The last goblin's body hit the dirt with a heavy thud. Silence followed, broken only by Omina's ragged breathing and Yoshiya's muffled groan. He slumped against his shield, clutching his side where blood seeped through the fabric.
The crossbowman walked calmly among the corpses, retrieving his bolts one by one. His expression never changed, his movements sharp and practiced. When he finished with the arrows, he bent to collect the daggers dropped by the goblins. Then, without a word, he turned his cold gaze on Yoshiya.
He had seen it: Yoshiya's trembling hand pressed against his own wound, a faint glow spilling out as mana coursed into his body. Healing—but clumsy, unfocused, bleeding strength across his entire frame instead of closing the single gash.
The man tilted his head. Then, with a casual flick, he tossed something through the air. Yoshiya caught it awkwardly against his chest. A wand.
"Hold onto that," the man said in a voice like winter steel. No warmth, no thanks—just command.
Before Yoshiya could ask why, the crossbowman was already walking away, heading in the direction of Orleaf. His dark figure blended into the evening until he was gone.
Omina helped Yoshiya to his feet. She was still shaking, her clothes streaked with blood, her pouch of herbs clinking against her hip. "Come on. We need to get back."
Not to Orleaf—not tonight. Their bodies ached, and neither of them wanted more stares or questions. Instead, they limped back to the hut in the woods, their small sanctuary.
---
The walk was slow. Yoshiya carried his shield with one arm while leaning heavily on Omina for balance. She, in turn, refused to abandon her hard-won prizes. The bundle of herbs she had rescued from the dirt was clutched tightly in one hand, while the wrapped boar meat from their quest reward hung over her shoulder.
When Yoshiya stumbled, Omina nearly snapped. "Careful! If you ruin these herbs, I swear—"
"Herbs?" Yoshiya muttered through gritted teeth. "I'm the one bleeding."
"They're both important," she shot back, though her voice trembled.
By the time they reached the hut, night had fallen. Yoshiya collapsed onto the narrow cot, too drained to even remove his armor. Omina rushed to his side, carefully peeling away the fabric around his wound. Blood soaked her hands, but she didn't flinch. She cleaned the injury with boiled water, then applied a crushed herb poultice to keep it from worsening.
Yoshiya clenched his jaw against the sting. "It's fine," he lied.
"You nearly died," Omina whispered. Her eyes glistened, but she turned quickly toward the firepit. She dropped the bundle of meat into a clay pot, adding water and handfuls of herbs. Soon the smell of stew filled the hut, warm and grounding against the iron tang of blood.
Yoshiya closed his eyes and focused. Mana thrummed weakly in his veins, spreading light across his body. But it was wasteful—the spell dispersed everywhere, healing scrapes and bruises that didn't matter, while the deep wound on his back barely closed.
"This isn't efficient," he muttered to himself, even as exhaustion tugged him down. "Too scattered…"
He forced himself to concentrate again, narrowing the flow, willing the light to pool at the wound. Slowly, the glow in his limbs faded, and a brighter warmth built across his back. Not perfect—still rough—but better. He pushed until his mana guttered out, leaving him drained.
Sleep claimed him instantly.
---
The first light of dawn crept through the shutters. Yoshiya stirred, surprised by the lack of pain in his body. He shifted carefully and sat up. His back still ached faintly, but the worst had faded.
He glanced sideways. Omina was slumped in a chair by his bed, her head tilted, hair falling across her cheek. She had stayed awake as long as she could, guarding him, until exhaustion pulled her under.
A smile tugged at his lips. He reached out and brushed her hair gently behind her ear. Then his gaze drifted to the table. There, proudly displayed in one of the clay pots bought from the boy in town, was the little flower Omina had rescued last night. Even after blood and chaos, she had saved it.
Shaking his head fondly, Yoshiya flexed his hands. "Let's try again," he whispered. He summoned mana, let the words roll off his tongue:
*Gentle magic, healing wind, hear my song—Heal.*
Light spread across his body, diffuse and clumsy once more. He sighed, focusing harder, trying to direct it toward his back. The glow wavered, then steadied. Better. A little better.
Behind him, Omina stirred awake. "You're pushing yourself again," she mumbled sleepily, rubbing her eyes.
"And you're always watching," he said with a grin.
Her cheeks flushed faintly. She ignored the jab and pushed herself upright. "Breakfast," she said shortly.
---
They warmed the leftover stew, sitting across from each other at the small table. For a moment, it felt normal—just two people sharing a meal. But the silence between them carried weight.
Finally, Yoshiya spoke. "We were lucky. If that man hadn't been there…"
Omina set down her spoon. "We'd be dead."
They sat with that truth for a moment.
"We need better equipment," Yoshiya continued, "and better control. My healing's still rough. And your sword… it's strong, but it's not meant for you alone to carry all the risk."
Omina nodded, her eyes shadowed. "I know. But we don't have a choice, do we?"
"No," he admitted. Then he smiled faintly. "Which means we get stronger. Smarter. Next time, we won't need someone else's arrows to save us."
---
When the bowls were empty and the table cleared, they packed their gear. The meat, the herbs, the little flower in its pot—all neatly arranged.
And together, with quieter steps but stronger resolve, they set out once more for Orleaf.