Every step was a fresh agony. Arin's small body, pushed far beyond its limits, screamed in protest. The adrenaline that had fueled his escape from the goblin had long since faded, leaving behind a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The cuts and scratches from his frantic flight through the thorny underbrush stung with a persistent, fiery pain. His ribs ached from the goblin's crushing grip, a dull, deep throb with every breath.
He moved with a caution that felt alien, a ghost of knowledge from a past life—a survival show Satoshi had half-watched. Break branches backwards. Step on stones, not soft earth. Leave no trail. He was a small, hurting boy trying to be a ghost in a world that seemed determined to notice him.
"How long can I keep going?" he muttered to the silent trees, his voice a hoarse rasp. His throat was parched, his stomach a hollow ache. "I can't walk anymore." The confrontation with the goblin had been more than just frightening; it had been physically brutal. "This body is so weak. If I'm going to survive… I have to get stronger."
Just as despair threatened to swallow him whole, the trees began to thin. And there, in the distance, was civilization.
It wasn't a quaint village. It was a city, formidable and imposing. High, sheer walls of dark grey stone rose against the fading afternoon sky, punctuated by watchtowers where tiny specks of guards patrolled. The sheer scale of it stole Arin's breath. A river of people—merchants with carts, farmers with produce, travelers on foot—flowed in and out of the main gate. This was a place of safety, of people, of answers.
Hope, sweet and fragile, sparked in his chest. He quickened his pace, ignoring the protest of his muscles.
But then, another sound cut through the general hum of the distant crowd. It was close. A pained gasp, followed by the soft thud of a body collapsing.
His head snapped toward the source, off to the side of the path, behind a cluster of large rocks. All thoughts of his own safety vanished. He crept closer, his heart pounding for a different reason now.
There, half-hidden in the tall grass, lay a girl.
She was older than him, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, on the cusp of adulthood. But she looked like a broken doll. Her clothes—a practical tunic and trousers of good-quality leather—were torn and stained with dirt and something darker. A deep, vicious gash ran across her side, and blood, shockingly red, seeped through the fabric she was clutching. Her face was pale, beaded with sweat, her breathing shallow and ragged. She was barely conscious.
Arin's eyes darted around. No one else was nearby. The travelers on the main road were too far away, too engrossed in their own journeys.
Oh no. Oh, no no no…
He rushed to her side, falling to his knees. "Hey! Can you hear me?"
Her eyelids fluttered, but she couldn't focus. The wound was bad. Really bad. Even with his limited knowledge, he knew infection would set in quickly. The city gate was still a considerable distance away. If he ran for help, she might die before he returned. If he tried to carry her, his own small, exhausted frame would never make it before nightfall, and being outside the walls after dark seemed like a death sentence.
A desperate, insane idea formed in his mind. The pulse of energy he'd used on the goblin. The way it had felt inside him. Was it just for breaking grips? Or could it… could it do more?
Without a second thought, acting on an impulse deeper than reason, he tore a cleaner strip from the hem of his own tunic. Gently, he peeled back the blood-soaked cloth covering her wound. He took a deep, steadying breath, closed his eyes, and placed his small hands over the terrible gash.
He didn't know any words. He had no technique. He simply willed it. He reached for that warm, buzzing pool of energy inside him—the mana—and he pushed it out, not in a violent pulse, but in a steady, gentle flow. He poured all his intention into a single, desperate thought: Heal.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a soft, golden light began to emanate from his palms. It was warm, like liquid sunlight. It sank into her skin, and Arin felt a strange, intuitive connection to the damaged flesh and muscle beneath his hands. It was like his own body was telling him what to do, guiding the energy to knit torn fibers, to purge the beginnings of sickness, to rebuild what was broken. It felt as natural as breathing, an extension of his own will.
The girl gasped, her back arching slightly as the magic surged through her. The ragged edges of the wound began to pull together, weaving themselves into whole skin. The angry red inflammation around it faded. The bleeding stopped. In less than a minute, where there had been a life-threatening injury, there was only a faint, pinkish line, like an old scar that had faded over years.
Arin stared, dumbfounded. He had done that. He had done that.
He didn't stop. He moved his hands over her, finding a bruised shoulder, a cut on her forehead. He poured his energy into each injury, mending them with the same incredible light. With each healing, a wave of heavy exhaustion washed over him. It was like the energy was coming directly from his own life force. By the time the last cut was sealed, his vision was swimming with black spots, and he felt dangerously lightheaded.
But she was healed. She was breathing deeply, evenly, her color returning. She was alive.
In the peaceful stillness of her sleep, he could truly see her. She was beautiful. Not in the way of a polished statue, but with the vibrant, budding beauty of a sunrise. Her hair, the color of rich chestnut, was splayed around her head in wild waves. Her features were fine and elegant, with a straight nose and a dusting of faint freckles across the bridge. Her lips were full and softly parted. She was tall and lithe, with long limbs that hinted at the grace and strength of the woman she would become. She looked like a storybook princess who had decided to go on an adventure.
But they were still exposed. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of violet and orange. The temperature was dropping fast.
Shelter. Need shelter.
Gritting his teeth against the overwhelming urge to just collapse beside her, he forced himself to stand. His eyes scanned the rocky outcrop nearby and found it—a dark opening, just wide enough to crawl into. A cave.
Somehow, with strength he didn't know he possessed, he managed to half-drag, half-carry the unconscious girl the short distance to the cave entrance. It was a small, dry space, smelling of dust and old stone. It was protection.
He laid her down gently against the far wall. His own body was screaming for rest, but one more task remained: fire.
He gathered dry twigs and fallen branches from just outside the cave, his movements slow and clumsy. He arranged them in a small pit. Then he knelt, staring at the dead wood.
Fire. I need fire.
He remembered the feeling of the mana. He held out a trembling hand, focusing everything he had left—every ounce of will, every shred of his being—into his palm. He wasn't trying to push energy out; he was trying to ignite it.
"Come on…" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Just… a spark."
A tiny wisp of smoke curled from the center of the twig pile. Then, a single, defiant spark—a minuscule, brilliant ember of pure mana—popped from his fingertip and landed in the tinder.
It caught.
A small flame sputtered to life, licked at the dry wood, and grew. A warm, golden light filled the small cave, pushing back the encroaching darkness and the cold.
It was the final straw.
The last of his strength vanished. Arin didn't even make it to a comfortable position. He simply slumped over where he knelt, his body finally giving up the fight. The world faded away into a deep, dreamless, and utterly exhausted sleep, the image of the dancing flames the last thing his eyes registered. The girl he had saved slept peacefully, unaware that her savior was a lost boy from another world, who had just changed both their destinies forever.