Investing in My Crippled Wife: Every Return Makes Me Stronger

Soren remained in that dazed state for a long while, suspended in a void of pure realization. Within this enlightenment, his mana, which was already pure and steady, began to undergo a fundamental transformation. The energy grew denser and more crystalline as it resonated with a new rhythm. His senses, especially perception, improved drastically.

Soren felt as if he had shed an invisible skin, advancing leaps and bounds in a single moment of clarity. This was a qualitative leap that left him feeling fundamentally different, as if his very soul had been tempered in a forge.

When the world finally rushed back, he exhaled a long, slow breath.

The air leaving his lungs carried a faint, silver luminescence.

He looked toward the shimmering silhouette and bowed deeply, his movements now imbued with a new, grounded grace.

”Thank you, Senior. For the guidance.”

The Sunless Emperor let out a short, hollow chuckle. ”Do not thank me for a door you opened yourself. But you certainly didn’t disappoint me. However, do not mistake a moment of clarity for the end of the road.”

The silhouette began to blur, the golden radiance of the hall dimming as the Emperor’s presence prepared to withdraw.

”You can treat my words as a compass. Carry the weight of that truth as you walk beside the boy, and never forget the nature of the path you have chosen. In this world, or mine, or any other, there is no such thing as a free gift. There is only the price you are willing to pay for the strength you lack.”

Soren gave a firm, resolute nod. ”I will always keep them in mind, Senior.”

”Good,” the Sunless Emperor replied, his voice regaining its regal composure. ”Now, let us continue our trade. Since you fulfilled your part by ensuring the boy’s progress, I should fulfill mine as well. However, as you have already figured out most of the answers regarding this place, my identity, and the situation through your own intellect, I will grant you a different offer. You... may ask me any other question you desire.”

Soren hesitated for a split second, his mind immediately flying to the one thing that truly mattered, just as or beyond his own survival. He took a steadying breath, his voice tightening with a raw, suppressed emotion.

”Senior... I have someone important to me. But she is paralyzed and suffering from a serious injury. She cannot move below her neck, except for her hands. And... she has been cursed with a powerful and unknown 8th circle curse.”

”Someone important?” The Sunless Emperor tilted his head, the shimmering light of his robes shifting with the movement. ”Alright, but first, tell me who exactly she is to you?”

”She’s...” Soren hesitated, the word catching in his throat for a heartbeat before he forced it out. ”...She’s my wife.”

He then began to explain the harrowing details. He described the way her life was being slowly devoured, the way the curse acted like a cold, suffocating poison that refused to let go, and how the healers of his world had all but given up on her. Every word was laid out before this foreign entity in a desperate plea for a solution.

”I need to know,” Soren finished, his gaze fixed on the shimmering silhouette. ”Is there a way to cure her? Can a curse of that magnitude truly be broken? If so, how?”

The Sunless Emperor remained silent, his presence looming large as he seemed to stare through the very fabric of Soren’s being. The air grew still, the golden mist swirling slowly around the Emperor’s form before he finally let out a low, knowing hum. A slow, thin smile pulled at the edges of the phantom silhouette.

”A wife, huh...”

The silhouette of the man in the ornate robes softened, his shoulders losing their stiff, imperial edge.

He looked away, his gaze drifting toward the empty expanse of the golden hall as if seeing through the walls to a time long dead. It was the posture of someone looking back across a vast, unreachable distance.

Soren watched him, and for the first time, the legend before him felt like a man.

Although the face remained a blur of shimmering gold, a faint smile flickered through the light. It lacked the dry, mocking edge from before. Instead, it was a quiet expression filled with a profound longing and an ancient sadness that the void hadn’t been able to erase.

”Love,” the Emperor whispered. The word carried a weight that made the golden air tremble. ”It is the most beautiful dream, and the most treacherous fall of all.”

He turned back to Soren, the heavy atmosphere vanishing as he returned to his composed, regal state.

”Unfortunately, I cannot give you the answer you seek,” the Emperor said, his voice cold and analytical once more. ”Curses are the most terrifying, treacherous, and mysterious powers in existence. There are countless types, variations, and hidden triggers within each weave of malice. It is impossible to diagnose a blight of that magnitude without seeing the threads for myself.”

Soren felt his heart sink, but the Emperor continued before he could speak.

”Even then, the chance would be low, as I was not a specialist in the dark arts of hexes. However, while I cannot break what I cannot see, I can tell you how to buy her time. If she is paralyzed, and the curse is using her own vitality as fuel for its expansion, there are few ways to slow down the process and prolong her life.”

After seeing hope reignited in Soren’s gaze, the Emperor continued.

”The first is the most obvious: you must replace what is being stolen. If you can provide her with a constant, external supply of high-grade life force, you can offset the curse’s consumption. It is like pouring water into a cracked jar; as long as the inflow exceeds the leak, the jar remains full.”

He paused, making the golden light around Soren swirl into a complex geometric pattern.

”The second is to strengthen the vessel itself. A curse of that grade is like a forest fire. If the trees are weak and dry, they vanish in an instant. But if the wood is iron-hard and soaked in mana, the fire struggles to take hold. You must find ways to reinforce her physical and spiritual constitution — to turn her body into a fortress that the curse must spend years trying to breach, rather than a few months.”

”Lastly, you must...”