She fell silent for a moment, but it was not an empty pause. It was filled with meanings that needed no words. Then, with a soft smile, she looked again at the scepter, as if now more than ever, she understood that this seemingly simple object was greater than a tool. Her intent was not merely to explain but to implant something deeper within him—something that transcended surface knowledge. A truth she had chosen for herself, and a pride she carried within like an unfaltering banner.
Then, without warning, Ace broke the stillness with a question she had not expected. His voice was calm but carried a hidden curiosity—one he made no attempt to conceal:
"And… can these healing techniques or blessings cure illnesses?"
At once, an expression crossed the girl's face—one he had seen before. It was the same look Chloe the blacksmith had worn. Though his question fell within her specialization, she appeared surprised, prompting him to wonder about her reaction. Nonetheless, she answered:
"Of course. That's the primary purpose of healing blessings. They can treat minor illnesses and, for trained healers, even cure severe ailments caused by curses. Many healers work in the medical field initially—it provides a stable income and safe work. But since the churches impose fixed fees for healing, a lot of healers choose to become adventurers instead, where there are no rules or limits on what they can earn, and they're not required to pay a share of their rewards to the churches."
She paused briefly, lowered her head slightly, and continued in a tone laced with a touch of sadness:
"Ah, right. To go back to your question—healing blessings can't cure everything. Chronic diseases that affect the function of bodily organs can't be healed. We can only ease the pain they cause for a limited time and slow their debilitating effects on the body."
After receiving this information, Ace was left with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. It was clear that he hadn't quite gotten the answer he was hoping for. Then, he asked the girl a question that veered away from everything they had discussed—as if searching for something else entirely:
"Did you… join the squad recently?"
Upon hearing the question, her eyes widened instinctively, and she clutched the edges of her cloak, as if trying to anchor herself in place. She looked at him deeply, as though attempting to see beyond the unexpected question, searching for invisible threads that might reveal the real reason behind his choice to ask that particular question. For a moment, it seemed as if she was torn between her desire to answer and her need to remain cautious. Then, in a quiet voice laced with a caution she couldn't conceal, she asked:
"Wh... why do you think that?"
Ace didn't hesitate in his reply. His tone didn't falter, nor did it grow sharp—rather, it remained steady, composed, as if trying to pierce through the calm mask she wore. He spoke gently, as one laying the truth before her without pretense:
"Because you don't seem to blend in with them... not in conversation, nor even in comfort."
His words were like an arrow that struck its mark with precision. They weren't harsh, but they were honest. Yet even honesty, at times, can feel heavier than accusation. His words weren't a passing observation—they were like a mirror reflecting every detail he had quietly taken note of: every moment spent watching her do only what was asked, speaking only when required, no more and no less, as though words were a burden she preferred to avoid. Her integration into the group wasn't genuine. It felt like she was a foreign thread hastily woven into a tightly-knit fabric—a thread not yet fully merged, not yet sewn in with the others.
She blinked rapidly, as if trying to shake off the weight of his words, then closed her eyes briefly—perhaps gathering her scattered thoughts, or maybe just trying to mask the slight tremor that had crossed her features.
When she opened her eyes again, a faint smile flickered on her lips. It was not a smile of joy, nor even of sarcasm, but something else—something more layered. A subtle blend of sorrow and acceptance, of recognizing the truth and surrendering to it.
"That's true."
The words came out softly, but not hesitantly. They carried a sincerity that left no room for denial, a confession to herself before him.
"I joined them only about a month ago. I'm still not used to being around adventurers of this rank... with such strength... and standing."
She paused, her tone cautious, as though testing the impact of her words on herself before letting them reach his ears. She looked at him and continued:
"Being around them..."
Her words faded for a moment, as if she were reconsidering, hesitating, searching for the right phrase to express her feelings without granting them the full power of open admission. The hesitation was clear this time, as though she feared her confession might reveal too much. She swallowed, then added in a softer voice, one imbued with undeniable sincerity:
"...gives me a strange feeling."
The words were simple, but bore a weight that needed no explanation. At that moment, she turned her gaze away from Ace, as if her eyes were seeking refuge in the emptiness, drifting without settling on anything specific. It wasn't a fleeting escape, but a deliberate avoidance of any eye contact that might expose what she struggled to hide. She feared he might see in her expression something she was not yet ready to reveal, that he might catch a glimpse, in her eyes, of a truth she was bitterly trying to bury.
But after a brief pause, she looked back at him, a faint, self-mocking smile playing on her lips—as if laughing at herself more than the situation. Then she whispered softly, as though testing how the words might sound in the air:
"This must seem strange, doesn't it?"
Despite the hint of irony on her face, he wasn't deceived. He saw her clearly—perhaps more clearly than anyone else had. It wasn't just a matter of feeling isolated from the group; it was deeper than that. It was as if she were trapped by unseen barriers that only he could perceive. There were glances, subtle cues, unspoken signals—like muffled whispers only the attentive could catch.
He could see how they treated her—not as a true member of the team, but as a useful tool. Something necessary, but not worthy of full belonging. It wasn't just a vague feeling; it was a tangible reality that slipped from their eyes more than their words. Ace took a deep breath, then said in a calm voice, one weighted with seriousness she couldn't ignore:
"If you don't feel comfortable with them, don't you think changing teams might be something to consider?"
At that, Catherine exhaled slowly, as if trying to expel thoughts that had clung to her mind for far too long. She lowered her eyes to the ground for a moment, as if searching for an answer between the cracks of the cobblestones. Then she raised her head again, and in her voice lingered a bitter hesitation, as though she was trying to convince herself before convincing him:
"I don't blame them for treating me that way—for seeing me as just a tool to be used when needed. In the end, as long as I get my share of the profits after the mission... what difference does it make?"
But even as she said those words, her voice didn't quite align with their meaning. There was something fractured in her tone, as though she were clinging to an illusion she knew wouldn't withstand the weight of reality. As though, despite everything, she didn't truly believe what she was saying. And seconds after speaking, a spark flickered to life in her mind—as if she had realized something she hadn't made fully clear.
She turned quickly toward Ace, her eyes reflecting her inner turmoil. Her lips parted then closed again, as if trying to grasp the right words. She raised her hands suddenly, motioning in the air with uncertainty, her brows drawing together slightly, as though trying to shape her thoughts precisely. When her voice came, it carried a noticeable tremble—but also a growing clarity with each word:
"It's not about the money... no, it's about the funding—the kind that allows me to support the orphanage children in the capital."
Gradually, her movements calmed. She lowered her hands slowly, clasping them against her chest, her fingers tightening briefly as if trying to suppress the storm inside her. But she soon straightened with resolve, as though committing herself to an unshakable decision. She took a deep breath and continued, her words filled with unwavering conviction, as if pledging to her own spirit before anyone else:
"I'm willing to do anything, even if it means risking my life, as long as it benefits the orphanage children. Not because of any imposed duty, but because the church in the capital oversees many of the orphanages—and we, as healers, bear part of that responsibility. It's our duty to gather what we can, to do what we're able, to offer more than just words and promises—to provide food, and a warm place to shelter those poor children."