"The hardest type of magic has begun—healing," Naya pronounced with a heavy sigh.
It's incredibly difficult to heal oneself as it is, but now we also have to know how to heal others. And Father... he only explained the basic level, and flat-out refused to tell anything further. I asked Aunt Mira, but she only answered that such things must be comprehended independently.
They are always like this. Mama, Father, Aunt. As soon as the mont cos to learn sothing really interesting—they fall silent and explain nothing. Aunt Mira once ntioned that it's better for this world not to know many things at all. This especially concerns teleportation. Spatial magic alone makes my father stronger than everyone else. But, as I understand it, it is strictly forbidden, and no one will tell how it works.
Just like this healing magic.
Naya looked around. And here she was, back here again. In the infirmary, where so many sick people lay...
Now I had to practice healing, and I was spending today in the infirmary.
While the other students were given easy tasks—healing the wounded from physical consequences: so with simple cuts, so with broken bones—I, as the "smartest and most talented," got the most incomprehensible and seemingly impossible task. The teacher said it straight: if it doesn't work out, don't worry about it.
Yeah, right. Don't worry.
I entered the ward. A man was lying on a cot. I took the paper with his details from the table. Miner. Part Wort. 32 years old. Has been working at the face since he was thirteen. Ordinary ore miner. Condition: unable to work.
I sat down on a chair next to him. My eyes were still hidden by a thick blindfold. The man coughed heavily.
"Cough... And for what reason has such a beautiful girl decided to sit next to ?" he croaked.
I remained silent and simply placed my hand on his forehead. Even without touching him closely, I could already feel the heat—he had a high fever and severe weakness. He breathed heavily and erratically.
I carefully touched his chest, trying to analyze his condition blindly. It seed his lungs were not fully expanding when he inhaled. Then I leaned in and placed my ear to his chest.
"Take a deep breath in and exhale," I requested.
With incredible difficulty, he drew in air, but as soon as he began to exhale, he was seized by a violent, tearing cough. I straightened up again.
"How long ago did this start?" I asked. "The cough, the weakness?" "What exactly?" he asked back, and then, swallowing, added: "Three years, I think. About three years." "And how long have you been working like this?" "When my father died, I had to go into the mine to feed myself. To be honest, where I worked before, the conditions were much worse than here. Consider this place a paradise compared to those places. There's even a shower here, they feed you, the room is free. Every day I sleep in my own bed."
"And has your nose been crooked since birth?" I asked suddenly, feeling an unevenness on his face.
He tried to laugh, but the laugh imdiately turned into a wheeze. "When I was fifteen, I got into a fight at the mine... for the right to go on shift. That's when my nose got broken."
"Alright, thank you," I nodded. "I am a mage, studying healing. I am not making empty promises, but I will try very hard to heal you so that you can walk normally again."
He smiled weakly. "It will be enough for
if such a beautiful girl simply cos to
and bestows her attention. I feel... my days will soon end. I will die the sa way my father did."
I froze. "The sa way your father did?" "Yes. My father suffered from this too, though not as badly. But he ended up dying because of a cave-in."
A hereditary disease? was the first thought that flashed through my mind.
I headed to the library. And, as expected—nothing. The library in Mount Slick was still almost empty; knowledge was just beginning to be brought here. And there were very few books on dicine.
Why did they give
such a difficult case?! This isn't just a little scratch that needs to be healed with mana. A-a-ah! I scread ntally in frustration.
And this Wort... he barely slled of lies at all. The scent was very faint. He was honest with himself and with .
The next day I decided to give up and ask for help. I don't know how, but I had to beg at least so hint from Father.
I found him in the corridors of the mountain. "Father..." I began. "I'm about..." But he didn't let
finish.
"Yes," Zenkhald answered simply.
"Did you understand exactly what I an?" I was taken aback.
Father looked at
with his unreadable gaze. "You ca here with such sadness and such determination... If I make you beg, I myself will feel sick from the sight of your sorrow."
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Inside , a warm light of hope timidly flared up.
As soon as I told Father about the problem, he disappeared. Just teleported.
I only saw him the next morning. In his hands, he held so old, worn book. The cover was rubbed beyond recognition, the yellowed pages threatened to crumble at a single touch, and mold was even visible on them in so places.
"Thank you," I said. Father silently turned around and left.
I carefully opened the book. On the first page, the author's na was written: "Gacilia Noys." And from the very first pages began exactly what I was looking for:
"The ailnt I encountered.
Symptoms: heavy breathing, coughing, chest pain, general systemic complications, high fever. The cough can occur both with blood and dry. These symptoms manifest in every third miner.
When I tried to find information in old writings, I ca across similar records, but they were negligible in number. The miners themselves blindly believe in legends. They believe that it is the spirit of the mountains, the Goddess of the Earth, or Mother Earth herself bringing her wrath down upon them for digging up and destroying her domain. But this is blatant nonsense.
Problem number one: it is necessary to understand exactly where the root of the disease lies and why it arises. Understanding the cause is already the solution to the whole problem.
First—theories."
"Theory number one: Corruption or curse. There is an opinion that this is a hereditary disease passed through the blood. Utter heresy. I realized this from the very first mont: I knew miners' children who never went down to the face, and their health was in perfect order.
Theory number two: Diet or working conditions. I assud that the problem might lie in the food or that certain parasites breed inside the workers. I spent a whole week with the miners, but I didn't notice any special monts when parasites could penetrate their bodies. I reached a dead end.
Then I decided to compare bodies. Fortunately—or rather, unfortunately—a cave-in occurred at the mine: one worker suffocated, and another had his head crushed. For comparison, I also procured the corpse of a healthy person. I proceeded with the autopsy.
When I reached the lungs, it beca obvious: the problem is exactly in them. The lungs of both miners were hard and looked much worse than those of a healthy person. Healthy flesh was cut by a scalpel very easily. But in these two, sothing hard was constantly felt under the blade; it seed as if the knife was cutting stone. The lungs had seemingly petrified and rotted from the inside.
But now the main question arose: why does this happen? I had no answer. I went down into the mine again and observed their work for a long ti, but found nothing suspicious.
Half a month had already passed, and the cause remained a mystery. However, I identified one important pattern: this disease manifests only in experienced miners, those who have worked at the face for more than ten years.
A week ago, an old man died who had long since left the mine and was living out his days as an ordinary farr. He had exactly the sa symptoms. I autopsied him, and the condition of his lungs turned out to be much worse than in previous samples. And yesterday a young worker died, with about five or six years of experience. Comparing these data, I ca to the conclusion: the destruction of flesh does not happen instantly; it has a cumulative effect and progresses over ti.
Another month passed, and I still couldn't understand the essence of the problem. But today I saw a worker sweeping the floor and collecting dust into a bag. To my question of why he was doing this, he answered that this is how they separate useful tals from waste rock. I took a handful of this dust, twirled it in my hands, rubbed it between my fingers... and I was struck as if by lightning. Among the ordinary gray stone dust, sothing glistened. A little bit, but it glistened.
I understood what the root of the evil was, although I cannot yet scientifically substantiate the chanism of the disease itself. During work at the face, dust is constantly ford. A person inhales it. Then so reaction occurs inside the body—it is not yet clear exactly which one—but now I am absolutely sure: it is all about this stone dust that they breathe day in and day out."
"Half a year has passed, and I still couldn't understand why this happens and how exactly. The miners swallow dust, and, according to my theory, it cuts them from the inside. But why then do the lungs continue to function? Doesn't the dust co out with the cough? And if it doesn't co out, why doesn't it just settle at the bottom? Where does the blood co from when coughing? There were too many questions, and I found no answers.
A year passed. I was already ready to completely abandon this hopeless case.
But today I t a very specific person. And our acquaintance itself turned out to be quite strange. At first, he seed to
to be so kind of madman or fool. But when he started speaking...
— 'So, then, you an to say that we have certain "nerves" inside us that communicate with the brain?' I asked, trying to comprehend his words. 'And that when wounded, the brain understands what happened and sends a special squad to eliminate the problem: first it cleans the wound, then stops the blood, and only then heals? And it is capable not just of fusing the edges, but also of creating new flesh?'— 'I explained everything differently overall, but you caught the gist,' he answered.— 'I didn't particularly understand your reasoning, especially about so "hormones".'— 'Because you are stupid.'
I let the insult pass my ears and outlined the essence of my problem with the miners to him. His answer struck
with its brutal clarity. He took out a knife and left a light cut on my arm. Touching the small wound, he said that when it heals, the skin here will beco slightly tougher than it was before.
I looked at him uncomprehendingly. He sighed heavily:— 'When harm is done to your body, it tries to make sure that next ti this area withstands the impact. Have you ever seen or touched the hands of warriors or laborers? The skin there is rough, covered in calluses. It's not for no reason. If you break a bone correctly, after it fuses, it will beco stronger, slightly thicker and denser than it was.'
— 'Wait, wait,' I interrupted. 'Alright, let's say your theory is correct...'— 'IT'S NOT A THEORY!' he snapped angrily.— 'Fine, let it be so. But how does this relate to my case?'
— 'What were you listening with? You are annoying,' he hissed, but still deigned to explain: 'Lungs work on the sa principle as skin and bones. When miners inhale stone dust, the grains of sand cut the lungs from the inside. The body, trying to recover, makes the tissue stiffer, building up rough protective scars. And so it goes every ti. As a result, the lungs beco so hard that they are no longer capable of expanding normally for inhalation.'
That explained everything. Absolutely everything. This strange youth, as paynt for his revelation, asked for only one thing—that I feed him.
But, despite the unraveling, I still didn't understand how to treat this ailnt. For if flesh has already beco stone, it cannot be reversed. The only solution is prevention. Quitting the job in ti or constantly wearing thick protective masks. The disease cannot be cured; it can only be prevented from appearing.
With a heavy heart, I added this ailnt to the list of incurable diseases."
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