The Price of Sacrifice
Kim Jin-seo hid her cigarette the moment she spotted me, snuffing it out with practiced ease. She tossed the butt carelessly and tried to slip away.
"Ugh, ack."
Or at least, that's what she attempted. Midway through her escape, she let out a groan and collapsed right there on the spot. Looking closer, I saw her ankle was in a cast too. There wasn't a single healthy spot on her body—wounds and injuries everywhere.
Even after falling, she couldn't get up and just writhed on the ground. Her face twisted in agony, cold sweat beading on her forehead. Anyone could see she was suffering terribly. She looked on the verge of passing out from the pain.
Her injuries were severe, sure, but the pain seemed disproportionately intense.
"Don't tell me."
It wasn't hard to guess why. Kim Jin-seo, bearer of the Patience Holy Mark, wielded the Stoic's Blessing. With her left hand, she stole others' pain; with her right, she passed her own pain onto them.
During the incident, she'd used it to absorb the suffering of thirty people. Even while struggling to care for herself, she'd shouldered everyone else's pain too.
Some called it noble sacrifice. To me, it was just foolishness.
She didn't show it outright, but Kim Jin-seo was writhing in torment. The cold sweat on her brow, her trembling lips, her distant gaze—they all proved it.
The price of sacrifice is always brutal. That's why I hated the word, and why I saw those who offered themselves up as fools.
My father had been the same.
"...Why'd you go and do that?"
I said it watching her shake in pain. Not the kindest words for someone suffering, but that's how idiotic she looked to me. If it hurt this much, she never should've volunteered in the first place.
...I'd nearly died using Granbwa's power myself. On second thought, I had no right to say that. I'd chosen sacrifice too, accepting the losses that came with it.
"Ahem."
I cleared my throat awkwardly to shake off the embarrassment. Kim Jin-seo was still deep-breathing, suppressing her pain. Her dazed eyes finally met mine.
"...You gonna say something?"
"About what."
"This."
She pointed at the cigarette butt on the ground.
"What, you gonna report me for smoking?"
"Yeah."
"Eh, we'll see."
I had no intention of ratting her out. I just felt pity—how bad must it hurt to resort to this?
Hearing that, she hung her head, her voice trembling as she spoke.
"I'm really... sob... it hurts so much. Can't you just... let it slide? If this gets out, I'll..."
Her voice cracked with tears. The pain had frayed her emotions. No logic to her words, but I got the gist: cut me some slack.
"If it hurts that bad, just pass it on to someone else."
"...Huh?"
"The Stoic's Blessing. Can't you transfer pain with your right hand?"
To be precise, pressing her right hand to someone's forehead transferred the pain. Left hand did the opposite. As long as the condition was met, it activated regardless of the caster's will.
She looked up at me, eyes red-rimmed.
"Are you insane? Who the hell would I dump this on? I'm not... sob... trash like you."
Even groaning in pain, she got her point across. I'd said it out of concern, but getting called trash stung anyway.
"How am I trash?"
"If someone else... huff... is hurting, better me than them."
"Ah, got it."
Sucker.
"And watch... your mouth."
Her voice broke with waves of pain.
"You don't... sob... have to feel it yourself, so it's easy for you to say."
"Then pass it to me."
Her eyes went wide in shock. But soon, doubt and distrust clouded them.
"Ha. What kinda bullshit... is that."
She let out a hollow laugh, eyes drifting to empty space. She clearly thought I didn't mean it—like it was just polite talk, nothing more.
"You wouldn't... sob... take it anyway. Easy words."
Her response gave away the signs. People hardened by harsh lives warp in one of two ways.
First: affection-starved. They cling desperately to others, crashing into depression if that support vanishes.
Second: misanthropic distrust. They see only their own misery as real, dismissing others'. They avoid relying on anyone, quietly despising them. It can escalate to outright hatred.
Kim Jin-seo seemed the second type.
I didn't know her history—just rumors she was the chairman's daughter. Whatever made her distrust people like that, it was clear she'd had it rough.
"These types are easy to proselytize. With nowhere to turn, they lean on religion and gods. So target them aggressively."
Dad taught me that, adding those words. Then Mom smacked his back. He did all the chores that day. (He usually did anyway.)
Anyway, I decided to exploit her psychology.
I strode toward her where she sat slumped on the ground.
"I can get up... ahk... on my own. So... Huh? What're you—"
I pressed her right hand to my forehead. Normally impossible, but pain and injury left her too weak to resist.
Pop.
Something snapped, and unimaginable pain surged in. My breath stopped; every muscle locked rigid. Fingers, lips, eyelids—all trembled uncontrollably. Holding onto consciousness was impossible. Even my brain prickled.
The breeze felt like razor blades. Just a few seconds, and I nearly blacked out.
Kim Jin-seo had endured this for days. Her unusual irritability made sense now. In this much pain, you couldn't spare a thought for others.
Hell, even a saint would curse.
The agony wracked me for an instant. Then the shaking stopped. Breathing steadied. Tension melted into drowsy relief. The pain was gone.
Legba had taken the pain. The Stoic's Blessing pain counted as a "curse," so I could pass it to him. To Legba, who'd lived eons, this was nothing—a mere pinch.
"What're you doing."
Kim Jin-seo stared blankly.
Free of pain, her words flowed smoothly.
"What did you do? Give it back. Quick...!"
She fumbled, slapping her left hand to my forehead to reclaim it. But it failed—her hand was bandaged.
She stared vacantly at the wrapped hand.
"It's fine. I can handle it."
Legba had handled it, but yeah, it was manageable.
"Don't lie. What if you pass out, idiot? What the hell...!"
She didn't buy it. Stomping her feet, she desperately tried pressing her left hand to me anyway. Futile— the blessing wouldn't trigger through the bandage.
Still, I'd succeeded in taking her pain. Next step.
Peeing—!
A sharp, thin whistle echoed through the alley. Her wounds healed—or rather, restored.
Legba commented on my casting. I'd used Low-Grade Restoration Spell. At mastery level in restoration, I didn't even need a spell circle for low-grade ones.
This healed her scattered wounds perfectly—even reattached her nearly severed finger seamlessly.
"What'd you do now?"
Kim Jin-seo gawked at me.
"Healing. Your finger's fixed."
Restoration, technically, but same result.
Her face paled.
"You... you failed healing in practice."
"It succeeded? Low-grade healing."
"That's what failed!"
Huge success by my standards... I deflated inwardly but kept a straight face.
Pale as a ghost, sweating bullets, she clutched her bandaged left hand.
"Botch a patch job, and it'll scar. The healing priest said wait till it's stable."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Why do you keep doing dumb shit? You won't own up if it scars...!"
She fretted over potential scars. But as I said, I'm a master of restoration. Low-grade could reattach limbs scar-free—fingers were nothing.
"If it scars, I'll take responsibility. But it won't."
"Low-grade healing, and no scar? Easy talk again..."
She started venting, then trailed off, realizing something.
I could guess her thoughts. I don't spout shiny words without certainty. Like before.
"Unwrap the bandage at home and check. If you're still worried."
"..."
She bowed her head silently. Worry, anxiety, faint anger—powerlessness, loss—all flickered in her eyes.
She stayed quiet for a long stretch. Tears welled and slid down her cheeks.
In that awkward silence, we just stood there, saying nothing.
Vroooom—!
Sudden roar of exhaust—a white luxury sedan pulled into the alley mouth. An unfamiliar man leaned out, eyeing me then her.
"Miss?"
His look and tone screamed chauffeur. Spotting her tears, he glared at me, eyes sharp with hostility.
Felt a bit wronged. I hadn't made her cry.
...Maybe.
As my head spun, she got in the car. It sped off.
The alley reeked of stale smoke and exhaust.
"Figured the chairman's daughter might help someday. Didn't pan out."
Legba hurled barbs casually. No comeback.
"Cut it out. Headache."
"Yeah, sure."
I mumbled half-heartedly.
*
Back home, Kim Jin-seo flung herself onto the bed. The drive had been glum. The pain vanishing was great. The finger? Terrifying.
...Scary.
Unwrapping the bandage felt impossible. Low-grade reattachments always scarred. Sometimes they twisted grotesquely, leaving permanent deformity.
Better dead than that.
"If it scars, I'll take responsibility."
Do Seon-woo's words echoed. What gave him that confidence? The guy who flubbed low-grade healing, slept through orientation from exhaustion, went rogue in demon practice...
(Sure, he got her first place then, but still.)
Lying there, staring at the ceiling, she cursed him. After stewing, she steeled herself and bolted upright.
"Please."
Sitting up, she slowly unwound the left-hand bandage. Hands shook. Tears threatened.
Each layer peeled worsened the tremors. When the bandage fell away, exposing the severed middle finger...
"Huh? Huh? Whoa!"
She yelped in shock. Her teary eyes dried instantly.
Perfect. No scar at the joint. Flawlessly rejoined.
She flexed, poked, prodded it. Sensation, texture—all intact.
"...!"
She whooped silently, bouncing in joy. She could resume daily life tomorrow. Even workouts.
She mocked her past self's pointless scar worries.
Do Seon-woo was right—no scar.
...Do Seon-woo was right.
Now she cringed at her pathetic display before him. Why'd she act like that? "Bad mood" was no excuse—not after he did that.
How a low-grade fumbler pulled off perfect healing? Mystery. But gratitude first.
(To be continued)