Every day, the Vita rolls the dice for every living being in this world.
And every day, a few of the dice fall on the wrong number.
Thus, their life ends that day.
As one gets older, more dice are being added to their own roll.
Until their life is forfeit.
Such is the way of the Vita.
Be it a seven-year-old dying as a victim in a war, or an ancient emperor on his deathbed.
Be it a chick that fell from their crib, or a mighty eagle due to old age.
Be it a pup eaten by its mother, or a mighty lion finally defeated by its son.
Be it a dragon, man, or God.
Death comes for all.
The dice had been thrown.
The Vita is just.
Yet, even with all this, Blanc could not feel like this was just.
That this was the day the Vita chose for the lady to die.
He felt as if he had jumped past the dice thrown for the old lady.
It saddened him that he had to do it.
But did he really?
Could he not have just stolen them?
No, she would have destroyed them.
Could he not have just knocked her out and taken them?
Well… that would have created issues of its own.
Who knows how much of what the old woman said was actually the truth?
Who knows what she would say, and to whom?
This was the only way to eliminate an unknown variable.
Miyanna was the same at the beginning.
An unknown variable that posed countless dangers.
And he would have done the same then to protect the rest, if not for Celine telling him not to.
However, as Blanc found himself crying over the lifeless body of the old alchemist, he, for a few minutes, finally let go of all the pressure building in his soul.
And the cries that left his dry throat were akin to those of a wounded beast.
Nobody was nearby to hear or judge him.
So he screamed, he cried, he grabbed his hair, his clothes, pulling at them until almost breaking them.
By the Vita, he cried, a raw, heartbreaking cry.
But just as all things do, he stopped.
He stopped crying, stopped screaming, and stopped pulling at his hair and clothes.
He just watched his sin lying down, lifeless, his brain asking a simple question.
What now?
He first had to make sure he would take this sin. And that he will never forget it.
Thus, in the complete silence that fell over the cottage, he placed his hand on the knife wound he had made near her ribcage.
And his mind fell under the world, in an even deeper silence.
His body stiffened, his senses as if under water.
Slowly, wisps of amber and crimson, serpents as he liked to call them, came out of the woman's chest and started their dance towards his own chest.
As they touched his skin, they began pulsing slightly, pulsing at the rhythm of his beating heart, until they completed their journey inside of him.
The Raw Vita of the old woman had been harvested.
And a new Mark appeared on his skin.
On his chest, on the left pectoral muscle, stood above his heart the outline of a human hand.
The White Mark of Man.
Before he emerged back into the normal world, he felt as if he were the woman herself.
She heard a knock and a muffled voice asking for her aid.
She was scared.
What if it was a thief?
"Madame, please, my family is dying," said the muffled voice outside.
Her heart became calm; she would help him.
After all, she knew best what it felt like to fear your family dying.
She opened the door.
The memory was gone, and he returned to the normal world, staying above the woman.
"I'm sorry once again, madame," muttered Blanc, bowing on his knees to her, "But I will take this sin with me, and hopefully be able to show you that I've kept my promise."
He got back on his feet, grabbing a shovel that stood near the entrance of the cottage.
"Please forgive me, but I will have to make sure your son and grandson do not see this."
He went and grabbed her, pulling her over his shoulder, and went out of the cottage.
Night was still outside.
The warm wind was touching his skin, soothing his broken heart.
There was nothing around him.
No beast, no danger, nor the dawn.
And so, carrying her, he went deep into the forest, at least half a mile away from the cottage, and placing her body slowly onto the leaf-filled ground, he started digging.
Twenty minutes later, he had dug a deep enough hole, placed the old woman inside, and covered it, hiding the ground with leaves.
By the end, the ground looked as if it had never been dug.
Another bow and prayer came from Blanc before he turned around and ran back towards the cottage, running.
There was no time to lose, not when all the lives in the cave were in danger, yet he had to do it.
He felt as if he had not done at least this much for the old alchemist woman; he could never forgive himself.
When he came back, with a bit of water that the woman had in her cottage, he cleaned the blood on the floor, grabbed his coin purse, the Vita's Mercy, and some other potions and herbs he suddenly found useful.
It made him stop for a moment.
Why was that? He felt as if, weirdly, he knew what potions would help the others recover.
He did not understand alchemy. He never did. It was too complicated.
Was it the Raw Vita? The Mark?
Even after doing that to you, you still help me… thank you, thought Blanc, thanking the old lady in his soul.
Another turn inside the cottage to make sure he had everything, then he was out the door, running back into the forest, towards the cave and all those who needed him the most.
For those for whom he had committed such a sin.
And, despite the tears he shed earlier, he would do it all over again.