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    Chapter 2: A Blind Surprise


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    Below the window, Adira sat cross legged, waiting for the sound inside the house to quiet down.


    She had hoped that once the crowd dispersed, the boy would be left alone, giving her the chance to carry out her plan.


    Before she settled in this spot, the villagers had completely forgotten about her presence. She circled around the house and found a not so obvious hiding spot just below the window and had been waiting there ever since.


    Inside, the mother of the child is too busy talking to 3 or 4 villagers. All were thinking of ways to provide help for this pair of mother and son.


    A brusque voice could also be heard amongst their conversation, likely belonging to one of the drunken soldiers she had seen that morning. He was probably here to assess the situation, his words are still a bit slurred and out of tune.


    So responsible, she thought, truly a symbol of shield, protection and booze!


    Adira actually caught sight of them earlier carrying something as they went through the front door with some of the villagers so she had to remain perfectly still, like a rock, lest she be discovered before she could execute her plan.


    As she slowly immerses herself in the silence outside the house. She couldn’t help but feel a little bit nervous as she passed a glance at her surroundings.


    The moon above was brilliant, casting a serene light that bathed the land in its silver glow, scattering moon-dust across the earth and onto her silent figure beneath the window.


    Despite its beauty, Adira’s focus remained on the small details around her: the gentle sway of the grass, the scattered pebbles, the trees, and the delicate white flowers growing at the base of the house. There was an unexpected, poetic beauty in it all.


    Though she never consider herself a writer—she couldn’t even write a poem, and art never flowed through her blood the way it had through her mother’s—she knew that with the right person, these simple reminders of life could become a beautiful form of art. It was all about the perspective, seeing the extraordinary within the ordinary.


    For a fleeting moment, the flowers that grew in such an unexpected spot reminded her of her own fragile existence, still alive despite the odds.


    One might think a thief was lurking outside the window of this house if they saw Adira. However, no one ever passed by this window, for the road ran mainly in front of the house, where the door was, while this window was tucked at the back.


    Her eyes then wandered to her hands.


    For an instant, she thought she saw blood staining her palms, but when she wiped her eyes, she realized it was only her mind playing tricks on her.


    With a shaky breath, she closed her eyes, trying her best to steady herself. Embracing the heaviness in her chest, as if it were pulling her into a deep, suffocating pit.


    Suddenly, a child’s scream cut through the night, distant but piercing.


    Confused, she wondered if the child had woken up from the pain of his eyes only to see a surreal sight: a boy standing alone in a place she visited in her dreams every night.


    Wanting to see the face of the boy clearly, she took a step closer. The ground seemed to sense her presence and began to stir.


    With swift, violent movements, hands erupted from the earth, grabbing the child with terrifying force and pulling him in all directions, as if he were being torn apart.


    Bloodlust pulsed in the air around her, thick and oppressive.


    Instinctively, she reached for her sword, but instead of the familiar weight of metal in her hand, she felt only empty air.


    Her gaze snapped to her waist, where she saw a baby crawling, trying to keep itself upright, its face shifting and morphing into that of a woman. Its cries grew more distorted, more disturbing with every passing moment.


    Suddenly, she felt a hand clutched her shoulder.


    "I told you," the voice said, low and familiar, "You''re free. Why haven’t you come home yet? I thought you loved your family, why are you running away?" The voice dripped with mockery, its tone laced with mischief.


    Adira instantly swung her arm back, intending to grab the man who spoke, but the scene before her shifted in an instant making her feel nauseous.


    Then, as if in a flash, she was no longer standing on the edge of an endless abyss, but outside a room illuminated by a single flickering candle.


    In the center of the room lay a woman sleeping on the floor, while a child lay in a bed nearby, covered by a thin blanket.


    A basket of fruit and bread rested on the wooden table beside them.


    Adira rubbed her forehead with a sigh of relief, her eyes still hazy.


    It seems she dozed off.


    Sleep had been a constant struggle for her ever since her father sent her away.


    Nightmares constantly plagued her, forcing her awake no matter how hard she tried to rest. Though by now, she had already become used to the fractured, restless sleep.


    But today, even a short nap felt like a rare blessing. She could feel the exhaustion weighing on her—so heavy it was almost unbearable.


    Afterall, a restless mind, starved of sleep, begins to fray at the edges—thoughts blur into jumbled whispers, emotions spiral into wild extremes, and reality itself grows distant, slipping away like sand through fingers.


    After experiencing this for years, she often found herself questioning the very nature of her reality.


    The people around her had been the only source of relief, confirming that her reality was indeed what it appeared to be in the present.


    But now, none were left to walk with her.


    As she scanned the room, she saw that the owners of the house had fallen asleep.


    She entered the house slowly, carefully approaching the side of the bed where the little boy lay. With great caution, she placed the sturdy piece of wood on the floor, careful not to disturb the two people sleeping peacefully.


    A pang of guilt shot through her. She hadn''t asked the mother for permission to perform this so-called surgery that she’s going to do.


    Sighing again, she dismissed her earlier thoughts as she observed the boy''s face. It was clear he was exhausted, his features drawn from the weight of excruciating pain.


    The boy''s suffering must have been immense; even in the stillness of sleep, his pain was evident, etched in the tightness of his brow and the faint tremor of his lips.


    It was a silent cry, one that did not ask for help, but one that she could not ignore.


    As for consent… The thought that the mother, upon waking, would be the most relieved person in the world, became the only reassurance Adira could hold on to.


    This was why she had decided to refrain from asking for consent, telling herself that the end would justify the means. The only catch was that she had to ensure her plan succeeded.


    Adira''s heart ached at the sight of the weary mother, a silhouette of her own mother casting a shadow across her face.


    She had sworn to be careful—she couldn''t afford to endanger the child''s life.


    If things went wrong, she was ready to tap into her spiritual core to ensure the child''s survival.


    In rare, desperate circumstances—such as during the warring times—spiritual cores had been used to trade life for life. It had been discovered by accident when soldiers had risked everything to save their comrades.


    Adira was confident she could pull it off. After all, at this point, she had nothing left to lose—except, perhaps, her own life if the surgery failed, or her eyesight if it succeeded.


    Excitement lingered deep within her, though it was a strange, unsettling kind of thrill.


    Drawing on her mana, she allowed the threads of energy to flow from her fingers, guiding them carefully over the child’s face, probing around the charred eyelids to avoid causing further damage.


    This was no simple task. Adira had never performed surgery on anyone before, and its not like this is an actual surgery as well!


    She had been injured countless times, but there had always been someone else to tend to her wounds. However, this time, she would be the one to perform the procedure of healing and mending broken tissues!


    She focused on the wound, her mind racing with the fear of making a mistake, but her hands remained steady.


    At the back of her mind, she reassured herself that the potion she carried would aid in healing the boy, reducing the risk of infection. She had no choice but to trust it.


    Her fingers glowed with mana, the threads of energy responding to her will. The glow illuminated her face, casting a dim light that flickered across the room.


    A sudden rift appeared in the air—an opening that oozed mist. She reached inside and drew out the potion she had kept hidden in her "dimensional pocket."


    A rare ability, available only to those with a large reserve of mana, though it could only store small items.


    Adira didn’t have an abundance of mana, but she wasn’t lacking either. Her training had borne fruit, enabling her to use the skill effectively in moments like this.


    She had never intended to save the potion for herself, always willing to give it away to any stranger in need. But now, the time has come for its use.


    She took a small sip herself, just a very tiny sip just enough to prevent her wound from festering—though it wouldn’t heal completely. Truthfully, it was more for the placebo effect than anything else.


    There was always a reason one was instructed to drink the entire potion—it was the perfect amount to heal a wound. A taste was merely a sprinkle of good feeling but not healing!


    She placed her hand gently on the boy''s forehead and poured a bit of mana into him to induce a deep, healing sleep. It was essential that he remain unconscious during the procedure. Waking up mid-operation would be disastrous.


    The threads in her hands moved with an almost ethereal grace, gliding delicately as though imbued with life.


    Adira’s focus was unshakable, her purpose resolute: the child’s melted eye had to be removed.


    Each movement was precise, each thread weaving with care and intent.


    The fused melted tissues clung stubbornly to the damaged eye presented an intricate challenge, demanding every ounce of precision.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    The work was grueling, but her hands remained steady, guided by a quiet determination that allowed no room for hesitation.


    With careful precision, she began to dig the melted eyes out, the grotesque squelching sound causing a shiver to run down her spine.


    Cutting down enemies with her sword was easy—effortless in its precision, swift in its execution, and devoid of hesitation.


    But this? This was entirely different. The meticulous precision needed to sever delicate tissues required a level of focus that allowed no room for error. Every movement had to be deliberate, and every step calculated, and the stakes were far higher.


    After all, she was meddling with the life of a stranger''s child!


    Her hands trembled faintly, not from fear but from the unbearable weight of responsibility.


    Every nerve in her body seemed attuned to the moment, amplifying even the sound of her own heartbeat, a steady drumbeat of nerves reverberating in her ears.


    She severed the veins, ensuring no trace of the damaged eye remained.


    As blood dripped down the child''s cheek, she threw the pair of melted eyes into her dimensional pocket and wiped the blood in his cheek with the only cloth she had—her cloak.


    Improvise,  she thought. It’s not as if the dirt will cause his wound to fester, especially with the potion she planned to apply later, right? She trusted in its effectiveness—after all, it was a high-quality potion, one reserved only for nobles.


    After finishing the first step, the next task sent a wave of unease through her, her heartbeat quickening with each passing second making her hands grow cold.


    This wasn’t just a simple procedure of closing the eye—it was something far more personal and daunting.


    Her next task was clear: transplanting her own eye.


    She sat cross-legged on the floor, her breathing slow and deliberate as she fought to steady the storm within.


    She urged herself that mental preparation is healthy! Healthy! And that what she’s about to do is for the greater good.


    However, the mere thought of removing her own eye was enough to make her want to back out. It is afterall a boundary she had never dared to approach, let alone cross.


    Yet here she was, faced with the unthinkable.


    There was no time for hesitation as the first step had already been taken! She had ventured too far down this path to falter now.


    It will only take a couple of minutes, and you''re done, she reassured herself thoughtfully.


    With a quiet mantra of encouragement in her mind, she forced herself to open her eyes, the dry burning sensation already beginning before the procedure even started.


    As her trembling hand reached for her left eye, a sharp sting pierced through her resolve, forcing a wince—as if a speck of dust had suddenly entered her eye, deciding this was the perfect time to settle in for a nap!


    She rubbed her eyes roughly, as her tear ducts decided it was time to release the liquid they had been holding.


    Annoyed, she covered her face with her cloak, dabbing at the moisture. Cursing at the back of her mind!


    Once dry, she pointed her finger, imbued with mana, toward her left eye. Instinct screamed for her to shut it, but the threads she controlled stretched taut, holding her eyelids wide open like tiny, unyielding sentinels.


    Her head once again instinctively pulled back as if sensing the impending danger, and her eyes began to blink frantically.


    Though she was forcing herself to stay still, dodging potential threats was, after all, a protective reflex of the human body.


    She thought of all kinds of curses in her head but eventually found herself consoling herself. She was the Witch of the South—a woman who had endured every tribulation thrown at her by cutting down her foes. Pain was something she should be accustomed to by now, after everything she had faced. This is nothing!


    Then, with one deep breath, she shot out her threads, feeling the warmth of her mana wrapping over her eyeball, its brightness so intense due to its close proximity.


    Then the sound of tearing echoed eerily in her ears, the searing pain relentless as it radiated through her skull!


    She bit down hard on a strip of fabric torn from her robe, muffling any sound that threatened to escape.


    With trembling fingers, she carefully felt the veins connecting her eye to her flesh snap. Her vision glowed red, but once the haze cleared, she gathered the strength to dig her eye out.


    Warm blood trickled down her cheek left cheek as her vision blurred on her remaining eye.


    She couldn’t believe what had just happened. With her remaining eye, she gazed at the ball resting in her palm, panic creeping over her and causing her body to tremble all over.


    With a deep, almost frightened breath, she pressed on.


    The blood came fast, but she didn’t let it falter her resolve. She couldn’t.


    Without a moment''s pause, she carefully placed it into the child’s empty socket.


    As if alive, the delicate threads from her eye began weaving themselves into the boy’s damaged tissues, binding seamlessly.


    The process was both mesmerizing and haunting—a fusion of pain and purpose, sacrifice and salvation.


    She was shaking uncontrollably, her back cold, each breath coming in sharp gasps as she focused on sealing the wound.


    The pain from her own was still open and bleeding, the injury was unbearable!


    She knew there was no time to hesitate—both for herself and for the child, who was now in the same state.


    The child needed this more than she ever would. If surrendering a part of herself could serve a greater purpose, then so be it.


    This act wasn’t just about saving the boy—it was her final attempt to cleanse herself of the unrelenting guilt that had shadowed her for years.


    The faces of those she had taken haunted her, their lives extinguished by her hand, each one a silent reminder of her sins.


    She knew, deep down, that sacrificing an eye would never be enough to balance the scales. But it was a start—a feeble offering to a conscience weighed down by a lifetime of regret.


    Her hands quivered as she moved to her right eye, the threads poised like serpents ready to strike.


    The second attempt was far worse—the pain more vivid, its familiarity amplifying her dread.


    Every nerve in her body screamed in protest, the anticipation of agony almost paralysing.


    Sweat dripped down her face in relentless streams, her vision blurred by tears she refused to let fall.


    Her teeth grinded together, a muffled growl escaping her lips as she forced herself to continue.


    Each tug of the thread was torture, but stopping now would mean failure—a failure she couldn''t allow.


    A wet, sickening squelch echoed in the room as she dislodged her right eye, a low cry escaping her lips despite her attempts to stay silent.


    She clenched her jaw against the raw agony coursing through her, her hands trembling as she carefully placed the eye into the child’s empty socket.


    Her vision was gone, but her hand—and the thread that extended from her fingertips—continued its meticulous work, guided by instinct alone.


    With measured care, she retrieved the vial of remaining potion and gently tipped it to the boy’s lips, letting the liquid trickle down his throat.


    The faintest hope stirred in her chest—that this final act of sacrifice would bring him the life she could never reclaim.


    Her breathing was shallow, her energy nearly spent. The blood from her eyes had dried on some parts of her cheeks but the stream continued to fall, but she couldn’t stop now.


    The final task was to connect each nerve with perfect precision. The scar from the burn might never fade, and it could leave him disfigured, but at least he would regain the ability to see.


    With that, she had to pour her mana over the child’s eye and to herself so she wouldn’t bleed herself out to death.


    In her mind, she reflected that this was such a dangerous and impulsive act.


    “…”


    ‘ I… I really didn’t think this through didn’t I?’


    After deep reflection, she had never considered the risks of bleeding to death, infection, or any of the other dangers she will face at this point.


    Adira pondered that she still needed more mana to at least advance the healing process of her eye and slow the bleeding, though it would be nothing compared to the effectiveness of a healing potion.


    However, she also require a considerable amount of mana to direct the potion''s concentration onto the nerves of the child''s sockets, since simply putting her eye in place and making him drink the potion wouldn’t magically connect them.


    The potion would only close the open wound, leaving the eyeball as little more than a ball resting in the socket. The purpose of the thread was to mimic the veins and form a connection between them, ensuring the eye would function once more.


    “This... this is troublesome.” she sighed in frustration. “Why does this potion have to work like this? Why won’t it just heal them and connect them at the same time. I thought it was a high-class potion.”


    Though she knew in the back of her mind that high-class potions were renowned for their speed in healing major wounds, that was about the extent of their capabilities.


    This sudden impulse to help made her rethink her choices for a moment; it felt too troublesome, especially since she was in pain and everything seemed to be overly stimulating.


    However, she soon dismissed the thought when she accidentally nudged the wood at her side, as if it were reminding her of the random act of kindness she had experienced that morning.


    Fine… she sighed in defeat.


    _______________


    After a long, exhausting process of pouring mana into both the child and herself, Adira finally allowed herself a brief moment to breathe.


    Earlier, she had wrapped her hollowed eye with the only bandage she had left in her dimensional pocket, a makeshift solution to the pain.


    She gently caressed the boy’s skin, her fingers brushing the healed area around his eyes.


    A sense of relief washed over her, knowing the procedure had gone better than she expected. The child should be fine now.


    But her own body was now betraying her. Weak and light-headed, she stumbled as she stood, reaching out for the wood on the floor, relying on it to support her weight.


    The wood creaked under her tight grip. She huffed and muttered unknowingly, “I can’t have you breaking on me, mister Wood. We still need to get out of this house.”


    This wood was the only thing she could use to sense her surroundings. If she use her threads, some might find it weird or recognize it and report her to the authorities.


    For all she knew, some wandering knights could be right beside her, and if that happened, it would be truly troublesome—not just because she could get caught, but because she was far too entangled with the child. After all, why else would anyone give up their own eyes for another?


    To her, it might seem as simple as wanting the child to see again, but to them, they would dig too deep and concoct their own foolish reasoning.


    Though she could certainly make do by using her threads, thinning them to a fine web just to sense her surroundings, she knew it would draw unwanted attention from certain individuals. Those trained in mana could sense it, even if it remained invisible to the eye. Whether in the South, East, or the Empire, it was rare for a beggar to possess a core, even rarer to have an ability.


    With so much to consider, she simply couldn’t be bothered any longer. She’d rather take the less troublesome approach. She could get caught next time, but not now. Despite the many reasons and excuses to remain cautious, one truth stood clear in the present: she simply wanted a moment’s rest.


    Although Aetheria, as they called the East Orient, was detached from the happenings in the Empire of Aragon, that didn’t mean they were oblivious to criminals—especially someone like her, burdened with such an infamous and notorious title.


    The East may sometimes seem nonchalant, but that is because they chose not to get involved in any political struggles within the Empire; nonetheless, the pact between the two lands remained firm.


    The eastern lords had already bowed their heads to the Emperor of Aragon and sworn fealty in the past, so if the need arose, they would have no choice but to become involved.


    The main reason the East Orient was so detached and often outdated regarding the happenings inside the Empire was primarily due to the rugged terrain that surrounded the land.


    To reach Begonia, the capital of the East, one must undertake a great deal of trekking and perseverance. Horses are rendered immobile in the rugged terrain, as there are no proper roads for them to gallop upon, so most people travel on foot.


    That’s why, when letters, notices, or official documents needed to be delivered, instead of sending it by flight of messenger bird, they were bundled up and sent a month later depending on the urgency.


    Oddly enough, the lords of the East, along with the authorities and citizens, had never voiced their complaints, allowing this "accident," as some would call it, to persist for quite a while.


    One time, when a kingdom in the West, the only region that to this day refuses to acknowledge the Emperor, invaded and a dispute broke out, the Eastern soldiers sent as aid would always arrive one or two months late, only to find the fields already cleared. Due to this they were frequently rumored to be cowards.


    The citizens of the Empire even made jokes about their tardiness, making it common knowledge. When someone arrived late, they would be derisively referred to as an easterner, and the term "Begonian Time" was often used to sarcastically remind those who failed to arrive on schedule of their negligence.


    A teleportation array would likely make travel easier, but for some reason, the East Orient could not maintain that magic for long, and it would always be disrupted.


    This was largely why she chose to stay in Aetheria; those searching for her would be delayed for some time, and her status wouldn’t be updated for at least a month, meaning her face wouldn’t yet be plastered everywhere here.


    She needed time to think and clear her mind, to discern the path she wanted to take after everything that had transpired. In truth, all she really sought was a moment to catch her breath.


    Ever since she stepped foot in this land, she had been traveling without much of a goal, merely passing time.


    Now that she was blind, she felt even more lost and uncertain. A subtle fear crept in, knowing that the senses she had always relied upon more than the others were now permanently gone.


    Her hearing sharpened, and it felt as if her surroundings were poised to swallow her whole.


    Every rustle or gust of wind made her jump and flinch. The sounds of crickets and the chirping of birds became increasingly irritating, adding to her confusion and disarray.


    For some reason, she found herself acutely aware of her surroundings, even though it was unintentional.


    The wood tapped softly against the ground as she made her way out the window onto the once-familiar path. She continued down the road, oblivious to how long she had been walking.


    The view was impenetrably dark, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth, as though the world itself held its breath in the silence.


    Her head ached with every step, the aftereffects of the procedure pressing down on her body like a heavy weight.


    The fabric on her back was damp with sweat, her face felt sticky, and her throat was parched, yet an unsettling chill washed over her. Her stomach ached, as if her insides were tightly knotted together.


    She trembled, each movement a struggle against the overwhelming exhaustion.


    Feeling warmth spread across her face, she sighed. “Is it morning already?”


    Adira quickly turned around, only to realize that the voice belonged to her. Exhausted and lightheaded, she decided to sit on the ground, indifferent to whether she was blocking the road or not.


    The world she once knew felt larger and out of reach. Despite the morning sun, not a single ray of light pierced through her vision, making everything feel even more surreal.


    Gathering her resolve, she called out, not caring who might hear anymore, “ Is anybody there? I need a little help... I''m feeling dizzy. A sip of water would really make a difference... I would appreciate your help.”


    Silence met her plea.


    Despite her heightened senses, she had no certainty that anyone was actually nearby.


    The sudden loss of her sight made her doubt even her other senses; though she heard no footsteps, she clung to the hope that someone might be out there—perhaps a wanderer in the distance or a man riding an ox in the middle of the field.


    Just anyone, really, would be a tremendous help. However, it appears there are none. She wasn’t surprised, though the disappointment still lingered.


    With the last of her strength, she staggered to the edge of the road, her lone figure, almost pitiful of a sight.


    However to those that hated her with deep resentment, this would be a sight to behold, though still not enough.


    Her breathing came in sharp gasps, her heartbeat erratic and pounding wildly in her chest. And then, with no more strength left to exhaust, she collapsed.