Chapter 11: Sick Boy
The old man turned, surprised to see the young face he'd met just yesterday offering a helping hand.
"Don't worry, it's fine," the man said, waving him off.
"No, I insist," Cassian replied firmly, not taking no for an answer.
He took the crate from the old man and walked the short distance to the nearby house, where a growing stack of similar crates waited. The man was stunned by the young man's unsolicited kindness. It seemed like youngsters these days only cared about partying and profit. He was glad a few who still showed respect, like Cassian, were left in the world.
As they worked, he decided to strike up a conversation.
"So, why come back to help an old man like me? Don't youngsters usually go out adventuring with their friends?" he asked.
"I have no friends," Cassian replied flatly.
"Oh," the old man murmured, surprised. He looked at Cassian, wanting to understand more.
"And why is that, if you don't mind me asking?" He set down the crate he had just lifted from the carriage.
"You never know who to trust," Cassian said, his voice hard.
"That is true," the old man agreed, sensing the young man had tasted the harsh side of life far too early.
"So, why all these healing potions and herbs?" Cassian asked, skillfully redirecting the topic away from himself.
"Do you sell them?"
"No, I don't," the old man said, his face clouding with sadness as he dropped a crate onto the ground.
"They're for my grandson."
Cassian stopped in his tracks. All these expensive potions and rare herbs for a single sick child—something was terribly wrong.
"What happened to him?" Cassian asked.
The old man bent backward slightly, a quiet crack sounding from his spine.
"I don't know, son. He's been sick for a long time. It started a few years after he was born."
"What about his parents?" Cassian asked, carrying the next wooden crate from the carriage.
"They left," the old man replied simply.
Cassian froze. "They gave up on him?"
"Yeah. I overheard them discussing one night how they couldn't take the pain anymore. I left my daughter and her husband to sort it out, but the next day they were gone. Took nothing but themselves." The old man finished, closing the carriage doors firmly.
"But you haven't given up?" Cassian asked.
"No, I haven't. I believe there's always a way out," the man said, his eyes filled with stubborn hope.
"I've called so many healers, spent so much money, and I just keep hoping for improvement. I just want him to feel loved, even if... even if he doesn't make it. He should know that I care. But I don't want that to happen. I just want to give him a life where he can be happy."
Cassian felt a profound connection to the man's words. This unwavering belief in his grandson reminded Cassian so much of his old neighbor. The neighbor who believed in him even when his own parents counted him a failure. I won't abandon this man or his grandson.
"Sir, can I see your grandson? I might be able to help," Cassian offered.
The old man looked at the young lad with doubt. "Are you a healer?"
"No, but I am a Mage," Cassian replied.
The old man had already tried professional healers from many kingdoms, sinking into debt for treatments that failed, yet still cost a fortune. But he wasn't truly giving up. He was willing to give the young Mage a try.
"Let me get him ready," the man said.
"In the meantime, could you please bring the rest of the boxes into the house?"
"I have no problem with that," Cassian replied, his voice full of eager motivation.
The old man walked into the house, leaving the door open for Cassian. Cassian turned to the mountain of remaining crates. Though motivated, seeing the sheer number of boxes triggered a flash of pure laziness.
Driven by the spirit of efficiency, he pulled a single, blank Mystic Card from his sleeve and threw it at the pile. As it touched the nearest crate, the entire stack vanished in a silent flash of light, as if they had never been there.
He had stored them.
Cassian stepped into a small, empty room. It contained only a single chair and a small table. The walls were bare—no pictures, no accessories, not even a clock. It was spacious but dull.
The old man must have sold everything he had for his grandson.
No matter what the sickness is, I am not leaving here without helping this child. The barren room spoke volumes about the man's sacrifice. Cassian was determined.
He walked to a corner of the room, threw the card again, and with a lash of purple light, the boxes reappeared, neatly stacked in an orderly fashion. He turned to the empty space he was now standing in. Not far from him, there was a closed door.
He waited, staring at the door, lost in thought.