Kalon Bloodborn’s POV

A dense aggregation of cells clustered around his mana vessels, obstructing the natural flow. The lamian’s limbs were swollen, his skin marred with a sickly hue. Carefully, I channeled more mana into his body, probing the afflicted area. Spirit energy spread unevenly, forming a shield around the abnormal cells. At my will, the cells released their trapped spirit energy, fading away as they cleared the blockage. With the vessels restored, mana pulsed smoothly once more. The swelling receded, and the wrinkles that lined his arm softened, vanishing with a subtle gesture.

The Patriarch observed the restored limb, a sigh of relief escaping him. "No matter how many times I witness it, it still astonishes me. To negate the effects of the mana shift—this will be remembered, child. Thank you, Kalon."

"It was only possible because of your potions, Master. Without them, the resistance would have been far greater," I replied.

Damon chuckled, casting a knowing glance at Master, who straightened with evident pride. “Kalon’s too modest. Master, you and he will lead us to new heights."

On the bed, the lamian lay unconscious as I moved on to his remaining limbs, restoring them with careful precision.

The blinds shifted, and Arina entered, carrying a tray of potions. Recently, she had volunteered her healing services to the ward, providing temporary relief to those struck by the mana shift. Though limited, her aid was a welcome comfort. Ariadne, too, had been around, offering help in any way she could. Both of them seemed to carry some guilt over past events.

"The next patient has taken the potion, but his body isn’t responding well," Damon said, taking a numbered label from Arina.

"Stay here with this lamian," I instructed as Damon and I made our way to the next patient’s unit.

Inside, a Sol lay with severe burns marring his skin, his face twisted in agony. The heat radiating from him was nearly unbearable, and the mana-woven sleeves of my tunic began to fray. His mana heart was overtaxed, forcing mana through his vessels at dangerous pressure. Sols were known for their natural resistance to intense heat, yet here his flesh bore the unmistakable scars of battle against the mana shift’s relentless force.

“Master, I need a mana suppressant potion,” I called, urgency sharpening my tone.

Without hesitation, Master summoned the potion from his storage ring. I took hold of it, pressing the bottle to the Sol’s lips as he reflexively swallowed. There was a struggle—the potion met resistance, and some spilled onto the white sheets, flames briefly escaping his mouth with each strained breath. Quickly, I poured the rest of the liquid over his chest, watching as his skin absorbed it, the potion seeping through his vessels and coursing across his body. The pressure within his vessels dropped significantly before stabilizing, halting any further strain on his vital organs.

Now focused on his mana heart, I began drawing out the spirit energy entangled in a thin, dead layer of flesh that had integrated into his heart’s outer wall. The diseased layer peeled away under my influence, revealing deeply scarred tissue beneath. The heart was damaged beyond repair, especially in this vulnerable outer region. Leaving it unattended might lead to complications down the line, yet attempting to remove it was a daunting task—even for me.

This isn’t something I’ve done before, I thought. He may not survive the procedure, especially in this state.

Master’s calm voice broke through my thoughts. “You’re hesitant. What’s the problem, child?”

His tranquil eyes, typically unwavering, were now clouded with concern. Each of my small triumphs in treating the mana shift had brought a gleam of satisfaction to his face, each success furthering our hopes. Yet this task was beyond mere skill—it demanded precision and more faith than I had summoned before.

I understood the severity of the situation and wore a mask of calm as I relayed the plan. The weight of the task wasn’t lost on me. Damon listened intently, his expression neutral; he had grown accustomed to the kind of work that had shaped me. Still, I felt a pang of caution—Damon had been a loyal friend, and I dreaded the thought of him becoming hardened, mirroring my more detached self.

“Proceed,” Cian instructed, his tone as steady as ever.

I divided the Sol’s damaged heart into sections mentally: one segment untouched, retaining its natural state; a second, filled with a heightened mana concentration; and a third, into which I eased the spirit energy away, leaving mana to flow. The process was painstaking, a controlled release of spirit energy from the third segment as I stabilized the whole.

But as I reached the final part, an unexpected burst of mana erupted, sending a sharp pulse through the heart. Spirit energy rebounded with a surge, forcing the second segment to contract violently. The backlash was swift and powerful, propelling me back. In an instant, Cian and Damon encased themselves in protective blood cocoons as a wall of intense purple flames tore out from the Sol’s body, instantly igniting the bed beneath him.

The Sol, jolted into consciousness by searing pain, let out a howl and bolted from the unit, his entire form a burning mass. His flesh had been stripped by the flames, revealing sinew and bone. The blinds melted away as his agonizing scream echoed through the halls, drawing horrified looks from the passersby.

A crowd gathered, gasping at the ghastly sight. The guards moved swiftly, forming a barrier between the Sol and the terrified residents. Their eyes shot to the Patriarch, awaiting his command, ready to intervene and put an end to the Sol’s suffering if necessary.

The threat of killing a patient, especially one under our care, would undoubtedly stir unrest. Labeling him as a fully runed wraith might quell questions, but it would still erode public trust in our healing. People would begin to see our attempts as the cause of their loved ones’ transformations, fearing that each treatment could turn kin into monstrous wraiths. But if this newly formed wraith was left unchecked, he would only become a harbinger of more victims.

The patriarch, aware of the delicate balance, lifted a hand, signaling the guards to hold their weapons. With that, the Sol collapsed, his purple flames dying down, leaving only a charred mark on the ground. The murmurs around us swelled, hinting at the crowd’s fear. Yet, not a single voice rose against the patriarch. He stood there, carrying the weight of his people's anguish, his silence stifling their doubts.

I couldn’t help but feel a surge of gratitude toward him. He had long abided by the Oracle’s mandates, bearing the weight of his role with diligence. And yet, now, he was ready to sacrifice his standing—even the grace he had earned—in the hope that I might succeed. The path before me was daunting, and I would need to be prepared for every challenge it posed.