sorry, to onion... big difference."
She dropped onto the chair beside me. Set her cup aside. Looked straight at me.
"So, was it magic gone wrong again? Or are you still tortured by the great philosophical question of why people ruin food with onions?"
"The second. The first has already passed. Mostly."
"Wow! Usually you start with 'everything's terrible, I'm awful, mana's my enemy, pity me.' And here it's—'the onion hurt me.'"
"It's a cry of the soul. Have you ever eaten stew with boiled onion?"
"I survived on dried mushrooms that smelled like socks. Your onion isn't that bad."
Pause. I stare at my cooling plate.
"Want me to heat it up?" she asks.
"No. I've already said goodbye to it."
"Fine. Then I'll just eat it, so it doesn't go to waste."
"With a death note."
"'Died heroically.' I'll sign it."
I snort. She picks up the spoon, scoops some, tries it. Squints.
"...Alright. You win. This really is bad. Who cooked it?"
"Zenith."
"Mhm. Then we keep this secret. No one must know she's taking revenge on us through food."
We sit in silence. A minute. Two. Then she says quietly, almost in passing:
"Going to sleep?"
"Later. Just a bit..."
"Don't summon anything. I don't want to wake up to you nearly killing yourself with a bucket again..."
"I'll try."
"Try harder."
She took her cup and stood. At the door she turned back:
"And don't look at the onion like it ruined your life. If you want revenge—just don't eat it. That's victory."
"That's... unexpectedly wise."
"Sometimes nonsense turns out wise. Shocks even me."
She smirked. Turned and walked out.
I was about to look back at the plate, but caught myself squinting, as if peering into the air. And yes—something flickered.
The tips of her hair.
When she turned, they glimmered faint blue. Not bright, more like the shimmer of water at dusk. I blinked, thinking it was just a trick of the light, but no—the tint remained.
"You...—" slipped out of me.
She suddenly noticed my stare, tilted her head slightly, frowning. Her hand went to her hair right where I'd been looking, fingers pausing at the ends.
"Ink," she said calmly, as if it were nothing. "Got smeared."
And she walked to the door without looking back.
I stayed sitting, feeling goosebumps crawl across my arms. That blue glimmer still hung before my eyes, too vivid, too out of place.
I clenched my fists to stop the trembling. It didn't help.
She's not a Migurd... Definitely not. No...
She doesn't know how to read thoughts. She can't.
Or... can she?
My heart jolted, as if I'd stepped on my own chest. If she can... if she ever looked inside, even once...
I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering that blue shimmer. Maybe it really was ink. But if not?
***
P.S.
Ah! Oh! Hello there. So, what I want to say is this: that was the last slice-of-life chapter. Next comes Roxy's arc. It's pretty massive, and there's a lot that needs to be taken into account. There'll be epic anime betrayals, revenge, and all that over-the-top anime madness with grit and struggle. Tons of stuff. I don't even know why I started all this, since I could've just done it like in the original and sent Roxy packing. But I felt like fleshing out her storyline and past. Already regretting it. And I'm not sure yet how to present the whole mountain of info. Sooner or later, the chapters will start coming out.