THE ANTI-HEALERS ODESSY

The storm had not let up since that terrible moment. Rain pelted the earth with a fury that mirrored Arthur's broken soul. His small hands were still stained with blood—some his mother's, some his own. His tunic clung to his shivering frame, heavy with rain and sorrow. But he didn't stop running.

Thunder cracked overhead like a cry from the heavens. Arthur stumbled over roots and rocks, mud caking his boots and legs. The dense trees of the Wild Woods loomed ahead, their towering canopies casting ghostly shadows even under the lightning-lit sky. He paused at the forest's edge, breath ragged, eyes wide.

Everyone in Velden had whispered about the Wild Woods. It was said to be alive—not just with beasts and monsters, but with magic, wild and ancient. No one entered and returned the same. Some didn't return at all.

But Arthur had no choice.

He took a step in.

The moment he crossed the threshold, a chill washed over him. The air grew heavier, humming faintly with mana. Every breath tingled in his lungs, charged with magic. Trees twisted unnaturally high, their branches arching like claws, leaves pulsating faintly with bioluminescent glow. Flowers of colors unknown in the human world bloomed in patches, releasing sweet, deceptive fragrances.

Arthur's mana core reacted—buzzing within him like a frightened bird. He clenched his fists. "I have to survive," he whispered. "For Mama."

Hours turned into days, or so it felt. Time lost meaning in the forest, where the canopy often blotted out the sun entirely. Hunger gnawed at Arthur's belly, and his body screamed for rest, but fear kept him moving. He drank from a crystalline stream and ate berries he cautiously identified using his mother's teachings. One misstep could mean poison—or worse.

He encountered strange sounds in the night—cries of beasts, deep growls, sometimes laughter that echoed in no known voice. Magic was thick here, distorting reality. Arthur kept moving, guided by instinct, until exhaustion crushed him.

On the third day, he collapsed.

Rain had turned to fog. The thick mist crept between the trees, coiling around his limbs like a living thing. Arthur's body trembled as he lay on a patch of moss. He closed his eyes, images of Cecilia flooding his mind. Her voice, her warmth, her lullabies.

"I'm sorry, Mama…" he murmured.

Then the ground rumbled.

Arthur's eyes snapped open. A deep growl echoed from beyond the mist. Branches cracked. Leaves rustled violently.

A creature emerged—large as a wagon, four-legged, with dark fur that shimmered like oil under moonlight. Its eyes glowed sapphire, and its maw dripped with venom. A Wildbeast.

Arthur's instincts screamed for him to flee, but his limbs wouldn't obey. He raised a trembling hand. "Stay… back…"

The beast paused. Sniffed the air.

Then lunged.

Mana surged within Arthur. He screamed and cast a barrier spell—the strongest he could muster. The creature slammed into it, and sparks of magic erupted as claws screeched across the dome. Arthur's vision blurred. The barrier held, but only barely.

He was running on fumes.

"Think… Arthur, think…"

Then, in a desperate gamble, he tried something he had barely tested: summoning a spell from his grimoire. He pulled the worn, leather-bound tome from under his cloak. It glowed the moment it touched his fingers.

He flipped to a healing spell—but reversed it. Anti-heal.

"Please work."

He chanted the words.

A beam of violet light erupted from the grimoire, striking the creature. It howled, recoiling as the magic ate away at its vitality. Arthur's knees buckled, the strain immense, but he held the spell.

The beast writhed—then stilled.

Silence returned.

Arthur collapsed beside the dead creature, chest heaving.

"I… did it…"

But just as he let out a breath, another growl echoed—higher-pitched, closer. The dead beast's pup stepped into view. Smaller, but unmistakably the same species. Its eyes met Arthur's.

Arthur tensed.

But the creature didn't attack. It stepped cautiously forward, sniffing him, then the fallen adult. Then back to him.

Arthur's heart pounded. He reached out a hand.

"I didn't want to kill it," he whispered. "I had to. I… I don't want to be alone anymore."

The pup looked at him for a long moment—then nudged his hand.

A connection sparked.

Mana flowed between them, intertwining like threads in a tapestry. Arthur felt it. Something ancient. A bond. A pact.

He hesitated, then said, "Your name… is Umbra."

The creature blinked, then lowered its head.

They were bound.

For the first time in days, Arthur smiled.

---

The days that followed were different. Arthur and Umbra navigated the Wild Woods together, finding food, avoiding greater threats. Umbra could sense danger before it appeared, and Arthur's healing magic kept them both going when wounds inevitably came.

He observed the forest with fresh eyes. He discovered enchanted springs that boosted mana recovery, and mushrooms that, when dried and crushed, could enhance spellcasting for a short time. Every day, he mapped small parts of the forest in his grimoire's blank pages, sketching landmarks and cataloging flora and fauna. Knowledge was survival.

Arthur trained every morning, pushing the limits of both his healing and anti-heal magic. He practiced healing spells by accelerating the regrowth of plants, and tested anti-heal on fallen branches and diseased patches of moss. When cast from the grimoire, even a simple reversal spell turned potent enough to wilt an entire tree. The toll on his mana was heavy, but his core was adapting, growing.

Sometimes, he stumbled upon remnants of old ruins—stone circles overgrown with vines, monoliths etched in forgotten runes. They hummed with dormant mana. Arthur often sat by them to meditate, feeling them stir something ancient inside him.

The nights were hardest. The forest grew quiet. Too quiet. And the memories returned in full force. The crack of a blade, his mother's final cry, her blood on his skin. It played again and again.

But Umbra always lay beside him, warm and steady. The beast had grown attached, acting almost like a guardian. If Arthur stirred in his sleep, Umbra would nudge him gently or curl tighter around him.

On the seventh night, Arthur opened his grimoire again. Its pages were no longer blank—they pulsed faintly with inscriptions only visible under moonlight. He had begun to understand that the book was more than a tool. It was alive in some way, attuned to his mana and thoughts.

He whispered, "One day… I'll find the ones responsible. I'll know the truth. And I'll make sure no one else loses their mother the way I did."

Lightning flashed in the distance.

The Wild Woods listened.

Arthur closed the grimoire and looked ahead. The forest was no longer his enemy. It was his crucible, his classroom, his home.

He walked forward—not as a boy running from grief, but as a survivor shaping his path.

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