A Background Character’s Path to Power

The butler and head healer froze at the young healer's question. Their silence stretched just a heartbeat too long—long enough to confirm his suspicions.

The young healer's lips thinned.

"If I'm not mistaken," he continued, voice low, "these people haven't just suffered physical injuries. Their minds have been attacked—or at the very least, overwhelmed. Thankfully, their mental defenses seem stronger than most untrained resonators. If not…"

He trailed off, letting the unspoken horror hang in the air.

If not, they'd be in more severe conditions—or worse...

The butler exhaled sharply. "You're right. But we don't have time to discuss this now. The storm is closing in, and we need to get them to the shelter immediately."

The head healer nodded, already motioning for the guards to begin moving the patients.

"Wait."

The young healer's voice cut through the room like a blade. All eyes turned to him.

"It's too dangerous to move them like this," he said, gesturing to the trembling victims. "If we force them into the shelter untreated, there's a high chance they'll go berserk mid-transit. We need to stabilize them first."

The head healer and butler exchanged glances. A silent understanding passed between them—this wasn't just caution. This was certainty.

"…Alright," the head healer conceded. "We'll assist however we can. I may not specialize in mental healing, but I'm no novice either."

The young healer dipped his head in gratitude. "Thank you. Your expertise will be invaluable." Then, to the butler: "You should handle the other urgent matters. We'll take care of this."

The butler hesitated, then nodded.

"Stay safe."

With a final glance at the golden-eyed youth—who stood rigid, his fists clenched—he turned and strode out, barking orders to the remaining guards.

As the door shut behind him, the young healer rolled up his sleeves, his monocle glinting in the lantern light.

"Let's begin."

_____ __

The infirmary fell into a tense rhythm as they worked—the young healer moving from cot to cot, his fingers glowing faintly as he pressed them to each patient's forehead.

The golden-eyed youth assisted where he could, handing supplies to the head healer, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

Finally, he couldn't hold back any longer.

"What is this blizzard?" he asked, voice hushed but urgent. "What did you mean earlier? I mean, is there something or someone behind it? Or is it related to monsters?"

The head healer glanced at him, then at the young healer, whose eyes remained closed in concentration, though his slightly pointed ears twitched at the question.

With a sigh, the old man answered.

"This blizzard—the Ashenfang Whitefall—has been an annual occurrence for decades. We don't know if something controls it, but we're certain it's tied to the Hollowlands."

He adjusted a bandage as he spoke, his hands steady despite the weight of his words. "There are usually three waves. The first is what we're seeing now—visibility drops, the snow thickens, the winds sharpen. Then comes the second wave, where the snowfall becomes so heavy and the winds so brutal that even seasoned resonators struggle to move. Ordinary folk? They wouldn't last minutes outside. That's why we have to evacuate to the shelter before the second wave hits."

He paused, his gaze drifting to the window, where the storm raged beyond the thick glass.

"And the third wave…"

The golden-eyed youth's voice was solemn. "W-what happens then?"

The head healer shook his head. "I don't know. No one here does. We've always evacuated before it hits."

A beat.

"But I've heard stories. They say that when the third wave comes, visibility drops to nothing. The world turns pure white—so blinding you can't see your own hands in front of you. That's why they call it the Whitefall."

A heavy silence settled over them. The young healer's hands stilled for just a moment—his only reaction.

Then, without opening his eyes, he spoke.

"We'll be done here before then."

His voice was calm. Certain.

But the golden-eyed youth couldn't shake the chill that had little to do with the storm outside.

The head healer nodded grimly. "Yes, we should be done by then—if we want to live."

The golden-eyed youth blinked. "What do you mean?"

The old man chuckled darkly, tying off another bandage.

"Once the third wave hits, this entire keep will be buried under snow so deep you couldn't dig your way out. The temperature plummets so low your breath freezes in your lungs. These walls?" He knocked a fist against the stone. "Built for winter, yes—but not for that. Nothing survives that cold for long."

He hesitated, then added, quieter: "And then there are... other stories. They say anyone caught in the Whitefall's third wave doesn't just freeze. They see things. Hallucinations so vivid they claw at your sanity. Even inside these walls, the visions come. Some lose their minds entirely, and..."

He cut himself off, realizing he'd said too much. He cursed his blabbering mouth inwardly while hoping he didn't go too far.

A quick glance confirmed his fears—the golden-eyed youth had gone pale, his fingers trembling against the medical tray he held. But the young healer? His hands never faltered, his focus unbroken as he worked. Only the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed any reaction at all.

That's how a normal person would react, the head healer thought, watching the golden-eyed youth.

But him? His gaze turned to the young healer. He almost didn't show any reactions at all. But it can be seen that his mental fortitude is very high for this to affect him. After all, he can endure others' pain like this.

A beautiful art indeed... but also a bizarre one.

Then, barely audible, the golden-eyed youth muttered:

"So... he's been living in a place like this?"

The head healer's brows shot up. "Who has?"

The youth flinched, as if startled by his own words.

Seizing the moment, the old man pressed: "Speaking of which—who exactly are you people? I've never seen you in the keep before. What are your names?"

The golden-eyed youth straightened, realizing their oversight.

"I'm Aeron," he said, bowing slightly. "From the Valtheim Kingdom." His voice grew quieter as he added, "And... I am Aman's friend."

The head healer's expression softened in recognition. "Ahh, so you're young master Aman's friend. Haha… that explains a lot." He nodded approvingly. "So you came with the young master, huh? Haha, that kid, he was always responsible, I knew he would return soon. Where is—"

"—Luminiel."

The young healer's voice cut through the air as he finally opened his eyes, withdrawing his hands from the patient he'd been treating.

"My name is Luminiel," he said, voice smooth as frost. "You can also address me as..."

"...Lumin."