She’d agreed to Amelia’s request, but Ling didn’t slip into healer mode; she strolled to Elfe, stretching like a lazy cat in a sunbeam.

At that moment, Elfe’s life sat at arm’s length; her death did too, twin weights on a scale hanging from Ling’s wrist.

Elfe was out cold, defenseless like an unlocked gate in a storm. Even with Amelia here, no one could snatch her back in that blink. Her life and death lay in Ling’s hand, a fragile bird cupped in a palm.

Is this the Queen’s last gamble? Heh—cards on the table, I won’t waste your trust.

Ling reached out; the arm’s gap folded like a paper fan. Life and death pooled like rain in the palm that brushed Elfe’s skin.

How to save her?

Breaking a curse? Ling had no key; that door was fog and iron. But halting a mana rampage was like cracking open a fridge one-handed, as easy as lifting a lid.

How many remember this—natural mana eats other mana, like moss claims stone, like ivy drinks a wall.

A faint green glow dew-lit her fingertips. Ling’s natural mana slipped through pores like mist through reeds, then slid beneath the skin, down to vein after vein like roots under bark.

It sounds simple, but the work walks a tightrope over a gorge.

Her mana couldn’t charge in like a boar through brush; one rough shove, and Elfe would be swallowed like a candle in a gale.

Luckily, control sat in Ling’s bones like calligraphy etched on jade. Even without practice, her hands knew the strokes. Steering mana was like moving both hands—left, right—she could throw a string of ninjutsu hand seals faster than rain tapping glass.

Honestly, that built-in cheat felt unfair, as if she was born with wings while others clawed up cliffs.

She spared two heartbeats of pity, a bell toll under snow, then sent her mana deeper.

Her power became green threads, river-quiet, slipping along Elfe’s veins like vines at twilight. When a pocket of wild mana shimmered in the blood, a thread bit like a fish; when swollen blood cells bulged with excess, a thread sipped like a reed.

It felt like strolling a night market; the threads wandered, turning corners like swallows, taking a bite wherever mana pooled, then gliding home to Ling like kites on a string.

To Ling, Elfe’s mana was a drizzle in a drought—nothing to hoard. She left a small spring behind, natural mana trickling to bolster life, so blood would recover like a river finding its bed.

Honestly, not giving Ling a World’s Top Ten Doctors trophy would be stingy, like hiding fireworks under a bucket.

Long or short? It blinked by like a passing cloud.

In a minute or two, the rampaging mana was eaten by half, leaving only what her blood could bear, plus a dusting of natural mana to mend torn places like moss knitting a crack. Without help, her anemia would’ve dragged her under before new blood rose.

“I’m full~”

She pressed her palms together like a prayer, murmured that odd line, and—after copping a quick feel as payment, a cat stealing cream—she pulled her hand back. The crowd behind her stood stunned, eyes wide like lanterns, as she rose.

“Th-this… solved it?”

Seven long years of prep, sandbags stacked before a flood, with mishaps hitting like loose stones—and this little one fixed it in minutes? It felt unreal, a noon dream.

The “little one” didn’t care; her smile was steady as spring sun, no scorn, no sting.

Alright, alright. Your princess just needs a few days’ rest—let her heal, and she’ll be fine.

She slipped forward to leave, but Amelia stepped in like a gate across the path.

“The curse… did the curse really vanish like smoke?”

“A curse? It’s just everyday foresight dressed in theater. Breaking it is easy, like snapping a twig.”

Ling froze, surprise pricking like frost. She hadn’t meant to brag; it wasn’t pride so much as instinct. Shattering foresight felt simple in her bones, like stepping over a puddle, while fate made that same instinct flinch like a horse at thunder.

“Or try one piece of the script—go kiss her. Maybe she’ll wake at once. The tale says the true lover’s kiss wakes the sleeping beauty.”

Teasing the Queen was honey on the tongue—but sweet or not, you run after. Lesson delivered, Ling darted off, feet light as a fox on frost. Behind her, just as expected, the Queen spluttered, fury buzzing like hornets.

Amelia glared at Ling’s retreating back, grinding two mana orbs between her palms like stones, yet she didn’t throw. The men felt the wind shift; now was the time to bolt, hoping the Queen’s temper would cool and forget their blunders. They dragged their two “corpses” away, slipping out like mice.

In the end, only Elfe and Amelia remained in the room, quiet as a pond at dusk.

Amelia looked at Elfe’s sleeping form, and her fingers brushed her own lips like a feather.

A kiss…?

For no clear reason, the Queen felt her lips go dry, like leaves under sun.