The People Left Behind (2)
How long had it been? The last time she'd felt the sensation of her holy power draining her.
"Haa..."
She let out another sigh—god only knew how many that made today—and rebuilt the ritual once more.
From lines to shapes, from shapes to cubes.
To siphon the overflowing ice-affinity ether raging inside her, she kept constructing the hollow ritual while simultaneously healing the body that was crumbling even now.
The Northern Duke had handed over the ritual materials without hesitation, so there was no danger of her holy power running dry.
Thus, she focused again.
The holy power coursed through her body, fulfilling its duty.
Sealing torn meridians, mending severed and stretched muscles, reconnecting fractured or broken bones.
Yet her body was collapsing at almost the same rate as it healed.
Heal one spot, and trouble erupted elsewhere. Fix that, and another problem arose.
It was less healing and more like prolonging the inevitable.
By the natural order of the world, it might be right to let her go like this.
But she couldn't give up.
It wasn't just because of her father's request.
Even without that, she wouldn't have.
No. If I were her, I wouldn't have given up.
She hoped that brilliant light—which alone stepped forward when everyone else despaired—wouldn't fade.
"...Ilisha. Just hold on a little longer, please."
With her eyes closed, Ilisha looked utterly serene.
No sign of pain, no discomfort.
If she were conscious, she'd be screaming from the agony of real-time healing amid constant breakdown.
But she remained silent.
That silence was unbearably unnerving.
What if her soul had already departed? What if only her crumbling flesh remained, barely held together?
I told you to take care of yourself.
So many people would grieve—please, just take care of yourself.
No.
If only I'd been greedier.
Not satisfied with just the Imperial Guard, if I'd called the Holy Knights too...
Then maybe her body wouldn't have reached this state.
If only I'd pushed a little harder. Then this wouldn't have happened.
That realization was devastating beyond words.
She'd seen countless times how useless late regrets were, yet she couldn't shake it off.
All she could do was silently continue what was possible now.
She hated that powerlessness.
Powerlessness was the emotion she'd felt as that wretched girl cursing the world from the slums.
"...O Father."
Unable to bear it, despite knowing it was blasphemous, she dared to ask.
Why impose such a cruel fate on this kind child?
For what purpose?
What do You wish her to witness?
...I dare not doubt You.
My very existence is proof of Your boundless mercy and design.
So, won't You at least tell me?
Won't You whisper it to the child You favor most?
What salvation do You plan to grant her?
Of course, no answer came.
The Father gave questions, not answers.
So she turned her mind fully back to Ilisha.
She was still alive, after all. Breathing, faintly.
Keeping that breath from stopping was her mission...
And the only thing she could do for her.
Three days had passed since Ilisha was brought to the temple.
Cecilia still hadn't stepped outside.
...No news on Ilisha today, either.
The academy buzzed, but that didn't matter now.
She didn't feel like meeting friends.
She just wanted to know one thing.
Was Ilisha still alive? Did she have a chance? Or were they just dragging out a hopeless treatment?
To find out, she loitered in front of the temple again after classes ended.
...Honestly, she wanted to bawl her eyes out.
But the tears wouldn't come.
After agonizing over why, she finally realized.
...She didn't want to look pathetic crying in front of others.
She'd thought she didn't care about face, but apparently she still did.
"Crazy bitch, crazy bitch, crazy bitch..."
Was that aimed at Ilisha or herself? Even she wasn't sure.
I don't get it.
Why did she have to step up? Why did it have to be her? Why was Ilisha's dad late?
Everything pissed her off. The clear targets for hate kept slipping away.
Why hasn't Cecilia healed her yet? Why did Ern bolt and make Ilisha chase him?
Blame everyone, and it always circled back to her.
Why couldn't you help Ilisha?
Why shoot arrows at innocents when you know who deserves it?
Every time, she fled instead of facing the hate fully.
She had helped. As much as she could.
Dorothea helped, sure, but she'd squeezed out ether till she was dizzy and blasted wide-area magic.
And knowing who to hate should be enough, right?
People have hearts; it's not that simple.
As she piled on excuses to kill time, someone emerged from the temple.
Cecilia, exhaustion plain on her face.
Her vibrant pinkish hair and eyes were dull.
She looked like she hadn't slept properly in days.
But that wasn't the point.
"Ilisha?! How is she?!"
She practically lunged at her, demanding Ilisha's condition.
"...Lady Lucia. Ilisha... well. Her body is somehow healed, at least."
Childlike joy flared briefly, then snagged on the phrasing.
Somehow. Body, at least.
Body.
...Then her mind?
"What does that mean?"
Please say no.
But Cecilia averted her eyes, confirming the worst.
"...She won't open her eyes."
That broke her.
"...Let me see her! Now!"
Cecilia didn't stop her.
Just asked her not to make a scene and led her in.
Ilisha looked like she was sleeping.
Apart from the ugly scar on her right arm, she seemed like she'd wake if touched.
Until Lucia reached out with trembling hands.
"If you touch her..."
"...Eek!"
The moment her hand touched, Lucia yanked it back instinctively.
Ice-cold.
Like she was trapped in a glacier, not alive.
About to demand if this was "fine," she saw Ilisha breathing steadily.
...That sapped her will to argue.
Yeah. Cecilia did what she could.
In the end, all Lucia could do was stare blankly.
She'd sworn to treat her right.
Knew she was terminal, vowed to fill her life with fun memories.
Hang out, eat good food, brighten that gloomy existence even a bit.
What the hell is this?
What the hell?
She wanted to grab her hand.
Yank it, shake her: Wake up, snap out of it, stop messing around!
But she couldn't.
Too cold.
Like a corpse. Colder than one.
That terrified her too much to touch again.
It was pathetic.
Her, too cowardly.
Scared of the cold, the fear, unable to even hug her properly.
How could she call herself a friend?
"...If you die, I'll kill you."
That's what slipped out.
She knew it was nonsense.
But she couldn't hold it in otherwise.
Especially with Cecilia watching.
Don't go.
Don't die.
I still have so much I want to do for you.
So much we planned, so much to show you. I haven't done any of it right.
She wanted to say it, but couldn't.
She hated this so much it drove her mad.
The situation. No one to blame. Nothing she could do. Worst, hesitating to even touch.
Just watching, powerless.
She felt like she was going insane.
The rumor that the Saintess, focused on healing Ilisha, had finally emerged reached even me, holed up in my lab.
Hearing it, I couldn't stay at my desk any longer.
Panting, I rushed to the temple and begged the Saintess to let me see her.
She graciously agreed, and at last, I faced her.
Many had visited before; her bedside was cluttered with gifts.
Seeing them, shame hit me.
Visiting the sick empty-handed.
Even lost in magic as I was, how could I forget something so basic?
Cursing myself inwardly, I looked at her.
My disciple. Ilisha.
She slept peacefully.
They said her body was nearly fully healed, but she hadn't regained consciousness.
...Isn't there something I can do?
The thought struck the instant I saw her.
But no ideas came.
How?
That was all that surfaced.
It felt alien.
Normally, I'd have the answer before doubt arose.
Even if "how?" came first, a solution would follow swiftly.
In magic, I was a genius.
But now...
Not even my prized genius yielded a method.
No answer in sight.
Truly.
No matter how I probed.
No matter the calculations.
Nothing.
It terrified me.
This was all I was good at.
Magic.
Formulas, structures, derivations.
That was my pride, how I proved myself, earned recognition.
If even that couldn't save one friend, what was I?
What were all my achievements?
Sneering at swordsmen as primitives, acting like I grasped the world—yet failing to save her.
What value did I have?
The thought was horrifying.
With my friend and disciple's life hanging by a thread, my first worry was my own worthlessness.
Utterly selfish. Disgustingly so.
Stopping the thoughts felt like admitting it was true.
So I repeated the futile calculations.
It was all I knew how to do.