Belia was still thinking.
Still wondering what kind of life could have shaped someone to think the way he did—especially someone who, by all accounts, should have known a peaceful era.
"—This is something I need to know."
Louis' voice cut in, firm and unhesitating.
Belia looked up.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Louis held her gaze, his expression steady, but inside his thoughts were already moving.
He didn't believe himself to be one of those protagonists—the kind who could keep fighting no matter what was taken from them. He didn't trust in dramatic willpower or last-second miracles. If his arm was cut off in battle, he didn't believe he could simply adapt and continue as if nothing had happened.
That was not how fights worked.
He needed to know—now.
Whether he could regrow an arm.
Whether his body would stop bleeding instantly.
Because the worst situation wasn't losing an arm.
The worst situation was losing an arm and still being forced to fight.
He trusted that his resilience—his unique skill—would keep him from bleeding out. That much, he believed. But fighting properly with one arm? That was something else entirely.
And he refused to find that out when his life depended on it.
That was why he had asked.
Belia gave a short response.
"I hope you aren't doing this just to suit your curiosity," she said.
Louis straightened fully, standing at attention without realizing it, waiting for her advice.
Instead, she turned and gestured toward one of the sheds at the edge of the yard.
"Inside."
Louis blinked, surprised. "Are we doing it right now?"
Belia looked at him, momentarily dumbfounded.
"Aren't we going to—" he continued, then stopped and corrected himself. "Aren't we going to get a healer ready?"
"There's no need," she said. "Before I advanced my class, I was a cleric. I still have healing spells."
Louis let out an awkward grin.
For a brief moment, an image crossed his mind—Belia in clerical robes, praying quietly, hands glowing with light as she healed him. The thought felt strangely enticing enough that he quickly pushed it aside.
They walked into the shed.
The air inside was still, the scent of old wood and metal lingering. Belia picked up a sword and held it firmly. As she adjusted her grip, the air around the blade shifted—subtle, sharp.
Louis focused, then noticed it.
She had activated his skill.
Understanding followed quickly. She was doing this to make the cut faster. Cleaner. Less painful.
He nodded once.
Then braced himself.
Belia gave the blade a few controlled practice swings, measuring distance and angle. When she was satisfied, she stepped in and struck.
The cut went halfway through his upper arm.
A raw scream tore from Louis' throat.
He clenched his teeth, forcing himself not to pull away, not to lose control. His knees threatened to buckle, but he held.
When the pain finally eased enough for him to look, he saw it.
His arm was healing.
Slowly—but visibly.
The flesh knit itself together before his eyes.
A smile spread across his face.
But it faded when he looked up.
Belia was watching him.
Not with pity.
With something else.
An emotion he himself did not yet understand.
An hour later, his arm was fully healed.
It felt perfect. Whole. As if nothing had ever happened.
Louis flexed his fingers once, then opened his status panel. His eyes narrowed almost immediately.
His mana had dropped.
He frowned.
Only then did it click.
So that's the cost.
When his ribs had been fractured before, the mana drain had barely been noticeable. But this—this was different. It wasn't pain that mattered. It was severity.
Only significant damage consumes mana to regenerate.
The realization settled in quietly.
He closed the panel and looked at Belia. "Thank you," he said. "For helping."
She inclined her head slightly.
They stepped out of the shed.
Louis instinctively reached for his sword and began to ready himself, but Belia raised a hand.
"There's no need for that," she said. "From now on, your training will include hand-to-hand combat."
Louis blinked, surprised.
For a moment, he wondered if she was putting in more effort than necessary. If she had wanted, she could have simply beaten him down earlier—tested his healing speed and been done with it.
But that wasn't what she was doing.
She wasn't testing him anymore.
She was teaching him.
The realization made him smile.
Without another word, Louis tossed the sword aside. He raised both fists instead, settling into a rough stance.
Belia mirrored him.
And they began to spar again, well into the night.