The room was thick with silence, still trembling with what had just occurred.

 His eyes had opened for the briefest heartbeat, locking onto Sylvia’s, then slipped shut again as though nothing had stirred at all.

Leo hadn’t moved since. His hands were clenched tightly on his knees, knuckles white. “He was awake… just for a second,” he said, voice unsteady.

Elion stood rigid beside the cot, eyes fixed on the motionless figure. “Or his body twitched. Don’t mistake one for the other.”

Sylvia ignored them both. Her breath came slow and even as she wiped her hands clean and set out her tools again, her movements deliberate and steady. “That was only the surface,” she murmured. “If I stop now, he’ll relapse. His Flow is unstable. We need to go deeper.”

Leo frowned, unsure. “Deeper? You mean… his soul?”

She uncorked a vial, the liquid inside pale and faintly luminous, and dipped her scalpel into it. Her eyes never left the unconscious man. “His soul is full of all types of cracks and scars. How is this even possible? If I don’t maintain his Flow now, he won’t hold together. You want him alive, don’t you?”

Leo fell silent, guilt and worry twisting through his chest. Elion’s expression remained guarded, but curiosity flickered in his eyes. Neither of them dared interrupt her again.

Sylvia pressed her palm gently against the man’s bare chest, feeling the faint vibration beneath his ribs. She closed her eyes and reached inward, sinking into resonance. Her soul brushed against his.

 It was not like any she had felt before.

The Flow was dormant, fractured, and slow, like an ocean choked by debris and ruin.

 Each pulse came irregularly, dragging itself forward as if resisting its own existence.

She steadied her breathing, her focus narrowing to a point. Then she made another incision, thin as a hair, and threaded her essence through it. Her soul energy slipped into him like liquid fire, seeking the pathways that refused to open.

The sensation struck her like plunging her hands into a shattered mirror.

 Every crack, every scar lashed against her resonance, tearing, rejecting her intrusion. She flinched, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. Pain burned deep inside her chest, her soul faltering for a moment.

Above, unseen, the Demon Lord’s soul tilted in interest. This isn’t healing. This is trespassing.

Sylvia’s breath trembled. She pushed forward anyway. Her Flow twisted into his, forcing its rhythm upon the broken current. Each movement sent ripples of pain down her spine, her hands trembling as she guided the energy. Her lips moved without thought, whispering steadying chants, coaxing his mana to stir.

Leo leaned forward, voice barely a whisper. “She’s doing it again… reading him.”

Elion didn’t answer. His gaze remained fixed, cold and calculating. If she falters, he thought, the backlash will tear her apart.

The clinic was thick with the smell of herbs, alcohol, and blood. Light from the oil lamps trembled, shadows dancing across shelves of vials and bone-white instruments. The air itself seemed to pulse with each surge of Sylvia’s magic.

Her Flow met resistance. A violent jolt struck back at her chest. She coughed, a spray of blood staining her lips, but she did not stop. The tremor in her hands grew stronger. Her vision blurred.

Leo started to rise, but Elion caught his arm. “Don’t interfere.”

Sylvia’s mind swam in agony. Her pulse raced wildly. Every inch of her screamed to stop, but she pressed harder, threading, forcing, stitching one fracture after another. The cracks would not mend, she wasn’t a soul healer but she could hold them together long enough for his energy to move. Just a little more. Just enough.

Backlash struck again, sharp and punishing. Her body convulsed. Her nose began to bleed freely, crimson dripping down her chin. The pressure in her chest peaked, as if her soul itself was about to split.

She grit her teeth. “Not yet… move, damn you…”

Her Flow surged violently, flaring into the man’s chest. The air around her warped, candle flames bending toward her hands. For an instant, the clinic filled with the sound of whispering magic, of life clawing its way back into motion.

Pain rippled through the body on the table. Muscles twitched. Breath hitched. His fingers curled, then slowly relaxed.

Above, the Demon Lord’s soul watched. She threads her life into his. Bold. Dangerous. Every push of her essence chips at her own core. And yet… she clings. Obsessed.

A low hum built in the air. The man’s chest began to glow faintly beneath Sylvia’s palms, his mana trickling, then flowing sluggish at first, then steady. His aura stabilized, the rhythm of life returning.

Sylvia’s head swayed, her breath ragged. Her lips parted in a weak smile. “There… he’ll live. For now.”

Her knees buckled. Before she could hit the floor, a silver sigil flashed from Elion’s palm. Invisible threads caught her in mid-fall, suspending her like a puppet before gently lowering her into a chair. The spell dissipated in a shimmer of light.

Leo rushed to her side. “Sylvia, you’re bleeding…your eyes…”

She wiped at the blood smearing her lips and nose with the back of her hand, smirking faintly. “It’s nothing. Just… backlash. He’s stable now. Help me get him to rest.”

Elion’s expression softened for just a heartbeat. “Reckless,” he murmured, “but effective.”

Together, Leo and Elion lifted the unconscious man carefully. The weight of him was strange—warm, almost too alive, like something vast barely contained beneath fragile skin. They carried him into the adjoining room, the wooden floor creaking softly under their steps.

They laid him on a clean cot, the faint rhythm of his breathing steady and calm.

 Sylvia remained in her chair, still trembling, watching them go with tired satisfaction.

The clinic was quiet again. Only the soft sound of her breathing filled the air.

Outside, laughter echoed faintly from the inn where Garrick and Rosalie still argued over drinks. The village carried on, blissfully unaware of the miracle or the danger that had just taken place within its walls.

Above, the Demon Lord’s soul drifted, cold and curious.

 Still alive. Still stubborn. Let’s see how long that lasts.