"What?"
Icariel turned to her, sweat slipping into his eyes like blood down a blade. The heat clung to his skin, and he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, the motion sharp, automatic.
"I asked you," she said again, silver hair catching a shard of sunlight, flickering like a weapon unsheathed. "How are you using magic like that?"
"Like what?" Icariel's voice came low, tinged with honest confusion.
Her eyes widened—too wide. "You cast two wind spells. Not just one—two. Back to back, without delay."
She stepped closer, as if proximity might explain the impossibility.
"That's not normal. Even more…" Her voice faltered, a tremble beneath the surface. "Your internal mana didn't decrease at all."
"No… it did." Her tone dropped to a whisper, pupils dilating as if the realization tasted bitter on her tongue. "It just… replenished right away."
"What are you…?"
Icariel blinked, stunned—not at her accusation, but at what it revealed. No one had ever watched him train before. No mages. No swordmasters. No awakened superhumans with flaming blood and stone-thick skin. Just him. And the voice.
Everything he knew about mana, about casting, about the blood-rusted language of survival—he'd learned from torn pages and that ageless thing in his mind.
He hadn't known. Not truly. Not until now. He hadn't known how wrong he was.
To him, magic was simple: see mana, control mana, use it, repeat.
But the way she stared at him now—like he was a ghost stitched from broken rules—told him the truth: he was an aberration.
White Sense, the gift carved into him by the voice's endless murmurs, was always active. Unlike the mages' fragile Spirit Zones—momentary ripples in reality—his sight was a perpetual storm.
It had always made him feel different. Now, he understood why.
"You've really taught me something awesome, huh?" he murmured under his breath, to the voice only he could hear.
The voice responded, smooth as oil over fire."I always give you the best possible cards… and White Sense is the most suitable card for surviving unknown encounters. And keeping you always filled."
Icariel's lips curved, barely. He wouldn't explain. Not now. Not to her. The voice—his secret—was the spine of his survival. No one could know. Not her. Not anyone.
"I don't have anything to tell you," he said flatly, voice void of apology.
"That's impossible." Her voice rose, straining against reason. "What you just did—that's not normal. It's not even possible. Most mages—unless they're freaks of birth or trained to the bone—can't cast like that. The first spell, maybe. But the second always comes slower. Their bodies need time. Their mana needs time."
She took another step forward, silver eyes blazing. "That's why mages don't fight up close. They can't keep up."
Icariel stared at her, then let out a quiet exhale through his nose, the sound sharp as steel cooling in water.
"You said you wanted to see how I train, right?"
She blinked, startled by the shift in tone.
"Then watch," he said. "Ask your questions after. Just don't interrupt me again."
She said nothing, but the silence that followed was heavy, thick with unspoken suspicion.
So he turned.
And the world fell quiet again.
Icariel resumed his movements, carving the air with invisible edges. Each slash cleaved wind into form, his mana shaping the air like bone beneath skin. The sound it made wasn't gentle—it screamed, thin and sharp like an animal being skinned alive.
The elf girl sat nearby, cross-legged on stone, unmoving. Watching. Her eyes dissected him like a scholar studying something not yet classified.
Eventually, Icariel stopped to breathe. Not because he needed to, but because something inside him said he should.
His skin glistened with sweat, but his breath was even. Calm. The mana inside him swirled like a quiet sea—full, patient.
That's when she stood.
Her expression was different now. The innocent curiosity had vanished. In its place: something narrower. Sharper.
Fear, cloaked behind intellect.
She rose slowly, eyes never leaving his body. The wind responded to her before her voice did—circling, uneasy.
"I'm sure now," she said, her voice like the edge of a blade not yet swung. "Your mana doesn't behave like ours. And when it depletes—it doesn't. Not for long. It replenishes instantly. Inside your body."
She paused, voice thick with meaning. "That's not something I've seen. Not in humans. Not in elves. Not in anyone. Only at…" Her voice caught. Words died.
Icariel didn't speak. He didn't blink.
Her aura stirred like the wind before a storm, and her tone dropped like a guillotine.
"I'm asking you again." Her eyes locked with his. "What are you?"
"And don't lie. I'll know."
"Tch." Icariel wiped sweat from his jaw, annoyed by the way her questions cut deeper than they should.
"Voice," he whispered in thought, "how do I answer? I don't even understand half the things I've learned. If I lie, she'll hound me like a starving wolf."
The voice chuckled faintly. "Then give her a bone. Say: 'You were born this way.' Let her imagination do the rest. And don't worry—her lie-sense hasn't been triggered. Not this time."
Icariel exhaled slowly and met her gaze with a practiced calm.
"You want to know what I am?" he said evenly. "I'm just a mountain boy. Born this way. I don't know why you're making such a big deal about something I've done my whole life."
Her silver eyes flared. "Born this way?" she echoed.
She took a step back, as if the truth was something that might bite her.
"Don't tell me…" she whispered.
Her mind was spinning.
"You were born with the most gifted body one can possess…"
Icariel raised a brow. "Huh? What?"
"The Infinity Body," she said. The words fell like prophecy.
Infinity what—? He almost laughed.
"It appears once every few hundred years," she went on, deadly serious. "And it can be born to anyone—man, elf, beast, or monster. The one who has it… can rule the world, if they live long enough."
"Ruler of the world," Icariel thought, expression flat. "Sounds dramatic."
"Those born with the Infinity Body can master anything. Be anything. They're beyond prodigies—the world bends around them."
She studied his face, searching for some crack in the surface.
"If you truly were born like that… it makes sense. But—" She frowned.
He kept a calm face, but inside, he was smirking.
"Voice," he thought, "you've really got her running circles from one stupid sentence."
"It was necessary," the voice replied coolly.
"If only she knew I spent most of my life hunting rabbits and reading half-burned books in a forest that no one remembers."
She finally shook her head, arms crossed.
"No… it's not possible. There can't be two with the Infinity Body in the same generation. My father told me the one born with it already appeared."
"Yeah, no connection," Icariel said quickly. "Not me. Definitely not me."
"Right…" she said, after a pause. "Still, even if you're not that, your casting isn't… normal. But maybe if you're just using weak spells… maybe you're just good at those."
"Exactly," Icariel agreed, shifting topics. "Anyway. You still owe me something. Healing magic, remember?"
"Hmph." She lifted her chin. "Elves keep their word. Watch closely—I'll only show you once."
"Fine," Icariel said, taking a seat, eyes narrowed.
She sat cross-legged, face taut with concentration. She pressed her palm to her own arm—the spot she'd once been wounded. A green light flared, soft and warm, like sunlight refracted through a forest canopy.
But then her gaze drifted to his bandaged right hand.
"…By the way," she asked, head tilting, "what happened to that?"
Icariel looked down at it. The cloth was stained—blood, ash, and memory.
His face darkened.
"Just… an incident," he muttered.
He remembered it too vividly—white lightning, mad and violent, crackling back through his veins like a beast turning on its master.
The elf's eyes narrowed, but she didn't press. Instead, she said softly, "You saved my life. It's only fair I return the favor."
She knelt and reached out.
"I'll heal your hand. Sound fair?"
Before he could answer, her palm hovered over the cloth.
"Remove the bandages."
He hesitated, then slowly unwrapped them. Each layer whispered as it peeled back, revealing skin warped and blistered—jagged, blackened, etched with scars that glowed faintly as if the wound still dreamed of the spell that birthed it.
She gasped.
"By the stars… what did you do to yourself?" Her voice broke—caught between awe and horror. The green light faltered.
Icariel looked away.
"I told you. An incident."
She didn't question further. Instead, she let her magic flare again, gentle and constant.
The glow touched his flesh, warm as summer rain, threading through torn nerves and fractured tissue. The pain dulled. The wind hushed. Even the forest watched in silence.
"I will heal you," she whispered. "So pay attention. This is healing magic. And it's not something you learn by talent alone… not even for a genius."