In A Fantasy World I Can Absorbs Abilities-Chapter 219 Lady Anita

"My lord, surely your time is limited…"

But Michael waved off the concern. "I have plenty of time for a meal with those who've come so far to place their trust in me."

Taking his seat among the tribespeople, Michael was greeted warmly. Before him was lanlan, the traditional flatbread of the Pamir Plateau, still warm from the fire.

Ismahal demonstrated how to eat it, folding the bread around a tangy-sweet vegetable salad before taking a bite. Following suit, Michael found the dish surprisingly delicious—the saltiness balanced the bread's blandness, while the vegetables added a refreshing crunch.

After devouring nearly ten pieces, Michael and Julian leaned back, patting their full stomachs. Ismahal, puffing on a long pipe, broke the brief silence with a probing question.

"It seems your visit isn't just to check on our living conditions."

Michael met his gaze with a knowing smile. "You already know why I'm here, don't you? I've heard rumors of a White Deer residing in this place."

Ismahal's expression tensed, his earlier caution returning. But he quickly suppressed his emotions, remembering his grandmother's instructions on how to handle such situations.

"The White Deer, Lady Anita—my grandmother—is unable to leave her quarters. You may greet her outside, but her abilities have long since waned. She might offer a simple divination, nothing more."

Michael's smile didn't waver, though his tone sharpened slightly. "Let's not play games, Chieftain. I know the truth. The title of White Deer is passed down among your priestesses, isn't it? And the current White Deer is no longer your grandmother."

Ismahal's face stiffened, and his pupils trembled as if struck by lightning.

"How do you… No, it's impossible. Anita can't be moved. She's…" His voice faltered as memories of his late grandmother flooded his mind.

Years ago, when his grandmother, the previous White Deer, had been on her deathbed, she had called for Ismahal.

"Listen to me carefully, Ismahal. Your younger sister isn't strong enough to bear the mantle of the White Deer. When I die, don't announce it. Especially not to the five great tribes or the surrounding clans. Let them believe I've simply grown too old and weak to continue my duties."

She paused, coughing violently, before continuing. "Thankfully, it's been nearly a decade since I last used my powers, so no one will suspect anything. Only the old bear, Babaru, has an inkling of our situation, but even she despises war too much to involve us. Remember this, child—never let the new White Deer reveal her abilities. The strain will destroy her fragile body, and she'll be dragged to the battlefield, only to die in vain."

Tears streaming down his face, Ismahal had promised to honor her final wish.

When the night came, he buried her alone under the cover of darkness. To protect his sister, he disguised her as the elder Anita, keeping her hidden in the deepest part of their home.

Now, confronted by Michael's probing gaze, Ismahal struggled to maintain his composure. Michael's words threatened to unravel everything he had worked so hard to conceal.

Had Ismahal not concealed Anita, she would have been conscripted to the battlefield long ago, her abilities wasted in vain until her death. Yet here he was, facing someone who had come for the very power he had worked so hard to protect.

Furious at his own misjudgment, Ismahal rose abruptly, his face contorted in rage.

"If you intend to take Anita, you'll have to kill me first!"

Michael, unfazed by Ismahal's outburst, calmly reached into his coat and retrieved a silk-wrapped bundle.

"Who said anything about taking her by force? Show me to her, and I'll heal your sister's illness."

Ismahal's eyes darted nervously toward the dragon and sphinx perched near Michael. Could his words be true? If this was a lie… With Michael's legendary skill as an archer combined with his mythical beasts, there was no chance of victory.

Lowering his head, Ismahal wrestled with his options. He couldn't risk the lives of his entire tribe for his sister, and yet… what if Michael could actually help?

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"You claim you can heal her? Do you even know what illness she suffers from? No healer has ever been able to cure it. No one has been able to undo that cursed fate," Ismahal said, his voice tinged with desperation.

Michael's crimson eyes narrowed into a crescent as he smiled softly.

"Then trust me, one last time, Chieftain Ismahal."

Michael stood by the bedside of a frail girl, her pallid complexion even paler than that of the Rubell Continent's natives. Her skin was so translucent it seemed more like glass than flesh. Though her features resembled her tribespeople's, her platinum-white hair and transparent crimson eyes marked her as different.

The traits were unmistakable—she was an albino, just as Michael had suspected.

"Welcome, future Archon," Anita, the White Deer, greeted Michael. Her ethereal, dreamlike voice carried the cadence of a seer. Though lying down, she exuded a serene dignity.

"My brother was disrespectful, was he not? Please forgive him."

Michael smiled at her tranquil gaze. "Not at all, crimson-eyed angel."

The unexpected title startled Ismahal, but Anita only smiled graciously.

"You're far too kind. I've done nothing to earn such an honor. I am merely Anita, the White Deer, priestess of my tribe and servant of our ancestors."

Her humble response reminded Michael of the strange memories he had glimpsed in Babaru's soul.

The old priestess had recounted tales of albino children born among the harsh deserts of the Pamir Plateau, gifted with powers of healing and prophecy. Yet these children rarely survived beyond the age of sixteen, their frail bodies unable to bear the strain of their abilities.

Babaru had once met such a priestess and agreed to keep the secret, repulsed by the prospect of war and unwilling to expose the girl to its horrors.

Armed with this knowledge, Michael had come to confirm his suspicions. He gently pulled back the blanket covering Anita, causing Ismahal to flinch, though Anita herself remained calm.

"She's unusually composed, even for someone with prophetic abilities," Michael mused.

He examined her thin wrists and ankles. Despite her petite frame, her bones were sturdy and unusually thick—a sign of chronic illness and malnutrition.