Daniel didn't hesitate.
The shape of the spell, the rhythm, the quiet certainty of how Healing Bell was supposed to unfold.
He raised his hand.
Nothing happened.
The air remained still. No sound. No warmth. No faint shimmer of magic. His hand lowered slowly, fingers curling in confusion.
"…Did it fail?" Stark asked, tilting his head.
Daniel tried again, more deliberately this time.
He followed the steps exactly as he understood them, careful not to rush. The spell should have rung like a distant bell, soft and gentle.
Again—nothing.
Frieren had been quiet until now. She looked at him, eyes calm.
"…You can't use it," she said.
Daniel looked at her. "Why?"
She tilted her head slightly, as if the answer were obvious. "You don't have mana."
The words landed softly—but they hit harder than he expected.
"No mana?" he repeated.
Frieren nodded. "None at all."
Daniel stared at his hand again. The spell sat perfectly in his mind, complete and intact.
But there was nothing to answer it.
Daniel exhaled slowly, the kind of breath meant to steady himself.
"No mana," he repeated. "So… knowing the spell isn't enough."
"No," Frieren said simply. "Magic requires mana. Even the simplest spell."
Fern folded her arms. "Then the trade worked perfectly. The limitation is yours."
That stung—but Daniel couldn't argue with it. He glanced at the contract hovering faintly near his vision. The familiar percentage sat there, unchanged, silent and unforgiving.
"I could trade for mana," Stark said suddenly, brightening. "Right? If it trades anything for anything."
Daniel shook his head before the thought could grow legs. "I can't."
They looked at him.
"Each trade takes twenty percent of the contract's energy" he said. "I don't have that much left."
Fern's gaze sharpened. "How much do you have?"
"17.7," Daniel replied carefully.
"Does it recover?"
"Yes, but it seems to recover only in my world."
Frieren studied him for a moment longer, then nodded once.
"That path is closed," she said.
Stark grimaced. "So you've got the spell… and no way to power it."
Daniel laughed quietly. "Exactly."
Silence settled between them, heavier this time. Not awkward—contemplative.
Fern was the one who broke it.
"…Mana doesn't have to come from the caster," she said.
Daniel looked up. "What?"
She turned to Frieren. "You have artifacts that store mana. Don't you?"
Frieren blinked.
Then smiled.
"I do," she said, pleased.
Frieren stopped beside a cluster of trees just off the road, the same way one might pause to adjust a sleeve. She set her staff against her shoulder, closed her eyes—
And reached into nothing.
Her hand vanished up to the wrist, fingers moving as if rifling through an invisible shelf.
Daniel froze.
"…Is that," he started.
"Storage magic," Frieren said casually. "Like your inventory"
Stark leaned closer, squinting. "You really keep everything in there?"
"Most things," she replied. "I forget some of them."
That did nothing to reassure Daniel.
After a moment, Frieren withdrew her hand holding a small crystal earring, a sapphire, a silver frame. Faint light pulsed inside it, slow and steady, like a breathing night like sky.
"Mana reservoir," she said. "Old but reliable."
She placed it in Daniel's palm.
It was warm. Not hot—alive.
Fern watched closely. "It's pre-charged."
"Yes," Frieren said. "Enough for three casts of Healing Bell."
Daniel swallowed. "And after that?"
"It becomes an empty container," Fern said. "It would need refilling. By a mage."
Daniel nodded slowly, fingers curling around the artifact. The weight of it felt different from the gun. Less solid. More fragile.
"Try," Frieren said.
He hesitated, then followed the spell's structure—this time letting the artifact answer where his body couldn't.
The crystal flared.
A clear, distant chime echoed through the air.
Daniel staggered as warmth washed over him—not healing, but confirmation.
He laughed, breathless.
"…It works."
Fern exhaled softly.
Frieren smiled, satisfied.
The artifact was heavier than it looked.
Not in weight—he could barely feel that—but in presence. It sat in his palm like a held breath, smooth and cool, a faint warmth pulsing under the surface in a slow, patient rhythm.
The relief came so suddenly his knees nearly gave out.
"So are you going back now? want us to escort?" Stark asked, more quietly now.
He hesitated. "I don't know how. The contract's energy keeps dropping just by being here, I had hoped I'd return when it reaches zero."
He tried, once, to put the artifact away in inventory—nothing happened again.
"…Guess I'm carrying it," he said with a weak smile as he fixed it on his left ear.
Frieren turned and began walking again.
"That's fine," she said. "You brought yourself here the same way."
And somehow, that was enough.
Almost a month had passed, as he traveled with them, going to different places, meeting different people, waiting for the day when energy reaches zero
Today was no different, Stark was in the middle of complaining about nothing in particular.
Fern listened out of habit.
Frieren walked slightly ahead, staff tapping softly against the packed dirt, sleepy.
And then—
He wasn't there.
There was no warning.
No pressure.
No sensation to mark the instant.
One step existed.
The next did not.
The space he had occupied was simply empty.
Stark's sentence cut off halfway. "…and then I said—" He frowned, glancing sideways.
"Huh?"
Fern stopped first. Her eyes lingered on the road, on the place where someone should have been.
"…Frieren," she said quietly.
Frieren had already stopped.
She looked at the empty stretch of path for a long moment.
"It seems he returned"
"That's it?" Stark asked. "Just—gone?"
"Yes."
They stood there a while longer.
Nothing changed.
The forest did not react.
Eventually, Frieren turned and continued walking.
"Hope he made it back fine," Stark said, as they continued.
"Whether it was in time… isn't something we'll know."
Behind them, the road remained empty.
The room didn't change.
That was the first thing he noticed.
The table was still cluttered with half-sorted papers. The clock on the wall ticked forward, steady and unbroken. The light outside the window hadn't shifted enough to suggest more than minutes had passed.
He was standing where he had been before,
as his knees buckled.
He caught himself on the back of the chair, breath coming sharp and uneven, heart hammering as if his body had sprinted while his mind lagged behind.
"…Dad?"
Her voice was small. Too careful.
He looked up.
She was still there—sitting at the table, hands wrapped around the mug, eyes fixed on the space he had vanished from. It took a second for her to register him properly, like her mind refused to believe the correction.
Then the mug slipped from her fingers.
It shattered on the floor.
She was on her feet before the sound finished echoing, crossing the distance in unsteady steps, hands gripping his coat like he might disappear again if she let go.
"You're—" Her breath hitched. "You're back?"
He nodded. Once. Then again, more firmly.
"I'm back," he said.
She buried her face into his chest, shoulders shaking. He wrapped his arms around her without thinking, holding her tighter than he ever had, grounding himself in the warmth, the weight, the undeniable fact that she was real.
Outside, somewhere far off, a siren wailed.
The clock kept ticking.
And the world—unaware, unchanged—moved on as if nothing impossible had just happened.
His gaze drifted past her, to the counter.
Prescription bottles. New ones. Different labels.
A folded hospital prescription paper weighed down by a spoon.
Date.
He picked it up without asking.
The numbers didn't make sense at first. Then they did.
"…Fifty days," he said quietly.
She nodded, eyes dropping to the floor. "They came a few times. Doctors. Social workers." A pause. "I asked them to wait."
His chest tightened. "Why?"
She shrugged, small. "You didn't say you were leaving forever." Then, softer: "And I didn't want to decide without you."
The clock on the wall ticked. Ordinary.
Unforgiving.
He folded the paper carefully, set it down.
"It worked," he said into her hair as he hugged her again, voice unsteady. "I'm here."
This time, she cried.
He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders loosening. He knelt beside her, careful not to startle her.
He said simply. "I brought it back."
Her eyes darted to the only thing that seemed different , a small crystal earrings on his left ear, then back to his face.
He pulled it out carefully.
"This… is what we'll use?" she asked, voice trembling.
He nodded. "Yes. Just trust me."
He held the artifact steady, raised his hand, and focused. The spell, learned in a world far from here, was used effortlessly.
A soft chime sounded. Gentle. True.
She flinched as warmth spread across her body, not sudden or harsh, but pervasive. Her shoulders relaxed. Her breathing evened.
Slowly, color returned to her cheeks.
Her eyes went wide. "Dad…did it work?"
He smiled with hope, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "It did."
She leaned into him, finally allowing herself to breathe fully. He held her tightly, letting the spell—and his presence—do what words never could.
The next morning, Daniel and his daughter walked into the hospital together.
The world outside faced more chaos than ever.
She clung slightly to his sleeve, quiet but steady. He glanced down at her and offered a small smile.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded. Brave, but wary.
They were led to the examination room, greeted politely by nurses.
Routine, order, efficiency. Fifty days had faded his traces from here.
The doctor in charge arrived moments later.
Neutral expression. Professional.
Daniel handed over the report from her last visit and waited.
Tests were run quickly. The machines hummed, lights blinked.
When the doctor finally returned, his face was calm, but his eyes hinted at surprise. "Your daughter's condition has improved dramatically," he said. "Based on the latest results, she is now well enough that normal treatment—medicine, monitoring—will suffice. She can recover fully with standard care."
Daniel swallowed. "Do you… have any idea how this improvement happened so quickly?"
The doctor shook his head. "Nothing in her treatment plan explains this. Her recovery is… unusual. You should come back in few days again and we will run a few more test for confirmation. For now, that will be enough "
He nodded, letting the statement stand. He didn't mention the other world. Not yet. Not ever if he didn't have to.
His daughter glanced at him, curiosity and hope flickering in her eyes. Daniel reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. "Let's go home first. We'll celebrate there."
Outside the room, the air felt lighter. The future uncertain, but for the first time in a long while, it also felt possible.
Fern was the first to speak. "It seems everything he said is true… then the gate we encountered wasn't an anomaly."
"No," Frieren replied. "It wasn't. "
Stark frowned. "So there are other worlds?"
"Or something that connects them," Fern said. "Either way, it means those portals aren't just monsters leaking through."
Frieren turned her staff once in her hand. "And the contract, it was interesting."
Fern looked at her. "Anyone with it can trade anything?"
She looked back down the road they'd come from.
She started walking again.