Chapter 38 — Mary's Gratitude
Ethan woke from deep sleep to full daylight pouring through the window.
He stretched lazily, drawing in a long breath out of habit, feeling his lungs fill to that tight, almost pressurized point before slowly exhaling.
…Huh?
His body felt charged.
Not just rested—powered. As if the Holy Light threaded through every vein and nerve, ready to spill outward at the slightest motion.
The moment he got home that morning, he had collapsed face-first onto the bed. After an entire day of mental strain and spiritual depletion, sleep had taken him instantly.
He'd expected backlash—fatigue, sluggishness, that sticky, drained feeling that usually followed heavy use of the Light.
Instead—
Warmth.
Abundance.
A steady current humming under his skin.
Frowning slightly, Ethan raised his palm.
With the smallest push of intent, a dense strand of Holy Light leapt into existence—no longer the faint glow he had to laboriously gather before. This light was obedient, intimate, almost alive, coiling around his fingers with a soft purity that felt stable and complete.
He had cast Resurrection so many times last night…
Yet his connection to the Light hadn't weakened.
It had grown.
Skill proficiency?
Spiritual conviction after rejecting the Void?
Some kind of threshold breakthrough?
He couldn't tell.
So he did what made the most sense.
He tested it.
Ethan cast a Healing spell on himself.
Soft radiance washed over his body—but this time it wasn't just healing energy. There was rhythm in it. A pulse. Something like the quiet beat of life itself woven into the Light.
His eyes widened.
Both the effect and the duration had increased dramatically.
"Of course…" he murmured, lowering his hand, staring at the lingering glow around his palm.
He did a rough mental calculation.
At this strength—if fully focused—he could probably resurrect someone in Mary's state with three casts.
Last night had taken countless repetitions to gather the scattered fragments of her soul.
Now?
It would be… manageable.
Healing wounds. Repairing flesh.
Those were just surface techniques.
Bringing back the dead. Calling a soul home.
That was closer to the true nature of the Holy Light.
Which led to an unsettling thought:
Maybe the idea that "a soul gone too long can't be resurrected by the Light" wasn't absolute truth.
Maybe it was simply a matter of insufficient power on the caster's side.
After sorting through part of the puzzle, Ethan felt a quiet thrill.
He had the strange sense that he was inching closer to the truth.
Today he needed to visit Mary at the hospital—and settle a few things.
After washing up, he changed into clean clothes. The simple act made him feel refreshed, but the real difference was inside him: the Holy Light flowed through his body in a steady, abundant current, making every step feel lighter.
He didn't delay and headed straight to the hospital.
Mary's room was at the end of the second-floor corridor. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting warm patches of light across the floor.
Ethan pushed the door open softly.
Mary was propped against the head of the bed. Her face was still pale, but her expression looked much better than before. She had been staring out the window, lost in thought, but turned at the sound. When she saw him, a faint smile appeared.
"Hey, doctor," she greeted.
"How are you feeling?" Ethan pulled a chair over and sat beside the bed, eyes drifting to the bandages still wrapped around her abdomen.
"Much better. It barely hurts now." She touched the bandage unconsciously. "The police came this morning to ask questions."
Ethan nodded for her to continue.
"They asked what happened last night…" Her voice lowered. "I told them I couldn't remember many details. Just that I turned around and a shadow rushed at me, stabbed me from the front.
"When I tried to run, he grabbed me from behind. In the panic… I might have accidentally stabbed him with a scalpel."
"Good," Ethan said with a small smile. "Don't worry about the police. Just focus on recovering."
Then he remembered something.
"Oh—about that man. Do you know why he attacked you?"
Mary fell silent.
It took a long time before she finally spoke—sharing something she hadn't told the police. Something Ethan had only vaguely known about until now.
The man had been the boyfriend of the first cosmetic surgery patient Mary ever operated on at the clinic.
He attacked her in revenge.
"Did the surgery go wrong?" Ethan asked.
"It was very successful," Mary replied. "Exactly what the patient requested. Recovery went smoothly."
"Then why?"
Mary pressed her lips together, clearly uncomfortable. Finally, she gestured awkwardly—first toward her chest, then lower.
"She requested removal… here. And closure… here."
Ethan stared at her.
"…What?? You're serious?!"
Mary nodded.
"WHY?"
"She said she was a designer," Mary said quietly. "Clothes look perfect on mannequins. Sexual characteristics distract men from appreciating structure and detail.
"Without those… she believed she could embody a form of beauty untouched by desire."
Ethan's brain stalled.
So she was insane.
And her boyfriend might have been even more insane—your girlfriend chooses the surgery herself, and you take revenge on the surgeon?
The world truly had all kinds.
The information was so wild Ethan forgot what he'd meant to tell her.
Then Mary suddenly spoke.
"Doctor… were you the one who brought me back from death?"
Ethan met her gaze. There was something strange in her eyes—hope, fear, awe.
Of course she knew. Any med student who didn't realize an aortic-level stab should have killed them might as well switch careers.
Ethan decided to play it light.
He grinned and nodded.
"Yeah. You know how bad that wound was. I paid a huge price—went beyond normal human limits to pull you back.
"Not asking for repayment or anything, just saying…"
Mary looked at him. Her eyes seemed to shine, but she said nothing.
Ethan frowned. "I saved your life. Not even a thank-you?"
Mary answered seriously, "You saved my life. 'Thank you' isn't enough."
Ethan felt oddly pleased. Good kid.
"Great. Then after you graduate med school, you come work full-time at the clinic. Nine to nine, six days a week. At sixty, I give you retirement pay. Deal?"
"…Okay," Mary said.