I was not born a king.
I was not born a genius.
I was born in a village so small that even the gods forgot its name.
I remember the God of Continuance asking me, as he does all souls:
“What do you wish to be in your next life?”
I was young then, in spirit if not in age.
Tired and aching, with no memories except the echo of suffering from the life before.
So I answered honestly:
“I wish… to heal.”
The god smiled with a sadness that frightened me.
He said:
“You will be given a path to heal the world.
Walk it as you wish.
But remember—healing has consequences.”
I thought he meant exhaustion.
I was wrong.
I healed my first plague at eight years old.
My mother lay dying.
I held her hand and begged the world not to take her.
Light burst from my palm like a star ripping open.
Her breaths steadied.
Her fever vanished.
And the plague left not only her—
but the entire town.
People called it a miracle.
I didn’t understand miracles.
I only understood that my mother was alive.
even though she still cursed at me.
That was my first mistake.
People came in caravans.
Crawling.
Screaming.
Bleeding.
Begging.
And I healed them all.
Broken bones, broken hearts, broken minds—
I fixed whatever shuddered in front of me.
Too perfectly.
Too easily.
The world learned:
“Ithil will never say no.”
I collapsed often.
I bled often.
I slept little.
But I healed them.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Even when it hurt.
Even when the expectations grew monstrous.
Somewhere along the way, I realized:
I was less a person
and more a fountain people drank from without asking.
A dying child was brought to me one day.
Her parents sobbed:
“Make something we can use.
Something that doesn’t need you.”
So I did.
I spent ten years crafting it.
And finally, I succeeded:
The Elixir of Regrowth.
It healed everything.
Anything.
Instantly.
It rewrote the body.
Rebuilt bone.
Restored youth.
Cured sickness.
Stopped aging.
That was the moment death disappeared.
And the world began to rot from immortality.
Old generals stayed in power.
Old kings refused to pass their crowns.
Old tyrants clung to their thrones for centuries.
The young starved.
The weak suffered.
The world overflowed with life but emptied of opportunity.
Death is cruel.
But immortality without balance—
that is torture.
This was the unintended consequence of my wish.
I lived centuries.
Not by desire—
but by the very miracle I created.
I watched:
Families unable to feed their immortal children
Lands conquered and never released
Resources drained by those who never died
Youth denied any inheritance
Entire nations suffocating under “eternal rule”
And through it all—
People demanded more cures.
More elixir.
More life.
I did not want to give it.
But I could not refuse.
I gave until nothing remained of me.
My home became a dirt hut.
My meals, stale bread.
My clothes, ragged.
My body, frail.
I lived poorer than the poorest child.
Because every better thing I owned,
I gave away to someone who needed it more.
Or claimed they did.
Her name was Asteria Wynnfall.
The world called her:
“The Starving Blade.”
She led the young,
those crushed under endless life.
Those who had been born into a world that refused to make space for them.
She fought tyrants.
She fought immortals.
She fought kingdoms.
And she came for me,
believing I was the source of all suffering.
When she saw my hut—
the empty shelves,
the cracked bowl,
my thin hands trembling over stale bread—
she froze.
Her spirit magic let her feel suffering.
And she felt mine.
“Why… why are you living like this?”
“Because… I gave everything away.”
“You caused this world to break!”
“I know.”
I did not defend myself.
I did not hide.
I had given the world what it asked for.
Not what it needed.
She cried as she realized the truth.
But the world demanded a sacrifice.
And I could no longer deny the world’s needs—
even when the world was wrong.
Asteria held me as my breath weakened.
My elixirs could have kept me alive.
But I refused them.
The world needed death again.
It needed endings.
It needed balance.
It needed me to disappear.
My final words were simple.
“I’m sorry… I only ever wished to help.”
Then darkness took me.
And for the first time in centuries—
the world exhaled.
Light greeted me.
The God of Continuance stood waiting.
He did not smile.
He did not frown.
He looked… heartbroken.
“You walked your path too faithfully, Ithil.”
He showed me my path score:
Healing — Path Completion: 100/100
A perfect success.
A perfect tragedy.
“I ruined the world.”
“You changed it.
But all paths change the world.
Yours simply changed it too completely.”
He closed the book of my life gently.
And then—
A new book appeared.
Blank.
Silent.
Waiting.
“The path of healing is complete, child.
You will not walk it again.”
The blank book pulsed faintly,
whispering possibilities I could not yet understand.
“In your next life… a new path awaits.
Not one of healing.”
He placed a hand over my heart.
His voice softened to almost a whisper.
“This time… choose carefully.
Let the world shape you.
Do not carry it alone.”
As the light around me slowly dimmed—
“Rest now, Ithil.
You have earned your sleep.”
And I slept.
For the first time
in a very, very long time.