Dr. Aris and the nurse stood back for a few minutes, giving the mother and son their moment. Shartak's mother, Ishika, didn't let go of his hand. She kept whispering his name, her tears of joy now mixed with soft smiles.
Finally, the doctor stepped forward gently. "Ishika," he said softly. "This is wonderful. But we need to be realistic. His body has been still for over a year. He has severe muscle atrophy. It will be a long, difficult process."
Ishika looked up, her face full of a new determination. "What do we need to do, doctor? Tell me. We'll do whatever it takes."
"Physical therapy, every single day," the doctor explained. "We'll have to help him learn to eat again, then to speak. Walking… walking will be the last and hardest step. It could be many months. Maybe longer."
Months. The word echoed in Shartak's mind. Months of lying here, helpless. Months of his mother having to care for him, to pay for this room.
His eyes fell on his mother's wrist. Her favorite watch, the one his father had given her, was gone. He looked at her purse on the floor; it was old and worn. The signs were small, but clear. She was struggling.
How is she paying for all this? he thought, a cold dread mixing with his relief. The private room, the doctors, the year of care… the cost must be huge.
Conventional recovery was too slow. And too expensive. He couldn't put his mother through that for another year. He needed another way.
As he felt his mother's warm, gentle hand holding his, his mind was pulled back to another time, another hand.
He was in a different world, in a dusty, sun-baked market that smelled of sweat and despair. It was a slave market. People were kept in wooden cages, their eyes empty. He was only a boy then, alone and new to this harsh world.
In one of the cages was an elf girl, no older than him. Her silver hair was matted with dirt, and her face was bruised, but her eyes… her eyes were not broken. They held a spark of defiance. He saw the slave merchant kick the bars of her cage, yelling at her.
Something inside Shartak snapped. He had very little money, barely enough to feed himself for a week. But in that moment, he walked up to the merchant and spent every last coin he had to buy her. It was a foolish act of pure kindness.
Her name was Elve. For weeks, she was silent, recovering from her ordeal. One evening, as they shared a small piece of bread by a fire, she finally spoke about her secret. To thank him for his kindness, she decided to teach him something only her people knew.
She called it Qu.
She explained that it wasn't magic, which changed the world outside. Qu was the art of changing the world inside your own body. She told him that every living thing had a hidden well of life energy. Most people never found it. Her people knew how to draw a little from that well to heal faster and live longer.
She took his hand—her touch was light and careful, so different from his mother's—and taught him the first fundamental: how to feel that energy. "It is like a quiet river flowing inside you," she had said. "You just have to learn to listen."
He was a natural. While Elve could only listen to the river, Shartak quickly learned to guide its flow. He hid his true origins, and everyone, including Elve, just assumed he was a human prodigy. He took her basic fundamentals and discovered new things. He found that the "river" had deeper currents, that he could build dams to store energy, and open new channels to make his body stronger and faster than anyone thought possible. He mapped the energy pathways of the body in ways no one had ever done.
The memory faded, leaving him back in the sterile white hospital room. The doctor was still talking, explaining therapy schedules. But Shartak wasn't just listening anymore.
He had a plan. A secret.
The doctor saw a helpless boy in a bed. But inside that broken body was a mind that held the key to its own recovery. A power from another world.
He felt his mother squeeze his hand again, her love and worry flowing through the touch. He made a silent promise to her.
He would not be a burden. He would not let her suffer for months and years.
He would use Qu. He would heal himself. He would get strong again, not just for himself, but for her. His long road to recovery was about to get a lot shorter.
After the doctor left them alone, the storm of emotion in the room began to quiet down. Ishika's tears stopped, and she held his hand, her thumb gently stroking his knuckles. Her smile was still watery, but it was real.
"We'll get you home soon," she said, her voice soft and full of plans. "You'll need rest. And I'll make you your favorite soup. You always loved my soup."
Shartak could only listen, the beeping of the heart monitor the only reply he could offer.
"And don't you worry about school," she continued, already thinking ahead. "You've missed a year, but that's okay. We'll figure it out. When you're stronger, we can get a tutor. You'll catch up in no time. You were always so smart."
He listened to her talk about his future—a future of school and homework. It felt strange. The mind inside his body was that of a 22-year-old warrior who had planned battle strategies, but here his mother was, lovingly planning his high school return. A warmth spread through his chest. It was the simple, pure feeling of being cared for.
After a while, Ishika glanced at the clock on the wall. A flicker of worry crossed her face. "Oh, look at the time," she said, her voice laced with regret. "I have to go, sweetie. Just for a few hours. I have to work, you know."
She leaned down and kissed his forehead, her lips warm against his cool skin. "I'll be back tonight. You just rest."
And with that, she stood up, gave him one last loving look, and left the room.
The door clicked shut, and the silence felt heavy. The only sounds were the steady beep of the monitor and the faint hum of the hospital's air system. Her words confirmed his fears. She was working hard to keep him here.
The doctor said recovery would take months. Shartak knew he couldn't let his mother carry that burden. He had to act now.
Closing his eyes, he let his mind drift back to the lessons from the other world, to the wisdom Elve had shared with him. She had explained that gathering Qu was possible through three main pathways. He had named them in his mind according to their nature.
The first was the Way of the World. Elve told him this was the safest and most common method. It involved absorbing the natural energy from the environment. Her people would meditate in ancient forests or near powerful waterfalls, places where life energy was pure and strong. Shartak dismissed this path immediately. This sterile hospital room had no such energy. It was like trying to drink from a dry riverbed.
The second was the Way of the Soul. This was a more advanced path that Elve had spoken of in hushed, reverent tones. She taught him that every soul was like a small gateway to a vast, endless ocean of spiritual energy she called the Spirit Cosmo. By turning one's focus completely inward, one could open that gate and draw power directly from their own spiritual core. It did not depend on the outside world at all. This was his best option.
The third was the Way of the Void. This was the forbidden path, a dangerous secret Elve had only warned him about. It involved tearing a tiny rift to other dimensions—worlds beyond their own—and siphoning their raw, alien energy. Elve said it was like drinking poison, hoping to gain strength before it killed you. The energy from a world with different laws of nature could shred a person's body from the inside out. In his current, fragile state, trying this would be suicide.
The choice was clear.
He took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to ignore the beeping of the machines around him. He shut out the world and focused his mind on the single spot between his eyebrows, the center of his consciousness.
At first, there was nothing. Then, after long minutes of intense concentration, he felt it. A faint warmth, like the first ray of sunshine after a long winter. It was his Qu, his own life energy, waking up.
Carefully, he guided this tiny spark of warmth. He pictured it as a drop of liquid light, slowly making its way down from his mind, through his neck, his chest, and toward a spot just below his navel. In the other world, he had learned this was the body's natural storage point for Qu. It was where he could build his power.
The effort was immense. Sweat began to form on his forehead and trickle down his temples. The beeping of the heart monitor grew faster, reflecting the strain on his body. But he didn't stop. He poured every bit of his focus into gathering that energy, drop by drop, into that central point.
After what felt like an hour, he was exhausted, his mind and spirit completely drained. He let his concentration go and slumped back into the darkness of his own mind, his breathing heavy.
For a moment, he felt nothing but tiredness. Did it work?
He turned his attention to his right hand, the one his mother had held. He remembered the feeling of failure when he tried to squeeze the nurse's fingers. He focused on his index finger. He pictured it moving, just a little.
He commanded it to move. Move.
Slowly, painfully, his index finger twitched.
Just once.
It was a tiny movement, almost nothing. The sheet covering his hand barely rustled.
But to Shartak, it was everything. It was the first step. It was proof.
It was hope.