Whistle!
I sat near the house, holding a small sphere that slowly rotated above my palm as I nudged it with thin pulses of mana. It was the same tuonite sphere Roxy had given me back when she tried to instill at least some sense of inner control. She said exercises like this helped gather mana into one place and hold it, so it wouldn't spill everywhere.
At first, I could barely do anything, and the sphere kept shooting forward and smacking me in the forehead. But I kept repeating the motion until I finally began to feel the subtle balance between effort and the mana's obedience. Over time I managed to hold the form, though control was still my weak point, and because of the excess mana, any attempt to focus often ended in a loss of control.
Whistle!
"Oh!"
I guided the mana along a thin line running across the sphere's surface and felt the flow becoming thicker than needed. The sphere jerked and almost shot forward, but I caught it with my fingers and returned it above my palm so I wouldn't lose rhythm. Then I picked up the mana thread again and guided it more calmly, adjusting the width and length of the lines to understand how the sphere reacted.
After a couple more minutes, I lowered my hand and let the movement fade, then placed the sphere on the grass. A soft sense of satisfaction rose in my chest—I truly was beginning to feel the subtlety of the flow, shifting it without abrupt surges. I thought I had made good progress in control, though I still couldn't move beyond this one sphere, since excess mana kept bursting forward and ruining the balance.
Leaving the sphere aside, I stood up and walked toward the hill where a large tree with a wide crown grew. I passed between the houses, following familiar village paths, and soon reached a winding road that slowly climbed upward.
A bird flew overhead, and its quick shadow slid across my shoulders, making me look up. It was larger than the birds usually found nearby, and I watched it until it disappeared above the distant rooftops. Strange bird, I thought, noting its wide wingspan and unusual feather color.
Reaching the tree, I sat down in its shade at the slope and stretched my legs, watching the narrow path vanish between the houses below.
The bird was still circling above the hill, making a wide arc before finally descending and landing nearby. Now I could see it better—and understood why it caught my attention so quickly.
Its wings were long, with a soft gradient from golden to dark blue, the shift in color resembling the evening sky before sunset. Its chest looked dense, and its legs were thin but steady, like those of a predator used to standing on stone and soil. The feathers on its neck shimmered faintly as the bird turned its head toward me, as if checking whether I posed any threat.
Soon I noticed a slight rustle in the bushes, and before I could fully understand what was happening, a small creature lunged at the bird.
It darted out swiftly and immediately circled its target, trying to bite at the neck. I jumped to my feet and hurried down the slope—the bird clearly wasn't fast enough to react to such a sudden attack.
A hit.
The creature flew aside, tumbling in the air before it crashed against the ground with a dull thud. It scrambled up almost instantly, arched its back, and let out a long:
"Hsshhh…"
Then it spun around and vanished into the bushes, leaving behind a quick crackle of branches.
"Hah…"
I chuckled, realizing I'd just stolen someone's lunch.
The long-eared creature—one Paul always called "rodents with ambitions"—behaved exactly as he described. Something about their habit of attacking anything, even what was clearly beyond their ability, surfaced in my memory and made me smile again.
I turned toward the bird—and immediately saw things were worse than I thought.
It lay on the ground, wings spread, and beneath it a dark patch of blood kept growing. Its chest jerked sharply, unevenly, like every breath was a struggle. By the look of it, it wouldn't last long if nothing changed.
"Should've flown higher."
I said it quietly as I approached and crouched beside it, trying not to disturb what little strength it had left. Ridiculous: not only did I take the creature's prey, but the bird was dying anyway. Tried to help, and as usual… failed.
Sigh.
Though maybe… there was still a way?
I looked around, making sure no one was nearby. The hill was off to the side of the village, but anything could happen—someone might pass through, or a young couple might choose this place for their romantic morning, which usually ended the way such mornings always did. Right. Not the time for that.
Once I was certain the area was quiet and empty, I placed my hands near the bird.
"Sanatio per sanguinem…" (Healing through blood…)
I closed my eyes and gathered everything I knew about control, because this magic always slipped away from me more than any other. Healing magic required precision, and my precision wobbled like a poorly balanced stool. Besides, it was forbidden outside church circles, and my practice hours could be counted on one hand.
I slowly released mana from my palms and tried to hold it in the shapes Zenith had shown me. The flow shook, threatening to break free, but I held it until I saw a faint green light appear on the bird's wounds. It formed a thin layer, filling the torn edges and pulling them together bit by bit.
"Sanatio per sanguinem, caro in ordinem redigatur…" (Healing through blood, flesh return to order…)
I continued, and the spell strengthened, drawing the torn tissue together faster and tighter.
The bird suddenly jerked, then again, and its wings twitched violently. A sharp worry ran through me—the pain might be too much. Could it die from the pain itself? What if I wasn't healing but only tormenting it?
Stop.
Those thoughts only destabilized the flow, and I felt the mana nearly slip out of control.
I remembered Paul's advice—usually delivered in his carefree tone: "If you start doing something, don't think about how it might go wrong. Think about how to finish it, or your hands will start shaking." Strangely enough, it fit perfectly now.
Pushing doubt aside, I took a deeper breath and brought my focus back to the spell, trying to keep the flow steady and firm.
"Fibrae recompositae…" (Fibers restored...)
The bird twitched harder—but differently now, not from sharp pain, but as if the damaged tissues were beginning to align properly. A thin green glow filled the tears more deeply, and the edges of the wounds slowly rose and settled back into place.
"Animae flumen restituatur..." (Let the soul's flow be restored...)
With those words, I stopped, and the light faded, leaving the bird lying quietly on the grass.
"Haaa…"
I leaned back and wiped my forehead, brushing away sweat. Only now did I realize how tense I had been the entire time.
My hands were trembling, and the back of my shirt was so soaked it could be wrung out.
I felt as if I had tried to run a marathon, even though in my previous world I had never run one—obvious reasons, and I probably couldn't have managed a hundred meters. Back then I'd been a fat garbage sack, too heavy and neglected, and would likely have died of a heart attack. Here, I still had no idea what I was capable of, because there was nothing to measure myself against.
Looking at the bird, I knew the job wasn't finished.
I still handled this magic far too poorly, and a comparison surfaced in my mind: Zenith would probably heal a wound like this instantly, without even thinking. Birds, small animals, rats—she once told me about her training in the Creator's Temple.
Back then she said their instructors gave them boxes full of living creatures, and the students had to heal wounds they either inflicted themselves or were helped to inflict.
Only that way could they practice before moving on to people, because otherwise training would end far too quickly—and badly. Zenith mentioned that dead bodies were normal for them, and she didn't even blink while speaking.
Creepy. I'd thought there must've been plenty of unhinged people in that temple if they considered such methods normal.
"So what am I supposed to do with you…"
I stared at the bird, trying to decide whether I should carry it home and give it to Zenith. She'd fix this in minutes, and that would be that. But for some reason, I felt a pull to continue myself. I rarely had a chance to use this magic, and it was genuinely useful. If I started avoiding practice again, I'd stay useless in this area forever. Running from it wouldn't teach me anything. Nothing at all. I nodded, trying to anchor that decision inside myself.
Besides… what if I ended up with a pet? In my previous life I'd read enough light novels where the protagonist saved a small creature and it turned into a legendary dragon or something like that. Why not? Would be nice to have such a companion. I imagined my future pet-bird fending off enemies with a sharp peck and couldn't help but grin.
I brought my hands to the bird again and repeated the spell I'd used a minute earlier. The pale green glow returned, spreading thinly over its feathers and wounds, and the bird jerked again, its entire body trembling.
I recalled how many times I had cut or broken something myself, and how Zenith healed me with these same spells. The pain back then had been impossible to ignore, no matter how hard I tried to stay calm.
"Sanatio per sanguinem, caro in ordinem redigatur..." (Healing through blood, flesh return to order...)
I began reciting the next lines, trying to keep my voice steady. But this time the magic resisted. The mana flow pushed back, refusing to obey, and I had to pull it along almost by force. I must have exhausted myself in the first minutes, because the wave of fatigue hit suddenly—like someone had thrown a wet blanket over my shoulders.
Sweat streamed down my face, tickling my neck, seeping under my collar. My hands started trembling from overexertion. But I kept the spell going as long as the faint glow responded even a little.
Still, things seemed to be going well. The wounds were almost gone, and a quick thought flickered through my mind: I'd finally succeeded. Just a little more, and the rare pet would be unlocked…
"Sanatio per sa—"
Click!
Something snapped inside my head—sharp and sudden, like a taut string breaking. In the same instant, mana burst in all directions, losing every bit of control. The flow grew rough and dense, as if a valve had opened and no one could close it.
The bird shrieked:
"Kii-i-i!"
Shit!
It convulsed, body arching, and the wounds I had just closed began tearing open again. The edges swelled, ripping under pressure, and blood gushed out as if someone had punctured a water-filled pouch. The mana's light now only fueled the destruction, turning healing into the opposite.
"Kii-i-i!"
I tried to stop the flow, grabbing at the mana as if I could hold it with bare hands. But it surged on, ignoring both words and intent.
"Kii-i-i!"
Its screams stabbed into my ears, tearing at my focus, drowning out my own breathing.
And then there was silence.
"Fuck!"
***
Hot, fragrant, the meat soft, the fat rich, the salt balanced—my first few bites only confirmed it.
"Tasty!"
I chewed slowly, giving myself time to settle after everything that happened on the hill.
"…No! Not tasty… Who put onion in here!"
Only after a few more bites did I realize something was wrong. A familiar unpleasant aftertaste crawled across my tongue. Onion. Not raw, not fried—boiled into a mushy state where its texture reminded me of snot or something even worse.
How do you even describe it? It didn't make chewing harder, but it left a strange coating on the tongue, and because of that I couldn't taste the meat anymore. I knew it was good, but each time the flavor surfaced, that unpleasant note smothered it.
Why add onion at all? Everything here was already delicious: the fat gave softness, the juices held warmth, the meat had its own aroma. And the onion felt like it was thrown in automatically, out of habit. Maybe it's their recipe? Or they just add onion everywhere.
I didn't like it. I kept eating, but my thoughts were no longer about the food—they orbited that damn onion that wouldn't leave my tongue alone.
I chewed, and suddenly I found myself thinking not about the onion but about the food I used to eat back home, in my old life. Bowls of ramen came first—the broth smelled of seaweed and pork so strongly my mouth would water. Then the tuna onigiri my parents bought me, the soft rice holding shape, the warm, familiar scent of nori. Miso soup, served everywhere, its gentle aroma of paste and broth calming even on terrible days. Teriyaki with rice, sweet and thick, and fried gyoza with crisp edges and juicy filling…
Those images dragged me out of the present for a moment, leaving me sitting with a piece of local meat in my mouth, staring at the memory of dishes I would never taste again.
Back in reality, I looked at the plate.
"…"
I miss my food. The thought hit, and my appetite vanished just as quickly. I sighed and pushed the plate away. I didn't want to chew or analyze flavors anymore.
And the meat of this bird carried another memory—the bird I had killed today. That only made my appetite sink further. I buried it under a tree, covering it carefully, then walked home, but the thoughts wouldn't go away.
Some progress I'm making. Last time it was just painful. Now there are casualties.
It was a bird, but what if it had been a person? Haaa… Now I understood Zenith better. If healing magic could misfire like this and cause harm, no wonder they trained on animals first—otherwise the consequences would be far worse.
I was learning healing, not a way to kill.
And why couldn't healing magic just… heal? Why did one wrong movement turn it into something that tore flesh instead of knitting it? Could this even be called safe magic if it slipped out of control so easily?
My eyes drifted back to the onion.
"Why cook it like this? The onion turned to mush. It ruins everything. Flavor—gone. Just onion. As if added specifically to sabotage…"
Sigh.
"Again with that face, like you just saved a kitten and immediately drowned it."
I jerked and turned toward the door. Roxy stood there, squinting at me as if she'd already drawn several conclusions. She wasn't wearing her hat, and her hair stuck out in different directions, as if it had fought a pillow and lost. She must've just woken up, even though it was already well past morning.
Her sleep was never consistent. She could go to bed at night and wake in the morning, or close her eyes for five minutes and disappear into dreams for half the day.
"I thought you were sleeping."
"I thought so too until you started talking to your stew."
"I wasn't talking to stew!"
"Sorry, to the onion. There's a difference."
She sat on the chair beside me as if that had been her plan all along, setting an empty cup at the edge of the table. Then she looked at me, tilting her head slightly—not listening to my words, but to what was happening inside me.
"So? Did the magic go wrong again? Or are you struggling with the grand philosophical question of why people ruin food with onions?"
"The second. The first has mostly passed. Almost."
"Wow. Usually you begin with yelling and tragedy, and now we go straight to philosophy. Growth."
"It's a cry from the soul. Ever eaten stew with overcooked onion?"
"I survived on dried mushrooms that smelled like socks. Your onion isn't that bad."
Pause. I stared at my cold plate.
"Want me to reheat it?" she asked.
"No. We've already said our goodbyes."
"Good. Then I'll eat it so it doesn't go to waste."
"Write a farewell note."
"'Died heroically.' I'll sign it."
I snorted. She scooped a bit, tasted it, and immediately squinted, as if experiencing a sudden revelation.
"…Alright. You win. It's bad. Who made this?"
"Zenith."
"Mhm. Then we keep this secret. No one must know she's avenging herself through food."
It wasn't as awful as we pretended, but Roxy clearly wanted to cheer me up, and for some reason, that alone eased the weight.
"So? Achieved enlightenment?" she asked, twirling the spoon.
"More like despair. But thanks for the support."
"Anytime. I'm a master of emotional rescue..."
"I noticed."
She snorted in agreement and set the spoon aside.
"Alright, I'll go. I'll try to make myself presentable while my body still remembers what morning is."
She stood, adjusted her clothes, and headed toward the door, scratching the back of her head sleepily.
"And stop glaring at the onion like it ruined your life. If you want revenge—just don't eat it. That's victory."
"That's… unexpectedly wise."
"Sometimes nonsense turns wise by accident…"
She smirked, turned, and walked toward the door.
I was about to look back at the plate when I realized I had squinted, trying to catch something at the edge of sight. A flicker? I lifted my gaze to Roxy. Looked closely at her hair.
There—something shimmered. The tips of her hair, when she turned, reflected a faint blue—so quick I thought I imagined it.
"You…" slipped out of my mouth.
She sensed my stare, stopped, and tilted her head slightly. A hint of confusion crossed her face. Roxy ran her hand through her hair exactly where I had been looking, her fingers brushing the ends.
"Ink," she said calmly, without the slightest concern, as if it were something utterly mundane. "Got some on me."
And she walked out without even glancing back.
I sat still, feeling goosebumps rise along my arms. That blue shimmer lingered in my mind. She wasn't a Migurd. Definitely not. She couldn't read thoughts. Impossible.
Or… could she?
If she could… and ever peeked inside…
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to shake the thought off. The blue shine resurfaced again, like a hint I didn't ask for. Maybe it really was ink. Ordinary ink. She would've told the truth.
But if not…
---
The next few hours I spent restless. Thoughts kept circling that brief blue flicker, and the more I tried to dismiss it, the more intrusive it became—taunting me from memory's corner.
And then something happened—something I never wanted to experience again. Back then I didn't even understand that it was just the beginning, the first crack in the calm that would one day grow into a rift capable of erasing an entire region.