Chương 36: Infinite Mana Couldn’t Heal Anyone

Sieghart continued charging weapons long after the battlefield fell silent. Soldiers carried bows, spears, shields, swords, and unfamiliar magical tools toward him until the ground surrounding his seat disappeared beneath enchanted equipment. He worked without pausing, transferring mana into one weapon before immediately reaching for the next. The process had become almost instinctive after months of working for Master Thorne, although the variety of enchantments required more concentration than usual.

Every weapon responded differently. The ice-enchanted bows accepted mana slowly, resisting his power until he adjusted the flow to match their runes. The wind spears filled quickly but became unstable whenever he transferred too much at once. Several heavy shields contained defensive enchantments that consumed almost three times as much mana as the weapons. Their capacity remained unimpressive by Sieghart's standards, yet an ordinary Restorer would probably need hours to charge only one.

Sieghart required less than a minute. The soldiers gathered around him gradually stopped talking. Their initial relief changed into confusion, and that confusion soon developed into something closer to suspicion. Sieghart could feel their eyes following his hands whenever another weapon regained its glow. Some whispered among themselves, while others remained nearby after collecting their equipment just to watch him continue working.

A five-year-old child shouldn't possess enough mana to recharge dozens of enchanted weapons. Even the soldiers who knew his identity appeared unable to connect his weak reputation with what they were witnessing. Sieghart couldn't blame them. According to everything he had read, mana reserves didn't increase significantly through ordinary training. People could improve their control, reduce the cost of spells, and strengthen their bodies, but their natural capacity remained largely unchanged.

Anyone displaying an abnormal quantity of mana usually belonged to one of two groups. They were either powerful dungeon guardians or people who had transformed themselves through the same forbidden methods used by the fallen tribes. Sieghart didn't look like a dungeon guardian. That left an uncomfortable alternative. A middle-aged swordsman watched him charge an ice blade before leaning toward another soldier. He attempted to whisper, but Sieghart's position was close enough for him to hear.

"How much mana does that child have?"

"I don't know."

"He hasn't stopped."

"I can see that."

"Is that normal for the Emberharts?" The second soldier glanced at Sieghart's crimson-and-gold hair before lowering his voice even further. His answer became too quiet to understand, but the uneasy look he gave Sieghart communicated enough. Apparently, I have advanced from family embarrassment to suspicious magical creature. That is almost an improvement for my reputation. Holding back might have reduced their suspicion, but Sieghart refused to slow down.

Every weapon he charged could prevent someone from being burned alive during the next attack. He also needed to improve Mana Transfusion. The skill had already reached Level Fifteen through his work with Master Thorne, and charging unfamiliar equipment under pressure provided better training than repeating the same task inside a quiet shop. His mana might be infinite, but the amount he could transfer at once still depended upon his mentality and control.

Improving the skill would make every future attempt faster and more efficient. Sieghart placed one hand against the surface of a broad metal shield. He sensed the empty runes inside it, adjusted his mana to their structure, and released a concentrated surge. The defensive lines carved across the shield illuminated simultaneously. A familiar message appeared before his eyes. [Mana Transfusion has reached Level 16.] [Mentality increased by 1.] The pressure behind Sieghart's eyes eased slightly as his mind adapted to the improved skill. The difference was small, but every increase made controlling several spells at once more realistic. He dismissed the notification and reached for another weapon. There would be time to celebrate progress after his grandfather was safely back on the farm. For now, Mana Transfusion possessed two equally valuable purposes. It made Sieghart stronger, and it improved someone else's chances of surviving the following evening.

If displaying too much mana caused rumors, he would deal with those rumors later. Concealing his ability while people died would make the secret feel considerably less valuable.

"Next." A young soldier handed him a short spear with a cracked shaft. The enchantment remained intact, but the weapon itself looked unlikely to survive another battle. Sieghart charged it anyway. By the time the last large pile had disappeared, his hands were sore from touching heated metal. Protection prevented any serious burns, although the spell did little against the exhaustion spreading through his thoughts. His mana hadn't decreased. His focus had. That distinction remained irritatingly important.

Sieghart rose from the empty crate and examined the camp. He expected to find a dedicated group of healers treating the wounded, perhaps inside a protected tent near the center. If healing magic existed anywhere, a military camp fighting enemies who specialized in burning people seemed like the obvious place to gather its users. Sieghart followed the sounds of pain until he reached several large tents. Assistants carried water, clean cloth, and metal instruments between them while wounded soldiers waited outside.

The people working there were called healers, but Sieghart quickly realized that the title was generous. Most were field surgeons, herbalists, and attendants rather than actual magic users. They cleaned wounds, removed damaged tissue, applied ointments, straightened broken bones, and wrapped burns beneath layers of treated cloth. Their work was valuable, but none of it resembled the healing magic Sieghart had imagined.

One attendant pressed a glowing stone against a soldier's burned shoulder, but the tool merely reduced the pain and cooled the damaged flesh. It didn't restore the destroyed skin. Sieghart moved between the tents while searching for anyone casting a proper healing spell. He found nothing except mundane treatment assisted by a handful of specialized magical tools. Some Aura users sat apart from the others and meditated.

Their Auras circulated through their bodies, slowly strengthening their natural recovery and closing shallow wounds. The process appeared useful but limited. It couldn't restore missing limbs, repair severe burns immediately, or save someone whose injuries had already become fatal. The wealthier soldiers possessed another option. Sieghart watched an officer drink a small red potion before reclining against a folded blanket.

The cut across the man's chest began closing within moments, although the recovery was far slower than healing potions in the stories from Earth. A single bottle appeared capable of turning a serious injury into a manageable one. Unfortunately, only officers, nobles, and wealthy Aura users seemed to carry them. Ordinary soldiers received bandages. Sieghart stopped beside an injured teenager who couldn't have been much older than twelve.

The boy's right forearm had been burned badly, and his teeth remained clenched while an attendant applied ointment. A potion might have saved the use of his hand. Nobody offered him one. Sieghart looked around the medical area once more, hoping that he had overlooked someone. The camp held thousands of Aura users, hundreds of enchanted weapons, and enough magical equipment to illuminate half the town. It didn't have a single person capable of casting reliable healing magic upon others.

"This is a really weird world." Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. An attendant looked toward him but quickly returned to work. Sieghart didn't explain himself because the statement would have required a lengthy discussion about his previous life. On Earth, magic didn't exist, yet humans had built hospitals, developed medicines, and created procedures capable of saving people from injuries that would have been fatal centuries earlier.

This world possessed supernatural energy, enchanted weapons, and warriors who could split boulders. Somehow, most of its medical treatment remained primitive. People had invested far more effort into discovering ways to kill one another than into finding methods to keep one another alive. At least some things remain consistent between worlds. Sieghart examined his own hands. White Magic had allowed him to learn Protection, proving that he possessed at least one branch associated with preservation and support.

Healing should theoretically belong to the same category. If independence and the desire to protect himself had unlocked Protection, perhaps a different emotion or intention could unlock a restorative spell. Sieghart attempted to project White Magic through his hand, but the energy stopped beneath his skin. Mana Transfusion allowed him to place power inside weapons, yet living bodies seemed to reject the same method. Forcing more mana into the attempt could harm the boy.

Sieghart abandoned the experiment before anyone noticed what he was doing. Infinite mana couldn't solve a problem when he lacked the correct spell. That realization bothered him more than it should have. He possessed enough energy to charge every weapon in the camp repeatedly, but he remained unable to heal a single burned hand. Sieghart left the medical tents with a heavier expression.

Learning healing magic had always seemed like a profitable future goal, something he could study once he gained access to better books. Now, it felt urgent. The sun would rise in several hours. After gathering heat throughout the day, the Firians would probably attack again, and the medical tents would receive more wounded soldiers than they could treat. Sieghart returned to the tent he shared with Edric.

His grandfather hadn't returned from the officers' meeting, so Sieghart sat alone and reviewed everything he had learned. The Firians possessed a clear daily cycle. They gathered power beneath the sun, attacked after sunset, and withdrew before spending enough energy to endanger themselves. The defenders understood the pattern, but they lacked an obvious method to break it.

Remaining inside the camp surrendered the initiative, while attacking the Firians during daylight meant facing them while they continuously absorbed heat. An offensive before sunrise appeared more reasonable, yet the officers hadn't attempted one. Perhaps the Firian camp was fortified, hidden, or simply too distant to reach before daylight. Sieghart was still considering the possibilities when the entrance flap opened.

Edric stepped inside, carrying his enchanted bow and wearing the same troubled expression he had shown after the battle. The redness across his arms had faded slightly, but exhaustion made his shoulders droop. He placed the bow beside his bedroll before sitting heavily upon a wooden stool. Sieghart studied him for several seconds.

"The meeting didn't go well." Edric removed one boot and pretended not to hear. When Sieghart continued staring, his grandfather released a tired sigh and worked on the second boot.

"It was only a meeting."

"Do they have a strategy to win?" Edric's hands stopped briefly. That hesitation answered the question before he spoke. He resumed removing the boot while keeping his attention fixed upon the floor.

"You don't need to worry about that." Sieghart folded his arms.

"People say that when the answer is bad."

"We have experienced commanders."

"Do the experienced commanders have a strategy?" Edric finally looked at him. His expression contained irritation, but most of it seemed directed toward the situation rather than Sieghart.

"The commanders will decide what needs to be done. Your responsibility is to remain here, charge the weapons they bring you, and stay away from the fighting."

"That isn't a strategy to win."

"It is what you need to do." Sieghart wanted to continue pressing him, but the tension in Edric's face made the effort pointless. His grandfather either didn't know the strategy or had been ordered not to discuss it. Both possibilities were concerning. Edric leaned forward and rested his forearms upon his knees. His voice softened before he continued, although the seriousness behind it remained unchanged.

"If something happens to me or the defensive line collapses, you leave immediately. Don't gather your belongings, and don't wait for anyone to give you permission." Sieghart disliked hearing the order repeated. Edric wouldn't emphasize escape unless the officers believed that the camp could genuinely fall. Edric trusted Sieghart's magic enough to believe that a five-year-old could survive a two-day journey alone. Under different circumstances, the confidence might have felt flattering.

Now, it felt like an admission that his grandfather was preparing to die. Sieghart looked away before Edric could read the anger on his face. He had no intention of abandoning the old man while there was still something he could do.

"I understand." The answer was technically true. He understood the command perfectly, even if he hadn't decided whether he would obey it. Edric watched him suspiciously but lacked the energy to continue arguing. He lay down without eating, and his breathing soon became slow and regular. Sieghart remained awake. The tent trapped the day's lingering heat, making the interior uncomfortable despite the open entrance. Outside, wounded soldiers continued groaning while guards moved between defensive positions.

Sieghart lay upon his bedroll and stared at the canvas ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw flames striking the barricades and Edric returning with reddened arms. The following battle might be easier if it rained. The idea was almost painfully obvious. Rain would cool the battlefield, weaken exposed flames, reduce the risk of fires spreading through the camp, and possibly interfere with the Firians' ability to store heat. Unfortunately, the sky held no clouds. Sieghart crawled outside and looked upward.

Countless stars shone above the camp, unobstructed by even the smallest patch of mist. The entire eastern region appeared painfully dry. The surrounding vegetation had become yellow and brittle, and the grass near the camp could ignite from a single spark. The Firians couldn't have chosen a better battlefield if they had designed the landscape themselves. Heat remained trapped within the earth, flames spread easily, and natural water sources were scarce. Sieghart wondered whether he could create rain.

With infinite mana, producing enough water should theoretically be possible. He could continue using Water Creation until the entire battlefield became soaked. The problem was scale. His elemental control remained strongest close to his body. He could launch a concentrated stream across a respectable distance, but controlling water became increasingly difficult once it moved beyond that range. Creating rain required more than producing water.

He would need to lift an enormous quantity into the sky, spread it across the battlefield, and make it fall over the correct area. Wind could help with elevation and distribution, but controlling both elements across such a distance would place tremendous strain upon his mind. He had never attempted anything remotely comparable. Sieghart possessed power without the mastery required to use it properly. For years, he had focused upon increasing the strength and speed of his spells.

Fireball training involved longer distances, faster projectiles, and repeated casting. Water Creation became a narrow cutting stream. Wind magic developed into propulsion. Earth magic remained useful for manipulating small quantities of sand and soil. He had trained power. He hadn't trained scale. Infinite mana is an ocean connected to a drinking straw. Very impressive until someone needs enough water to extinguish a battlefield.

Attempting to create rain without preparation might cause him to collapse before the fighting began. Even worse, losing control of the wind could send the water away from the camp or interfere with the defenders. Sieghart needed something simpler. His thoughts returned to the sand he had used against the monsters near the farm. A small amount had been enough to blind them before he attacked. The battlefield contained far more loose dirt, ash, and dust.

If Sieghart combined Earth Magic with wind, he might create a wide cloud capable of concealing the defenders or blinding the advancing Firians. They fought effectively at close range, but their attacks still depended upon seeing their targets. A dense dust cloud could disrupt their formation and make their fireballs less accurate. However, the same cloud might blind the defenders. Sieghart would need to control its direction, height, and density.

He would also need to warn the Aura users beforehand or release it only after the Firians crossed a specific point. A poorly timed spell could get allied soldiers killed. A successful one would almost certainly help kill the enemy. There was no harmless choice available. If Sieghart did nothing, more defenders would die during the next attack. If he interfered and made a mistake, people could die because of his actions. Even success meant creating an opportunity for the defenders to slaughter blinded enemies.

The Firians had invaded the region and killed people, but they still looked human enough for the thought to feel unpleasant. Sieghart slowly raised one hand toward the empty sky. A faint breeze gathered around his fingers, carrying several grains of dust away from the ground. He watched them disappear into the darkness. In his previous life, failure had meant disappointing his parents, losing an opportunity, or spending another year preparing for an exam. Nobody had died because Sieghart made the wrong choice.

This time, failure possessed bodies. It possessed burned faces, empty bedrolls, and grandparents who might never return to their farm. Sieghart closed his hand. Whether he acted or remained still, his decision would carry consequences. Refusing to choose wouldn't protect him from responsibility because doing nothing was also a choice. He looked toward the dark battlefield and imagined the dust rising beneath hundreds of approaching feet. The plan was dangerous, incomplete, and far beyond anything he had practiced.

It was still better than waiting for Edric's luck to run out. At sunrise, Sieghart would begin training for scale. By sunset, he intended to give the Firians their first unpleasant surprise.