Grind-to-Cash System: Buy SSS Skills to Spam them Infinitely with Cash-Chapter 31 - Maira’s Health

The night pressed quietly against the windows, but inside the kitchen, the lantern’s golden glow danced softly across aged wood and worn shelves.

It flickered against the rising steam of a gently simmering pot, bubbling with a humble, homemade promise.

Maira stood before it—barefoot, apron tied tight around her waist, hair pulled messily back. Her blouse clung to her with sweat, the neckline damp where the heat clung too thick.

Her breath came shallow but steady. Every movement deliberate. Every stir of the spoon slow and circular.

She looked tired.

But she looked alive.

Mirea leaned on the doorframe behind her, arms crossed loosely, an apple in one hand. She watched, eyes narrowed—not with judgment, but quiet concern.

"You should sit down already," she said, biting into the fruit with a sharp crunch. "You’re not well enough to be doing all this."

Maira didn’t glance back.

"I’m fine."

"You’re not. Maira. Just let me help—"

"I said I’m fine."

The sharpness in her voice cracked the warmth in the room. Mirea paused mid-chew, blinking at the rare edge in her sister’s tone.

But she didn’t argue.

Because for the first time in years—years—Maira wasn’t curled up in bed. Wasn’t pale and breathless, coughing blood into cloth. She was standing. Moving. Sweating not from fever, but work.

And smiling.

Gods, she was smiling.

Not a big one. Not bright. But a soft little curve tugging at the corner of her mouth as she stirred that soup like it was the most important thing in the world.

Mirea bit again, slower now. "...You really care about that guy, huh?"

Still no answer. freēwēbnovel.com

But Maira’s hand tightened around the wooden spoon.

Mirea watched her silently, watching the shake in her shoulders as she ladled the soup with both hands into a bowl. Her fingers trembled, but she didn’t stop.

"...Wait, let me help you with at least that..."

Maira’s voice came faint. "No, I will serve it myself."

A pause.

"You don’t even know him, Maira."

Maira ignored her sister.

Holding the bowl carefully. Steps cautious. Slow. Intent.

One step.

Two.

thud

Crash.

It happened in an instant.

Her foot slipped. Maybe her knees gave out. Maybe her body just gave up all at once—but the bowl hit the floor hard, soup spilling across the planks in a hot, ruined mess.

And Maira collapsed with it.

Her body hit the ground like a ragdoll, crumpling inwards. Her hands clenched at her stomach, her face twisted in agony.

Blood poured from her nose in a thin, steady line. Her body curled reflexively as sharp pain clawed through her gut.

"AaAAAHHH—!"

The scream tore from her throat before she could even stop it.

High. Raw.

It ripped through the walls of the quiet home like something feral. Animal.

"Maira—!" Mirea’s apple hit the floor as she bolted forward, eyes wide with horror. "Maira!"

Maira didn’t answer.

Her fingers dug into the apron covering her belly, shoulders trembling violently.

"Urgh!" She tried to move—tried to lift herself—but her arms gave out halfway.

But the tears—

They weren’t just from the pain.

They formed the moment her eyes saw the soup.

Spilled across the floor. Wasted. Steam rising, vegetables scattered.

That little bowl she’d cradled and prepared with all her heart now shattered at her knees.

"...No... no, no, no..."

Her voice broke.

Not with anger.

But heartbreak.

"I made it for him..." she whispered hoarsely, teeth clenched as her whole body shook. "I made it for him..."

Mirea dropped beside her, grabbing her shoulder, eyes scanning her face, her nose, her gut—searching for the source of the blood and the agony.

"Don’t move—don’t talk! I’ll get help, just—Maira, gods, just breathe—!"

But Maira couldn’t.

Her eyes stared at the mess on the floor—more broken by the fallen soup than her own collapsing body.

Because it wasn’t just food.

It was proof.

Proof that she could do something for someone.

That she could still give warmth, still be needed.

And now it was gone.

"SISTER!"

The slam of boots on the rooftop was immediate—two blurs dropping from the edge like wolves scenting blood.

"Asperia! Move aside, dammit!" Vex’s voice snapped from above as he landed hard behind her.

But the second he saw her—

"Maira—!"

His breath caught.

She lay slumped beside the shattered bowl, blood running down from her nose, cheeks pale, fingers twitching as if trying to still hold onto the broken soup beneath her.

He rushed forward, dropping to his knees, his hand already reaching behind her shoulder to lift her upright.

"Hey—hey, what happened?" His voice wasn’t teasing now. It was shaken. Urgent.

Maira winced under his touch, her breath ragged, body curling tighter—but before she could answer—

"She’s ill," Mirea snapped, standing defensively on the other side. "I already told you that, but you made her cook."

Her words hit him harder than he expected.

Vex froze.

"What?" he muttered, eyes darting between the blood, the spilled broth, her trembling form.

"I didn’t tell her to—" he started to say, but his voice trailed off. His hand, still around her shoulder, faltered. The truth was... he didn’t know. He didn’t ask.

He looked down again.

But before guilt could fully settle in, Maira’s voice came—weak but sharp.

"That’s not true," she breathed, forcing her head up slightly. "It was me... I wanted to cook..."

Her hand lifted slowly—barely enough to grasp his sleeve.

"He didn’t make me... He didn’t..."

Even now, her voice defended him. Her body curled in pain, her face pale, her nose bleeding—and she defended him.

Vex stared.

For a moment, he didn’t know what to do with that.

But then, almost too naturally, he shifted.

"If you’re sick," he said, eyes narrowing now, "why the hell are you pushing yourself like this? Can’t you think about your own body?!"

It came out harsher than he meant it.

But the moment it left his lips, he saw it.

Maira’s eyes.

They widened—then sank.

Like the strength in her bones gave out all at once. She stared at him, confused, trembling... and then the confusion folded in on itself.

Her hand dropped from his sleeve.

She pushed at his chest—weakly, but with meaning.

And turned her head away.

"I hate you," she whispered.

The words weren’t loud.

But they landed like a slap.

Then she tried to sit up again, arms shaking, pushing away from him entirely—as if his presence itself hurt more than the bleeding in her nose.

Vex reached for her instinctively.

But she wouldn’t look at him.

He caught her again.

No hesitation this time.

His arm slipped back around her waist—firm, steady—and he pulled her into a hug, holding her tightly against his chest. Her body was still trembling, frail with strain, but he didn’t let go.

His forehead rested just above her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck. In a whisper and hushed tone, he pleaded.

"Don’t say that... it feels uncomfortable hearing it from you."