Chapter 136: Scars of the Mind
The heavy oak door of Evelyn’s office clicked shut behind , the sound echoing in the unnervingly silent corridor. For a long mont, I just stood there, my back pressed against the cool wood.
The setting sun cast my shadow long and distorted across the polished marble floor, making look like a fractured, elongated version of myself.
I had survived.
Not just the labyrinth, but the interrogation that followed. My cover story—a fragile tapestry woven from partial truths and calculated lies—had held, thanks to Alastor’s unexpected endorsent.
The weight of their scrutiny had been imnse, a pressure cooker that threatened to boil away my secrets, but I had walked out with my mask intact.
My legs felt heavier than lead as I began the long walk to the infirmary.
Evelyn’s final words were not a suggestion; they were an order. "Get your mind checked."
A part of knew it was a formality, a way for the Academy to officially close the book on the "system anomaly."
But another, more paranoid part—the part that had lived a lifeti as a gar dissecting plot points—knew it was also one last test.
One last chance for them to find a crack in my story.
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The infirmary was located in the quiet, sterile east wing of the Academy, a place of hushed voices and the faint, clean scent of healing potions.
It was a stark contrast to the chaos of the VR Hall or the oppressive elegance of Evelyn’s office.
Here, the world seed to slow down, to breathe.
A senior student, a healer with kind eyes and a gentle smile, greeted at the entrance.
Her uniform was a soft white, embroidered with the golden cross of the dical division.
"Michael Wilson?" she asked, her voice calm and soothing.
"Instructor Whitehound inford us you were coming. Please, follow ."
She led not to the main ward, where students with physical injuries were treated, but to a smaller, private room at the back.
The room was plain with a good bed, one chair, a huge crystalline diagnostic orb purring to a soft murmur on a stand. The orb flashed a soft, pale-green light upon the walls and gave a soothing light to it.
"This is a Psychic Resonance Orb," the healer explained, gesturing for to sit on the bed.
"It’s designed to asure the stability of a person’s ntal state and mana core after exposure to extre psychic stress. It won’t hurt. Just place your hand on it and try to relax."
I nodded, my expression carefully neutral, and did as she asked. The mont my palm touched the orb’s cool, smooth surface, a wave of calming energy washed over . It felt like dipping my mind into a cool, clear spring.
The healer watched the orb, her brow furrowed in concentration as runes and complex waveforms scrolled across its surface. For a few minutes, the only sound in the room was the soft hum of the orb and my own steady breathing.
Then, her eyes widened.
"Incredible," she whispered, her professional composure montarily slipping. She leaned closer to the orb, her gaze darting across the readings.
"Your psychic resistance levels... they’re off the charts for a first-year. It’s comparable to a seasoned A-rank ntalist."
I kept my face passive, feigning a tired confusion. "Is that... good?"
"It’s unheard of," she corrected, her voice a mix of awe and concern. She tapped a section of the orb, and a new set of readings appeared—this ti, a deep, angry red.
"But your psychic core shows signs of extre strain. It’s stable, remarkably so, but it’s covered in what looks like... micro-fractures...Scars. As if you didn’t just resist a psychic attack, but you t it head-on and tore it apart from the inside. I’ve never seen anything like it."
Her diagnosis was a perfect, unintentional confirmation of my cover story. I had fought back. I hadn’t just endured; I had dominated.
"It will heal," she continued, her tone shifting back to professional reassurance as she made notes on a floating crystal slate.
"But you need rest. No strenuous ntal activity—that includes complex spellcasting or tactical simulations—for at least forty-eight hours. Your mind needs ti to recover from the trauma."
"Understood," I said, my voice deliberately soft, playing the part of the exhausted survivor.
She gave a sympathetic smile. "You were very brave, Michael. The whole Academy is talking about it. You saved a lot of people."
She finished her notes and the orb’s light dimd. "You’re free to go. A full report will be sent to the Principal’s office."
I thanked her and left the infirmary, the healer’s words echoing in my mind. My involvent was officially erased, but the truth was now a docunted dical anomaly, filed away in the Academy’s deepest records.
I was a curiosity, a specin. A piece on the board they would watch with extre interest.
It was both a shield and a cage.
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[The Cafeteria – ]
[Third -POV]
While Micheal was being ntally prodded and poked, his friends had gathered at their usual table in the bustling cafeteria.
The air was thick with the sll of roasted at and the excited chatter of students dissecting the day’s exam results.
But at their table, the mood was a tense mixture of worry and barely contained energy.
"So he just gets dragged off by Instructor Evelyn and we’re supposed to just sit here and eat?"
Aiden grumbled, stabbing a piece of at on his plate with unnecessary force. His usual boisterous energy was coiled tight, like a lightning storm waiting to break.
"What if they’re blaming him for the system crash? That’s what Eric and his cronies are already whispering."
"They won’t," Selena said, her voice a soft, calming presence amidst Aiden’s rising frustration. She sipped her tea, her movents as graceful and deliberate as ever.
"Evelyn’s report cleared Team 4 of any wrongdoing. She called it a ’system anomaly.’ They are likely just getting a full report from Michael. He was at the center of it, after all."
Lyra Braveheart scoffed, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed. Her fiery hair was a stark contrast to her thunderous expression.
"A ’system anomaly’ that gave his team 3000 bonus points and first place? Sounds like a convenient excuse to ."
Aiden’s head snapped towards her. "Are you saying he cheated? After what we saw?"
"I’m not saying he cheated!" Lyra shot back, her voice rising. Her competitive spirit, soured by her team’s fourth-place finish, was bubbling to the surface.
"I’m saying it’s unfair! We all fought hard, but he gets to fight so secret, glitched-out boss and gets crowned a hero for it? I could have taken that thing! If I had been there—"
"You would have charged in and gotten your mind fried in the first ten seconds," a cool, pragmatic voice cut in. Aurelia Miller adjusted her glasses, her sharp eyes scanning the group.
"From the energy readings, whatever Michael faced was a psychic entity of imnse power. Brute force would have been useless. Lyra, your fire would have been as effective as throwing a torch at a nightmare."
Lyra’s face flushed with anger. "Are you calling weak?!"
"I’m calling you unsubtle," Aurelia corrected smoothly.
"There is a difference. Michael won not because he was the strongest, but because he was the only one who could be.." she paused for second and continue.
"...His ntal resistance, which we have all witnessed, made him the only viable counter to a psychic threat. Strategically, his victory was the most logical outco."
Her words, clinical and detached, did little to soothe Lyra’s bruised ego, but they did silence her.
Leon, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke, his voice heavy with thought.
"Aurelia is right. This wasn’t about strength. When my team entered the final chamber, we felt it too. The vortex... it was like staring into a void of pure despair. My Holy Fla felt... sluggish. It was a battle of will."
He looked down at his hands. "And in that mont, I wasn’t sure if my will was strong enough."
His honest admission hung in the air, a rare mont of vulnerability from the proud Lionheart heir.
Elara Moonshade, who had been silently observing from the edge of the group, placed a gentle hand on his arm.
"You endured, Leon," she said softly, her voice a quiet lody. "That is a victory in itself."
Leon gave her a grateful smile, but his gaze was distant. He was replaying the battle, analyzing his own shortcomings, comparing himself to the one who had not just endured, but conquered.
"That bastard," Aiden muttered, his anger giving way to a grudging respect. "Always has to be the main character, doesn’t he?"
The group fell into a thoughtful silence, each lost in their own perspective of the day’s events.
They were rivals, allies, a chaotic mix of pride and friendship. And at the center of their tangled web was the anomaly, Michael Wilson, the boy who consistently broke every expectation they had.
(To be continued)
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