Chapter 49: Mana Sickness
The Withered Roots
Like a colossal statue, gnarled tree roots pierced the rock wall, clinging to the crumbling stone, exuding boundless deathly aura. The cavern’s darkness stemmed from this pervasive deathly energy dimming the faint light. Its source lay at the base of the towering roots. At the edge of her vision, a miniature city glowed softly across the vast ground. Wenger quickened her pace, stirring countless gales in the silent world.
A girl was about to water sunflowers by a wooden fence when a breeze dropped a leaf onto her face. A man gently cupped her face from behind, playfully poking the silver-white horns on her head. “Dear, we have guests.” The woman didn’t turn, waiting for the next gust to blow the leaf away before resuming her watering. “Edward, did you hear me? I need to make some juice.” “Alright, dear.” Edward pinched her horn again, but Aranold didn’t mind.
When she looked back, he was gone—so fast, no time for a hug. Even after years together, he was still a bit tsundere, though his body was honest. She set down the watering can, returned to the house, and mashed purple berries from a box, filtering them. She added freshly harvested honey—guests might like it sweet. Maybe she’d prepare some food too. Oh, they were already here.
Aranold removed her apron, tucked her tail away, and walked out gracefully, skirt in hand. Despite expecting them, she feigned surprise. Edward carried Vick inside, giving her his usual shy smile. Another girl followed, polite but reserved. Aranold had Edward help Vick inside while she led Wenger in.
Edward examined Vick, glancing at Wenger, then at Aranold. “What’s wrong? Not talking?” With guests here, was there something only they could discuss? Aranold thought he overthought things unnecessarily. “Mana sickness.” Edward stated the diagnosis, and she froze, turning to Wenger. “Sorry.”
Aranold hadn’t expected this. Wenger remembered mana sickness from the game—50% reduced spell damage. Why their expressions…? They saw her confusion. Aranold’s glance stopped Edward’s words. “You didn’t know?” “Mana sickness?” Wenger sensed there was more she didn’t understand, piecing it together from past details. “Yes,” Aranold nodded. “It’s incurable, no antidote. Everyone I’ve seen with it died.”
“Everyone dies eventually…” Edward began, only to be hit in the face with an empty flowerpot by Aranold. She apologized to Wenger. “Sorry, my husband’s always like this.” It had been years since they’d had guests. She glared at Edward, who looked out the window, pretending not to notice. “Really, no way at all?” Wenger bit her lip.
Vick shouldn’t die here, not because of her. If the plot shifted, more might die… “Well—it can be alleviated,” Aranold replied casually, gazing at the pitch-black “sky.” “Mana sickness comes from overexerting mana—the world demands a price. Continuous, massive mana input could ease the physical discomfort.” She didn’t speak definitively; it wasn’t certain. Where would enough mana come from for someone who’d touched the seventh tier?
There was a solution, but achieving it was the issue. Aranold’s gaze returned to the girl, letting out a soft “eh,” her eyes glowing faintly white. She sensed a strange connection between them but couldn’t see it clearly. “You want to save him?” “Of course.” Wenger didn’t hesitate—leaving someone to die wasn’t her way.
With her answer, Aranold shooed Edward out. “What are you standing there for? Go gather herbs.” They needed potions prepared, and the patient’s condition stabilized. Mana sickness was torment every moment. Honestly, she was shocked he wasn’t already a corpse. She was also curious why the girl had such immense, refined mana—far beyond a fourth-tier mage’s limit. Unbeknownst to her, this was just Wenger’s beginning.
In her view, such mana could sustain mana sickness for a time. But it was only a possibility. And it required the girl’s consent. Silence fell between the two in the room. After a brief pause, they talked, learning a bit about each other. “Fell from a temple…?” Aranold shook her head, pondering.
They hadn’t been to the surface in ages, unaware of its state. When did a temple appear? And with believers? “Can I ask you to help find someone? My student’s missing.” Wenger was worried about Viyi. “There’s another?” Aranold’s eyes widened.
A woman had told them years ago that someone might come, but left no further details. Who knew it’d be this complicated? But with guests here, she had to host. After a moment, Aranold shook her head. “The person you’re looking for likely didn’t ‘fall’ here.” Hearing this, Wenger didn’t know whether to be relieved or sad. Her worry persisted.
Seeing the girl’s mood, Aranold smiled, pushing a cup of green tea toward her. “Try it—I added honey.” Wenger sipped, smiling politely. It was refreshing, with a minty flavor, but she had no mood to savor it. All she could do now was wait.
To distract herself, she reviewed her new blessing’s attributes, opening her inventory. She noticed an unfamiliar item at the bottom. “The Arbiter’s Scale…” Right. Back then, something had fallen vaguely—she thought it was lost when she fainted. But she’d picked it up.
As she took the scale from her inventory, Aranold, calmly sipping tea while waiting for Edward, nearly spat it out. “You know Agamemnon well?” Wenger had never heard the name, likely unsearchable even in the game, so she shook her head naturally. Aranold relaxed—with the scale, her earlier plan might work. She asked another question, looking at Wenger solemnly. “If saving him meant trading your life, would you still do it?”
Wenger didn’t answer immediately. Their bond wasn’t that deep. She’d done everything to survive, and now someone asked if she’d give her life for another. Strictly speaking, she’d picked up Vick on the road, and he’d slain an otherworldly beast. Both were mutual “opportunities.” How much did their favors really weigh?