They acted fast.
The cotton was gathered in frantic hands and pressed into the nun's arms. Without hesitation, she began packing it into the boy's deepest wounds. A faint glow shimmered where cotton met blood, the pinkish fibres absorbing the damage and sealing it—at least for a moment. But the healing flickered, then stopped.
Again, the sheep-like Whisp trembled and let out a soft bleat, shedding another batch of glowing, light pink cotton. This time, another stepped forward: a man holding a honeybee-like creature. It buzzed gently, landing beside the cotton, and with delicate precision, secreted thick golden honey over the fresh fibres.
The nun nodded. She soaked the cotton in honey and carefully pressed it over the boy's destroyed eyes, his chest, his ribs. A low hum of healing filled the air—stronger now. Deep wounds began to close, tissue knitting together faster, bones shifting beneath skin. Still, the healing wasn't enough.
Thirty minutes later, she removed the spent cotton, soaked red and dulled of light, and replaced them with the fresh batch. Slowly, some colour returned to the boy's face. He remained unconscious, but they could move him now.
They lifted him gently and began the journey to the hospital.
But trouble awaited.
As they approached the emergency entrance, the same ruffians were already there—leaning against walls, lighting cigarettes, waiting like hyenas.
"The manager says he's not allowed in," one said with a grin. "No treatment. No entry. Any doctor who helps him gets fired."
The group froze. Horror turned to understanding. They weren't just being denied—they were being hunted.
Then came another voice.
"Sir! Greetings!"
Mr. Vanomart stepped through the hospital doors, composed and smug in his dark coat, flanked by silent staff. His golden-framed glasses gleamed as his gaze fell on them.
Without pause, they turned and walked away.
"Why save a thief?" Mr. Vanomart called out. "A disgrace wrapped in human flesh? Just because you're a failure doesn't mean others are! Fucking bastard child!"
No one turned. No one answered.
But his final words sank like poison:
"If you put that body in the orphanage—I'll come and kill him myself."
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As they neared the orphanage road, a boy from their group came running.
"Ruffians," he gasped. "They're at the gates. Blocking it. Said not to let him back in."
Their last hope, gone.
Then the sheep Whisp's master spoke quietly. "Let's take him to the old abandoned house. Where he used to sleep. Where he was happiest."
They nodded, silently.
The house stood on the edge of the conurbation, tucked behind thick grass and crooked trees. Faded but standing, half-forgotten. The door creaked as they entered. They laid the boy on the veranda, wrapping him gently in soft cloth. The quiet breeze stirred the blood-crusted hair on his forehead.
They worked again.
"Fluffy, more cotton," the man whispered.
The Whisp bleated and shed another batch. The bee buzzed once and added fresh golden honey.
The nun mixed them quickly and replaced the soaked dressings on his chest, limbs, and face.
"Keep going," she murmured. "Please, just a little more."
Then came the others.
One by one, the smaller Whisps who had helped in the healing returned. Some came from the river, soaked and weary, others limping or fluttering with exhaustion. They huddled quietly at the edge of the old house, eyes wide, waiting to help again.
The sheep Whisp looked at them, then at his master.
"No," the man said softly. "You've done enough. Go rest."
Some of the Whisps whimpered, others squeaked in protest, their little eyes full of guilt. One with flower-like ears tried to step forward.
But the sheep let out a gentle rumble and took a step toward them, shaking his woollen coat.
"Go," the man said again, firmer this time. "You'll collapse if you stay."
Slowly, reluctantly, the small Whisps turned away—back toward the river, or into the grass, or wherever they had come from. A few lingered for a moment longer, then vanished into the shadows.
The nun summoned her dove—a wide, feathery creature with soft pink eyes and a crown of gentle white plumage. It landed beside the boy, silent and alert.
She stroked its head. "Watch him. Call me when he wakes."
The dove blinked slowly, then nestled down near the boy's shoulder, chest rising and falling with a tired rhythm.
There were still scars. Still blood.
Still a storm coming.
But for now, the child was alive. Nun went to the orphanage for clearing them out.
# Shellotaur : Tortoise-like whisp (muddy blue, green spots, horn-line, hexagonal concave shell).
# Glimsnake: Small serpent (black-purple-blue-green shimmer, feathery fins, thread tail).
# Tomafuzz: Blue tomato-like whisp with leaves, small limbs, soft fur.
# Qiu Qiu: Healing squirrel Whisp (sapphire scales, horn, purple tail).
# Fluffawn: Cotton-shedding sheep whisp (used for healing).
# Nectibuzz: bee whisp. (A small whisp with a sleek, hexagonal body that glows faintly with golden light. Two delicate, glassy wings shimmer on its back, fluttering with a sound like a whispered breeze. Atop its head sit two slender antennae that twitch with every sound and movement. A small, radiant gem rests on its forehead, glowing with a warm yellow hue. From this gem, thick drops of luminous honey slowly drip. Its single, dainty arm ends in a tiny claw. Though not built for combat, wings humming like a lullaby in the air. Its honey smells faintly of wildflowers and sun-warmed bark, and it clings to cotton and fur like living medicine.)
# Dovette: (Fat dove)