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The second day in the clearing started quietly, with the sun low and warm on my back. I kept my steps measured, my satchel light but ready. Each motion, each careful movement was deliberate—my Massage Magic pulsing faintly beneath my skin, attuned to my determination, my hope, my quiet worry for Dad and the villagers.
Porlyusica was already crouched among the herbs, hands moving with the same precision I had come to memorize. I knelt a little distance away, careful not to interrupt. Today, I had a goal: help without making mistakes, learn without overstepping, and show that I could be useful.
A stem snapped under my fingers. I froze, a small jolt of panic rising, but I pressed my palms lightly together. The faint hum beneath my skin steadied me, my pulse evened. Not control. Not healing. Just balance. Enough to continue, enough to correct my next action.
She glanced at me briefly. Her eyes sharp, assessing, but unchanged—distant, detached. She didn't step back or comment further. I let the moment pass, focusing on the leaves in my hands, the soil under my knees, the gentle rhythm of my own magic responding to my effort.
I handed her a bundle of herbs slightly unevenly packed. She corrected it with a flick of her fingers, precise and silent. I nodded, silently noting the adjustment. Every correction, every small motion, every careful step fed into my subtle magic, making it pulse a little warmer, a little steadier. I felt a quiet confidence rising—not flashy, not talent-driven, just steady, ordinary competence.
"Watch the roots. Don't pull too hard," she said, her voice clipped. No warmth. No approval. Just instruction.
I followed, focusing on the weight, the texture, the fragility of the plants. My hands worked steadily, my back straighter than yesterday, each small correction guided by my observation, by memory, by my quiet sense of responsibility. My Massage Magic responded gently, a faint reinforcement that helped me maintain my posture, steady my hands, keep my breathing even.
Another small mistake—an herb bundle almost tipped. My pulse increased slightly, but I pressed my hands together again. The vibration beneath my skin steadied the tremor, letting me catch it in time. She noticed, just a slight tilt of her head, then returned to her work. No words. No judgment. Just observation.
I began to feel the rhythm of her movements and mine syncing—not perfectly, but closely enough to anticipate what she might need next. A root here, a leaf there. Each action deliberate. Each small success feeding into my quiet magic, strengthening the ordinary, steady control I relied on.
The sun climbed higher, and the clearing felt warmer. Sweat dampened my hair, but my hands stayed firm. My back didn't ache as much. Each careful motion made me feel a little stronger, a little more capable. Not powerful. Not exceptional. Just… ordinary, and enough to help.
At one point, she paused, standing briefly to stretch, eyes scanning the area. I remained still, waiting, hands folded briefly on my satchel. My subtle magic pulsed in response to my determination and the faint thrill of accomplishment. She still didn't approach me, didn't offer approval—but the faint acknowledgment through observation was enough.
I handed her the last small bundle of herbs I had carried. She examined it, nodded once ever so slightly, then returned to her precise work. I didn't speak. I didn't need to. Today was about proving I could be steady, careful, and useful. Tomorrow, I could aim for more: a proper deal, assistance with rare plants, guidance enough to make a difference.
As I packed the remaining herbs and prepared to leave, my thoughts drifted briefly: pink hair, sharp eyes… Porlyusica. Younger than the stories I had read, but unmistakable enough to give me a quiet, flickering hope. I would return tomorrow. I would do what I could. Ordinary, yes—but capable. And this ordinary capability might be enough to change things, if only I stayed careful, calm, and determined.
The path back to the village was still, the air carrying faint sounds of coughs and soft movements. Friends and neighbors moved slower than usual. I imagined Dad resting, my hands ready to ease stiffness, my faint magic reinforcing steadiness. Not healing, not control—but enough to help. Enough to act. Enough to hope.
I whispered softly as I walked: tomorrow, I will try again. I will do everything I can. Ordinary, steady, and determined.
The clearing behind me remained quiet, the healer continuing her work, unaware of the small boy whose ordinary magic and ordinary determination would continue to grow, unnoticed, but persistent, ready for the next step.
The morning light spilled over Date Village, soft and calm, but my mind raced. Today wasn't about observation. Today, I had to act. Every careful step mattered—not just for Dad, but for everyone sick in the village.
I approached the clearing where she waited, crouched among the herbs. Porlyusica's sharp eyes flicked toward me as I neared. She didn't move, didn't acknowledge me. Just precise, detached, as if I were invisible.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my pulse. My Massage Magic hummed faintly beneath my skin, warm and steady. Not healing. Not control. Just subtle support, like Makarov had said—responding to my heart, my determination, my worry.
"I'm ready to help," I said, voice calm. "Tell me what to do, and I'll follow instructions."
Her gaze measured me, sharp, neutral. "Small hands," she noted. "Careless mistakes cost plants their life. Can you handle it?"
"I'll try," I replied evenly, pressing my thumbs together in a quiet gesture of focus.
The first task was simple—gathering a cluster of delicate leaves. I moved slowly, my mind recalling everything Garron and Dad had taught me. Yet, my hands fumbled once, the bundle nearly slipping.
"Careful," she said flatly, but didn't intervene. Only a slight narrowing of her eyes. I corrected immediately, adjusting my grip and focusing. The faint vibration of my Magic spread through my arms, easing tension and steadying my movements.
Step by step, we moved. I carried heavier bundles, kept quiet, handed her each plant exactly as she needed. My Magic pulsed faintly beneath my skin—warm, steady, encouraging me silently. I could feel it reacting to my worry, my hope, my focus. Not strong, not miraculous—but enough to keep me from trembling.
Porlyusica didn't speak much. A single word here, a slight nod there. Distant. Professional. Yet, as we worked, I noticed her watching me more closely—her movements precise, calculating. She was measuring, testing. My mistakes were few, my corrections immediate. Slowly, subtly, I felt her acceptance of my presence—even if she didn't show it.
By the time we finished the patch, sweat damp on my forehead, my satchel nearly empty, I had learned more in these few hours than I had in weeks of observation. Small details, careful touches, the way plants reacted to handling—knowledge that could help Dad, the villagers, and my friends.
I stepped back and bowed slightly, hands warm and steady. "I can come back tomorrow," I said. "I can help more. If you—if you want."
Her head tilted, faintly, but she didn't smile. "You can help," she said. "Follow instructions. Carry, observe, and stay out of the way. Nothing else."
That was enough. A door, open just a crack. Tomorrow, I could propose the deal. My knowledge of plants and the forest, the care I could provide—maybe that would earn more guidance, maybe even the name of a rare herb. Maybe then, I could finally do something real for Dad and the village.
I turned toward home, feeling the subtle hum of Massage Magic in my arms and legs. It wasn't power, it wasn't control. It was ordinary, quiet, and enough. My body felt stronger, steadier. My steps lighter. My focus sharper.
The village lay ahead, quiet, tense. Friends coughed and paused more often, adults moved slower. I imagined Dad resting on the cot, my hands ready to ease his stiffness. Not healing. Not miraculous. Just something I could do. Something that mattered.
And in the back of my mind, a vague recognition lingered. Pink hair, sharp eyes… Porlyusica. She looked younger than the stories, sharper than the manga and anime suggested. Not certain, but a hint of familiarity. Enough to hope that tomorrow, a proper deal could begin.
I whispered to myself as I stepped inside, brushing dust from my sleeves: Tomorrow, I will try again. I will do everything I can. I won't fail.
Outside, the village held its quiet breath. Illness still lingered, slowing steps, soft coughs, pale faces. But today, I had taken the first real steps toward helping—not with talent, not with magic beyond my ordinary, subtle strength—but with care, focus, and determination.
And tomorrow… tomorrow I would return.