The azure sky poured down its light, making the adventurers' armor shimmer brilliantly.
Lunch hour had ended, and people bustled about, hastily preparing for their expeditions.
Shops along both sides of the main street were crowded, and street vendors called out to Bell as he passed.
"How about it, kid? Want to buy something for your girlfriend? This is god-certified beauty tea!"
Bell muttered a polite excuse and slipped away.
He was now walking down the road that led toward the Dungeon.
Airmid walked beside him, keeping a small, polite distance.
Whether it was her "Dea Saint" title drawing attention or simply her doll-like beauty, every shopkeeper they passed found a reason to call out to them.
Even when people joked about how the two looked like a "perfect match," Airmid's expression didn't waver in the slightest.
"Why are you following me?" Bell finally asked as they neared the Tower of Babel.
He couldn't bring a complete stranger into the Dungeon.
"I've already answered that. I'm here to heal your wounds," Airmid said softly.
Her silver-white hair swayed in the breeze, her voice as gentle and warm as the sunlight above.
"But I'm not injured." Bell spread his arms slightly, showing he was in perfect health.
"Some wounds are much harder to heal than those of the body," she replied, her violet eyes faintly tinged with melancholy.
"And how exactly do you heal those?" Bell asked, puzzled.
She hadn't used any magic, nor given him any potion along the way.
Airmid simply followed, keeping a distance that felt somewhere between that of a lover and a friend.
"This is healing," she explained kindly. "According to the [Nine Hells] who often visit the clinic, when young men and women suffer from heartache, all they need is someone to stay by their side."
Her reasoning sounded coherent—but something about it didn't sit right.
"Hmm... Can you really see into people's hearts?" Bell asked, spotting the flaw.
Her words might apply to friends or those close to one another. But coming from a stranger, it bordered on suspicious.
"Of course not." Airmid shook her head gently. "Do you know who I am, Cranel-san? I'm called the Dea Saint."
Bell blinked in surprise. "You never introduced yourself, so naturally I didn't."
"My apologies. I am Airmid Teasanare, of the Dian Cecht Familia—known by the title Dea Saint." She bowed her head slightly, her tone polite and formal.
"Underachiever," Bell said, keeping the nickname. With her overly earnest nature, she'd probably struggle in casual conversation. "So you're saying that because you're the Saint, just being next to me has a healing effect?"
"There's no direct connection between the two," Airmid corrected calmly.
"I figured as much. If it did work, then even water you touched would probably be considered holy water," Bell joked.
If one phrase could describe his situation, it was "caught in a bind."
If it had been a pushy street vendor pestering him, he could've just walked away.
But this gentle, serious girl was so sincere it was almost disarming. He didn't understand what kind of "healing" she meant, but leaving her behind felt too heartless.
"I don't think it works that way," Airmid said softly. "Would you like to test it yourself?"
Her voice was calm and kind, standing out even against the noisy chatter of adventurers around them.
"And how would I do that?" Bell asked casually.
"My apologies," she replied almost at once. "It seems I'm not very good at joking. Please forget I said that."
A faint blush colored her cheeks as she lifted a hand to her chest—a simple gesture that only made her delicate form stand out more.
Had they not been on their way to the Dungeon, Bell thought, this kind-hearted girl might truly have been able to do as she claimed—simply by being there, she could ease the lingering shadows of anyone's heart.
"Congratulations. That conversation just now healed my heart. You don't have to worry anymore."
Bell mimicked her tone, saying something equally abstract.
Airmid took a step closer, her violet eyes locking onto his. "Cranel-san, you're heading to the Dungeon next, aren't you?"
"Yeah."
"And this morning, you were involved in the Miach Familia's incident, correct?"
"Yeah."
A flicker of irritation crossed her face. Coupled with her refusal to keep her distance, Bell found himself trapped under her gaze, unable to look away. All he could do was answer honestly.
To those passing by, the scene—two young people standing close, eyes fixed on one another—looked suspiciously like a lover's quarrel, drawing envious whispers from nearby adventurers.
"As a patient, shouldn't you have a little more self-awareness?"
Her tone was that of a doctor scolding a stubborn child, unrelenting yet filled with concern.
Bell frowned slightly and met her eyes. "Airmid-san… you wouldn't happen to have seen me yesterday, would you?"
Airmid nodded.
"Of course. I remember every patient clearly."
Only then did Bell realize why she'd sought him out.
So it had been her—the Dea Saint herself—who treated both him and Heith the day before.
"Thank you for taking care of me yesterday. The other girl with me—how is she?" he asked, genuinely worried.
"She only suffered from magical exhaustion. A good rest is all she needs." Airmid's brows furrowed, her tone sharp. "But instead of worrying about others, you should be thinking about yourself. I told you very clearly to rest properly, didn't I? And yet you—"
Bell gave a small, rueful smile. "Thanks to your treatment, I'm really fine now."
Airmid frowned deeper, her silver bangs falling like strands of liquid light before her eyes.
When she had seen him yesterday, he had borne no visible wounds—but his body was marked all over by traces of restorative magic.
It was evidence of cruelty beyond words, of countless brushes with death.
He had been unconscious, murmuring brokenly in his sleep. Amid the fragments of fear, one name kept surfacing—the name of the other injured girl.
As a healer, Airmid had been powerless to do anything more for him. All she could do was urge him to rest and curse her own inadequacy.
And now, less than a day later, he was standing before her again.
"Cranel-san," she said quietly, "your wounds from yesterday… they're far more terrible than any illness. As a healer, I beg you—please don't push yourself."
Even with her eyes closed, Airmid could picture the suffering he had endured.
It was like an endless surgery without anesthesia—his body sliced open again and again, the pain unceasing.
A trauma that deep could break anyone's mind.
"If you wish," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, "I'll stay with you. So please… don't force yourself anymore."
Her violet eyes shimmered with unshed tears, as if she were sharing in his pain.
Bell could see clearly that her concern was genuine. She wasn't acting out of duty—she truly cared.
And faced with that sincerity, he couldn't just brush her off.
He let out a slow breath, meeting her gaze, and spoke softly.
"If pushing myself means I can save a girl—if it means I can bring back even a few smiles that are about to be lost…
Then tell me, Airmid-san—what would you do?"
...
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