CHAPTER 139: OLD MEMORY

The essence of the gem poured into her like a river under the rain—swift, unstoppable. It flooded her body in an instant, spreading through every corner of her being before flowing back toward her core, drawn there as if by gravity.

Élisa gasped softly. The pressure in her limbs eased, the fog clinging to her mind began to lift. Her muscles didn’t exactly feel stronger, but the heaviness that clung to her spirit—especially when she used her psychic abilities—began to dissipate, thread by thread.

There was always a reason Élisa avoided lifting anything too heavy unless absolutely necessary. Psychokinesis demanded more than just will—it devoured her spiritual essence, and the mental fatigue it left behind could crush her focus like wet paper. Every movement of her floating lance, every projectile she hurled with her mind, every subtle tweak of matter came with a price she paid in clarity and control.

But now—absorbing the gem while still Awakened, even though it came from a second-rank beast—it brought tangible relief. The weight behind her eyes lightened. The stiffness in her thoughts softened. For a moment, it felt like her body remembered how to breathe fully again.

A flicker of light danced across her skin, following the intricate lines of her sigil. The glow deepened in color, from ember green to a more stable shade—calmer, grounded. Not blazing. Just steady.

Dylan, watching from his spot by the stump, let out a low whistle. "You’re glowing again," he muttered, almost reverently.

"I’m not pushing it too far," Élisa murmured, her voice barely above a breath. "Just... harmonizing."

She opened her eyes. They were clearer now—less veiled by exhaustion, more focused. The gem in front of her had dulled, its crimson heartbeat stilled. Its essence was spent.

Maggie approached and crouched near her, resting one elbow on her knee. "You alright?"

Élisa nodded, her voice more solid now. "I will be. It’s not like it solved everything... but it feels like I’ve been walking with a twisted ankle for days, and someone finally set the bone right."

They remained like that for a moment—three shadows around a dying fire, in a quiet corner of a hostile world.

Then Maggie stood, stretching slightly. "Good. Because whatever’s waiting up the path won’t care if you’re tired or not."

Élisa gave a half-smile. "They never do."

And slowly, the wind shifted again. The smell of earth rose stronger than before. No monsters yet—but something else. Movement. A change in the rhythm of the air.

Far ahead, where the hills began to rise again, something stirred behind the trees.

But for now, they had a breath.

And that was more than they’d had in days.

----

The hours passed, and it was soon time to move on. The shadow of the invisible sun had shifted, sliding over the short grass and scattered rocks like a silent tide.

Dylan was the first to rise. He didn’t groan. Didn’t falter. No more pain in his chest, no more pulling in his ribs or burning in his back. Just a smooth, new energy, as if his body had been oiled from the inside. He cracked his neck, bent his knees, and launched into a set of ten push-ups with steady breaths. Then, with a light jump, he sprang to his feet, bouncing a couple of times on his toes before nodding, satisfied.

"Finally. Feels like I’m back inside my own skin."

He glanced over at his two companions. Maggie was already standing, pack strapped on, flail-halberd slung across her back, eyes narrowed toward the trail ahead. Ready. Always ready.

Élisa, though... was sitting. But not on a rock, or a log.

On her spear.

Hovering more than ten centimeters above the ground, legs crossed, perfectly stable.

The scene could have looked ridiculous—or theatrical. But in the strange ashen light of that early afternoon, and the muffled silence of the highlands, it became something else. Something... fluid. Controlled.

She guided her spear like a forward-pointing arrow, and her body followed. No sway, no uncontrolled drift. She glided gently toward Dylan, carried by her own power, as if gravity was no longer an enemy, but an accomplice.

He watched her approach, one eyebrow raised. He couldn’t help himself.

"You look like an old witch."

Élisa opened one eye, unfazed, without breaking her levitation.

"I’ll take that as a compliment."

Dylan shrugged, amused. He knew the word carried a very different weight here. In this world, witches were real. Awakened ones, specializing in occult arts, in the manipulation of essence flows, curses, pacts, and spirits. They were formidable. Feared. Never ridiculous.

But he came from somewhere else. And in his memories, witches were hunched old women, with crooked noses, black cats, and brooms flying over rooftops in the night, cackling.

Stories to scare children... or make them dream.

"In my world, witches scare kids with their potions and one-eyed crows. Not with floating spears."

Élisa gave him a small smile. Not mocking. Just knowing. "And now?"

"Now you scare adults."

She gracefully dismounted, her feet brushing the grass. A breeze swept past the group, bringing with it a cooler, higher note. The valley lay behind them. Ahead was a new stretch of the world, waiting to be challenged.

Maggie slapped her pack with the flat of her hand.

"Let’s go. Before your favorite witch flies off without us."

And they set off again, more confident, more united.

The kind of confidence shared only by survivors—those who’ve stood firm against a world that tried to crush them.

The path rose in a gentle spiral, like an old vein carved by the passage of ancient herds—or by things far quieter still. The wind swept through in sudden bursts, lifting waves of dry grass and the acrid scent of mountain moss.

They walked in silence.

Not out of fatigue, nor weariness, but because something in this landscape demanded it. A kind of instinctive reverence — or superstitious caution.

As if the slightest word spoken here, in this tangle of peaks and frayed clouds, might awaken an echo that didn’t belong to them.