Chapter 135: A Private Conversation
(Michael POV)
The sterile white of the VR Hall’s recovery lounge felt cold and suffocating. A faint dicinal scent clung to the air, a stark contrast to the phantom sll of ozone and terror that still lingered in my mind.
My teammates had been escorted away by dical staff, their faces pale but their eyes holding a new, hard-won respect. Seraphina had even managed a stiff, reluctant nod in my direction before she left a gesture that spoke volus more than words.
Now, I was alone. Or rather, I was alone with the two most powerful instructors in the first-year curriculum.
Evelyn Whitehound’s office was a space of minimalist elegance and barely concealed danger. The walls were a stark, polished obsidian, reflecting the soft glow of floating mana crystals.
One wall was a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Academy grounds, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of blood-orange and violet.
There were no cluttered bookshelves, no stacks of parchnt—just a single, large desk of dark, petrified wood and three chairs. It was less an office and more an interrogation chamber with a view.
I sat in one of the chairs, my posture straight, my hands resting on my knees. My body scread with a phantom exhaustion that no VR pod recovery system could erase.
The ntal battle had carved sothing out of , and the dull throb behind my eyes was a constant reminder.
Evelyn sat behind the desk, her platinum hair catching the fading sunlight. Her usual teasing smile was gone, replaced by an expression of cool, clinical neutrality.
She hadn’t spoken since we’d entered, content to let the silence stretch, to let it press down on .
Alastor Greythorn stood by the window, his massive fra a silent, imposing silhouette against the fiery sky. His arms were crossed, and his gaze was fixed on the campus below, but I knew his attention was entirely on this room.
Finally, Evelyn steepled her fingers, her sharp, intelligent eyes pinning in place.
"Michael Wilson," she began, her voice smooth and devoid of emotion.
"The official report states that you resolved a ’System Anomaly.’ A vague, sanitized term for what the technicians are now calling a catastrophic psychic feedback loop caused by a viral code of unknown origin."
I remained silent, my expression neutral. This was a minefield, and every word was a potential misstep.
"The technicians are baffled," she continued, her gaze intensifying. "They say purging that virus from the NOVA AI’s core while under its direct psychic assault is a theoretical impossibility. It would require a will of steel, an unprecedented resistance to ntal corruption, and a fundantal understanding of AI architecture that even our top programrs lack."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "And yet, you did it. Explain."
This was the mont I had been anticipating, the question that could unravel everything. My mind, still raw from the psychic battle, felt sluggish, but the core of my strategy was clear: partial truths, wrapped in a narrative that fit the image I had already built.
I took a slow breath, letting my gaze drop to my hands as if gathering my thoughts, a practiced gesture of a student facing a difficult question.
"I don’t know how I did it, not exactly," I began, my voice deliberately asured, tinged with a hint of lingering shock. "When I entered the vortex, it wasn’t a choice. It felt like I was pulled in. Everything was... chaos. The fears of the other students, hitting all at once."
I let a shudder run through my shoulders, a performance of trauma that wasn’t entirely fake.
"But then... sothing in my head just... clicked," I continued, looking up to et her gaze. "I have a unique trait, Instructor. I’ve had it since before the Academy. It gives a high resistance to ntal effects. The labyrinth’s illusions... they felt different to . Weaker."
Evelyn’s eyes narrowed slightly. "A trait for ntal resistance? Such things are rare, but not unheard of. It doesn’t explain how you reprogramd an AI."
"That’s the other part of it," I said, leaning into the lie, weaving it with the thread I’d given Inspector Gileard.
"It’s connected to the sword I found, Darken. When I’m in extre danger, my trait seems to... interface with it. The sword showed things. Not images, but... patterns. Lines of energy. I saw the ’virus’ as a knot of corrupted energy at the center of the storm. And I saw the path to cut it."
I gestured vaguely, as if trying to describe a dream.
"I just followed the path. My will beca the blade. I cut the knot. That’s all I rember."
It was a perfect story. It explained my ntal resistance, incorporated the "mysterious epic weapon" narrative, and attributed the impossible feat to an instinctive, uncontrollable burst of power—the kind of thing prodigies in stories were always having.
It was believable because it was rooted in the fantastical reality of this world.
For a long mont, Evelyn was silent. Her sharp intellect was dissecting my words, searching for holes, for inconsistencies. Her gaze was so intense I felt like my very thoughts were being audited.
Then, Alastor spoke for the first ti, his voice a low rumble that seed to make the very glass of the window vibrate.
"The boy’s telling the truth," he said, without turning around. "Or at least, what he believes to be the truth."
Evelyn’s head snapped towards him. "You’re certain?"
"I’ve trained him," Alastor said, finally turning to face us. His expression was grim, his eyes holding a fierce, protective light.
"I’ve seen it. When he’s pushed to the brink, sothing else takes over. It’s not a technique he’s learned. It’s raw, untad instinct. Like a cornered beast unlocking a hidden strength to survive."
He looked at , a silent ssage passing between us. I’ll back your play, brat. Don’t you dare make regret it.
"This ’trait’ of his," Alastor continued, his gaze returning to Evelyn, "combined with a sentient weapon? It’s the only explanation that fits the facts. He didn’t outthink the AI. He survived it."
Evelyn leaned back in her chair, her fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat on the polished desk. Alastor’s endorsent had given my story the weight of credibility it needed. He was the Sword Saint, a man whose judgnt of a warrior’s spirit was beyond reproach.
"A unique trait, a sentient weapon, and the instincts of a survivor," she murmured, more to herself than to us.
Her gaze on was no longer just suspicious; it was filled with a chillingly keen interest, like a scientist who had just discovered a new, highly volatile elent.
"You are becoming more and more of an anomaly, Michael Wilson."
I rely inclined my head. "I’m just trying to survive, Instructor."
Her lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
"Oh, I think you’re doing far more than just surviving." She stood, walking around the desk to stand before , her presence filling the space.
"The Principal has been notified. The incident is now classified at the highest level. You are not to speak of what you saw or did inside that vortex to anyone. Is that understood?"
"Understood," I replied without hesitation.
"Good." She paused, then her expression softened almost imperceptibly.
"You saved a lot of lives today, Michael. The official story will be that the instructors intervened to stabilize the system. Your involvent will be officially erased. But we,"
she glanced at Alastor, "will know the truth. The Academy is in your debt."
It wasn’t praise. It was a statent of fact, and it carried the weight of a chain. Being owed a debt by the Academy ant I was now a piece on their board they would not be willing to lose.
"Now, get out," she said, her tone shifting back to its usual briskness. "Go to the infirmary. Get your mind checked. That’s an order."
"Yes, Instructor." I stood, bowed stiffly, and walked towards the door, my legs feeling heavier than ever.
As my hand touched the doorknob, Alastor’s voice stopped .
"Michael."
I turned.
"You did well, brat," he said, and for the first ti, his grin held no mockery, only a deep, gruff pride.
"Rest up. The real tournant is next. And after today, every eye in this Academy will be on you."
I nodded, a faint smile touching my own lips, and stepped out of the office, the door clicking shut behind .
The weight of their scrutiny was imnse, but I had navigated the storm. I had protected my secrets, reinforced my cover story, and earned a powerful, unspoken acknowledgnt.
But as I walked down the empty corridor, the setting sun casting my long shadow before , I couldn’t shake the feeling that I hadn’t just won a battle.
I had just been drafted into a much larger war. And I was no longer sure who all the players were.
(To be continued)
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