The yard fell silent. Staves dropped, drills forgotten. One by one, the children gathered, eyes wide, whispers rising.
"He… healed him?"
"Was that magic?"
"No… it was something else…"
The man came last, his steps slow but his eyes sharp, studying Kairo. He knelt, hand brushing the boy's forehead. Warm. Alive. Stronger than before.
"Kairo…" he said softly, a faint smile tugging at his weathered face. "Do you know what you've done?"
Kairo said nothing. He only looked down at his hand, as though it belonged to someone else.
The man chuckled, ruffling Kairo's hair. "There was once a legendary healer, long ago, who started just like you. A boy with nothing but his hands, who touched the sick and brought them back from the edge."
The children leaned in, hanging on his words.
"He lived in the Upper Middle Realm, where the great towers touch the sky. People said his power didn't come from mana, but from something deeper—something the gods themselves could not name. They called him the Hand of Dawn."
Kairo blinked. His faint smile remained, though his crimson eyes glowed darker, distant, carrying a weight none of the others could see.
The man clapped him on the shoulder, laughing gently. "Perhaps you'll be the next. A healer among warriors. Who would have thought?"
The children cheered, surrounding Kairo, their voices bright. But Kairo only lowered his gaze, his hand still tingling with that strange warmth.
Somewhere deep inside, he wondered—not with joy, but with unease—why he had been given such power at all.