Wint walked along the flagstone road, his crutch tapping against the ground with a dull, rhythmic echo.
He arrived at the slums west of the clinic, not because of the church Saintess who Doctor Vera claimed could only pray, but simply because he lived here.
The alleyways of the slums were so narrow that only one person could pass at a time. Grayish-white mold crawled all over the walls on both sides, and the air was thick with a damp, putrid stench.
A few children in tattered clothes ran barefoot through the murky puddles, scurrying away the moment they saw him.
Arriving in front of his low-slung house, Wint didn't push open the crooked wooden door.
No lamp was lit inside; it was pitch black, save for a single sliver of gray light peeking through the crack in the door. Peering through the window, he saw a tiny figure curled up on the bed, the blanket so thin he could easily make out the child's silhouette beneath.
That was his child, who was only five years old.
He stood in silence for a long time before turning to face the wall. Leaning his crutch against it, he slowly crouched down, buried his face in his knees, and let his shoulders tremble.
Tears seeped through his fingers and dripped onto the ground, mixing with the filthy water until they were indistinguishable.
He didn't dare make a sound, terrified his child might hear him.
He thought of his leg, which had been crushed by falling rocks in a mine collapse five years ago. The mine owner had thrown him out after tossing him a few silver coins, and no one had hired him since.
In this territory, there were no decent jobs that would hire a cripple.
His wife had known this too. Shortly after giving birth, she abandoned them and ran away. Left to fend for himself, Wint dragged his crippled leg, sold their house, and moved into the slums. He barely kept the household afloat by repairing shoes and chopping firewood.
Twenty silver coins.
That was the sum of all his hopes to keep this family going, yet he couldn't even scrape it together to treat his leg.
Not to mention that there was no longer any hope of his leg ever recovering anyway.
Remembering the years of agony, the cold mockery of others, and his child's bleak future, he clutched his hair and bit the back of his hand to stifle his sobs.
The crushing weight of life had finally broken him, forcing him to vent his despair in this way.
Yet, just as he was drowning in despair and agony...
Soft and gentle, like a snowflake brushed from a withered branch by a passing breeze, a voice drifted into his ears, accompanied by a faint white glow.
“Are you having some trouble?”
Wint slowly raised his head.
Beneath the moonlight, a beautiful figure clad in white stood before him.
The young girl leaned forward slightly, the hem of her holy robe gently brushing the ground. The pristine white fabric shimmered with a soft silver glow in the dim light, completely unstained by the filth around them.
Her features were so exquisite they didn't seem like a creation of the mortal world, instantly reminding Wint of the goddesses of beauty in ancient legends. But what drew his attention most were her golden eyes.
They were as clear as a mountain spring, though currently veiled by a thin mist. The worry in her eyes was like ripples on a pond, spreading outward from the depths of her pupils and washing gently over him.
In his dazed state, Wint felt as though he had met a goddess of salvation.
Wint hurriedly turned his face away, messily wiping the tear stains from his cheeks with the back of his hand. He tried to stand with the help of his crutch, but his crippled leg slipped on the damp ground, nearly sending him sprawling.
“I—I'm fine.”
He didn't dare look up at the white figure.
It was the cleanest garment he had ever seen in his life. The fabric of her holy robe was unspeakably exquisite, devoid of any patches or tears, and the cuffs and collar were embroidered with delicate gold patterns that looked as if they had been stitched by hand with the finest silk.
He looked down at his own stained, coarse coat. His hands instinctively shrank back, hiding his frayed cuffs behind his back.
She... must be a true noble lady. Or at least the daughter of some wealthy merchant, or perhaps a sheltered nun from the church...
In any case, she was not someone a person like him should ever approach.
He lowered his gaze, gripped his crutch tightly, and prepared to limp away.
“What happened to your leg?”
The young girl spoke again, her voice softer now, and much closer.
Wint caught a faint scent. He had never smelled anything like it before—it was clean and sweet, making him instinctively want to take a deeper breath.
“Don't move. I can heal it.”
Heal it?
Wint's heart squeezed tight.
He wanted to say “no,” but his throat felt blocked.
Of course he wanted a healthy leg—he dreamed of it every night—but he couldn't afford the treatment.
The female doctor at the clinic had said there was no hope of his leg ever recovering, and that treatment would only alleviate his symptoms at best. Even then, it was thirty silver coins per visit, cash only.
He couldn't even scrape together twenty silver coins. How could a noble lady's treatment possibly be cheap?
“No, I... I...”
The more anxious he grew, the more tongue-tied he became, unable to form coherent words.
At the same time, he felt a strange sensation in his chest.
When she said she could heal him, his first instinct wasn't to doubt her ability, but to worry about his lack of money...
He felt an inexplicable sense of trust in her.
Why?
Perhaps... it was because her eyes were too bright. So bright that they made him feel that if anyone in this world could truly heal his leg, it had to be someone with eyes like hers.
But his leg had been crippled for five years.
For five years, he had ingested all kinds of herbs, applied mud poultices, and consulted traveling doctors. Even the clinic's female doctor had only prescribed pain-relieving ointment, declaring it incurable.
He had long since grown accustomed to the pain, accustomed to leaning to the left when he walked, and accustomed to the pitying or disgusted glances of passersby.
He had never dared to hope it would heal.
Then, he heard a soft chuckle from the girl. It was slightly helpless, like a spring breeze rippling across a lake.
“I know what you're worried about,” she said, crouching down as if coaxing a startled little animal. “But my treatment doesn't cost anything.”
Wint froze.
No money? Was there actually a healer in this world who didn't charge money?
“W-what do you mean?”
He received no answer.
The girl had already reached out, resting her palm gently against his crippled leg.
In that instant, a warm golden light spilled from between her fingers.
The light was as warm as the glow of a fireplace in the dead of winter. No, it was softer than that—it felt like... a hug. A mother's warm embrace.
The light seeped through his skin, muscle, and bone, like a warm spring flowing into a parched riverbed.
Wint's entire body went rigid.
The sensation was entirely foreign to him. For five years, his leg had never felt this warm. It almost reminded him of his childhood, crawling under the thick blankets on a freezing winter night.
Back then, his mother had still been alive.
As the memories washed over him, tears welled up in his eyes once more.
This time, it wasn't out of sorrow, but because something had touched the softest, most vulnerable corner of his soul.
Looking down, he could feel something shifting and knitting together deep within his bones. His leg was truly being mended.
Rate on N.U.
