Chapter 3 - Heal
My right arm was broken.
I mean really broken. Like, bent-in-a-way-arms-shouldn't kind of broken. The pain was still throbbing, sharp and hot, radiating all the way to my fingertips. Hurts like hell. I cried from the pain, damn it! I sat on a stool in the kitchen, cradling my right arm with the other as I bit down on a leather strap my father gave me.
Thorskil, my father, stood over me, his face stoic and focused but I could tell by the twitch in his brow he was worried.
"You ready?" he grunted.
I gave a weak thumbs up with my left hand.
Thorskil didn't know any healing magic. None of us did. Our family line was about as magical as a brick. He was a warrior, trained in blades, fists, and techniques. My mother, Reyna, was from a barbarian tribe where solving problems involved more muscles and less magic. And Lyra... well, she was about to get disowned.
So when it came to setting a bone, my father did it the old-fashioned way, with sticks, clay, and pain. A LOT of pain. He carefully aligned my broken arm, then wrapped a pair of stripped branches along the forearm like a brace, securing them with cloth soaked in boiled herbs. I winced with every shift, sweat trickling down my face.
"You're doing good." he said quietly. "Sit tight, now. It's almost done."
Then came the clay. He scooped a chunk of it from a bowl beside the fire, still warm and soft, and began packing it around the brace. The clay would dry and harden by morning, forming a solid cast to keep everything in place. A trick he learned from a traveling hunter, apparently.
Primitive? Absolutely. But it does the job done.
While Thorskil worked, Reyna's voice echoed from the next room.
"YOU WHAT?!"
Lyra's muffled response came somewhere between a defensive whine and a nervous laugh.
"It was just a little fall..."
"A LITTLE FALL? From the SECOND FLOOR?! Lyra, you absolute rock-headed—WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!"
"She wanted to help me awaken my Aura..." I muttered around the leather strap.
Thorskil's lips twitched. A dangerous hint of amusement. "Well. If pain really was the trigger, you might have awakened it and passed out from shock at the same time."
From the other room, more shouting.
"You're grounded for the entire birth month! No sweets, no playing outside, no cuddling with cats privileges—!"
"BUT MOM!"
"And don't you 'but Mom' me, young lady! Next time you want to help your brother unlock Aura, TRY NOT TO COMMIT MANSLAUGHTER!"
I chuckled weakly. Which hurt... A lot.
My father looked down at me once he finished the cast and adjusted the final wrap. "That'll hold. We'll get an actual healer from town tomorrow. Until then, try not to fall off any more second stories."
"Noted," I groaned.
Reyna stormed into the room a moment later, her braided hair practically crackling with fury, arms crossed, biceps bulging as she glared at Lyra, who was now sulking behind her, arms folded, guilt all over her face.
My mother turned her gaze to me, instantly softening.
"Oh Kyro, my baby boy," she said, crouching to eye level, carefully avoiding the arm. "Are you okay? Do you need anything? Water? Soup? A punching bag with your sister's face on it?"
"I'm fine..." I laughed weakly. "Just... hurts."
"I bet it does. Don't worry, we'll take care of you. You're tougher than you look, though. Like your dad." She smiled, then shot a glare over her shoulder. "Unlike some people."
"I SAID I WAS SORRY!" Lyra huffed.
"You're lucky you both didn't die! If you had, I would've dragged you back to life just to ground you harder!"
"You're scary when you're mad, mom.." Lyra muttered.
"And you're lucky that's all I am!"
I leaned back against the wall, exhaustion washing over me. The pain was dull now, much more manageable.
I glanced down at my arm, wrapped in bark, hardened with clay, and tied together with rough cloth. Then I stared up at the wooden ceiling above me.
Adventurers' Guilds existed in the stories and scraps of history from my old life. But magic? Those were bedtime myths and game mechanics, never something anyone actually believed in. And now... now I live in a world where those things are real. As real as the sharp throb in my broken arm, that is.
Then I looked at my free hand.
And about Aura.. this is my first time actually hearing anything like this. Separate system, completely independent of mana. Huh, interesting.
Still, the fact that they exist, that I could reach them, it lit something inside me. Magic and Aura was real.
And hopefully, I could have both.
--Thorskil--
The gravel roads of Ytval[1] Village crunched violently beneath my heavy leather boots. The suffocating weight of parental panic pressed down on my chest, heavier than the worn-out leather jacket riding up my shoulders. My stride was exceptionally wide, fast, and borderline reckless as I marched back toward my property. The midday sun was beating down on my neck, but I didn't care. My boy was grievously injured because of a foolish stunt that should have never occurred.
Trailing lazily behind me, casually brushing the rural road dust from his long, dark violet coat, was Damian Joos. He adjusted his silver-rimmed spectacles with a deep sigh that sounded entirely too amused for my liking. He was a former imperial battle-mage, an occasional pain in my rear, and one of the last true friends I kept from my old, bloody adventuring days.
"Do all of your village pathways possess this precise amount of choking dirt, Thors, or is this a localized welcoming ceremony designed specifically to ruin my tailoring?" he drawled, shaking out the elegant hem of his traveling cloak.
"You are incredibly lucky I didn't drag you here by your silk collar," I muttered through gritted teeth, never breaking my stride. "You happened to be within a three-mile radius. I don't believe in coincidences."
"Ah, yes. Only reckless timing and absolute fatherly hysteria."
I didn't possess the mental bandwidth for his standard banter, but a small part of me was profoundly grateful to hear his voice. The man was arrogant, insufferably smug, and entirely too confident in his own magical supremacy. But he was a master of his craft. More importantly, he was here.
True magical healers were days away, locked behind the high stone walls of the capital or stationed exclusively in wealthy aristocratic cities. But our home in Ytval? We were a microscopic speck on the outer border of the Kingdom of Template. The nearest medical mage from this sector was stationed all the way in the City of Fritz, and their financial rates were outrageously predatory. If a peasant child fell ill or suffered a broken limb out here, you simply prayed their biology could endure, or you watched them pass away while waiting for a miracle.
Damian had quite literally been passing through the province on what he deemed a "magical ingredient safari." I hadn't bothered to ask questions. I had simply tracked his mana signature and commandeered his services.
We finally reached the wooden perimeter gate. The iron hinges shrieked as I threw it open. Damian paused, looking up at our modest farmhouse with a singular, critically raised eyebrow.
"Homey," he commented dryly. "And charming, but Inherently crooked."
"Still sturdier than your defensive barriers," I shot back, mounting the porch steps.
The front door was thrown open before my hand could touch the iron handle.
"Thors!" Reyna's voice was sharp enough to split standard granite. She stood firmly in the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes blazing with maternal fire. "You better have brought someone capable of channeling magic, or I swear to the gods I am going to break that boy's other arm just to balance his posture!"
"It is wonderful to see you too, Reyna," Damian said brightly, stepping past me with a theatrical bow. "Still utterly terrifying. I have always admired that about you."
Her fierce gaze flicked to his violet coat. "Oh, gods. It's you."
"You remember me! I am deeply honored," he laughed heartily.
I let out a ragged breath, pushing past them both. "Let's go see the patient."
We entered the dim bedroom. The heavy, metallic scent of wet river clay and dried sweat still hung thick in the air. My son was lying perfectly still on his mattress, his pale hair matted against his forehead. His clumsily bandaged arm rested stiffly at his side. He blinked up at us as we crowded into the small space, instinctively trying to push himself up.
"Don't move, Kyro," I ordered softly, placing a firm hand on his chest. "It's going to be fine now."
The boy froze instantly. Damian clicked his tongue in a soft, analytical rhythm as he knelt directly beside the mattress. He pulled his leather satchel forward, methodically laying out a handful of glowing crystal vials and chalk-drawn runes on the side table.
"A river-clay cast, a willow-bark frame, and a standard linen wrap," Damian murmured, gently inspecting my handiwork with his gloved fingers. "You did a surprisingly competent job for a brute, Thorskil." He glanced up at me through his spectacles. "But you are fortunate the fracture didn't pierce the arterial wall."
Reyna let out a long, shuddering breath of relief from the doorway, her rigid shoulders finally dropping.
"Fix it," I said, my voice cracking slightly. "Please, Damian."
The battle-mage gave a solemn nod. He began to whisper a series of rhythmic, low incantations under his breath, his palms immediately illuminating with a soft, pale green radiance. It wasn't the blinding, pristine white light associated with high divine church healing, but a humbler, natural variant of restructuring magic. It would be more than enough.
As the spell activated, I knelt by Kyro's good side, placing my hand securely over his small shoulder. "You'll be alright, son. Just let him work."
Kyro looked up at me, his wide eyes filled with an intense, quiet vulnerability, before giving a firm nod.
--Kyro--
I lay still as a rock, stiff as stone, while the mage worked his spell over me. My arm, my broken arm, was wrapped in light. Not a blinding, holy glow like I'd seen in movies or imagined in fantasy books, but a soft, pulsing warmth.
And I could feel it. The bone was shifting; re-aligning itself beneath skin and clay. It didn't hurt, but it felt strange. Like a distant tickle inside my arm that I couldn't scratch, mixed with a soft hum that echoed inside my bones.
Weirdest sensation I've ever had.
My eyes flicked up to the man doing it. This so-called magician with his rolled sleeves, faintly glowing hands, and a calm expression like healing broken limbs was just another Tuesday. I also didn't pick up what he said, he basically whispered it, more to himself. Must've said some kind of incantation for him to heal me.
My lips moved before I could stop them.
"Is that really magic?"
Damian's fingers paused for only a moment, then resumed as he let out a thoughtful hum.
"You're not screaming in pain, so yes. Definitely magic," he said, eyes still on my arm. "Why? Doesn't look magical enough for you?"
I blinked. "Well... it's not sparkly."
He chuckled softly. "Sparkles are expensive."
A small, genuine laugh escaped my throat, though I flinched slightly as another deep, internal alignment shifted within my wrist. "So... what exactly is it? How does it actually work?"
Damian glanced at me for a beat, then refocused on the glowing patterns along my skin. "That's a big question for a kid with a bone trying to remember where it belongs."
"H-hey, I'm just curious." I mumbled, staring at my arm in fascination. "No one around here talks about magic. I mean, I know what books say, but..." I looked at him again. "You are the first person I've ever seen do it."
"Huh," he said, his arrogant demeanor dropping for a brief moment, replaced by a quiet, contemplative tone. "That is actually a bit tragic."
"What?" I shifted my head slightly. "Why?"
"Because magic is a magnificent, beautiful thing," he replied, a genuine smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. "And if an old, dusty battle-mage like me is the only standard you ever witness, it would be an absolute waste of your potential."
My eyes widened significantly. "Can... can anyone learn how to do it?"
"The vast majority of humanity can. Not every single soul, but most. You require a modicum of natural talent, an immense amount of cognitive focus, and a whole lot of sheer, pig-headed stubbornness," he explained, emphasizing the final requirement with a sharp look.
He continued, "Magic is essentially like having a direct conversation with the fabric of the world. But you have to speak to it in its own native language. If you learn how to properly listen to the ambient energy, and learn how to articulate your desires back to it, reality will always respond."
"Like... a mutual conversation? With the world itself?" I asked, my chemist mind instantly trying to translate this into a scientific law of conservation and energy state manipulation.
"Eh, close enough." He nodded. "Except instead of 'hello,' you say something like 'res mendari' and the world fixes a snapped bone."
"Is that the exact phrase you just used?! The actual spell?!"
"Not telling," he smirked playfully.
"Oh, come on! Just tell me the phonetic spelling, I'll write it down in my notes!"
"Still a firm no, kid. It is one thing to simply mouth the words. It is an entirely different matter to actually mean them." He reached up, gently tapping the side of his silver spectacles. "Intellectual intent matters more than vocalization. Especially when you are telling reality exactly what to do."
I blinked, thoroughly absorbing his words.
Magic wasn't just a simple matter of waving your hands around and screaming archaic vocabulary. You had to possess the raw, calculated intent to force reality to bend. You had to mean it.
I looked down at my arm. The green illumination was completely fading now, dissolving into the air. The sharp ache was entirely gone, replaced by a heavy, stable numbness. I could feel the profound structural difference. The bone wasn't 100% healed, but it was structurally sound, knitted back together with terrifying efficiency.
"...That was amazing," I whispered.
Damian rose to his full height, casually brushing the dried clay dust from his violet coat as if he had just completed a mundane gardening chore. "Thanks for the praise, kid. Try your best to be more careful next time, alright?"
I gave him a quiet nod, still staring at my now-healed arm. I flexed my fingers like I wasn't sure if they were mine anymore. Behind us, both my parents let out a long, relieved sigh. One of those heavy, bone-deep breaths that only come after fear has loosened its grip.
Reyna immediately moved forward to thank Damian, pressing a leather pouch into his hand. "You have our deepest thanks," she said, even offering a rare nod of respect. "And... sorry for the yelling earlier."
He smirked, pocketing the fee. "Trust me, Reyna, I have heard far worse. You should hear the high nobles in the royal capital when their expensive teacups chip. Makes a banshee sound polite."
Thorskil stepped up next, delivering a heavy, friendly clap to Damian's shoulder that nearly sent the mage into the wall. "So, what exactly did you do down there, you conjuring twiggler?"
Damian grinned, adjusting his glasses. "Oh, the usual metrics. I manually poured raw mana directly into the localized trauma site. I made sure the bone stopped sulking in pieces and forced it back into its correct coordinates."
"Poured mana..." I repeated in a silent whisper, my eyes fixed on my palm.
That specific, localized tingling sensation. That internal shifting heat. That distinct harmonic hum vibrating under my skin. So that is what raw mana actually feels like. I filed the sensory memory deep within the vault of my mind, labeling it as the single most important piece of data I had collected since my reincarnation. I would spend the rest of my life attempting to replicate that feeling.
"Here," Damian said suddenly, turning to me and reaching into his coat. "Payment for being my quietest patient this week."
He pulled out a wrapped piece of bright orange with a gold stripe wrapped candy, and dropped it into my palm. "Made it myself."
My eyes lit up. "You make candy too?"
"Alchemy's not just for potions," he said with a wink. "Besides, chocolate's better than most medicine out there."
I grinned, already unwrapping it as I took a lick. "Tastes like orange!"
"Good," Damian nodded, ruffling my hair before heading toward the door. "That batch was supposed to taste like cinnamon."
"Cool."
He just waved without turning back. "Have a great day, kid."
As the door swung closed behind him, the house returned to its usual stillness, save for the faint creak of wood above.
Unbeknownst to me, a pair of sharp eyes glared down from the top of the stairs. Lyra crouched on the second-floor landing, gripping the railing tightly as she watched Damian disappear down the path through the window.
She scrunched her nose. Her voice was low, a grumble under her breath.
"Magic is for hippies..."
And though she wouldn't admit it out loud, something twisted in her chest. A pang she didn't quite understand. She didn't like seeing her little brother get so much attention.
[End]
[1] Pronunciation Guide: YEE-t-val (jiːt væl)