Chapter 10: Growing Pains
Only a day had passed since Ayan collapsed.
Shen Tian, who had rushed over in a panic, poured a potion over Ayan’s wound. The injured area bubbled and began healing rapidly.
‘It could’ve been treated this easily…’
Guilt washed over him. Kynemia watched the wound close in silence before asking:
“When will he wake up?”
“Hard to say. It’s not the wound causing this…”
“Then what?”
“I’m no mage expert, but it’s likely due to the Second Awakening.”
Even Shen Tian, an alchemist, knew mages underwent this process. Some had begged alchemists to stop the pain, though none could help.
“Most recover within a day or two. Don’t fret too much.”
“Okay…”
Kynemia fiddled with Ayan’s bracelet, her head bowed.
Would he really be fine? Ignorance magnified her worries. Had delaying treatment ruined his Second Awakening? Or was the mages’ curse to blame?
‘What if he dies…’
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.
‘Stay positive! Focus on the good!’
As she lingered by his bed, a whisper cut through the silence:
“100…”
It felt like ice water drenching her mind, shocking her awake.
“100?”
Shen Tian turned at the number. Kynemia swallowed dryly. “It’s nothing. I’ll stay with him alone.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. It’s better this way.”
Though indirect, her dismissal was clear. Shen Tian hesitated but nodded. “Call me if needed, little sister.”
“Thank you.”
Once alone, Kynemia sat by Ayan. His lips stayed sealed after muttering 100—the count from his abandonment.
‘Fool.’
She slumped over the bedside, chin propped on her arms.
‘Is he reliving that nightmare?’
‘How could anyone forget such pain?’
A cold ache stabbed her chest. She inhaled sharply.
“Ayan, wake up,” she whispered.
Ayan’s father feared the monster he’d sired.
After his wife died in childbirth, he drowned in liquor, neglecting his son. Like weeds ignored yet thriving, Ayan grew untamed—no schooling, yet mastering an “intangible power” that lurked in his shadow, moving as he willed.
His father’s terror grew. Those abyssal eyes accused him nightly. Even his son’s breathing terrified him.
One day, he took Ayan outside—the boy’s first outing. Joyous, Ayan marveled at clouds and breeze… until his father produced a blindfold.
To stop him finding home.
Ayan’s heart pounded.
Afterward, only senses remained:
Shaky breaths.
Frantic footsteps in dead silence.
Damp forest rot.
Sour sweat.
After what felt like hours, his father halted.
“We’re playing a game. Count backward from 100. I’ll find you.”
At seven, Ayan knew the truth—abandonment—yet clung to hope.
“100.”
Footsteps fled like chased prey.
He clenched his fists, nails biting palms, and continued:
“99…98…97…”
Silence swallowed the retreating sounds.
“55…54…53…”
At “20,” he ripped off the blindfold. Darkness choked the forest.
“10…9…8…”
No tears. Only despair.
“1.”
His own voice startled him awake.
Gasping, he found himself in a lavish room, not woods.
‘Did I collapse again?’
Annoyed, he rubbed his forehead—then noticed blonde hair brushing his arm.
Kynemia slept slumped beside him.
‘Why… stay? For me?’
The despair weighing him lightened slightly.
‘She’s just kind. Does she do this for others?’
Irritation flared. He poked her cheek—too soft—and jerked back.
“...Ayan?”
She stirred, blinking sleepily.
“Yeah.”
“...You okay?”
“Fine.”
He flashed a grin. She frowned, then hugged him tightly.
He froze.
“...What’re you doing?”
“Comforting you.”
“Why?”
“Can’t I?”
“I’m not—”
“You’re not okay. Don’t lie.”
He faltered, exposed.
“...I’m worried,” she murmured.
He bit his lip. Their heartbeats roared.
Crimson sunset. Rustling sheets. Herbs tinged the air.
His hesitant hand settled on her back.
The dark forest in his mind softened to twilight.
“I’ll call someone to check you—”
He grabbed her wrist. “Stay. Just a little longer.”
“Huh?”
“My magic’s unstable. Don’t leave.”
‘Liar.’ His magic was fine—he just craved her presence.
‘Damn it.’
Had he gone mad, as the Tower mages claimed?
He should let go.
But couldn’t.
The sweet quicksand pulled him deeper.
