Recovery Is Torture

In a room at the New York Sanctum, Klayya lay on a bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. She felt absolutely miserable.

But this misery was not because of the severe injuries she had suffered earlier. Those wounds had already fully healed, nor was it because healing them had drained too much of her strength and left her weak. It was because she was currently covered by two thick cotton quilts.

Not only had the room's cooling magic been turned off, but the windows had also been shut tight. Worst of all, someone had lit a stove.

Klayya was stuffy and scorching hot, as though she had been shoved into a steamer. Her little face was flushed and drenched in sweat, and she kept gasping with her mouth open, hoping to bring her body temperature down even a little.

She truly wanted to kick off the quilts and immediately jump into a fridge to cool down. But helplessly, her adoptive father Olivann was sitting in a corner of the room, flipping through three books at once in search of methods for helping women recuperate. Even so, he was still staring at her like a hawk. He had truly achieved the ability to multitask. Klayya even suspected that her adoptive father had reached the legendary Nascent Soul stage.

At this point, forget kicking off the quilts. Even if she exposed the tiniest gap, this old mage crowned with the title of master would charge over and stop her at once, instantly rushing over to tuck her back in tightly.

The nearby table was piled high with things like boiled eggs, milk powder, and brown sugar—everything imaginable. Olivann had gathered all of it to nourish Klayya.

Klayya's severe injuries this time, which had nearly killed her on the spot, had terrified the