Chapter 83 Forbidden Theory – Gamma Still Lives in Me
After the Leviathan was vanquished, the sky resonated with the final roar of the Ancient, its echo swirling amidst the low-hanging gray clouds that seemed to mourn the lost battles of a shattered world. Fitran stood amidst the ruins, the ground beneath him littered with debris, while swirling dust danced in the air, stirred by the waves of destruction and the invisible currents of fate. The very atmosphere was thick with unspoken suffering and lingering shadows of the past. In this heavy silence, a soft yet weighty voice pierced through: Rinoa's faint cough emerged, struggling to break free from the oppressive quiet that encompassed them.
It was neither a resonating scream nor a heartbreaking wail; rather, it was the gentle whisper of a body reluctant to surrender to despair—a statement of existence battling against the overwhelming darkness. "I... am fine," Rinoa declared, her voice trembling as she fought to stand, her legs quaking beneath her like fragile reeds swaying in a tempest. Yet, in that moment, Fitran discerned something deeper. Behind her brave facade lay a profound vulnerability; Rinoa was devoid of the true strength required to harness the magic coursing within her delicate frame. Her body had become nothing more than an empty shell—adrift and unanchored, like leaves tossed by an indifferent wind—relying solely on a surge of raw emotions, suffocating scars, and a blind love that partially sustained her.
Fitran gazed earnestly at her, not with pity but with a newfound clarity that cut through the haze: "If she keeps fighting, she will perish. Not due to an enemy, but because of herself." From the depths of that profound despair, a glimmer of possibility emerged—unexpected and luminous, sparkling with temptation and hope.
"Healer," whispered Fitran, his soft voice trembling like a gentle breeze caressing the leaves, each syllable laden with tenderness. "Not a fighter. Not a hunter. But a healer. Not from where, but from intention."
Rinoa gazed at Fitran, her expression a mix of puzzlement and uncertainty, her eyes shimmering like stars behind a veil of clouded doubt, desperately trying to fend off the encroaching shadows of despair that loomed within her. "But I... don't have the energy for that," she murmured, her voice barely audible, a fragile whisper that dissipated like mist, leaving behind only the faintest glimmer of hope.
"True. Because you are not a vessel of mana. However, perhaps you are a channel for the pain of others," Fitran explained gently, an ember of conviction igniting in his soul, ablaze like a pulsar lighting the night sky. "You may not wield magic, but you can translate suffering. Become a bridge of understanding. A form of healing." Each word flowed from his lips with an unexpected warmth, wrapping around Rinoa like a comforting embrace, offering a balm to her troubled heart.
In Fitran's mind, a new path unfolded—one he had never traversed before: the path of forgiveness. This road unfurled gently and gradually, not one that tears apart, but one that mends and heals. Rinoa—whose body could no longer contain mana, limp yet tightly bound by the profound love she had for others—symbolized this transformation, a beacon of recovery that defied the clutches of despair, shining brightly in the dimmest of times.
She was neither a mage nor a warrior; yet, she emerged as the last healer, an integral figure woven into a new legend, poised to restore the shattered fragments of a world ravaged by those who wielded power without restraint.
"Healer?" Rinoa's voice trembled, hoarse and saturated with anguish; tears cascaded down her cheeks, not from the aches of physical wounds, but from the deep, unhealable scars of emotional turmoil that no spell could cure. "You want me to be a healer after everything we've faced? After all I've killed for you?" Her question resonated with a haunting weight, stabbing deeper than any physical battle they had fought together.
Fitran fell into a heavy silence, ensnared by his inability to find words, allowing her poignant question to linger like a dense fog enveloping the space between them.
"I was not created to heal others' wounds, Fitran," she declared, her voice cutting through the oppressive stillness. "I... was born from wounds. I endure not to be a beacon of light, but to grasp the darkness that even you hesitate to confront." The gravity of her words hung in the air, punctuating the weight of her long and arduous journey.