Prologue
The wagon rattled through a frostbitten valley. Wind whistled through the gaps in the frame. Cloaked healers murmured among themselves—prayers, petty talk, fear.
In the far corner, head bowed, sat a young girl, slight and still. Her expression, unreadable. Her eyes half-lidded.
At the peak of my former life, I was a man who possessed wealth, knowledge, and mastery over every inch of my body. A physician who spent a lifetime understanding how things worked—sciences, mathematics, economics, philosophy, martial arts. I was envied. Admired. Feared, even. A full life. Well lived.
Now?
The carriage hit a bump. Her frail frame shifted, her small hand catching the bench edge to steady herself.
Now I rattle around in a vessel that couldn't even lift a sack of potatoes. A body so fragile, the cold could kill me. And I've been sent somewhere that's always cold.
She breathed slowly. The faintest trace of a grin played at her lips.
A man spends decades conquering limits… and wakes up as a girl exiled by her own family. How absurd. How utterly perfect.
Her eyes flicked toward the glazed window, blurred with frost.
I was six when they found out I could 'shine.' The priests called it divinity. My father saw it as political reprieve. A saintess in the house? How lucky. House Etheria can finally hold more authority.
He never spoke to me directly. Not once. I wasn't family—I was a tool. But I was still too busy laughing at my predicament to be bitter.
At the Church, they pampered me. Special food. Soft words. Always alone. I was the chosen one—until I opened my mouth.
I knew simple healing by then—basic theory. As archaic as this world's science is, I was able to surmise its principles. I've read enough in Etheria's library while pretending not to exist. But divine healing… It fascinated me. I didn't worship it. I studied it.
I asked questions. Why does one miracle work, but not another? Why does belief seem to change the outcome? What are the gods made of?
That's when it disappeared. The divine. Just absence. Like a door quietly shut.
I understood then: the gods didn't want a healer. They wanted a marionette.
She shifted again. The other healers avoided her. She didn't mind.
They stopped speaking to me. Stopped calling me blessed. Then came the reassignment. 'Lower class healer support. Northern front.' That's what the letter said.
They were sending a little girl to the battlefield.
No goodbye from my father. Not even a servant to see me off. Just a carriage and a bag of robes.
They think I'm being sent to die. They're not wrong. But it won't be me who will die. Not really.
The carriage lurched forward. The horizon darkened with snow. And the girl with no future watched it come—smiling.
The carriage jolted, slowed, then creaked to a halt. Voices traded outside—low, clipped, the kind of exchange that ended quickly because of cold fingers and colder business.
A figure stepped down first. A man in travel-worn garb, scarf tied a touch too neatly, ledger tucked beneath his arm. He gave a courteous bow toward the cloaked girl in the corner, his tone as smooth as coin on wood.
"Well then. This is where I take my leave. Aurellia's roads end for me here. Safe travels, little saintess. Up here, even fate shivvers."
None of the healers answered. The guards didn't bother. But for a heartbeat, her half-lidded eyes met his. Not recognition—just awareness, two threads brushing before they slipped apart.
The man rearranged his scarf, disappeared into the snow, and was gone.
Chapter 1: The Walk Begins
Alliyana Etheria's Perspective
The wagon stopped.
The wheels gave one final, reluctant groan before falling silent. Outside, a blast of cold air rushed in through the slats, sharp and dry like a blade on skin. Through the window, I saw snow—dense, windblown, and unwelcoming.
So this is the Aurellia Dutchy. One of the houses tasked with containing the so-called seeds of chaos in the north. A noble lineage locked in perpetual struggle against the creeping filth. How poetic.
We disembarked slowly, cloaks drawn tight, boots crunching on frostbitten gravel. The healers stepped down first, shivering and blinking at the cold like they'd just discovered winter.
I was the last to stand.
One of the guards at the outpost entrance stepped forward, squinting at me.
"Who's the girl?" he asked, more out of formality than concern.
"She's one of us," one of the healers said without looking back.
That was enough. The guard nodded. His eyes lingered on me—not cruel, just... resigned. Like someone who'd seen one too many "reinforcements" arrive with warm robes and short lifespans.
They brought us to the shelter—a squat building of stone, timber, and quiet desperation. It didn't creak from age; it creaked from holding itself together out of sheer obligation.
Inside was warm. Technically. Enough to keep your blood moving, not enough to remember what "comfort" felt like.
A quiet woman guided me to a narrow bunk near the far end of the hall. I dropped my sack of robes and clothing at the foot of the bed. Two shirts, one pair of boots, one winter cloak. No blankets.
I sat. And I froze.
The air clung to my skin, gnawed at my fingers and ankles. I could have sped up my metabolism—warmed myself with a controlled acceleration of internal processes—but that would've drained too much energy. I learned early to conserve.
There was no surplus here. Only rationed survival.
I curled my fingers slowly and watched the joints respond. They moved sluggishly, dulled by the cold and the fatigue of travel.
Back then, before exile, I had trained every day. The Etheria estate had space and resources. I used them all. Simple healing let me accelerate metabolism, repair the micro-tears and minimize soreness. The spell's effects were systemic. I was ignored by the servants so all I did was train the body. Managing stress was another issue. Constant training puts the body under intense sympathetic strain. I needed to be careful as to not hinder the proper development of this child body.
My body grew faster than it should have—strength through repetition. I'm taller than most children my age. Perhaps the constant state of accelerated cellular activity fast tracked my physical development. My body has become adept at utilizing substrates to repair and grow. I abused it, of course. Who wouldn't? In a world where magic exists, restraint is an acquired taste.
My body adapted. Grew faster. Grew leaner. I wasn't strong by adult standards—but for a child? I was something else. An untrained adult man's strength packed into half the frame.
The North had no time for pampering. No spare food for protein-loading. No calories to fuel growth. Nothing but cold wind, hostile beasts, and hunger. It taught me a new principle: every movement costs something. Every heartbeat is a bargain.
I breathed in slowly through my nose. The air smelled of stone, old wood, and resignation.
Welcome home.
A voice called out.
"Batch Four, over here."
One of the guards waved us forward. He wore a thick fur cloak over his armor, face half-covered by a scarf. His posture sagged slightly—like a man constantly leaning into wind.
Someone behind me groaned.
"We just got here…"
The complaint was soft, but audible. The guard didn't look amused.
"You're not special," he said, voice flat. "The North doesn't pause for arrivals. It's winter. That means more demonic beasts, more injuries, more dead. You were unlucky enough to arrive during peak activity. That's all."
He turned and started walking.
We followed.
The air outside bit at my nose, but I didn't bother pulling my cloak tighter. There was little point. The clinic came into view—larger than the shelter, but just as weathered. Stone and timber, smoke rising from thin chimneys, and the sharp smell of antiseptic herbs lingering faintly in the air.
Inside, the clinic was warm. Dimly lit, crowded, and alive with quiet suffering.
Rows of wounded lay in simple cots. Some were sleeping. Some weren't. A few stared blankly at the ceiling, eyes glassy, lips moving in prayer—or delirium.
At the far end of the room, a high priest stood with both arms raised over a patient whose abdomen was half torn open. A golden light pooled in his palms, sinking into flesh as bone and sinew reformed beneath it. Divine healing.
I watched closely. It seems those who are chosen by the divine can seemingly reverse the damage inflicted. Unlike magic based healing, these were true miracles.
But divine healing wasn't our concern.
We—the lower-class healers—were guided away from the golden glow. Assigned instead to soldiers with shallower wounds, stabilized vitals, or lingering trauma after divine recovery. Miracles stitched the flesh, but their minds remained scarred.
We were given our instructions. Feed. Monitor. Use simple healing sparingly.
We weren't told why. But I understood.
Even here—in a place that still called divine light holy—they'd learned something important.
Temperature management.
I nearly smiled. Even with their rudimentary knowledge of anatomy, they understood enough to tread carefully. Simple healing accelerates metabolism—a cellular furnace. Push it too far, even in this cold, you risk burning the patient from the inside out.
Death by hyperthermia in the middle of a snowstorm. The irony practically writes itself.
Their protocols were cautious. Timed healing bursts. Pre-cooling. Controlled feeding. Crude—but practical.
I sat beside one of the beds and looked at the container set beside it.
One for starches—roots, grains, or some flour-thickened stew. One for vegetables, boiled to gray softness. And one for meat. It looked like venison, but could've been anything. Whatever creature had the misfortune of not being corrupted.
The portions were small. Caloric. Efficient.
The soldiers didn't have the privilege of taste. Only survival.
I glanced toward the next cot. Another healer leaned over a sleeping man, whispering reassurances while pressing warm cloth to his forehead.
There was no divinity here. No miracles. Just cold, tired hands, and the quiet ticking of bodies trying not to die.
I had to admit…
There was something honest about it.
The soldier looked at me and sighed.
"You've got to be kidding," he muttered, shifting slightly on the cot. "They're sending children now?"
I didn't answer. I took a seat beside my first patient. His chart: compound leg fracture, divine healing complete, mild fever, frostbite on one hand.
He kept staring.
"What's your name?" he asked eventually.
"Alliyana."
"No last name?"
I glanced up at him briefly, then returned to the chart. "You don't need it."
That shut him up. I can't let these people know I'm a noble.
He leaned his head back against the pillow, brow furrowed. "You even know what you're doing?"
I didn't answer. I looked at the wall clock—slightly crooked—and marked the interval in my head. When the hand struck the right angle, I reached for the food container on the stand beside him and held it out.
He blinked at me, confused, but took it.
No words. No pleasantries.
He sat up slowly and began to eat. One container. Three compartments. Root mash, cabbage, and something like salted hare or venison. His hands trembled slightly—likely from blood loss and muscle shock, not nerves.
When he finished, he laid back down, and I moved to his side. I placed one hand gently on his chest, the other just above his abdomen. Focused. Directed the flow.
The warmth of simple healing pulsed into him—gentle, steady, seamless.
He flinched at first. Then paused.
"…Huh."
I didn't look at him.
"There's no… burning. Usually it stings. Makes my skin itch." He sounded almost disappointed. "Are you even doing anything?"
I exhaled through my nose. Hands steady.
"Lie down. Stay still."
A few more seconds of silence passed before I added—calm, flat, and not for debate:
"Young man, out of all the healers in this room, I'm the best. Now let me do my job."
He stared at me, incredulous. Then, without another word, he did as he was told.
The soldier remained quiet for the rest of the procedure. No more questions. No grumbling. Just silence—and thought.
That was fine. Silence made the body easier to work with. No interruptions. No tensing.
I withdrew my hands once the cycle was complete. His skin was starting to cool down. Color returning. The tremble in his fingertips had stopped.
A few seconds passed.
Then, softly, he spoke.
"…Name's Jack," he said, eyes on the ceiling. "Jack Lowel."
I raised a brow. "Why tell me now?"
He hesitated. His hand moved to scratch lightly at his shoulder but fell short.
"Wanted to apologize. For earlier. The comment."
I blinked slowly. "I don't care."
He looked confused. I clarified.
"It's a normal reaction. You see a kid and assume the worst. I'd probably think the same in your place."
Jack's lips twitched—something between guilt and relief. Maybe both.
"…Still," he said, "you're different."
I didn't respond. Just finished logging his vitals on the chart beside his cot.
When I stood, I gave him a final glance.
"Rest up. You'll need to be stable before the next round."
He nodded. "Yeah… yeah, alright."
I moved on to the next patient. My cloak trailing behind me, the warmth from his body still clinging faintly to my fingertips.
We returned to the shelter just past midnight. Batch Four—our shift had ended at exactly twelve, as scheduled.
Six hours of healing. Eighteen hours of rest.
On paper, it sounded generous. Practically luxurious by wartime standards. But even simple healing, when used continuously, gnaws at the bones in a way no battle ever could. It pulls from something internal. Vital. Quiet.
By the time we stepped through the threshold, the air was thick with fatigue. Boots dragged. Cloaks drooped. Words were replaced by groans.
They collapsed into their bunks like corpses returning to beds.
Not me.
I walked past the others, noting each one—how their shoulders sagged, how their breath trembled, how their hands twitched from residual feedback.
I had felt it once, long ago. When I still thought simple healing was a gift and not a mechanism.
But I had long since adapted to the strain of constant self-casting. Years of trial, overuse, collapse, recalibration. I didn't push past the fatigue—I structured my biology and methods around it.
I reached my bunk and found a girl standing there.
She was slim, pale, and had the kind of expression you'd expect from a student mustering courage before asking a mentor a stupid question.
She straightened when she saw me. Nervous. Determined.
"I'm Lina," she said. "Lina Kell. I'm your bunkmate."
I smiled, soft and brief. "Alliyana."
She smiled, clearly relieved I didn't bite. A flicker of warmth on her cheeks.
"I've been curious since the carriage," she admitted. "I… I didn't know what to think. You were so young, and I guess… I pitied you."
Charming.
"But then I saw you. In the clinic. You didn't stop. You didn't even slow down. All of us were barely staying upright by the third hour, and you were just…" She shook her head. "Still breathing like normal."
I shrugged. "Guess I'm good at breathing."
She blinked, unsure if I was joking. I wasn't. Not really.
But her words stuck.
Why didn't I get tired?
I sat on my bunk, stretched out my legs, and exhaled. My hands rested on my lap, palms open.
The truth was simple. While I used simple healing to accelerate cellular repair, I also cast it on myself—but in reverse. Not healing. Not warmth. Just... slowing.
A controlled suppression of metabolic rate. A second layer of efficiency.
I had never tried using simple heal in reverse before.. But the principle was the same: Redirect. Accelerate. Regulate. Or rather, I should say, Decelerate.
Standing around for hours meant I could be more conservative in how my body spent its calories.
Of course, such a method carried risk. In the open cold, this kind of casting would lead to hypothermia. Death by internal stillness.
But there, in the warmth of the clinic, I could experiment.
I looked up, and Lina was still standing there, biting her lip.
Then—unexpectedly—she bowed. A full, clumsy bend at the waist.
"Please," she said. "Teach me."
I blinked. Then chuckled—quietly, but from the gut.
"Young lady, you don't even know who I am."
"I don't care," she said. "It's clear you're the best out of all of us. Smarter. You knew what you were doing. That's enough for me."
She was sincere. Naïve, but sincere.
I thought about the irony of it. After all these years, after exile, training, discomfort, survival... I had become someone's role model by accident.
I patted her shoulder gently.
"Get some rest, Lina," I said. "We've got another long day ahead of us."
She straightened, nodded, and climbed into her bunk.
I laid back slowly, hands over my stomach, eyes on the ceiling beams.
The shelter creaked. Someone snored. A rat skittered across the far wall.
I felt the excitement of freedom and possibilities. What a privilege it is to start over.