Chapter 3: The Withered Magic
“Rashel!
You’re awake, thank goodness!”
The door burst open, and Mother hurried to my bedside.
When her cool hand touched my cheek, I felt my eyes grow hot with emotion, for I had resigned myself to never seeing her again.
“Mother.”
“Rashel, your complexion is still poor.
Come, let the doctor examine you.”
Her black hair, the same as mine, was styled in a chignon.
Her sharp eyes, also like mine, were lifted even more sternly, making her strikingly beautiful yet rather severe in appearance.
But this mother of mine was neither cold nor harsh.
Contrary to her looks, she was gentle, warm, and overflowing with love.
“Now then, let us take a look.
First, I shall examine your entire body and check the flow of your magic.”
Overwhelmed by Mother’s momentum, I had not noticed, but behind her stood the royal court physician, Doctor Donald, his white beard neatly grown.
Behind him, Sarah peered in anxiously.
Since awakening, I had felt utterly weak and heavy with fatigue.
As Doctor Donald’s warm magic flowed throughout my body, I could do nothing but remain still.
“This is…”
“Doctor, what is it?
Is Rashel recovering?”
At the sight of Doctor Donald’s grave expression, Mother began to panic.
As for me, I had already sensed what he was about to say.
Yes.
“Her magic has withered.”
The immense magic that had once overflowed within me was now barely perceptible.
Something that had always been there since birth was gone.
Even in the midst of my confusion, I could not fail to notice it.
“That cannot be…”
“Madam, please compose yourself!”
“But I have never heard of magic withering!”
Mother seemed struck by shock at the doctor’s words, clutching her head as she staggered.
Sarah quickly moved to support her.
“It is only natural you have not heard of it.
I myself have only read of it in documents.
This is my first time witnessing it in person.”
“What must we do?
How can it be restored?”
Mother grabbed the doctor’s arm, her voice rising sharply, but he merely shook his head with a troubled expression.
I simply watched the scene blankly.
Strangely, Mother’s agitation cleared my thoughts instead.
In this world, there is no one without magic.
Nobles tend to possess greater magic, while commoners usually have less.
The difference in amount is said to depend on the size of the “tank” that stores magic.
For some, it is the size of a washbasin.
For others, the size of a well.
I originally possessed an immense amount—like a lake, always brimming.
For it to wither meant that the tank itself had disappeared.
Without magic, one’s immunity that protects the body weakens.
Colds worsen easily.
Constant fatigue sets in, making even walking on one’s own a burden.
Even a washbasin-sized tank, if filled with magic, is sufficient to live without inconvenience.
The only difference lies in the scale of magic one can use.
Ah… I see.
Perhaps I was not forgiven, nor granted a fleeting dream.
Perhaps this is the punishment given to me, who sought to harm others and caused them suffering.
In my previous life, I had tried to use this magic to harm the Saintess.
Surely, this is why.
If that is so, then how fortunate it is.
The only one who will suffer is myself.
This time, no one else needs to be hurt.
There is no need to make others suffer.
Sarah and the coachman, who never needed to die.
The Saintess I had tried to harm out of jealousy.
Perhaps… perhaps I truly have been given a chance to start over.
Relief washed over me, and a single tear slipped naturally from my eye.