"Dying…?"

  The word hung in the air, a death sentence. Vana wailed, a raw, ragged sound of pure despair that seemed to tear the air in the small room. Hot tears streamed down her face as she desperately stroked her daughter's limp, cold hand, as if her touch alone could pull her back from the brink. The color drained from Jory's face, leaving him chalk-white as he stood frozen in the doorway, a silent statue of pure shock. Beside him, Orin trembled, a violent shudder that seemed to rack his entire body—whether from rage, terror, or crushing grief, I couldn't tell. I felt like an intruder, a spectator to a family's most private and horrifying moment. The air in the small room was thick with despair, so heavy it felt hard to breathe, tasting of dust and sorrow.

  "Mama... Papa... please... don't be sad," Willow managed weakly, her voice a fragile thread of sound, barely stirring the heavy air. "I… I'm just very… very tired. I'll feel… better tomorrow… promise…"

  Hearing her daughter’s fragile attempt at comfort, Vana choked back a sob that sounded torn from her very soul and gently caressed Willow's pale, waxy cheek.

  Suddenly, Orin stormed past me out of the room, a choked, animalistic sound of pain escaping him as if he couldn't bear to witness another moment. Jory trailed numbly behind him, his eyes wide and vacant. Willow's eyes, still horrifically leaking a trickle of dark blood, turned slowly, weakly towards me. "Thank you… for saving me…" she whispered, her breath hitching with the monumental effort. "But… I don't even know my rescuer's name."

  I lowered my gaze, biting my lip hard until I tasted iron, a profound sense of uselessness washing over me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pip detach herself from my leg and pad slowly, deliberately towards Willow's bed. Vana watched her, her tear-filled eyes wide with a mixture of weary confusion and apprehension as Pip hopped gracefully onto the mattress. She stepped carefully onto Willow's still abdomen and began to knead gently with her front paws, a soft, deep purr starting in her chest, a steady, living sound of pure comfort in a room filled with pain and silence.

  A tiny, weak chuckle escaped Willow's lips, a sound so fragile it barely stirred the air. She carefully raised a trembling hand and stroked Pip's head. "Hello… who are you?"

  Vana managed a watery, faint smile at the sight, a brief flicker of warmth in the cold despair.

  I let out a shaky breath. "My name is Grim," I said quietly, my voice rough. "And my… better half here is Pip."

  Willow nodded weakly, another faint chuckle escaping her. "Pip… you're a sweet one… Thank you… for trying to comfort me." Pip just meowed softly, then carefully curled up on Willow's stomach, a small, warm, vibrating presence against the stillness of the dying girl.

  A wave of gratitude washed over me. In a room filled with helpless, panicked grief, Pip was the only one doing something, offering a simple, unwavering comfort that was beyond any of us.

  A short time later, Orin reappeared. He paused in the doorway, his gaze lingering on Pip, then walked to the bedside table, carrying a wooden bucket of water and a clean cloth. He set the bucket down and handed the cloth to his wife. Vana took it automatically.

  "Where's Jory?" she asked softly, her voice thick.

  The bald man jerked his head towards the main room. "He's outside." Vana just nodded, then began to gently dab the blood away from Willow's pale face.

  Orin let out a long, ragged sigh, then placed a heavy hand on my shoulder and steered me out of the room. The door clicked softly shut behind us. He walked mechanically to the hearth and began stirring the stew, his movements stiff and robotic. I stood a few meters away, shifting uncomfortably, until he spoke, his voice flat and dead. "Withering Blight."

  The name sounded ominous, ancient. "What is that?" I asked cautiously.

  The ladle dropped back into the pot with a dull clang. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, as if trying to physically wipe away the image in the other room. "Withering Blight," he repeated, his voice rough with exhaustion. "It's a disease. An incredibly cruel one. Some call it a curse. Whoever contracts it… they say they're consumed from the inside out." His voice dropped, and the words that came next sent a chill of recognition down my spine. "A traveling scholar explained it to us a few months back. An old man with eyes that had seen too much. He said the heart stops being able to produce life energy properly. Then, over months, sometimes years, the body just… uses up whatever energy is left, like a candle burning down to its wick. And then it starts to break down. To decay."

  Decay. The word struck me with the force of a physical blow, a grim echo of the vet's clinical explanation of lymphoma. A body turning on itself, wasting away from an unseen enemy within. I saw Orin's reflection in the bubbling surface of the stew—a man staring into an abyss, his face a mask of the same crushing helplessness that had shattered my own world just days ago.

  My thoughts churned. Should I offer a platitude? A hollow 'I'm sorry'? Sometimes, words only served to poke at a raw wound. Before I could decide, Orin abruptly sat down heavily at the table and waved me over. I took a seat opposite him. He stared at the grain of the wooden tabletop, tracing a knot in the wood with a trembling finger, clearly struggling for words. I waited.

  Soon, he looked up, his eyes distant. "Say, boy… do you know anything about farm work?"

  Surprised, I shook my head. "Can't say I've ever planted or harvested anything in my life," I admitted.

  Orin nodded slowly. "Can't just sit here," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "I'll go mad. There's always work. Maybe… you want to lend a hand?" He looked at me, a spark of desperate purpose in his eyes. "Urgently need to dig a new well. We're suffering a terrible drought."

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The idea of revealing my magic sent a jolt of fear through me. My life on the streets, both in the old world and this new one, had taught me one thing above all: being different, being special, meant being a target. The paranoia of witch hunts and blind fanaticism was a real, tangible fear. To show this power was to paint a target on my back.

  But as I looked at the raw, undisguised suffering on Orin’s face, at a father watching his child die, the risk felt… small. He was a man drowning in pain, and I was standing on the shore, holding a lifeline he didn't know existed. It wasn't a cure, not the miracle he truly needed, but it was something. An act of kindness in a moment of utter cruelty. It was a risk I had to take.

  "How long does it take to dig a well?" I asked, my voice steady. "And how urgently do you need the water?"

  Orin seemed surprised by my practical questions. "Digging takes several days," he estimated. "Then it needs to be lined with stone. Didn't do that with our old one, and it finally collapsed. As for how urgent…" He sighed again. "The leaves are drooping badly. Some plants have already dropped their blossoms. So… yes. Pretty damn urgent."

  Slowly, I nodded. Okay. Deep breath. Screw it. I slowly opened my hand, palm up, on the table. Orin looked from my hand to my face, confused.

  I focused, calling on the tingling sensation, picturing the clear, cool water from the spring in the woods. Slowly, a small, shimmering sphere of water appeared, coalescing from the air and hovering steadily above my palm.

  Orin's eyes widened. He gasped, leaning forward, his gaze fixed on the impossible sphere. "You… you're a mage," he whispered. Then, his expression transformed. A wild, desperate hope ignited in his eyes, so intense it was painful to watch. "Can you heal her?" he choked out, his voice cracking as he practically lunged across the table. "Please, tell me you can save her!"

  His hope was a physical weight, and crushing it felt like a cruelty I wasn't sure I could bear. I exhaled slowly, bitterly. The water sphere collapsed, splashing onto the table. "I'm sorry," I said, the words feeling horribly inadequate. "Truly sorry. But I can't use healing magic. I only learned I could use magic at all recently. Only Water Magic, like this." I gestured at the puddle. "I could maybe help water the fields… but I can't heal."

  The desperate light in Orin's eyes died, leaving them hollow and empty once more. He nodded weakly, slumping back in his chair, a broken man.

  We sat in silence for a long time. Eventually, the door to Willow's room opened, and Vana stepped out. She sat down heavily beside Orin. "Willow's sleeping now," she reported, managing a faint, weary smile. "Pip… that cat of yours… she seems to have calmed her right down."

  I nodded, forcing a small smile. Orin spoke, his voice rough but determined. "Grim and I are going to take care of the fields. Call us when the food's ready." With that, he pushed himself up and disappeared out the front door.

  Blinking in confusion, I followed him outside. Orin had vanished into the barn. I looked around. The wheat field stretching beyond the vegetable patches was immense, a sea of gold and green under the setting sun. A moment later, Orin emerged with a pickaxe, a shovel, rope, and a bucket. "As long as the well isn't too deep, I can dig it out myself," he said gruffly. "If you finish watering quickly, I'd appreciate your help digging."

  "I'll do my best," I promised.

  Orin just gave a curt nod, walked to a clear patch of dry earth, and swung the pickaxe. He swung again, and again, each blow a grunt of effort and fury. He looked like he wanted to punish the earth itself for his daughter's fate.

  Right. Time to get to work. I walked to the edge of the vast wheat field and focused, summoning a shimmering ball of water. I held out my hand, trying to let it flow gently. A stream fell onto the thirsty ground but stopped almost immediately as the water ball vanished. It doesn't regenerate. Stupid.

  I spent the next hour in a state of intense, frustrating trial and error. My first attempts were clumsy. I tried creating a stream directly, but without a reservoir like the sphere, the magic was unfocused and dissipated into a useless mist. So I went back to the sphere, trying to feed a new stream of mana into it as it drained. The balance was impossible. Too little mana, and the stream sputtered and died within seconds. Too much, and the delicate sphere would rupture, splashing uselessly at my feet with a disheartening plop. My frustration grew with each failed attempt.

  Thoughtfully, I paused and scratched my chin.. Ah, that's it! A steady stream, not just a ball. I have to think of it as a river, not a pond.

  I tried again, this time visualizing a constant flow of water through my hand, not just forming above it. I focused, tilting my palm slightly to create a small trickle. The sphere depleted much slower this time, buying me precious seconds. Now for the hard part. While maintaining the trickle, I tried to summon more water into the existing flow. Nothing. My concentration wavered for a split second, and the stream died.

  "Argh!" I grunted, clenching my fist. Maybe the input of mana needs to be stronger than the output?

  I focused harder, pushing more 'tingle' into the summoning aspect while trying to keep the output steady and gentle. For a second, it felt like it was working, the flow stabilizing—and then a huge jet of water erupted from my palm like a burst fire hydrant. The raw force of the spell blasted me backward off my feet, and I landed flat on my back in the dirt with a painful oof, the wind knocked completely out of me.

  "Ow…" I groaned, sitting up and spitting out a mouthful of mud. Orin had stopped digging and was staring at me from across the yard with a bewildered expression. Cheeks burning with embarrassment, I waved a weak hand at him and got back to my feet, soaked and miserable. I tried again. And again. It was an incredibly difficult balancing act, like trying to fill a leaking cup at the exact same rate it was draining, requiring a level of concentration that left my head throbbing. More output, less input. Less output, more input.

  But eventually… eventually, after what felt like an eternity of failure, something clicked. It was less about force and more about feeling, about listening to the hum of the mana and matching its rhythm. I found the equilibrium. A small, consistent trickle of water flowed from my palm, and the sphere above it remained stable, fed by an equally steady stream of my energy without wavering.

  Proud of the consistent flow now watering the wheat, I allowed myself a small, weary smile. It felt good to finally gain some control, to bend this wild power to my will. As I watched the water soak into the thirsty earth, the familiar jolt of information flashed through my mind:

  < Skill improved: Water Magic (Inferior) -> (Beginner) >

  Hahaha! Yes! Awesome! A surge of pure joy shot through me, momentarily eclipsing my exhaustion and the grim reality of the day. Beginner rank! That feels significant! My grin widened…

  …only to falter as I looked around. I glanced back towards Orin, who was still furiously attacking the earth with his pickaxe, a silhouette of grief against the setting sun. Then I looked at the massive wheat field stretching out before me, a vast, silent sea of thirsty stalks disappearing into the twilight. Then I looked at the tiny, pitifully small patch of damp earth at my feet.

  Even with all that practice, over what must have been close to an hour… I hadn't even managed to water one percent of this single field.

  My shoulders slumped. Shit. This is going to take forever.