CHAPTER 1440: THE TRUTH II

They continue reading, eyes glued to the unfolding report.

The files start with the name of a thirteen-year-old girl named Maya Summers:

Maya Summer was the daughter of Sweetville’s mayor at the time. Her gift didn’t remain a local secret for long. Word of her healing abilities spread quickly beyond the town’s borders, reaching distant cities and stirring both awe and ambition in equal measure.

Before long, people from all over the country began making the journey to Sweetville—desperate parents with sick children, wounded soldiers, plague victims, and even powerful nobles and wealthy merchants, all hoping for a miracle.

The small town, once quiet and obscure, transformed almost overnight. Hotels, villas, and new housing developments sprang up to accommodate the growing influx of visitors. Sweetville’s population ballooned, and its economy boomed.

But Maya’s powers came with limitations.

She could only heal two or three people a day. And when the injury or illness was too severe, even she could only manage to save one or two at most.

That scarcity turned her gift into a priceless commodity. Desperation bred competition. People began offering vast sums of money to the Summer family, hoping to secure a place at the front of the line. What started as worship and gratitude slowly turned into politics, favoritism, and corruption. The line between devotion and greed blurred.

Then there was a confession from a man:

He was a reporter who had spent the evening at a quiet bar near the edge of Sweetville, nursing a bottle of cheap local whiskey and scribbling half-formed thoughts into a worn leather notebook.

Unlike everyone else there, he was skeptical and critical, not one to believe rumors easily. That was why he came to find out the truth, to see whether it was truly a miracle... or simply a sham.

He hadn’t planned on doing much that night. Just a few notes, maybe an early bedtime. But after one too many drinks and a need to clear his head, he decided to take a walk.

Then, without really thinking, he followed a narrow path that curved behind the hill overlooking the town. The only sound was the faint rustle of rats rummaging through a nearby garbage can with it tiny claws clinking against metal. He didn’t pay it much attention. Not at first.

Then, all of a sudden, he was startled by a faint glow of headlights in the distance. A large truck was slowly crawling its way along a hidden dirt road that disappeared into the hills, nowhere near any main route or working facility. There were no signs. No lights. Just an old, winding path long thought abandoned.

Curiosity nudged him forward, and then he followed the truck from a safe distance, weaving through tall grass and staying out of sight. Eventually, the vehicle reached what looked like the entrance to an old mining site, rusted gates, crumbling signage, and darkened tunnels yawning like open mouths in the hillside.

But what truly disturbed him was what happened next.

Several men stepped out of the shadows. They moved with practiced coordination that was too smooth to be improvised. Then came another truck, this one covered in tarps. He watched, heart quickening, as its back doors were thrown open.

People....

Dozens of them, perhaps fifteen or twenty of them.

They were chained at the wrists and ankles, heads bowed, bodies weak and trembling. No shouting. No resistance. Just quiet, broken compliance as they were herded into the mouth of the mine like cattle. The first thought that came to his mind was that they might be illegal laborers, or perhaps slaves.

Sensing the chance to uncover an unexpected scoop, he crouched lower behind a rocky outcrop, eyes wide and breath held. Scared but excited.

Moments later, men began dragging out large burlap sacks—dozens of them, loading them into the first truck. Whatever was in those sacks was heavy. One fell to the ground and didn’t bounce. It hit with a solid, fleshy thud.

His stomach turned.

When the trucks began preparing to leave, he took a risk. As one of the guards lit a cigarette and stepped away, the reporter slipped around to the back of the vehicle. He climbed in silently, hands shaking.

The stench that hit him first was thick, coppery, and suffocating. He gagged, instinctively covering his nose with his sleeve. With trembling fingers, he reached for one of the sacks and slowly pried it open... then stopped cold.

Inside was a corpse. A human corpse. Pale, expressionless. Lips slightly parted. Eyes taped shut. He opened another. And another. They are all the same.

Some were still warm while others had been dead for days. All of them drained, as if something had been pulled from their bodies.

Blood. Life. Something more.

His breath caught.

Is... is this what they were doing?

He stumbled back, nearly tripping over a body as he fled the truck. The miracle of Sweetville—Maya Summer’s divine healing—it wasn’t a miracle.

Is this what is behind her miracle?.

"Ferrux Sanguina... I remembered now," Fargo muttered under his breath.

Lory turned toward him with a questioning look.

Fargo’s expression darkened as he slowly looked up. "It’s a forbidden spell. A dark one—only usable by a specific type of Gifted. It’s called the Ashen Gift."

"Ashen Gift?" Lory tilted her head, confused. "I never heard of it... Could they do this?"

Fredhardt chimed in, stepping away from the holographic display. "It’s not that they can’t. It’s that they’re not allowed."

He walked over to the table, poured himself a cup of coffee, and then continued with a heavy sigh. "The Ashen Gift is incredibly rare—so rare, it’s almost considered extinct. And because of what they’re capable of, those born with this ability are usually shunned by society. The government assigns them permanent mana controllers... for the rest of their lives."

"They’re caged?" Lory asked softly, her voice filled with pity.

"They’re watched, to be precise," Fredhardt corrected. He took a slow sip, then added, "And yes... It’s harsh. But inevitable."

Lory looked troubled. "But... isn’t that more the fault of the wielder character than the power itself?"

"That’s true," Fargo replied, his tone cautious. "But the temptation is always there. I knew a citizen from Harland who possessed this Gift. One day, her daughter got into an accident. Her daughter is a pianist, but the accident took her arm, which was tragic. So the Mother used her own body to pay the price to give her daughter a new arm."

Lory blinked. "That’s... That sounds like something a good mother would do. What’s the problem with that?"

"It is," Fargo nodded. "She was selfless enough to let herself bear the price. But what if she wasn’t? What if she made other people pay that price? Perhaps someone she didn’t like or anyone she deemed less worthy."

Fredhardt nodded grimly. "That’s why, when we found out what she could do, we made her wear a permanent mana controller. It wasn’t a punishment. It was a precaution."

"That doesn’t sound fair?" Lory frowned, her voice tinged with quiet protest.

"Maybe," Lucas said, speaking for the first time in a while, "but this is for the protection of others... and for her own."

His voice was calm, but firm. "If the wrong people ever found out what she could do, imagine what might happen to her. Look at what’s already happened with healers.

People try to recruit them, even against their will, because their power is considered too valuable to waste. Someone might force her to do things she doesn’t want to do. And we can’t be there to protect her or her family all the time, so only by showing other people she lost her ability to use her power, she can protect her peaceful life."

Lory fell silent.

She understood now.

The punishment wasn’t just about control; it was also a form of protection. A shield disguised as a cage in order to protect the person from harm.

She lowered her gaze, the weight of the truth settling quietly on her shoulders.

Once again, she was reminded that, compared to Lucas, her wisdom still had a long way to go.

A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips.

"I see it now," she whispered, her voice soft with newfound understanding.

As her twin brother, Lucas didn’t need to hear more to know exactly what she was thinking. He leaned back in his chair, propped his chin on his hand, and grinned widely.

"Well, you’re a softie," he teased. "So it’s understandable you’d feel pity for them."

Lory’s expression softened, amused. "Thankfully, you’re the King, not me."

Lucas gave a small scoff and looked away, feigning modesty.

"Well, if you say so—"

’Click. ’

Both Lucas and Lory turned at the same time toward the sound.

Fargo stood nearby, holding up his phone like a trophy. "Don’t mind me," he said with a flat expression. "Just needed to capture this moment for my personal—uh—royal photo collection."

"..."

Lory and Lucas stared at him, speechless.

"I don’t get it," Fargo said suddenly.

"Neither do I," Lucas replied.

Fargo waved his hands. "No, not that. I mean—Maya Summer can only heal two or three people a day, right? But the Saintess? She can heal dozens daily and keep going for days without rest. That’s a huge difference in mana pool."

The room went quiet as the implications sank in.

Then Lory spoke up, her voice thoughtful. "Then... perhaps Zalchana has something to do with it." She continued, "We know that the Seed of Life, when diluted with Zalchana’s blood, can grant humans power. What if one of those powers is a vastly expanded mana pool?"

Everyone exchanged glances. The theory was compelling—too big to ignore. But nothing could be confirmed until they learned more about what Zalchana was truly capable of—and more importantly, where it was.

"Can we just find that thing and kill it already?" Fargo muttered in exasperation.

Fredhardt sighed. "We’re going to need a team for that."

Lucas’s gaze darkened, thoughtful. He muttered, "It’s an extremely dangerous task. We need someone skilled... someone strong enough to take on Paladins and Dragxtarn alike."

"Sounds like a job for me," Lory said abruptly, grinning from ear to ear.