As she cast the healing spell, the elf girl's small hand began to glow—soft, vibrant, and green. A gentle, living light spilled from her palm like breath caught between life and death. Her eyes drifted closed in fragile concentration, her breathing slow and rhythmic—each inhale a thread stitching calm into the moment. Around her, the air shifted, stilling with unnatural reverence, as though the forest itself bowed in silence.
Icariel watched without a word.
Through the haunted lens of his ever-changed vision, he saw the orbs of mana shimmer and tremble—sentient, drawn to her like insects to warmth. They pulsed erratically, then flickered—sacrificing themselves in slow, radiant deaths. Tiny glimmers winked out one by one, swallowed by the intent she exhaled into the world.
"So this is healing…" he muttered inwardly.
He had seen it before—but now, he understood it.
This wasn't like shaping flame or commanding the shriek of wind. This was no act of dominion. It was the opposite. A magic of surrender, not command. Of offering, not conquest. Born from the will to stitch broken pieces back together while the world gnawed at the edges.
And to someone like Icariel—someone who walked with death beside his shadow—this was no mere spell. It was salvation. Far more sacred than fire. More precious than power. Healing was resistance. A refusal. The one art that made death pause, even if only for a breath.
He didn't blink. Not once. Every twitch of mana, every nuance of light, etched itself into the obsidian memory of his mind. He wasn't watching to mimic.
He was watching to understand.
The glow dimmed.
The elf girl opened her eyes—silver irises catching the final whispers of fading magic—and found Icariel staring. But his eyes weren't on her. They hovered just over her shoulder, narrowed, as if tracing something invisible. Something real. Something divine.
She blinked, startled. "Wh-What are you looking at?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he flexed his fingers slowly, as though confirming that the pain in his once-torn hand was truly gone. His gaze finally met hers.
"You really don't realize how incredible that is, do you?"
She flushed faintly, caught between pride and disbelief. "It's just… healing. I told you, it's hard to learn."
"No," he said quietly. "It's not just healing. It's everything."
"…That was it," she replied, rising to her feet and brushing dust from her skirt. "I don't know how much you actually saw… I hope you activated the Spirit Zone. Otherwise, you probably missed most of it."
Icariel had no desire to explain White Sense, or anything else that lived in the shadows of his body. So he lied.
"…Yeah. I have something like that," he said, calm as still water.
"Aah. That's called Spirit Zone," she nodded, reassured. "Using it without being taught is insane, though. So—did you see something useful?"
He gave a slow nod.
"When you cast the spell, the mana around you vanished. And as it did… the green light in your hand pulsed brighter—then disappeared."
The elf girl smiled faintly. "Not bad. You really did see something."
Then her smile faded. Her tone sobered.
"But that's only half of it. Now, I'll teach you how the healing spell works. If you understand, good for you. But even if you do…" she hesitated, "most people still fail."
Her voice dropped slightly, her eyes shifting away.
"Healing magic isn't like other spells. You don't command mana. You don't shape it. You don't force it. You give. You ask. And the world either answers… or it doesn't."
Icariel raised a brow, smirking faintly. "Funny. You were lecturing me earlier about respecting nature… and now here you are, draining it dry."
She flushed immediately. "You—! Do you want me to teach you or not?!"
He raised both hands in mock surrender, grin curling. "Just joking. Of course I want to learn."
"…Jerk," she muttered, arms crossed but smile creeping in.
Then she sat cross-legged, her voice leveling into focus.
"To use healing spells… you have to be calm," she began gently. "Your body. Your mind. Everything. You become like the mana itself—unmoving, steady, soft. Only then will it listen."
Icariel leaned in slightly, listening.
"This isn't like fire or wind," she said. "I don't know your methods. But healing… healing isn't manipulation. It's a wish. A real one. Not a command, not a formula. A desire."
"…A desire?" Icariel echoed.
She nodded. "When you cast a healing spell… it's born from the pure, overwhelming will to see someone mend. If it's for yourself, the instinct to live must burn louder than pain or fear. If it's for someone else… then you must truly want them to survive. And if your desire isn't pure…"
Her gaze hardened.
"…it fails."
Icariel slowly nodded, engraving the words into the iron of his thoughts. "So if I want to learn it… I need that desire. Real. Raw. Stronger than fear, stronger than instinct."
"Exactly," she said. "That's why humans struggle. But we elves… we're different. Nature blesses us. We don't have to beg. It listens."
Her tone carried pride, like the rustle of leaves untouched by winter.
Icariel didn't flinch.
He didn't care.
"Nice," he said flatly. "What's the next step?"
She blinked, thrown by his indifference, then steadied.
"The third—and most important—step," she said, voice quieting with weight.
She leaned forward.
"When you use Spirit Zone, you see the orbs of mana, right?"
"Yes," Icariel replied calmly, though inwardly, he thought, "They've never stopped. They're always there—floating, watching, whispering. Honestly, I'm sick of them."
"Good," she said. "When you try to heal, those orbs around you must respond to your intent. You don't control them. You don't pull them. You let them feel you."
She paused.
"And when they do… they sacrifice themselves to make your wish real."
Icariel frowned. "So… Step One: Be calm. Step Two: Have a real desire. Step Three: Let the mana willingly die for you?"
He blinked, taken aback. "What sort of absurd nonsense is that?"
She shrugged with quiet resignation. "Told you you'd probably fail. We elves can cast beginner healing magic as children. It's... innate. We don't learn it. We just are it."
She looked at him—not mocking, but apologetic. "Sorry if it sounds stupid to you. But that's all I can give right now."
Icariel stared at the glimmering motes in the air—each one drifting like a dying firefly suspended in glass.
"Voice," he called inside. "Is it even possible for me to learn this? Even slightly? If there's a chance, I want it. I need it."
The voice replied without pause, as steady and ancient as ever.
"Like I told you before… it's different from the spells you've used. But the principle remains. If you understand that… then yes. It's possible."
Icariel turned to the elf girl and locked eyes.
"Don't worry," he said, tone calm and absolute. "I need it. So I'll learn it."
She froze.
Those pale silver eyes widened, not at his words—but at what she didn't feel.
She could sense lies. Always.
But from him?
Nothing.
No deceit.
No mask.
Only truth.
"Then you can try while I go find something to eat," she said, brushing silver hair behind one ear. "Healing magic takes a lot. I'm starving. That's all I can offer. You can practice now, and if it doesn't work… well, go back to burning things."
She paused mid-step.
"Healing spells can emerge the first time, the hundredth, or never. There's no pattern. But just know… only a handful of humans have ever learned them without being blessed."
"Blessed?" Icariel echoed.
"Yes," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Seriously—where have you been living?"
She stretched lazily, arms above her head. "Anyway… I'll be back. Don't die or anything."
Icariel tilted his head. "How do you know all this?"
She hesitated.
"…My father taught me."
And just like that, she vanished into the trees, her footsteps brushing across fallen leaves like fading breath.
Left alone in the clearing, Icariel sat cross-legged, shirtless, letting the wind ghost across his skin like invisible scars. His eyes drifted half-shut. The forest breathed around him, and the mana waited.
"Voice…" he murmured, mind sinking inward. "If I learn this—can I imprint it like the others? Or do I need to summon that… desire every time?"
The voice answered, sharp as flint.
"Yes. Once you successfully cast it even once, White Sense will imprint it automatically."
A pause.
Then—
"But remember… to heal, you need a wound first, don't you?"
—[End of Chapter 24]