Even in his wildest dreams, Malk hadn't imagined that completing the last layer of Crystal Heart would happen so quickly. At best, he hoped for a couple of sennights of soul-draining practice that would suck the last drachmas from his wallet; at worst, he feared it might take a month or more. But luck was on his side. The Authority too strong for a novice Adept, the right elixir taken timely, the breakthrough in understanding magical principles, and now he was a real mage. A mage who had fully unlocked the features of his Arcane Art and whose next goal was simply to develop his abilities. Along with picking up new skills and gaining the knowledge essential for any sorcerer. Not to forget Rzavian's Standard and the rules of the first year and three spells.

Overall, despite the achieved progress, there were still way too many concerns. And with his cherished stash of money constantly dwindling, this fact didn't exactly lift his spirits.

Yorrokh's sons, Malk had no more than fifteen drachmas left! Five months of living in the capital, if he only spent on food and lodging and forgot about everything else—clothes that needed replacing, unavoidable expenses on various everyday stuff, and... yeah, damn it, his relationship with Helavia cost money too! Rides in cabs and steam omnibuses—they couldn't just stroll around all the time—going to eateries and other cultural spots, little gifts... when your wallet is empty, spending time with any lady, even the least demanding one, quickly loses its charm and inevitably ends in mutual complaints.

And there was still the main expense—courses at the Society! Even though the education was free for now, diving deeper into any topic required payment. Take, for example, those three spells, supposedly provided for free by the Society, and which Malk still had to choose. The time for learning them was fixed, so if a student couldn't grasp something, the only alternative to getting kicked out was additional tutoring. Naturally, not cheap. With the addition of the elixirs that had proven their usefulness, consultations with experienced mage practitioners, and various unexpected educational expenditures, the issue of money quickly became the main concern in Malk's planning for his future.

So, it was no surprise that the day after forming the Heart, he didn't take Helavia and Tolfan to a restaurant to celebrate but instead rode a stuffy omnibus to a potential employer. Fortunately, he had read a job ad for Adepts and Apprentices in a newspaper a sennight ago and took the trouble to save it.

The hiring was done by a small private clinic located on the southern outskirts of the city: two transfers from home and just one if going directly from the Society. Malk spent no more than half an hour on the road, which was already pretty good. Wasting a ton of time traveling around the city didn't suit him at all.

At first glance, the clinic building wasn't impressive. Two stories, with red brick walls and a clay tile roof, it looked more like a country merchant's estate than an abode of Yelya—as hospitals were sometimes grandly called by the mages working there. The neighbors matched the vibe. On one side loomed an abandoned watchtower, and on the other, a half-ruined temple of Chilkara stared hungrily with its gaping window holes. And the presence of the patroness of travelers seemed much more fitting in this area than the heavenly protector of healers.

Still, it wasn't worth judging his future employer by the surroundings. Even from a distance, Malk's spiritual sense picked up the presence of a Force source. His lack of experience didn't allow him to be certain, but it seemed to be first-class. And the mere fact of its existence spoke of the solidity of the organization that owned it. Without direct access to one of Mritlok's most crucial magical resources, one couldn't reach great heights or make serious money.

This noticeably cheered Malk up, and he made his way to the administrative wing of the infirmary in fighting spirit... Only to find out he didn't need to fight for the job.

"How long since you passed initiation? Chosen an Arcane Art?" These were the first questions Malk heard as soon as he stepped into the clinic manager's office and explained his visit.

The Bachelor asking them didn't look like he genuinely cared about the answers. It felt like just a formality, and he seemed ready to hire Malk even if he barely met the requirements.

In the end, Malk was still trying to explain about his fully completed Art and his affinity with Pneuma, while the Bachelor had already jumped up from his desk and dragged him into the courtyard. There, under a canopy, faintly pulsed green a complex figure made of a dozen circles, squares, and equilateral triangles of various sizes connected by straight and broken lines.

It was indeed a first-degree source! Just like described in the textbook. Malk enthusiastically dove into studying the pattern of lines and the intricate Runeglyph inscriptions, getting so absorbed that he didn't immediately hear his future employer. The clinic manager was asking how fast Malk could replenish his reserve.

"Four-tenths of an erg per hour!" replied with some pride Malk, whose natural energy absorption rate had increased by a whole tenth of an erg per hour just by completing the last layer of his Art.

"And from a source using your Art?" asked eagerly the Bachelor, who still hadn't introduced himself.

Malk shrugged.

"Haven't tried yet, but the manual mentions doubling the speed..." He paused and cautiously asked, "Master, I get your interest, but I would still like to know what position I'm applying for. Everything's happening so fast, and you haven't mentioned it yet!"

"Yes, yes! Of course," the Bachelor nodded, seemingly not hearing Malk and clearly calculating something in his mind. Finally, as if to himself, he muttered, "Your Authority probably isn't that high, but with some skill, you should manage... Alright!" And then, more clearly, he said, "Grab that jade sphere from the table. If you can extract a copy of the spell recorded in it, the job's yours!"

Malk looked first at the clinic manager and then at the sphere in confusion. Extract a spell copy? From that stone ball?! The Bachelor's demand sounded downright crazy. Damn, Malk still wasn't used to his ability to activate artifacts, let alone hoping to tackle the copying of someone else's magic!

Still, a task was a task. After all, the only thing at risk was the chance to get a job, right?

So, Malk grabbed the indicated orb, moved away from the source, and sat Styxson-style right on the floor. He placed the jade sphere between his legs, covering it with his palms. Glancing once more at the Bachelor, who was watching him closely, Malk shrugged, then closed his eyes and focused on the spell storage...

To realize his approach was wrong, he needed a few moments. The artifact didn't react to his touch, indifferently chilling his hands. Malk had to take more active steps, so he started gradually channeling energy into the sphere, operating not in ergs but in fractions of an erg—exactly as taught in Intro to General Magic Theory classes. Unfamiliar magical items—be they creations of ancient mages and demons or products of the modern fusion of technology and sorcery—required cautious handling. So cautious that any wrong move wouldn't harm the mage or destroy the item being studied.

The correctness of this approach became clear soon enough. Within a few heartbeats. As it turned out, the stone flat-out refused to accept foreign energy. The magic hit an invisible barrier, sliding off like water on oily skin. Yet it didn't harmlessly dissipate into the air, instead transforming according to laws unknown to Malk. Those tiny bits of energy he tried to feed into the jade sphere were just enough for his fingers to feel a bone-chilling cold, and the subtle body around his hands felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper.

"Yorrokh!" Malk muttered and, shamefully averting his gaze, rubbed his hands.

Screwing up like that in front of the Bachelor was embarrassing. Oddly, the latter didn't say a word and kept watching with some kind of morbid curiosity.

Finally, Malk gathered himself and tried to figure out what he was doing wrong. If focusing and direct energy infusion didn't work, what should the next step be?

It didn't take long to figure out. What did his mentor say about solving any problem? Right, start by studying the initial conditions. And that's exactly what Malk had missed. After all, the sphere didn't control the spell recorded in it; it stored it. Stored! So why try to find an activation key or fill it with Force?

Smirking at his own stupidity, Malk detached from his body and plunged into the stone a fraction of his Spirit. The part of himself that had started to feel much more vivid and clear after forming the Crystal Heart... And this time, he succeeded. Before his mind's eye instantly unfolded the inner space of the jade storage, and at its center, glowing green—matching the source's color—was a construct of interlinked Runeglyph symbols. Neither the signs nor the rules for connecting them were familiar to Malk. So even if he wanted to, he couldn't steal this spell. At least not yet. But to try copying... Well, at least the Bachelor considered it possible! And this time, Malk seemed to know what to do. After all, he hadn't studied ways to work with Authority in the courses for nothing, right? This mage's tool had many uses, and while there were often better alternatives, its strength lay in versatility.

After going over the symbols etched into the reality of the sphere's inner space—each stroke carried an echo of the Authority of the spell's creator, and that Authority was at least a rank higher than Malk's—he tried to grasp with his attention the entire construct. Grasp, cover with a blanket of his own energy, apply a bit of his Authority, and... pull it all toward himself.

By Malk's calculations, his strength should've been enough to create the needed "imprint" of the spell without destroying the original. And he was mostly right! The "imprint" formed, and the original spell remained intact... the issue came from elsewhere. Either Malk overdid it, or the original magical construct wasn't firmly anchored in the sphere, because along with his imprint, he pulled out the entire contents of the storage. And when he opened his eyes, he found a slowly rotating clump of two similar-looking Runeglyph symbol chains between his palms. Only, one blazed with Force, while the other resembled embers smoldering under ash.

"Yorrokh and his legions screw you, you busted the storage!" The Bachelor's shout snapped Malk out of his concentration.

An invisible force crushed the already disintegrating spells into a sparking green ball, yanked it from Malk's hands, tore it into thousands of pieces, and flung the remnants into the center of the source. A beam of light immediately shot into the sky, and the consequences of Malk's failed experiment completely dissolved into the air.

"So, what's your Authority rank again?" the manager asked as if nothing had happened and gazed at Malk with some different sort of interest. Not like a doctor or, Saints forbid, a vivisector, but like a merchant at a bazaar.

"Almost mid-red!" Malk replied guardedly.

It only just hit him that he had broken someone else's artifact. And no words about his innocence would help. The "you break it—you pay for it" principle worked in all worlds. More so in the cases when the owner of the damaged item was strong and influential enough to collect his due even if the debtor was unwilling to pay.

"Well, pretty decent for an Adept. Congratulations!" The Bachelor nodded, wiping off his face the expression that Malk would still call greed. "Now, try doing what you did last time with that sphere, but not so... forcefully."

He handed Malk another jade orb, which had been previously lying in a box outside the canopy. The manager clearly wasn't going to stop the tests because of one failure. Malk had no choice but to sigh and hope that everything would go right the second time...

And his expectations were fully met! Taking into account his past mistakes, Malk slightly increased the amount of energy used, focused even more on controlling Authority, and in just a few minutes, he first created a complete imprint of the spell, then pulled it out of the sphere. The original, meanwhile, remained completely intact.

It was just a pity the outcome couldn't be considered purely Malk's achievement. As he figured, if the spell in the new storage had been just "worn out"—the best expression Malk could find—as in the previous one, his chances of success would have been much lower.

"What are you sitting for? Now compress it as much as you can and try to stuff it into the new storage!" the Bachelor said impatiently, dropping a glass cylinder onto Malk's lap. "What do they even teach you in Schools nowadays..."

'I'm not studying in a School! And I really wasn't taught anything like this!' Malk almost yelled, but instead, he just nodded and focused back on the spell copy.

Admittedly, working with it was much easier now. Maybe he had grasped the principle, or maybe this step wasn't that hard, but a minute into manipulating the Force, the spell sucked in the cloud of energy between his palms like a steam pump, filled with light, and... to complete the next step, extra effort was needed. The spell didn't want to compress into a more compact form on its own.

However, compared to everything else, this was a minor hassle. Within a few heartbeats, something resembling a tightly compressed watch spring emerged between Malk's hands, ready to not only unfurl but also—he felt this very clearly—to come fully alive.

"Storage!" the Bachelor reminded in a demanding voice, and Malk, with a slightly awkward motion of his hands, directed the energy construct into the glass cylinder.

No new unpleasant surprises occurred. The compressed Runeglyph chain neatly disappeared into the glass container, followed by nearly an erg of energy, and finally, Malk applied his Authority to place something like a seal. Not so much as a signature, but to give the storage stability. Just like they were taught in the courses.

"Let's have it," the Bachelor demanded, and the cylinder jumped into his open palm. The mage scrutinized his catch, even peering through it at the source for some reason, then nodded with satisfaction. "It's done pretty crudely, of course, and the core is pure Pneuma, but... fine, good enough!"

And he tucked Malk's creation into his pocket.

"What about me?" Malk cautiously asked, as everything was happening way too fast and chaotic for him. "Are you hiring me? And if so, what will my duties be?"

"Didn't I say?" The Bachelor seemed genuinely surprised. "The clinic needs mages who can create vessels with healing spells based on a given template... In your case, it's the most basic 'Healer'... You'll get sixty obols for each correct copy of the spell. The only condition: use the Life energy from the source behind you. If you fill it with Force of Elements or pure Pneuma, you won't get paid and will be fined. Got it?"

"Are there any time or quantity limits on the vessels?" Malk asked suspiciously.

"No limits. Payment is piece-rate, schedule is flexible. But you get it, the more orders you complete, the higher the earnings... If you disappear for a month, I'll assume you no longer work with the clinic," the manager replied with a strange smirk. "These terms suit you?"

Malk nodded. Heck, these really were the best conditions a student like him could hope for! No restrictions, no obligations, no inflated demands. Everything clear and to the point. The pay could be better, though, but that problem is eternal and probably unsolvable. Money's always tight for everyone.

Still, it wasn't all smooth sailing. After getting Malk's promise to show up at the clinic the next morning, the Bachelor escorted him to the exit, then suddenly gave him a sharp look from under his brows, and said assertively:

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"Oh, almost forgot. You've got a debt of four drachmas for the ruined artifact. And rest assured, whether from the clinic salary or any other income, you'll pay me back all the gold, down to the last coin!"

Malk just spread his hands silently. He, of course, had plenty to say to the mage who had handed an inexperienced colleague a flawed artifact. And not all of it was fit for voicing in polite company!.. But... Malk wasn't in a position to make a scene. Especially not with a sorcerer two ranks higher than him. So, he had to suck it up.

Money buys pride. Wasn't that what Tolfan's father always said? And so, Malk shoved his pride aside for the sake of a decent job. Even if just for a while, he still did it...

Much later, after returning from the courses in the evening, Malk mulled over the clinic manager's offer again. The strange attitude and imposed debt had, of course, soured his impression, but otherwise... otherwise, even after careful consideration, he saw nothing but benefits in the new job. And it wasn't just about the earnings.

Malk sketched out a rough schedule for his day, factoring in the need to visit the infirmary, and ran through all the points again.

It started with getting up early and training his Authority using the Rain of Pain technique. Embarrassingly, he'd neglected this crucial part of his mage path lately. Not because of concerns about potential conflicts with his Arcane Art, but due to a trivial lack of energy. Sometimes, he had to save Force for the Gifted Tax; other times, he needed ergs for practicing Crystal Heart. So, he had to forget about Rain for a while.

Well, no big deal—now that he'd completed the second layer of Heart, he could focus on developing Authority. Especially since afterward, he planned to head to the clinic, where he'd need an empty reserve to absorb the source's energy.

For meditation to replenish his magic reserves, Malk allocated four hours.

With the doubled absorption rate using Crystal Heart, he'd gather a bit over three ergs in that time. Two of them would be used to create a spell copy, and one more—to seal the vessel. In the end, Malk's reserve would be empty again, but he'd gain practice with using some aspects of his Art, and his wallet would be topped up by sixty obols for making a "Healer." Sure, in the clinic shop, such a one-time artifact sold for no less than two drachmas, but that's how the world works: those who put in the most effort to reach a goal aren't always the ones who reap the greatest rewards.

According to the schedule, right after work, Malk planned to head to the Society. And this was the weakest link in his plans. If the schedule suddenly changed, and instead of a lecture, they had a practical lesson, having an empty or barely filled reserve could lead to trouble. At the very least, it meant not being able to work through the new material well enough. Was that bad? Absolutely. Was Malk willing to take that risk for the benefits it promised? If not every day, then yes.

Finally, the schedule ended with Malk returning home. Where, after a short night's rest and naturally replenishing at least part of his reserve—he expected no less than three or four ergs of Pneuma—Malk would get back to training with the Rain technique...

If Malk followed this routine at least three times a sennight, besides the benefits of training at the source, it brought him one drachma and eighty obols in income. Which, on the one hand, was quite a lot, but on the other... just for food and lodging, up to three drachmas a month were needed. And he still hadn't finished his studies, Helavia missed entertainment, and Malk himself had interests in life beyond training.

Overall, these simple calculations noticeably dampened Malk's enthusiasm for the job he found. The earnings would cover the largest hole in his budget, but nothing more. He needed to keep searching... However, Malk didn't feel any urgency either, allowing himself to just work, study, and train a lot—basically, live like a student in a capital-city institution should. Without intrigues, clashes with enemies, inexplicable incidents, or mysterious encounters. And that was great. Life was getting on track, and at times, Malk even caught himself starting to fantasize about the future. The one where he broke through the limits of Adept rank, uncovered the deep secrets of his Gift, and kept going, step by step inching closer to the bright childhood dream of becoming a famed noble warrior, demonslayer, and savior of humanity.

Some might call it foolish, but you have to have something to strive for, right? The fact that this dream was just a legacy of his dull, gray boarding school past didn't change a thing!

Everything changed about a month after Malk started at the infirmary. One day after work, as he trudged toward the omnibus stop, tired and drained, with only scraps of energy in his reserve, three people blocked his path. And this time, they definitely weren't robbers...

In a way, Malk himself was to blame for the whole situation. The fact that the group of guys in worn trousers and tunics with chevrons from a trade school he didn't recognize were standing at the end of the alley for a reason—was clear from afar. They were too nervous for idle gawkers, and their faces were too grim for students planning some prank. But especially the spot they chose for waiting for who knows what or who, which blocked all paths to the omnibus stop, said it all.

It said, but Malk didn't hear those warnings, completely lost in his thoughts. Only when the shortest of the trio of future craftsmen addressed him did he snap back to reality.

"Malk from Colhaun, Adept?" the craftsman asked again, not hiding his icy tone.

Malk, meanwhile, suddenly noticed that the speaker's tunic was completely unbuttoned, and something was noticeably bulging under the left flap. A bad feeling instantly stirred in him, the drowsy fog and fatigue were swept away by adrenaline rushing into his blood, and Malk quickly scanned the speaker's companions.

One, the tallest, was demonstratively leaning on a sturdy-looking stick, clearly itching to use it. While the other—an owner of a massive chin with an annoying vertical cleft—seemed much more relaxed. Besides regularly patting a pouch hanging on his right side—which pretty much resembled a standard "avalonch"—nothing betrayed his tension.

Yorrokh, why couldn't Malk have snapped out of it a bit earlier and just avoided these bastards altogether?! It would have saved him so much trouble...

"Yeah, so what..." Malk answered calmly, still hoping for a peaceful resolution. "Is there a problem?"

"Everything's a problem, mage! Everything!" the craftsman replied, now much more angrily and fiercely. "It's just that you're alive, while someone else is dead because of you!" He turned to the biggest of the trio and added bitterly, "And the worst part is, he lives like nothing happened. Instead of running back to his hole, he lives here, studies, works... Like it's no big deal!"

"I don't quite get it: what are you implying?" Malk asked, narrowing his eyes dangerously. "And who are you, anyway?"

"He doesn't get it..." the middle craftsman said, looking at his buddies. "Why are we even talking to him?! Let's just off him and..."

The shortest one didn't let him finish.

"No rush," he said sharply. "I want him to face Yorrokh knowing exactly why he died! And because of whom!" He turned back to Malk and asked angrily, "So, still don't get it?"

Malk just gave a crooked smirk. Considering everything that had happened to him both in the cultural capital and on the way there, it wasn't hard to guess why these guys held a grudge. Especially after the mention of Yorrokh. Someone from Colhaun would have mentioned the "Judgment of the Nine," and a regular Andorian would have brought up some specific Saint, but only a certain group saw Yorrokh not as absolute evil, but as someone almost equal to the defenders of humanity and the Creator himself.

"What's there to think about, you're loyalists. You came to avenge your pals who croaked in the train attack. Isn't that so?" he said, putting into his voice everything he felt about the "demon-lovers" and terrorism supporters. "One thing I want to know—are you pissed about that wench, or are you hot for those bastards from her crew?"

Malk knew there was no avoiding a one-sided fight and was blatantly provoking them. If there had been even a glimmer of hope they'd answer other questions—like how they found him, why they'd dragged their feet with the search, and who in the gendarmerie had sold out the real "hero" of saving the Colhaun governor's son from terrorists—he would have acted a bit differently. But such miracles only happened in books.

"Silva, Flesh Hunter screw you, not wench!" yelled the tallest and most hot-headed of the trio.

Gripping his stick more firmly, he moved decisively toward Malk. His buddies tried to stop the brute, but it was no use, so they had to start the attack too, spreading out and flanking Malk. The mouthy one pulled out a single-barreled pistol with a wheellock from under his tunic, while the guy with the notable chin grabbed the pouch on his hip. And to Malk's horror, it really was an "avalonch" with two spell containers.

'Seems like I overdid it with the insults,' Malk lamented inwardly, keeping a close eye on the enemies approaching, led by the brute. The fact that they were indeed enemies now raised no doubts and allowed for no other interpretation. And even though they were clearly rank-and-file members of the loyalists' terrorist wing, they still posed a serious threat to him...

Malk's first impulse was to run, but unfortunately, he had to ditch that idea right away. The clinic, as well as the ruins near it, was too far—he'd be caught ten times over, and if not caught, then shot or burned with bought spells—and there was simply nowhere else to run. The alley was straight as an arrow, with no branches or intersections. And the owners of the houses there probably weren't eager to let in a fleeing stranger.

So retreat was out. As for fighting... damn it! The odds were too uneven... But who said he couldn't even them out a bit?!

The decision formed in his mind instantly. Forgetting his fear and helplessness, Malk slightly drew out his blade for show and rushed toward the brute. But when he got within arm's reach, he didn't try to get even closer to put the knife to use—instead, he turned to his magic. Squeezed out the scraps of magic left in his reserve, used them to form a small clump of saliva right in his mouth, and spat it into his opponent's face.

And that was clearly not what the loyalist expected from Malk. Focused entirely on the blade, he completely overlooked other options in the novice mage's arsenal and paid for it instantly. Swerving along a tricky path and dodging the swing of the club, the clump of saliva hit him square in the eye. And judging by the brute's sudden yelp, it was quite painful.

Not deadly, but still enough to temporarily take one opponent out of the game.

Malk didn't know who to target next. Whether it was the talkative one already aiming his pistol at him or the other guy still fishing out the right vessel from his "avalonch"—they were both dangerous. And he had nothing to counter them with but the artifact knife...

The choice was made for him by the guy with the pistol. In the blink of an eye, Malk heard the click of the hammer, the hiss of burning powder, and suddenly a homemade bullet was flying toward him through a cloud of stinking smoke. And it was aimed so well that if Malk hadn't dodged at the last moment, the piece of lead would have torn his chest apart. As it was... only his left forearm suffered. While the bullet didn't touch bone or vital organs, just grazing the outside of his arm, a chunk of flesh torn out was still a chunk of flesh gone. And it sure didn't make him any nimbler.

"Scum!" Malk yelled, unable to hold back his emotions anymore.

He threw his knife in response and, surprisingly, hit the opponent's leg. But he couldn't capitalize on it. The owner of the "avalonch" finally got his hands on a vessel and struck. Breaking the cylinder with a flick of his fingers, he shot a real lightning bolt at Malk from his open palm. And it was strong enough to kill on the spot.

Malk's hands shot up instinctively, catching the enemy magic almost at his neck. They squeezed it with Authority and then, without looking, just tossed it aside... And, as it turned out, right where the brute was still rubbing his injured eyes. The deflected lightning hit his chest, knocking him down and ripping his ribcage open like a can. Malk even saw the still-beating heart, but it probably wasn't going to last long. No matter what Lineage the enemy might have had, surviving such a wound without external help was simply impossible.

"One down, you bastards!" Malk shouted menacingly, trying to crush his enemies, if not physically, then at least mentally.

And it seemed to work. Unlike the loyalists who had caused the massacre in the dining car, their junior followers could neither fight worth a damn nor face the death of a comrade calmly. So, in response to his shout, the enemies first froze for a moment as if assessing the situation, and then just bolted. The guy with the "avalonch" sprinted first, while the pistol owner, wounded in the leg, hobbled after him, trailing a bit behind. And thank the Nine, the knife fell out of the wound, and he didn't bother to pick it up. Because that loss would have certainly upset Malk!

"Yorrokh take it, I was really hoping for some spoils. A new gun or a battle spell wouldn't hurt!" he shouted, though he didn't really believe his own words.

After all, he was still too weak to not only win such uneven fights but also expect rich rewards. It was more realistic to just hope not to lose what he had. Like, for example, his life.

With these thoughts, Malk picked up the dagger lying on the stones, sheathed it, and reluctantly turned to the enemy still on the battlefield. If this had happened somewhere in the woods, in a deserted area, he'd have been glad to see his foe in such a state, but, alas, he'd been attacked in the city. In the cultural, Archont screw it, capital! Full of citizens who loved to write reports and gendarmes hungry for rewards. His past experience of spending three days as a guest of Captain Tyrhat had taught Malk a lot, and above all—the rule of not messing with gendarmes. Repeating that experience—though now as the killer of some poor trade school student—Malk wasn't keen on.

And so... so, Chilkara damn it, he saw no other way out but to heal the wound of the dying brute.

Finally making up his mind, Malk took one last look at the wounded man's face, sighed with regret—if not greed—and pulled from his pocket the glass vessel with the "Healer" spell. It was his bonus for good work from the infirmary manager, and using it like this, on an enemy, hurt.

"Ah, to Hell with it!" he finally exhaled and crushed the glass in his hand.

The spell flickered green as it was released, and right before his eyes, the nasty-looking wound closed, and the man's breathing steadied. Full healing was still a long way off, probably needing several more spells like this, but Malk had achieved the main thing. The brute wasn't dying anymore.

Besides, the sight of the healing wound suddenly reminded Malk that he was injured too. Normally, he should've already passed out from blood loss or at least weakened considerably—though the lack of sharp pain could still be chalked up to Rain practice. Startled, he quickly inspected his injured forearm, only to find something entirely unexpected. Instead of a gaping hole gushing blood, there was an ugly but already healing wound. And that was even more unsettling than the attempted murder itself.

"What the flur?!" Malk simply had no other words to convey how he felt about what was going on.