Trafalgar opened his eyes slowly.
The ceiling above him came into focus in fragments, then fully. His body felt heavy, as though weight had settled into muscle and bone, yet there was no sharp pain, no tearing sensation, no lingering wound demanding attention. The strain had passed. What remained was exhaustion layered deep beneath the skin.
He drew a slow breath.
The overload was gone.
When his mana had collapsed, his armor and Maledicta had vanished with it, dismissed automatically back into his inventory. Now he lay bare from the waist up, skin marked only by faint traces where healers had examined him. Residual mana lines along his torso suggested thorough inspection. Someone had made sure nothing internal had fractured.
His gaze shifted.
Aubrelle sat beside the bed.
Blindfold secured over her eyes. Back straight. Hands resting calmly. Still enough that she might have been carved from stone. She had not noticed.
