My recovery was slow. The wound was deep, far deeper than I had first believed, but I forced myself to stay strong.
Each morning I woke up telling myself that pain would not defeat me, even when my body felt heavy and weak. skipping many classes during that period, and without Jan's help, would have completely fallen behind.
She always came by faithfully, sometimes with notebooks, sometimes with whispered explanations of what had happened in class while I was gone. Her presence was constant, almost too constant, yet comforting in its own strange way.
Jan never failed to lead to get my wound dressed.
Every time, she made sure the bandage was changed neatly and carefully, as if she were afraid something worse might happen if she missed even a single step.
Still, no matter how many times the bandage was replaced, the pain refused to fade completely. The wound lingered, stubborn and raw, as if it did not want to heal.
Throughout all those days, never once laid eyes on Raven. It was as if he had vanished again, just like he always did whenever things became complicated. Sometimes, after the afternoon dressing, I would sit quietly and stare at the window, half-expecting to see him perched there like before. But he never appeared. It felt deliberate, like he was hiding again, retreating into the shadows where he always seemed most comfortable.
"Jina," Jan called my attention as we entered my room together.
She closed the door behind us and leaned against it briefly before walking in. "I haven't seen Raven for a while," she said, her voice careful. "Not in class, not anywhere."
"Same here," I replied, sitting down slowly. "Raven is weird. Maybe he's back to his hiding habits again. He always disappears when he doesn't want to be seen."
Jan didn't respond immediately. Instead, she came closer and sat beside me, watching my face as if she were searching for something she couldn't quite name.
"Jina… about your power," she finally said. "You told me about it the other time. When are you going to start training?"
I sighed softly and leaned back. "Jan, I wish I had answers to that. With everything that's been happening, I planned to start before the tenth month arrives."
"Tenth month?" Jan asked quickly, anxiety flashing across her face. "What's that?"
"Jan," I called her name gently as I lay down on the bed. "I don't know either. But whatever it is, I'll know soon.
She sat there silently, watching me without saying a word. The room felt heavier all of a sudden.
I raised my hand slowly and stared at the wound beneath the bandage. Something about it felt wrong.
"Jan," I said quietly, "I don't think this is healing. It feels deeper… like it's getting worse. The person you always take me to for treatment—I don't think she's doing anything."
"Jina, this is a deep wound," Jan replied quickly. "You know that."
I didn't answer. Instead, I stared harder at the bandage, my chest tightening. Something inside me stirred suddenly—an unfamiliar spark, sharp and alive. It wasn't fear. It was awareness.
"Jan," I said calmly, "help me remove this bandage."
She frowned. "Why?"
"Just do what I said, please."
Reluctantly, Jan moved closer. Her fingers trembled slightly as she untied the bandage. When it came off, the wound was still fresh, just as raw as it had been days ago.
She stared at it in shock. "Jina, why—"
Before she could finish, something ignited within me. I couldn't describe it properly—light, heat, power—all at once. My vision sharpened, and something flickered in my eyes like lightning. I fixed my gaze on the wound,as I watched it slowly.
impossibly, the skin began to join together. Flesh knitted itself back into place, closing smoothly as if it had never been torn apart. I felt no pain, only a rush of energy flowing through me. When it was over, the wound was gone.
The moment it finished, my strength vanished. I collapsed back onto the bed, my body heavy and drained.
Jan stared at me, her mouth wide open. She stood up abruptly, stumbled backward, and without saying a word, rushed out of the room, still staring at me as if she had seen something she wasn't meant to witness.
"Jina… Jina."
I opened my eyes to see Yoon sitting beside me, a cool towel placed gently on my forehead.
"Are you okay?" she asked softly. "I saw Jan run out of your room, so I decided to check on you."
I raised my hand weakly and showed it to her.
"Jina," Yoon smiled warmly. "You're making progress. It's still shocking, but your powers are returning—slowly, naturally—even without training."
I sat up immediately, my heart pounding. "Yoon… I healed myself. How? Why?"
She took my hands in hers, her grip reassuring. "You are exceptional, Jina. This is only the smallest fraction of what you carry inside you. You have something great within you. That's why your grandfather was afraid—afraid of whether you could bear it all."
She pulled me into a hug. "I'm very proud of you."
At first, fear had filled me after what happened, but hearing Yoon's words brought relief and happiness. For the first time in a long while, I felt proud of myself too.
"Jina," Yoon said after pulling away, her expression turning serious, "there's something I need to tell you."
I looked at her, my heart sinking slightly.
"That night you thought was a dream—the night you fought that creature—you didn't imagine it. You killed a monster, Jina. Not just any monster, but a giant one. It was real. And I was the one who carried you afterward. You awakened your power on your own."
I froze. "You mean that night… when something grabbed my neck? When I heard you shouting that I could do it? It wasn't a dream?"
Yoon nodded and hugged me again. "It was real."
I leaned back, trying to process everything. "Yoon… I haven't seen Raven. Is he okay? Have you seen him?"
For a moment, she looked away. "Raven? I'm not sure. I haven't seen him either. It's like he traveled somewhere."
"That weird boy," I muttered as I lay back down.
Yoon smiled faintly, stood up, and left the room, closing the door behind her.
For the first time in a long while, despite all the danger and confusion surrounding me, I felt something new settle in my chest—a quiet pride, fragile but real.